A Monsoon Adventure in AnaikattiShape

We hadn’t planned anything beyond “get out of the city.” That was it.

The three of us, all friends since college, scattered now across different jobs and time zones, decided on a whim to meet. We just needed some place green. Wet. Wild. Anaikatti showed up on a travel reel and somehow, it got stuck. A village tucked into the Western Ghats, mist-draped and soaked in monsoon magic. It seemed perfect.

We packed lights: raincoats, power banks, protein bars we never touched. No itinerary. Just a hunger to feel something that wasn’t pixels or caffeine. And we wanted it to rain. Not the kind that floods streets and cancels plans. The kind that calls everything to life.

Anaikatti wasn’t disappointed.

We arrived late in the afternoon. Thunder rolled somewhere behind the hills as we checked into our rooms. The air smelled like petrichor and ginger. The trees leaned close, as if they were listening. Everything looked washed, wide awake. Like the earth had exhaled.

That evening, over hot banana fritters and cardamom chai, we heard about a guided trek to a hidden waterfall “only in season,” the staff said. “Only if you’re not afraid of getting a little wet.”

We laughed. That was the point.

Next morning, we woke up before the sun. Slipped into damp socks and packed nothing but water bottles and a change of clothes we never used. The trail started behind the resort and led straight into the forest. It was alive. Everywhere we turned, something moved frogs the size of a thumbnail, long-tailed macaques swinging between trees, vines fat with moisture. Our guide, Ramesh, knew every band and birdsong.

The climb wasn’t easy. The ground squished underfoot, the rain came in sheets, and we took turns slipping on mossy rocks. But the air was electric. Laughing, panting, soaking, it felt like we were sixteen again.

Then we heard it.

Not just water, but thunder is getting closer now, heavier. The forest opened to a clearing, and there it was: a waterfall crashing over black stone, white with fury, surrounded by mist that caught the light like silver.

None of us spoke.

We just stared, hearts racing, clothes sticking to skin. For a second, it didn’t feel like earth. It felt like some secret the world had kept just for us.

Ramesh asked if we wanted to rappel. We looked at each other and grinned like fools.

Of course, we did.

The gear was secure. Safety ropes, harnesses, instructions yelled over the roar of the water. I was the first to go. I admit it, I was terrified. I leaned back, legs trembling, and lowered myself into the rush. The waterfall slammed into me, blinding and deafening. But under fear, there was something else: clarity.

For a few seconds, there was only gravity and grit. Then I touched down, laughing like I hadn’t in months.

The others followed, each emerging with faces wide open in disbelief. Not because we’d conquered something huge, but because we’d remembered something simple. That we could still feel alive.

Later, we stripped off our wet clothes and jumped into the natural pool below the falls. The water was icy, sharp against the skin, but it made us feel invincible. Like we belonged.

By the time we hiked back, it was late afternoon. Mud-covered and starving, we gorged on tamarind rice, fried yam, and spiced buttermilk. Every bite tasted earned.

That night, we lay on the cottage porch wrapped in blankets, watching lightning split the hills in silence. We didn’t say much. Just passed a flask around and listened to the rain. Sometimes, that’s all-old friends needed.

The next morning, we skipped the yoga session and wandered back to the edge of the trail. It is quieter now. But we could still hear faint roar in the distance. We didn’t hike again. We didn’t need to. The waterfall had already left its echo somewhere inside us.

We left Anaikatti the following day, shoes still damp, hearts a little lighter.

What did we take home?

Not just memories. Not just pictures (though we had plenty). We took something else—the feeling of holding on to each other mid-descent. The laugh that comes when fear leaves your body. The silence of friends who’ve witnessed something together.

And the sound of water, always calling, even long after you’ve dried off.