Rediscover Your Soul on a Bangalore Weekend Outing

22 Mar 2024

Rediscover Your Soul on a Bangalore Weekend Outing

Rediscover Your Soul on a Bangalore Weekend OutingA Bangalore Weekend Outing for the Writer's Soul
Need a change? Listen to this story of escape and rediscovery.
The city hummed its usual weekday tune, but my fingers ached to dance across pages, not keyboards. An engineer's salary paid the bills, but the stories I scribbled under my desk as a child were the ones that truly fed my soul. A Bangalore weekend outing promised a chance to escape, and maybe even rediscover that writer within. Remember, Ma used to say, "your words will bloom one day, just like the mallige outside."
A writer, that was my dream, buried beneath code and deadlines. "Baa maleye baa, hoo maleye baa..." – the snatch of a Kannada song echoed in my heart. Then came a whisper online – Mayavadi, a farmhouse near Nandi Hills. Rain-soaked trails, dogs, a chance to simply... exhale.
This Bangalore weekend outing was a lifeline for a soul starved for wildness.

Trading Codes for Canopies: A Bangalore Getaway

The transformation began the moment I left the city, a lifeline stretched towards green. Concrete towers dissolved into a blur, the relentless hum of traffic replaced by a cleansing drizzle. Suddenly, from that vibrant tangle, Mayavadi burst forth – not a grand sign, but a joyous whirlwind of fur.
Nameless, Una, a third dog swirled around them, their wagging tails streaks of happiness erasing the sharp edges of the city from my mind. "Treehouse?" Poo's eyes twinkled, catching the wild echo of my heart. As the downpour beat a rhythm on the tin roof, I shed more than just the rain from my clothes.
Tonight, I wasn't an engineer, just a soul finding sanctuary. A Kannada film song pierced the damp air, its yearning melody my own: "Neene beku neene beku, naanu nanna bekendu..." You are what I want, I want just myself... Amidst the symphony of rain and joyous barks, a seed of change took root.

The Slow Burn of Transformation

Poo's smile held a story I longed to write – spreadsheets traded for the slow rhythm of the earth, where lunch unfurled with the patience of growing things. This Bangalore weekend outing was everything I didn't know I needed.
The misty forest in the image mirrored my own softening edges – the path glistening, the imperfect curve of a leaf resonating with my newfound love for the unplanned. The hike dissolved into rain-soaked laughter, a joyful echo against those moss-laden trees. My own transformation was painted across this landscape.
Even the snatched melody of "Ee Kannada bhoomi, ee Kannada jana..." felt woven into the rustling leaves, the soft patter of rain on my umbrella.

Treehouse Dreams, City Echoes

The treehouse was a world of stolen hours, bathed in the honeyed scent of wet wood and something indefinably comforting. Wine, heavy in my hand, was a promise of evenings without deadlines. Each sip was a surrender, a letting go. The dogs curled on old quilts, and the rain was a gentle symphony.
Somewhere, a snatch of an old Kannada song drifted on the damp air, and it tasted like Amma's kitchen, like long summer afternoons with cousins I barely saw anymore. Each breath was a rediscovery of something precious and lost in the relentless rush of the city.
Morning unraveled with the earthy aroma of waking soil and a bird symphony I couldn't decipher. No alarm intruded, only hunger stirred beneath the blankets. Chai, not hurried, was an act of ritual, its spice a jolt of memory as vivid as the mist curling past the window.
Each sip painted a picture – breakfasts on a school day, the comforting warmth before facing the world. Wasn't this its own kind of luxury – time for flavors to linger, for the past and present to mingle like tea and milk? This wasn't paradise by any brochure's definition, yet it was soul-deep satisfying. A haven of simple things, where even chai wasn't just chai, but a sip of who I used to be.

Return, But Not the Same

Recommended for Bengaluru

A Bangalore Weekend Outing for the Writer’s Soul

Need a change? Listen to this story of escape and rediscovery.

