Valentine’s Day usually conjures up images of candlelit dinners, roses, and heart-shaped chocolates. But for us—a group of “magnificent seven” adventure-seekers—February 14 was about something different: conquering the mighty Velliangiri Hills, also known as the “Kailash of the South.” Velliangiri rises nearly 6,000 feet over seven relentless hills, each one bringing a different kind of pain and challenge.
Trekking has never been new to me—each climb comes with its own set of challenges, and no two treks ever feel the same. I’ve conquered some tough ones in the mighty Himalayas, with Pangarchulla still holding the title of my first and toughest summit. I still pat myself on the back for that. But Velliangiri was something else entirely. This wasn’t just a climb; it was a true test of endurance, a journey that pushed me beyond my limits, made me question my own strength, and hit me hard with the realization of how crucial proper preparation is. It left me with an experience so profound that words can barely capture its essence.
The Unplanned Plan
I consider myself a decent planner—though some of my friends might disagree! When it comes to treks, I usually plan months in advance with my trek partner, Ms. P. I dive deep into research, watching videos, reading blogs, and making sure I know exactly what I’m signing up for.
But this trek? This was different.
I had been hearing about Velliangiri Hills/Dakshin kailash, for months. Some people said they had to turn back halfway, unable to push through. Others warned that the climb was brutally demanding. Yet, I never seriously considered attempting it—not just because of the difficulty, but because of a long-standing tradition: women who haven’t reached menopause aren’t allowed to trek.
When I first heard about this restriction, I immediately dismissed the idea of ever attempting the trek. Why go where I’m not welcome? The rule felt unfair, and the thought of such discrimination slowly made me lose interest in the place.
But then, something changed.
Ms. P, ever the resourceful one, found a forest ranger who was willing to grant us special permission.
Suddenly, the forbidden path was open.
And just like that in a week’s time everything fell in place, we had a plan. The timing worked out perfectly—our schedules aligned, and Ms.P gathered a group of seven. For me, everyone else is a stranger , but all drawn together by this unexpected opportunity.
The Midnight Ascent
At 3 AM, under a brilliant Moon against a deep black canvas, we began our ascent from a small temple in Poondi. The PA system crackled—“People with diabetes, heart conditions, or lung diseases should not attempt this trek.”
A checkpoint loomed ahead. A security guard glanced at us and asked, “What’s your age?” Before I could answer, my savior casually dropped the ranger’s name. That was all it took—we were waved through without another question.
But somewhere deep inside, a thought began to take root—Am I breaking a rule?
As the hours passed, the night sky shifted its hues—from deep indigo to violet, then to a warm pinkish-orange as the sun stretched its golden fingers across the horizon. It should have been breathtaking. But in that moment, I wasn’t looking. I was too busy just trying to survive—until someone nudged me to stop and take it all in.
A trek isn’t just about showing up with the right gear. It demands discipline—physically, mentally, and logistically. My style has always been quiet and introspective. I avoid unnecessary chatter, let my mind wander, and stick close to the trek leader, usually at the front. Struggles come, but they’re expected—manageable.
But this time, my lack of discipline over the past month showed its colors. Late nights, unhealthy food, and constant travel had wrecked my stamina. I knew I wasn’t at my best, but Velliangiri made sure I felt it.
Then came something I had never faced before on a trek—severe cramps.
At first, I brushed off the discomfort. But soon, my legs seized up, each step sending fire through my muscles. Panic set in. This had never happened before. Was I dehydrated? Pushing too hard? Would I even make it? Am I pulling everyone back ?
Salt tablets, oranges with salt, constant hydration, enregy bars, fast ups —I threw everything at it. But every step became a calculated risk.
From that moment on, my entire focus shifted. I wasn’t looking at the vast landscapes or the changing sky. I was watching my feet, analyzing every single step, trying to land on the flattest surface possible.
But on this terrain, avoiding uneven ground is impossible.
Damn the cramps.
Frustrating. Painful. And yet—somewhere in that struggle—I was learning.
Along the Way…..
Through the struggles…. there were many moments that made me smile…
We stopped for a hot cup of sukku coffee (dry ginger coffee)—the warmth cutting through the cold air, making everything feel better. Once in a while stop for a picture… as the sun started raising..
And then, there were the people…………
One of the most humbling parts of the journey was witnessing the sheer devotion of barefoot pilgrims. Many had started the trek without footwear, braving the rugged terrain with unwavering faith. Some had stopped along the way, resting under trees or on temple platforms, waiting for their energy to return before continuing their climb. Others had even stayed overnight on the trail, wrapped in shawls, finding peace in the mountain’s embrace. Their perseverance made me reflect—my trek was an adventure, but for them, it was faith and quest for blessings.
I could hear different Tamil dialects along the way, each adding to the diversity of the experience. The hills are open for trekking only during a specific season each year; the rest of the time, the terrain becomes unsafe, and the wildlife must remain undisturbed. Because of this, throngs of people from all over seize the opportunity to trek during this limited window. Fortunately, we chose a time that was neither too crowded nor too deserted—just perfect for the experience.
As we climbed, whispers followed us—trekkers murmuring, “How come girls?” One man even stopped me and asked, “How did you get permission?” Guilt clung to me like a shadow.
That question echoed in my mind for hours. Was I breaking something sacred? I am not a religious person nor believe in idol worship but still do not want to break anyone’s faith.
