The blue-tinted Nilgiris are hazy on the horizon. Coconut groves and large fields of corn, maize and groundnut give way to gnarled trees that shade a dirt track. A low-slung homestead, deceptively humble, is framed by the nurturing foliage. The driveway is a shy curve within a compound entered through a bare arch. There is no gate, imposing or otherwise. We are welcomed with an aarti to the wayside Ganesha, the little shrine decked in coral-pink oleander. The goose pond is a mud bund. A square of darkly mossy water has leaves instead of lilies; its pergola is a roughly hewn mandapam. And by the portico is another profusion of untrimmed trees, most exuberant among them a blooming cannonball (but nagalingam sounds so much better, no?). A branch brushes the car .
This looks nothing like a hotel, the first thought strikes me, and my anticipation turns keen. I am not to be disappointed. Shenbaga Vilaasam is old-worldly and self-assured without being august. It is, actually, irresistibly homely. But no ordinary residence, this. The partly colonial, partly Tamil mansion was built as a farm getaway for Zamindarini Maruthapushpam Amman at the turn of the 20th century, so that she might escape the rigours of her duties at the family’s palace nearby. Shenbagam is champak, the intensely fragrant flower the colour of saffron in milk (and sometimes just milk). It has a special significance in Samathur, a thriving agrarian hamlet in the outskirts of Pollachi, where we are now. The presiding deity is goddess Shenbagavalli Amman, a lovely 750-year-old temple that we visit late that evening. The industrialised affluence of Coimbatore is less than 60km and more than a world away. Yet, Shenbaga Vilaasam wears its history with the same ease as the fresh blossoms strung simply over her doorways.
I couldn’t get enough of it. Oil lamps twinkle and the rice-paste kolams drawn in welcome are still wet when we arrive. Hand-woven palm and mango leaf thoranams hang by the skylight. An aromatic vetiver garland adorns the entrance to the puja room, the medicinal root brittle to touch. A matched pair of giant kavalams, traditionally used for storing grain, have the patina, not of Brasso, but soaked tamarind. The wiring is unconcealed. The bathroom is outfitted with a brass bucket and spherical chombu. The Athangudi flooring has muted with the sheen of age, the sofas in the sit-out have no cushions (it’s the only place to watch an outdated television), and the worn paintwork quite suits the careful arrangements of sepia-tinted portraiture and religious art. The family insignia — the Nilgiri tahr — is wrought elegantly on a pair of silver chairs.
The house is quiet, its stillness not so much slumberous as introspective and absorbent. The absence of polish, paint and perfection is wonderful, especially when there’s an immaculate tidiness about everything. I have unexpectedly stumbled upon an uncut diamond, a beauty I’m almost afraid to awaken.
Rajah Shankar Vanavarayar, the young scion of the Coimbatore-based Shakti Group, which has business interests in multiple sectors, including textiles, finance and education, traces his lineage to the Samathur zamin, a family holding, originally of 17 villages, which dates to the 16th century. He opened the doors of the 90-year-old Shenbaga Vilaasam to visitors in 2007 but he did so cautiously, as we might in our (more modest) homes. The slow and selective experiment brought rich praise and heightened his interest in hospitality. Six months ago, Shenbaga Vilaasam shrugged off a little of this habitual diffidence but the willingness to ‘open up’ has, fortunately, not changed anything — there are only four rooms, each named after women of the royal household, and their interiors are quaintly non-standardised. My room, for instance, featured a display of jewel boxes, an oddment of busts both local and foreign, and the enormous 1986 edition of Yoshikazu Shirakawa’s Himalayas. The recently added make-it-yourself tea tray had, for snacking, delicious maalaadu (a laddu made with powdered lentils, ghee and sugar) and gur-and-peanut chikki, and fresh petals venerated sombre pictures of family elders in the living spaces. By the way, we left our footwear outside.
Family and friends are still accorded priority ‘reservations’ at Shenbaga Vilaasam, loyal retainers tend to the upkeep, and 750 acres of fertile coconut plantation surrounds the property. This includes a 250-acre manmade ‘pond’ into which water is released biannually from the government-controlled Aliyar canal by a British era arrangement — it’s also fantastic for birding, and a long stroll on a path so people-free that I could pretend it belonged to me.
