It did feel a bit odd to be planning a family trip to Yercaud in November, bang in the midst of torrential rains. But one of the brothers was landing only then and the rest of my family thought of swinging it and face the consequences. The consequences, I am happy to report, were of the joyous kind; it is Yercaud we are talking about after all. The very Yercaud which had pulled my heart and locked it somewhere in its lush, green wild mountains when I had first visited it about 7 -8 years ago. I didn’t realise how much I would miss the sound of silence, which when punctuated by the chirping or tweeting of birds only seemed to augment the immense, humbling, wholeness of that silence. I fell in love with this small town nestled in the Shevaroyan hill range with its tiny roads that surprisingly could accommodate a good car and which had myriad trekking trails. This time I felt like I was coming home. Any doubts I had of it having changed in the interim were firmed up as we made ou...
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