On the other side, a guy, who I’m pretty sure was AI-generated, was casually doing loop trek—that’s back-to-back ascents and descents of Velliangiri! We were dying one after one, and he was happily greeting everyone on his third. Unreal. Another one started ascending, when I was struggling my way back and when I reached down… and was ready to fall he was already down there.. after his full loop. Uff… I swear there is something unique about them.
And then, there was the most important presence on this trek—Mr. B, a seasoned trekker I had met just that morning. Noticing my struggles, he stayed by my side the entire way, sharing stories and keeping my mind distracted. He could have easily ascended in just an hour and a half, yet he chose patience over speed, ensuring I was comfortable every step of the way. If not for him, my Velliangiri trek might have remained just a dream.
But there’s something about treks that fast-tracks friendships. When you’re struggling together, witnessing each other’s weakest moments, and pushing forward as a team, there’s no room for pretenses or formalities. The group was incredibly warm and supportive—I quickly blended in, and before I knew it, it felt like we had known each other for ages. For the first time, I found myself calling people I had just met as “Anna” (brother)—a common term of bonding in Tamil Nadu.
The Summit : Seventh hill of Silence
Velliangiri is a trek of seven hills, each with its own personality and difficulty.
The trek begins with steep man-made steps, a punishing start that quickly tests endurance. This initial climb can feel endless, with stone steps stretching as far as the eye can see. Trekkers often underestimate this section, but it quickly proves to be a gruelling leg workout unless you hit a small Ganesha temple. That is the start of the next one more steeper stone steps, rough patches and exhaustion starts creeping in.
The steps slowly give way to dense forest paths, offering some much-needed canopy above. The terrain becomes more rocky, it is now about finding the right foothold.. That is where cramps start becoming common, dehydration kicks in and a struggle to push forward. This is where the mental battle begins—do I keep pushing or turn back? Many trekkers take long breaks here, questioning their stamina.
There is a most infamous sections of the trek. “Valukku Parrai” literally translates to “slippery rock,” and for good reason. This steep and smooth rock surface can be extremely tricky to climb, especially in wet conditions.
But after all this is the most excrutiating summit yet rewarding cave temple and a serene location called Sadhguru spot, perfect for meditation. Many trekkers pause here to soak in the silence and regain energy before the final stretch.
I didn’t meditate, but I could feel why this place mattered. There was something incredibly calm about it, despite the exhaustion settling in my bones. If I had the energy, I might have sat there for hours.
When I finally stepped into the cave temple, something shifted within me. I stood still, mesmerized, feeling incredibly small yet strangely at peace. For once, my agnostic mind fell silent—I couldn’t deny the energy in the air. Was it the sheer hardship of the climb that had humbled me? Or did this place truly hold something beyond logic?
There is no shortcut to reach here—no privilege, no exceptions. Rich or poor, strong or weak, everyone must endure the same grueling ascent. And at the summit, after all that struggle, stands a simple Shiva temple. No ornaments, no grand offerings, no special darshan—just a space where everyone is equal in front of that energy.
Is this what divinity truly is?
The loud ring of the bell echoed through the small temple, and I stood there, taking it all in. And then, as if sealing the experience, the pandit handed me special prasadam. I hadn’t offered money, hadn’t expected anything—but in that moment, it felt like a reward, as if someone had acknowledged the struggle I had endured to reach this place.
In an instant, every doubt, every trace of guilt about breaking tradition vanished. I was meant to be here. Everything had aligned too perfectly—the last-minute permission, the unwavering support I received along the way, the sheer timing of it all. It didn’t feel like coincidence anymore.
I was called here, on this very day.
What began as just another adventure had transformed into something deeply personal—almost divine. I felt privileged, blessed, as if the hills themselves had allowed me in.
We spent an hour at the summit, sharing snacks, sitting in silence, and simply existing. As the clouds drifted below us, the world beyond faded away. For a while, there was nothing but peace.
The Descent: A Never-Ending Journey
And then, the hardest part—coming back down. If the climb was about endurance, the descent was about patience. The never-ending steps, the burning sun, the aching knees—it felt endless. Like a small kid, I kept asking ” Are we there yet ?”
We stopped on the way down for kammakoozh (a refreshing millet congee)—cool, light, and exactly what my body needed.
But more than my own exhaustion, I was struck by the effort of the tea stall vendors. These people carry massive loads up the mountain every day, just to serve trekkers. And yet, they charge so little for what they offer.
It made me realize how much we take for granted. Their struggle is unseen, but their dedication is immense.
When Mountain Speaks, you Listen
For once, I didn’t search for answers or try to dissect the experience—I simply let it be. The ever-curious mind that constantly seeks logic and meaning fell silent, if only for a while, in Velliangiri. Perhaps the mountain demanded it.
Every climb humbles me, but this one did so in ways I never saw coming. The sheer struggle stripped away the noise, leaving only raw exhaustion, quiet reflection, and an unspoken connection to something beyond myself. And then, there were the people—the barefoot pilgrims, the tireless tea vendors, the strangers who became my pillars of strength. They reminded me that simplicity is a kind of wisdom, that devotion takes many forms, and that struggle is often the price we pay for something truly meaningful.
I still have a long way to go, both in my journeys and within myself. But something shifted that day—something deep, something beyond words. Perhaps the mountain didn’t just test me; perhaps it also left a mark, one that I will carry long after the aches have faded.
