Every July in Coorg, the skies open their journals. The monsoon doesn’t just arrive here. It settles in, lingers, and speaks in rhythm. And if you sit by a wooden-framed window long enough, you’ll start to read what it’s trying to say.

Mornings begin with fog brushing past the coffee estates. By afternoon, rain taps a quiet beat on old rooftops. And by night, the hills echo with thunder that sounds less like a warning and more like applause.

There’s a homestay near Madikeri where time seems to follow the pace of a poem. No television. No distractions. Just mist rising off the earth and windows that become pages. You’ll find yourself tracing raindrops like verses, watching them dance and merge as if reciting stanzas you didn’t know you needed.

Outside, the land blooms green and gold. The scent of wet earth, freshly roasted coffee, and burning firewood mix into something unforgettable. You begin to understand why poets have always fled to the hills during monsoon.

Because here, July isn’t just a month. It’s a writer. And every drop is a line that finds a way into your heart.

 

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