On the Way to Jog Falls

There is no train to Jog falls. Centuries back the British had an ambitious plan of linking the Konkan coast to Deccan plateau via Jog falls by rail. They had to abandon it because of its inaccessibility, dense forests, fast flowing rivers and the sky reaching mountains.

The train from Bangalore terminates its journey at the charming city of Shimoga on the banks of river Thunga. Shimoga is known as gateway of Malnad (meaning the hilly region in Kannada). This small modern, progressive city has retained its old charm. One can travel by a rail bus or a toy train from Shimoga to Talaguppa, the last railway station, 15 KM from Jog falls. This 90 KM route is breathtaking. Rail bus goes through tall sandal wood, rose wood, teakwood and jackfruit trees crisscrossing the low hills of the Western Ghats. Lucky people encounter tigers, bisons, leopards, deers and peacocks during the journey! Sadly nobody takes this rail bus, which is slower than a bullock cart. It takes 5 hours. All prefer Bangalore - Honnavar national highway, which resembles Hemamalini's cheek and Shilpa Shetty's curves! The serpentine road has maximum number of bridges and hairpin curves.

I took rail bus during my recent visit to my beloved, most charming birth place Jog falls. There were not many passengers, except a few young white girls from England. I sat cross-legged on a wooden seat, looking out for familiar beautiful sights. Most of the small railway stations on the route wore deserted look. Toy train stopped everywhere. But nobody got down or hopped onto it. The young men working in the lush green areca, banana and coffee gardens were missing. A few aged men and women were sitting outside lone houses without any expression on their faces. The sight of lush green remote villages may excite the tourists. But they no longer excite these native people.

An old woman was sitting in front of me showing her betel nut stained teeth. She was continuously swallowing readymade local paan.

I asked her what happenned to all young men in the villages in the forest. She replied in Kannada " Nammantha badavara makkalella Bengaluru mattu Bombay hogavre. Nimmantha savkar hudugru america, england hogavre. Eega idu bari kailagada mudukra samrajya " (Children of poor people like us have left for Bangalore and Bombay. Rich children like you have gone to America and England. It is now an abandoned empire of helpless old people like us).

The slow death of villages in the hills saddenned me. All young boys and girls are leaving their nest in the deep forest and undulating mountains in search of a ' better life ' in the big cities and western countries. Only their old parents are left behind to mourn the slow, painfull death of their gardens, estates and villages. It is not just the death of a village. It is the death of a great, vibrant life and culture evolved over thousands of years.

I looked at myself. I too responsible for it. Did not I turn my back on beloved Jog falls for the glamour of journalism in Bangalore and Delhi ten years back? Started feeling guilty. I know I am writing this piece in self pity and guilt. I admit. My heart exists in the hills of Jog Falls.

A Falling Wonder

Nothing much has changed in Jog falls ever since the Jog falls was officially discovered by the British travellers in the 1860 s. Time stands still here. Only the water inflow into the falls from river Sharavathi has decreased considerably after one of the biggest dams in the country Linganamakki dam, was built across the river in 1965. The splendid beauty of Jog falls reappears only during the Monsoon every year. Lakhs of tourists head towards Jog falls between June - September. It looks like a part of the dry, eerie Grand Canyon of America during hot summers. The British Bungalow built in 1862 on a giant rock, very close to four flow units (King, Queen, Lady & Rocket) and Mysore guest house built in 1892 facing the falls are still the two best, elegant, colonial buildings there.

The visitors book at these two guest houses have the comments and signatures of who is who of the 19th and 20th century. British Viceroys like Lod Curzon, Lord Hardinge, Mount Batten, leaders like Mahatma Gandhi, Nehru, Tagore, Sardar Patel, Sir M Vishweshwaraiah, kings of Mysore, Indira Gandhi, Churchil, Khrushchev, Thatcher and countless others have stayed here and enjoyed the sheer, indescribable beauty of four flow units of river Sharavathi falling into a deep rocky valley of 1000 feet.

I was born in an old hospital just opposite the falls on a rainy August day in the late 70's (the hospital is now closed as there are no patients! My school has also been closed down as there are no students!). Perhaps the first sound I heard after my birth was the dropping of rain and roaring sound of water falling from 1000 feet height.

I spent 19 years of my life at Jog Falls. Those were the best times of our life. Our world was limited. It was full of excitement and curiosity. Our destination was the nearest town of Sagar, city of Shimoga and state capital Bangalore. Nothing much beyond that. Delhi and beyond had no place in our world.

My eyes were searching for some familiar faces. I could not find many. A few old shop keepers recognised me. Their pale faces were brightened up for a minute. One of my school mates Ramakrishna, who was busy clicking photos of the tourists ran towards me in excitement.

He lamented that the government is doing nothing to attract more tourists throughout the year. The people those who don't own gardens and estates have no other option but to leave their exotic birth place. Children of the rich land lords and well off people don't want to spend all their life in the remote hills and forests. Forests no longer feed the people in this consumerist world. The tourists won't notice the sadness on the face of local people. The water is falling only for the tourists. Life is falling apart for the locals.

I sat on a century old rocking chair made of rose wood at the British Bangalow sipping a freshly brewed hot coffee looking at the giant Sahyadri mountain range, deep Sharavathi valley and evergreen forest behind water falls. The rhythmic sound of falling water, cool breeze and chirping of birds put me to sleep. I felt like a child after many years.

Crisis in a Coffee Cup

Areca (betel nut or supari) and Coffee are the two most important commercial crops of the hills of Karnataka. Both are in crisis for the past many years. Unseen hands and unscrupulous market forces decide the price and control the market. The growers (rich or poor, no matter) have no say in it. The story of the farmers is the same all over the world. India was the third largest producer of Coffee in the World, just 20 years back. Its position has now slipped to 10th or 11th in the world. Karnataka, the Coffee bowl of India produces 70% of the Coffee grown in India. Remaining 30% produced by Kerala and Tamil Nadu. India's annual production is over 4 lakh tonnes. But sadly its domestic consumption is less than 1 lakh tonnes. Soviet Union was a guaranteed market for the Indian Coffee for 40 years. Indian Coffee market collapsed after the collapse of the Soviet union in 1990. India is now fighting with small, new Coffee growing countries like Vietnam, Columbia, Panama, Coast Rica, Kenya, Cameroon etc to retain its position as one of the major Coffee exporting countries in the world. Every evening Coffee growers from Chikmagalur, Hassan, Kodagu (Coorg) and Shimoga look at the New York market to know the Coffee price. World Coffee price is fixed in New York. Ironically not a single Coffee bean is grown anywhere in the USA! Truly America is a Dalal country of the World ! Our dearest family friend, a big Coffee grower and Coffee Growers' Federation president H R Lakshmana Gowda of famed Chikmagalur has been leading dozens of delegations to Union finance and commerce ministers seeking some relief for the helpless growers. The govt is deaf and unresponsive as usual.

Will the best Indian aromatic Arabica and Robusta Coffee survive the onslaught of cheap and tasteless Coffee from far eastern, central African and Latin American countries?