Girivalam at Dawn

Girivalam begins in the dark, and no, that’s not an accident. At Nandhi, guests are woken well before sunrise, given something warm to drink, and sent out onto the path that circles Arunachala. Fourteen kilometres of walking that has been done by pilgrims for longer than anyone can properly trace.

The first hour is the strangest. Strange because the sky is still black, the mountain is just a shape against it, and the only sound is footsteps. Certainly yours and whoever else is walking that morning. There’s no rush to talk. Most people don’t. The silence isn’t awkward here; it’s the entire point of starting this early.

Somewhere around the second hour, the sky begins changing, slowly at first, then all at once. The mountain that was just a silhouette becomes visible in full. Every ridge, every shadow — right as the town below starts stirring awake. Small shrines appear along the path at intervals, some old enough that no record exists of who built them, and it’s common to see a few pilgrims pause, barefoot, for a moment of quiet prayer before continuing on.

By the time the walk ends, the sun is usually well up, the town fully awake, and the version of you that started this walk in darkness feels distinctly different from the one finishing it in daylight. Nobody explains why. Nobody can. The walk just does something, the way it apparently has for centuries of people before you.

Studio Nandhi

Notes from the hill — stays, spaces, tables and walks around Arunachala, written slowly and captured in time.