Gazing ahead from my hotel’s balcony, while holding on to its rails, I see an imposing green mountain staring back at me. Beyond the tumbledown arrangement of tea bushes, a black road snakes along the feet of the mountain. Cars and buses, like gleaming ants, creep along the tarmac. “It is Ella Rock,” says Sitara, the minder at Sita’s Heaven, breaking my trance momentarily. Bearded and shaggy-haired but sweet-natured, Sitara must have seen this countless times — visitors fixated at the scenery even before they check in. Disregarding my dropped jaw and dilated pupils, he proceeds with his instructions: “There is a mosquito net, there is a fan in the room and if you need anything I am downstairs.”

I am at Ella, a hill-town in southern Sri Lanka 60km southwest of Nuwara Eliya. I choose Ella’s tranquillity over its neighbour’s bucket list popularity. A wildly swaying train from Kandy, which snakes its way along tea plantations, brings me to Ella. The green peaks I chug past are crowned by indolent clouds. Most passengers get off at Horton Plains National Park and at Nanu Oya, the railhead for Nuwara Eliya. I disembark at Ella’s little station to find it relatively offbeat.

Sitara hands me a photocopied map of Ella marked with the town’s attractions. Overleaf, there is a table titled ‘interested places in Ella’. It speaks of rock temples, tea factories and waterfalls. At an elevation of 1,041m (only slightly above Bengaluru) and with a population of around 50,000, Ella can be covered by foot in a couple of days.

Tossing my luggage into the room, I step out while there is still light. I pick the Little Adam’s peak, a brisk 40 minutes’ walk from Ella town, cutting through tea gardens. The uphill walk makes me perspire but the view from the top is what really makes me breathless. Gawking at the landscape is routine in Ella. I stand around, staring down jagged cliffs and a green valley ridged by trees that filter the soft rays of the evening sun. As darkness descends, I peel away, leaving the viewpoint to the French couple that has been throwing sullied glances at me. “Leave already,” they seem to say.

On my way back, in a little alley, I find a handwritten board announcing ‘curd and treacle’. Dark brown palm syrup swirled over thick curd, it is spoon after spoon of probiotic goodness. I find the house and the woman who sells curd and treacle.

It might seem that Ella’s time as an isolated patch of secret heaven is drawing to a close. Tourists are taking note of it and footfall has increased over the last few years. Construction at various places in the town forebodes a different tomorrow. I notice masons working in the curd-seller’s house. She is extending it, in the hope that when tourists come in hordes, she makes some extra bucks.

At the same shop I also meet April, an American nurse who has been travelling for 15 months. We bond over, other than curd and treacle, the narcissism of travelling youngsters, the self-entitlement and rudeness of tattooed hipsters and the vanity of long-haired dudes. We also agree to hike up to Ella Rock the following day.

The hike, however, remains incomplete. Though we set out early and amble along the tree-canopied road with red autorickshaws zipping by, we get distracted by a restaurant perched on a rock jutting out into the valley. The hotel that accompanies the restaurant is booked out for a wedding but the owner, a Sinhalese woman with an overdose of bronze wedding make-up, welcomes us. We order drinks and nurse them for the rest of the day.

We get caught in the rain during our attempt to hike to the Ravana falls (where, according to Hindu mythology, Ravana hid Sita after abducting her from India). We walk back, having whiled away most of the day and step into a restaurant and order their speciality — kurakkan pizza, made from ragi flour. It is probably the best fusion pizza we have tasted. The crust is topped with curry sauce and baby jackfruit pieces ( ambul polos in Sinhalese) cooked in a tangy gravy. “It’s heaven, Ella heaven,” April says, trying not to choke as she chomps greedily.

Amid failed hiking attempts and hours of unending conversation, we realise Ella has slowed us down. Before we know it, it’s time to leave. As we sit under the shade of a gigantic eucalyptus tree waiting for the bus the next day, a Tamil woman in fluorescent blue sari approaches me. Like reconnecting with a long-lost relative, she asks,. “Why don’t you stay for a few more days?”. I draw a blank. I consider telling her I can’t let Ella slow me down any further. I don’t. I simply smile.

(Prathap Nair is a freelance writer based in Bengaluru)

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