It’s best reached by a bullock cart ride, to which we were treated one evening, after a pair of oxen were anointed with haldi-kumkum, their horns shined with oil. They snorted our royal buggy up a road that had barely a car or two pass by, although peacocks were aplenty. It was such a peaceful ride. But watch, said Shiva, the friendly and encyclopaedic keeper of the house, they are creatures of habit, these beasts. When we turn around, they’ll know we are going back home and I’ll have to hold hard to slow them down. True enough, we bounced back in less than half the time, Shiva hanging on to the harness and cluck-clucking in good humour.
We don’t usually associate Tamil Nadu’s plains with such a cool and lush landscape but Pollachi’s position at the foothills of the Western Ghats makes it uniquely agreeable: the hill station of Valparai and the Anamalai sanctuary are less than an hour away. Its fecund rural vistas are much beloved of Tamil movies. It’s rumoured that Shah Rukh Khan owns a farm on the Siruvani side of Coimbatore, and there’s a certain go-to gentleman who hunts and arranges locations for shoots around Asia’s ‘coconut city’ (the nom de plume of which Pollachi, you’ll find, is frequently proud). In fact, the Vanavarayar family routinely declines requests to film on its lands. ‘Rajini sir’ is the only exception, for he is a dear friend. This leaves the dozen-odd charmingly named plantations — like the aranmanai thottam or palace garden, Alanachiamman thoppu or a grove named after a goddess, or kaattu vayalu, the jungle field — undisturbed except for the efforts to cultivate them. A pair of boots can facilitate walkabouts that would thrill Elizabeth Bennet.
Pollachi’s coconuts are harvested from thousands of green acres bang in the middle of western Tamil Nadu’s Kongunadu, a vast and porous region with iconography evidencing nomadic occupation from the 3rd century BC, and ruled by fierce chieftains who pledged their loyalty to the Cholas, Cheras, Pandyas and Gangas at different times in history. Roman coins, pottery and beads have established the presence of an ancient trade route via the Palakkad Gap, which also keeps Pollachi’s weather famously salubrious. And then there’s Kongunadu’s legendary social and culinary refinement. Its soft-spoken and courteous folk make our cities look so rowdy, and their diverse cuisine, seen as exotic even within the state, uplifts the dining at Shenbaga Vilaasam to something very fine indeed.
The family is vegetarian, which is not so uncommon in Kongu tradition, so they serve only that. This suited me well, but Jyothy adds that she didn’t miss her love for meat a whit. Oh, such sumptuous food! The sampler-style menus have thoughtfully paired varieties served attentively and generously. Kezhvaragu (ragi), kambu (pearl millet) and kollu (horse gram) star delightfully in many dishes. Breakfast specialties include ragi and mint sandhagai, fresh-pressed, mildly spiced string hoppers accompanied by a tomato ‘red’ kuzhambu; healthful pachaipaiyaru (green and yellow moong) and konda kadalai (kabuli chana) sundals; a uniquely southern sooji khichdi and a rolled pearl millet dosai; everything presented variously with terrific garlic, lentil, radish, onion, coconut, mint and beetroot chutneys. Clearly, I hadn’t known enough about the world of chutneys till Shenbaga Vilaasam.
The invisible cook, Mr Murthy, is sensitive not only to the spices he uses so carefully but to common tastes — and even though his mini idlis in a flavourful sambhar, fresh fruits and juices were delicious, I wasn’t the least bit tempted by the muffins, muesli, toast and preserves he also thought to serve. Oddly enough, for all the coconut that grows here, I saw less of the staple submerging the curries than I have in Kerala or other parts of Tamil Nadu. Also, I haven’t tasted such cool, sweet yelaneeru (tender coconut) anywhere else. Shiva says this is because it’s served within a couple of hours of plucking, whereas it takes days to reach the nearest metros, jostling in stacks after being cut, its water supply dried up.
