What's so different about Munnar, you might ask. It is just another hill-station, just another group of tea gardens, just another set of winding roads that lead up to overflowing hotels, just another place to buy a few more spices and tea packets and eucalyptus oil, just a few more viewpoints where busy travellers click pictures and spend their money and time recovering from the madness of their daily lives.
This Christmas in Munnar, even as travellers did all the above, I walked, oblivious of the crowd, in the search for something new.
The lilting strains of the carols beckoned me towards the tall and imposing structure that sat proudly above high, winding, steps. As I climbed up the steps and reached the church gate, the crowd mingled with me - tourists along with the local people, impossible to distinguish one group from the other, all united in the search for peace and silence.
The Church, which dates back to 1898, was the first Roman Catholic Church in the high-ranges and its gates are wide-open even today as people filter in for a moment of quiet worship.
The high ceiling of the Church echoed the beautiful strains of the oft-repeated carols, some unknown tunes in Malayalam adding to the magic of the moment.
The Christmas service over, the crowd started walking back, the tourists looking for the next attraction, the local people back to their own lives.
I sat on the wooden bench, alone, the carols still ringing in my ears-the child that had learnt to sing the carols in the chapels of childhood now teaching the true meaning of the blessings amidst the calm they showered on the restless mind.
This Christmas in Munnar, even as travellers did all the above, I walked, oblivious of the crowd, in the search for something new.
The lilting strains of the carols beckoned me towards the tall and imposing structure that sat proudly above high, winding, steps. As I climbed up the steps and reached the church gate, the crowd mingled with me - tourists along with the local people, impossible to distinguish one group from the other, all united in the search for peace and silence.
The Church, which dates back to 1898, was the first Roman Catholic Church in the high-ranges and its gates are wide-open even today as people filter in for a moment of quiet worship.
The high ceiling of the Church echoed the beautiful strains of the oft-repeated carols, some unknown tunes in Malayalam adding to the magic of the moment.
The Christmas service over, the crowd started walking back, the tourists looking for the next attraction, the local people back to their own lives.
I sat on the wooden bench, alone, the carols still ringing in my ears-the child that had learnt to sing the carols in the chapels of childhood now teaching the true meaning of the blessings amidst the calm they showered on the restless mind.
