travel

From Class Trips to Grown-up Journeys: Ooty’s Magic Never Fades

/ Neethu Joy / Leave a comment

Growing up in Coimbatore, the words school trip meant only one thing, a journey to Ooty. Nestled in the Nilgiris, Ooty has always been the most cherished weekend getaway for people in and around Coimbatore.

I loved those trips, but my body did not. The winding mountain roads brought on motion sickness, and the sudden change in weather combined with the high altitude often left me feeling unwell. To make matters worse, I would return home with a sore throat and an infection after almost every visit.

Ooty Lake, when the biggest thrill was finding out our boat mates.

And yet, my love for Ooty never faded. I often wonder why. Perhaps it was because I grew up in a hilly area and certain corners of Ooty reminded me of home. Maybe because most of my school trips were to Ooty, and the place still carries the innocence of childhood days when life felt lighter. Or perhaps it was because I grew up watching Priyadarshan’s feel-good movies filmed in Ooty. Those lush green tea estates, misty mornings, and charming old bungalows on screen always gave me a happy and comforting feeling. Whatever the reason, I always associated Ooty with joy, laughter, and warmth, even if my body protested every single time.

Ooty and old memories.

Even now, I still have motion sickness, but the magic of Ooty has never worn off. The sight of eucalyptus trees swaying in the cool breeze, the scent of fresh tea leaves, and the rolling mist over the hills still make my heart light up.

Recently, my friend Peter, who is a Club Mahindra member, suggested a road trip to Goa. In my mind, I had already decided not to go because I dislike long car journeys. I suggested Ooty instead, but the idea was met with strong opposition. Goa soon became Cherai, and then every other possible Club Mahindra property. Nobody supported Ooty except Peter’s son.

Ooty mornings painted in light and mist.

Finally, the universe seemed to side with me and the location was confirmed as Ooty. My brother, who usually drives me during such trips and whose driving somehow prevents my motion sickness, could not join because he was busy. I was hesitant to travel in someone else’s car, knowing it would make the journey tough for me and possibly for them too. Then I remembered my cousin once taking the train to Ooty and decided to give it a try.

Clicked from my seat, a reminder of journeys that stay with you long after they end.

I booked Tatkal tickets, arranged for a driver to drop me at Mettupalayam station, and took the morning toy train to Ooty. It was my first time traveling alone on the toy train and I completely enjoyed it. The five and a half hour journey was nothing short of magical. The steam train stopped at every little station to refill water, giving about twenty minutes at each stop. I clicked pictures, enjoyed piping hot vada and bajji from small stalls, and watched the hills slowly reveal their beauty.

The toy train ride – slow, scenic, and timeless.

The occasional sound of crying children was the only disturbance, but even that could not spoil the charm. The experience was so enchanting that I even took the train back to Mettupalayam.

During my four day stay, I made new friends, Nikki and Dhvinay and shared conversations that made the trip even better. I realised that making friends at any age is easy when one is open to it. Late night chats and storytelling sessions by Peter added warmth to the cold nights.

Tiny halts that carried us farther.

This trip reminded me that some places never lose their magic, no matter how many times they are visited. For me, Ooty will always be more than a hill station. It is the scent of eucalyptus in the morning air, the freezing nights, and the sight of mist curling over the tea estates. It is a piece of my childhood, my school days, and my favourite movie scenes come to life.

And maybe that is the real beauty of travel, when a place makes you forget the discomfort and simply fills your heart with a feeling that you cannot quite put into words. That is what Ooty does to me, every single time.

What about you?

  • Have you ever loved a place so much that you would visit it despite discomfort?
  • Have you taken the toy train to Ooty?
  • Which hill station holds your most cherished travel memories?
  • Have you ever wished a train ride never ended?
  • Do you still keep a photograph from a trip that meant the world to you?

Under the Same Moon

/ Neethu Joy / Leave a comment

I stayed in boarding school since I was a child. Being away from home for so many years was not always easy. While the days were filled with classes, chatter, and routine, the nights often brought a quiet ache. There were many nights when I missed my parents deeply. But whenever I looked up at the night sky and saw the moon shining, I used to feel a bit better.

Taken at 7 pm, but the daylight still lingers.

I would tell myself, “My parents must be looking at the same moon from miles away.” That thought gave me comfort. It felt like the moon was the one thing connecting us, even when we were far from each other. It felt like a quiet bridge between our hearts. That soft silver light became my silent companion, gently reminding me that love has no limits.

At 7:28 PM, twilight gave way to moonlight.

Tonight, when I stepped outside for an unplanned dinner with my brother and cousin, I happened to see the moon again. That same comforting feeling returned, but this time, it felt even deeper. Now, when I look at the moon, I think of all the people I love and all the people who love me, no matter where they are in the world. Friends, family, and even those I do not meet often. We are all under the same sky, sharing the same moment.

Paused for paniyaram – The moon followed me.

The moon has a special way of making the world feel smaller and warmer. It shows me that distance only exists on the outside. Inside, love, memories, and connection move freely, faster than anything else. The same moonlight that touches me tonight is touching those I care about too, wrapping us all in a quiet and gentle connection.

So the next time you miss someone, try looking at the moon. Maybe they are looking at it too. And maybe, just like it did for me all these years, the moon will carry your thoughts to them.

Stopped for dosa and she followed me there too.