The city hummed its usual weekday tune, but my fingers ached to dance across pages, not keyboards. An engineer’s salary paid the bills, but the stories I scribbled under my desk as a child were the ones that truly fed my soul. A Bangalore weekend outing promised a chance to escape, and maybe even rediscover that writer within. Remember, Ma used to say, “your words will bloom one day, just like the mallige outside.”

A writer, that was my dream, buried beneath code and deadlines. “Baa maleye baa, hoo maleye baa…” – the snatch of a Kannada song echoed in my heart. Then came a whisper online – Mayavadi, a farmhouse near Nandi Hills. Rain-soaked trails, dogs, a chance to simply… exhale.

This Bangalore weekend outing was a lifeline for a soul starved for wildness.

Trading Codes for Canopies: A Bangalore Getaway

Trading Codes for Canopies

Nameless, Una, a third dog swirled around them, their wagging tails streaks of happiness erasing the sharp edges of the city from my mind. “Treehouse?” Poo’s eyes twinkled, catching the wild echo of my heart. As the downpour beat a rhythm on the tin roof, I shed more than just the rain from my clothes.

Tonight, I wasn’t an engineer, just a soul finding sanctuary. A Kannada film song pierced the damp air, its yearning melody my own: “Neene beku neene beku, naanu nanna bekendu…” You are what I want, I want just myself… Amidst the symphony of rain and joyous barks, a seed of change took root.

The Slow Burn of Transformation

Poo’s smile held a story I longed to write – spreadsheets traded for the slow rhythm of the earth, where lunch unfurled with the patience of growing things. This Bangalore weekend outing was everything I didn’t know I needed.

The misty forest in the image mirrored my own softening edges – the path glistening, the imperfect curve of a leaf resonating with my newfound love for the unplanned. The hike dissolved into rain-soaked laughter, a joyful echo against those moss-laden trees. My own transformation was painted across this landscape.

Even the snatched melody of “Ee Kannada bhoomi, ee Kannada jana…” felt woven into the rustling leaves, the soft patter of rain on my umbrella.

Treehouse Dreams, City Echoes

Somewhere, a snatch of an old Kannada song drifted on the damp air, and it tasted like Amma’s kitchen, like long summer afternoons with cousins I barely saw anymore. Each breath was a rediscovery of something precious and lost in the relentless rush of the city.

Morning unraveled with the earthy aroma of waking soil and a bird symphony I couldn’t decipher. No alarm intruded, only hunger stirred beneath the blankets. Chai, not hurried, was an act of ritual, its spice a jolt of memory as vivid as the mist curling past the window.

Each sip painted a picture – breakfasts on a school day, the comforting warmth before facing the world. Wasn’t this its own kind of luxury – time for flavors to linger, for the past and present to mingle like tea and milk? This wasn’t paradise by any brochure’s definition, yet it was soul-deep satisfying. A haven of simple things, where even chai wasn’t just chai, but a sip of who I used to be.

Return, But Not the Same

The Mist Factory was more than just a café. It was a final sip of that wilderness magic before the city closed in, a stark contrast of steaming cappuccinos to the chai brewed over embers. The taste of coffee was bittersweet, a reminder of the return that awaited. The film on my phone held the visual story, but the deeper tale was etched in me. This Bangalore weekend outing wasn’t a solution, it was a reawakening.

The poet, long buried beneath the engineer’s practical façade, was stirring once more. The rain, the mud, the laughter echoing in the trees…they were proof. Sometimes, the greatest escape isn’t a change of location, but an inward journey.

Back to the city I must go, the call of deadlines and routines an insistent buzz already. Yet, there’s a flicker of defiance in my step. Ma was right – those words will bloom. Mayavadi didn’t just grant me respite, it taught me that sometimes, the most important work is what happens inside of yourself.

The poet and the engineer may have to coexist, but from now on, it’s the poet’s heart that sets the pace.