The meals were no less remarkable — the spongy, cutlet-style kadalamaavu (gram flour) roti as perfectly done as the carrot and keerai (greens) chapattis. Mr Murthy’s sublime innovations included a soya biryani, ‘curd bread’ (toasted bread soaked in a scrumptious yoghurt marinade), a dahi-tempered wheat upma, deep-fried yam balls, vazhaipoo (banana flower) vadais, banana stem poriyal, and tender coconut payasam. He spun the thayir vadai off in a whole new direction by stuffing the vadais with an onion relish, and he gets his rasams as right as his mushroom soups. Meals are inevitably a huge part of the Shenbaga Vilaasam experience and I wouldn’t even worry about diets because it’s all done lightly, the selection of grains, millets and vegetables unfailingly nutritious. I would have benefited from a recipe book…and a longer stay.
On our last evening, a group of men led by their guru Kuppusamy sang and danced a vigorous kolattam in the porch. Electricity went out momentarily and, in the failing light of dusk and the flicker of oil lamps, the performers clashed their sticks in a ferocious rhythm as their voices rose to the darkening sky. The 200-year-old banyan loomed yonder. It was an oddly innocent and regal vignette, one which I watched awkwardly from a high chair, not entirely persuaded of my nobility. I suspect Maruthapushpam Amman would have been amused.
The information
Getting there
Coimbatore is the nearest well-connected rail station (50km) and airport (60km). Shenbaga Vilaasam arranges pick-up and drop-offs from both for about Rs 2,000. There are hourly buses to Valparai from Coimbatore; Samathur is a stop on the way. Or take the frequent service to Pollachi town and switch to a Samathur hop from there. Kochi and Madurai are other well-connected cities, both about 180km away.
Where to stay
Easily accessed, Pollachi should have been a popular vacation retreat but the absence of quality stays has kept it under-visited. Shenbaga Vilaasam (Pethanacikanur Road, Samathur, Pollachi; 9786500639; samathur@sakthi.net, orientheritage@gmail.com, shenbagavilaasam.in) is something of a destination in itself, and staying here guarantees a splendid experience of the verdant environs. The rate of Rs 8,500 per room per night on single or double occupancy includes all meals, guided activities (guests have to bring their own transport or have it hired for them), and taxes. There are four rooms — Maruthapushpam (the largest), Manickam, Jaya, and Radhamani (which is not a suite; the others have an ante-room each).
What to see & do
Visitors can hire a car (Rs 1,500 for 8hrs/80km in an Indica, or Rs 2,600 in an Innnova) and Shenbaga Vilaasam will arrange alongside, should you desire it, a guided visit to Pollachi’s key vegetable market. We talked shop with a weaver of bamboo baskets and caught a banana auction live. We stopped by at a limestone kiln where workers slaved over a surreally smoking choolai, which reminded me of India’s many distressing dichotomies.
Samathur was once home to a hundred weavers but only 24 ply their trade now. An evening was spent with a bullock cart ride to Vanavarayar pond, which birds seemed to like as much as we did. I loved the clean aesthetic of the historic Shenbagavalli Amman temple. A friendly kili josiyam (parrot-picks-a-card) fortune-teller and palm reader comes by to Shenbaga Vilaasam.
A drive on the Valparai Road, pausing at view points and the Ariyalar Reservoir, offers expansive views of the countryside. A visit to the Thenarasu Organic Farm led to a walk around the well-kept holding and enjoyable conversations with owners Sanmugavel and Sivapriya. Here’s a great place to buy fresh-pressed virgin coconut oil (Rs 240 per litre) and high-quality organic pepper (Rs 650 per kilo).
Enjoy long walks, bring books, or borrow from the in-house library. Caretaker Shiva is well-informed about all things Pollachi. Manager Prasad leads the team with quiet efficiency. Four cycles are available free for guests. The hour-long cultural show is billed at Rs 2,500.
Navaratri (October) and Pongal (mid-January) are particularly festive times. Bullock cart races take place in different villages every fortnight. The Vanavarayar palace ground hosts an event during Pongal; up to 500 carts race for prizes in gold.
The hill-station of Valparai (60km) is 40 hair-pin bends and 75min away. Top Slip is a scenic 42km drive on the road. En route is the magnificent Aliyar Reservoir, and touristy Monkey Falls. Pollachi skirts the foot of the Anamalais (elephant mountains), or the Indira Gandhi Wildlife Reserve and National Park, Tamil Nadu’s largest.