I was lost in a mire of chaos, uncertain of the horrors that might be lying beneath the mud filled sludge. I was scared. I was alone. I had to get away. And then there was hope.

Traveling holds a certain unmatched thrill that brings in me a sense of being free from the man made confinements of civilization and the unnatural lives that we lead. On the 18^th of June 20, 2006, I was on board a Chennai bound bus from Bangalore. It was the usual disappointing stay in Bangalore_ pubs, liquor, world cup, music, jamming and a certain inexplicable void within. I was looking forward to the exhilarating experience of being on the move again.

The best part about the highways around Bangalore is the hills, overlooking the lush green fields and the tiny human settlements. The barren hills seem to be slowly being overcome by the greenery rebelling vehemently against the unyielding rocks, in an eon long alliance with the rains. Do they fight in vain? Do they wither away in during the frosty, arid winters?

The mist veils the distance as it rains somewhere far away and holds an enigma in the hills. Is it a dream in the distance that evades perception, or is it an illusion?

Naked kids take a plunge into the yet-to-be toxicated youthful ponds in innocent glee, unaware of the troubled waters in life ahead. And the hills continue, like brothers in arms.

Bargur, kingdom of hills and rocks, crowned by the monsoon clouds; coconut trees waving to the wayfarers as the azure skies kisses the weakened sun.

Period.

We passed into the shadow of the clouds. The wind blows the fickle dust about in pent up anger and brings in the rain. Heavy droplets of water lash down upon the roads, the leaves of grateful trees, the parched earth and the laminated glass window of my bus. The crystal clear rain bathes the travel stained roads with freshness. In the horizon I spy upon a land where the sun still shines, showering a golden hue to everything it reaches out to. And it looks heavenly.

The speeding bus overtakes the oblivious clouds and we finally reach Natrampalli, where the sweat and toil of the farmers bear fruit in the form of the green crops, marked by solitary Mango trees nurturing their seeds within the ripe fruits. The grey clouds behind dissolve into nothingness with the placid skies.

There are hills with bald patches at the tops and others with green hair like a crew cut head of a soldier. Unruly uncultivated foliage grows in mayhem beneath the lean, graceful coconut trees. Private lands with painted fences look like the braided hair of a maid from far.

Somewhere near Vanyampadi, there are hills that look like elephant heads stuck at the necks like Siamese quadruples with a baby elephant hill safely nested in between. The slopes of the hills are marked by the incisions made by the water that must have chosen those paths to trickle down to the welcome plains whenever it rained. There was one particular hill that stood out. I named it Black sheep hill. It was brown amongst the greenly populated hills.

In between Vanyampadi and Ambur, I came across a peculiar set of hills that I call U-hills. This particular stretch of hills was joined to each other in a U shape unlike the usual V shape of joints.

Dark clouds wait ahead to greet me again, while its sunny elsewhere in the world. A lone chimney coughs out the smoke from its lungs of industry and fire, while the ignorant sheep graze away the grass that lie immobile in abundance. Red flowers blossom on trees and they giggle and play around gracefully in the wind like pretty young ladies showing off the colors of youth and hope. The hills look sad and forlorn here. Forsaken by the helpless sun, abused by man. But hope waits in the green mutiny at their feet.

Sugarcane fields meet the eye and the Man hill stands behind them in its grandeur as you pass Pallikonda. Man hill. I named him so. It has rocks on top that form the silhouette of a perfect human face. A perfect long straight nose that Id like to own, grave eyes that speak volumes of its intensity within, and a tree below that makes it look like it has a beard like Abraham Lincolns.

The clouds that crown the hills form myriad shapes that inspire childlike imagination. One with the shape of a wolf stretches forward with its forepaws outstretched as if reaching out to a helpless prey doomed to fall to a greater predator in the eco cycle.

There was another hill I came across that has a gorilla head on its top, with a haughty, angry look on its face. There were others that were capped with rocks of numerous kinds of rocks of different shapes.

How I wish I could tread upon those hills and watch the world below scamper about in its machinated hustle and bustle. It has been my desire to travel someday on my own along those highways and behold all the unfabricated, natural scenic beauty that is everywhere untouched my man. The time is yet to come. But in my determination to escape the monotony of our brittle, shallow lives, I will do that someday soon.