Do you ever think of someone when you see the moon?
Have you felt a little less alone when you looked up at the sky?
Who do you feel closest to when the moonlight shines gently around you?

The moon is always there, softly reminding us that love can reach across any distance.

From Fear to Freedom

/ Neethu Joy / Leave a comment

I’ve always wanted to drive. That desire started when I was young, watching my dad drive his jeep like a pro. He was effortless behind the wheel, and I was in awe. Someday, I’ll write a post just about his driving skills.

But back then, I never thought I’d be able to learn in my dad’s jeep. It felt too big for me, like it belonged to a different world. I believed I wasn’t built to drive large vehicles, and so the dream stayed quietly tucked away.

From fear to gear — Appa’s Major and me

In college, most of my friends knew how to drive. Some of them would pick me up or drop me off, and I admired their independence. It was more than just getting from one place to another. Driving seemed like a symbol of freedom and style.

I grew up in boarding school and never owned a vehicle. Learning to drive was never an option, but the desire never left me. Years later, when I doing my UG in Coimbatore, I noticed the driving license test was being conducted right outside my hostel. That gave me the push I needed to join a driving school. I got my license in 2006 but never truly used it. I remained a passenger, still admiring those who could drive with ease and confidence, quietly wishing that one day I would be able to do the same.

Next to my uncle’s jeep . Jeeps ran in the family, just like the hills

And then one day, the universe listened.

One evening, I was on a call with my friend Gautham. Somehow, we ended up talking about driving, and I began listing my fears, what if I caused an accident? What if my short legs couldn’t reach the clutch properly? What if I lost control?

He listened patiently and then gave me the nudge I didn’t know I needed. “Your dad has a Major jeep, right? And it’s a four-wheel drive. Try driving in 4WD mode. It moves slow, and you won’t feel overwhelmed by speed.” He explained the basics and reassured me that I’d be fine. That conversation gave me just enough confidence to try.

Gautham – One of the reasons I started driving.

Motivated, I told my dad that I wanted to learn properly this time and was thinking of joining a driving school. He was in a good mood that evening and said, “No need. I’ll ask someone to come home and teach you.” That same night, my brother informed me that Subramanian Anna would be coming at 5:30 in the morning for my first lesson. I was both excited and nervous.

I still remember giving him a small gurudakshina as a sign of respect before we started. From day one, he was patient and calm. He never raised his voice, never lost his temper. He was someone who let silence guide the lesson and corrections land gently.

I learnt to drive in a manual car that had no hill assist. I still remember him patiently teaching me how to use the half clutch in hilly areas. He trained me to stop on an incline and start again without letting the vehicle roll back even slightly. The entrance to our house is on a slope, and he would make me practice there repeatedly using the half clutch until I got the hang of it. I remember failing fourteen times in a row. I was ready to cry. I told him I’d try again some other day, but he simply said, “If you can’t, who can? Keep trying.” To help me overcome my fear of big vehicles, he even made me drive a tempo. Slowly, my confidence grew.

The first few solo drives hit different

My mother often jokes that driving is the only thing I’ve ever completed and stuck with. I tend to stop doing things that don’t hold my interest — tailoring, baking, you name it. I’ve gone to classes and never followed through. But maybe, just maybe, if I meet another teacher like Subramanian Anna in those areas, I might pick them up again too.

A little something to show I really did take a baking class

Each day, he would take me on different routes, and that’s how I got to see parts of Attapady I had never visited before. Those drives became more than just practice. It became little journeys of discovery.

Today, I drive on my own. And I want to tell every woman out there that learning to drive gives you a sense of freedom that’s hard to describe. It’s empowering, it’s exhilarating, and it changes how you see the world. If I can drive, honestly, anyone can.

In just two days, a brand-new addition is joining our family. A bigger vehicle, the XUV 700. And this time, I am ready.

PDI done. She’s almost ours!

Of Naatu Mangoes, Monsoon Mornings, and Mampazha Memories

/ Neethu Joy / 2 Comments

In our plantation, we had three or four naatu mango trees—tall, towering ones that had been there for years. These trees were special. Unlike other mangoes that are picked early and ripened at home, these ones followed their own rhythm. When the wind blew just right, the ripe mangoes would fall to the ground. Their sweet and sour aroma would fill the air long before we even spotted them.

The mangoes were small, a lot like the Chandrakaran variety, but their flavour was unforgettable. Even when they were fully ripe, a hint of sourness lingered.

Every summer vacation, Appa would hand me a plastic bucket/cover and send me out to collect the fallen mangoes. I used to grumble and drag my feet. Though it was called summer vacation, for us in Puliyara the monsoons had usually already begun. The grass would be wet with last night’s rain, the path would be muddy and slippery. Sometimes we would land flat on our backsides in the slush. But there was a reason we had to go early as the wild boars knew about the mangoes too. If we didn’t get there first, they’d have their share.

Despite all the fuss, once we were out there, there was joy in the ritual. We would pick the mangoes one by one, eating a few as we went along—sticky hands, messy faces, hearts full. Whatever was left would go into the kitchen, where Amma would turn them into manga curry.

Today, while having mampazha pulissery for lunch, something about the taste took me straight back to those mornings. The rain kissed air, the smell of ripe mangoes, Appa’s voice calling from the Thinnah (Verandah), and the way childhood felt. It was simple, honest, and full of flavour.

Some meals feed more than the body. They bring back pieces of home.