WORDS BYRamya Reddy
Welcome to the Coonoor&Co Journal, Volume 4 Issue 9
What does it mean to listen—with attention, presence, and intention?
Listening is more than hearing. It is noticing the hush that settles over a landscape just before rain, or the way a child pauses before speaking, searching for the right shape of a thought. It is attuning ourselves to rhythm and breath, memory and feeling, to what gently flickers just beneath spoken words. It is not passive but deeply relational, connecting us to one another, to the places we inhabit, to the movements of time, and to the subtle unfolding of our lives.
In a world flooded with alerts, chatter, and constant noise—where speed is prized over depth—listening becomes an act of resistance. It often begins quietly, perhaps in a moment of stillness when something within us leans toward something outside. Sometimes it arises through rupture—in the wake of loss or change—as the familiar falls away and we discover new meanings or overlooked voices.
Listening asks us not merely to notice, but to linger, staying long enough to allow ourselves to be changed.
This issue began with these reflections. It gathers writers, artists, ecologists, photographers, storytellers, and practitioners who are attuned to the layered languages of the world: memories held by ancient stones, rhythms shifting in forests and fields, silences that follow loss, and dialogues gently sustained across generations. These stories offer openings rather than answers—spaces in which to imagine what might shift within us and around us if we truly listened, for so much meaning passes us by. But when we do listen, the world begins to change: subtly, profoundly, irrevocably.
Contributors to this issue are:
Divya Mudappa, T.R. Shankar Raman, Jackie Morris, Shastri Akella, Geeta Ramanujam, Parvathi Nayar, Latha Menon, V. Sriram, Sangeetha Shinde, Priyanka Sacheti, Ranu Jain, Archana Srinivas, Krittika Sharma, Ahtushi Deshpande, General Ravindran Rajan, Ramya Reddy and Ashna Ashesh.
In A Songline in the Elephant Hills, Divya Mudappa and T. R. Shankar Raman draw from a quarter century of living and listening in the Anamalai Hills, where the rainforest’s chorus of birds, frogs, rain, and wind becomes memory, measure, and compass. As ecologists and long-time residents, they map a soundscape that is both richly alive and increasingly at risk, asking what it means to hear, to remember, and to care for a place through the language of its living sounds.
Jackie Morris draws us into a liminal world where creatures, stars, spirits, and waters are kin. Through verse and painting, she evokes a vast, fluid kingdom to which we all belong—one where otter folk and werewolves, whales and selkies drift together, untethered by borders. Her work listens deeply to the wild, the magical, and the unseen, reminding us that story is a form of connection—and enchantment, a way of returning.
In What Do I Know From?, Shastri Akella reflects on listening as a form of intuition, transformation, and chosen ancestry. From a solitary departure to the high valleys of Uttarkashi, to the creation myth and expressions of life voiced by a travelling street theatre troupe, he recounts how listening—across silence, story, and scent—shaped his path as a writer, deepened his connection to self and place, and revealed new ways of belonging.
Geeta Ramanujam speaks to Ramya Reddy about the listening that comes before the telling; the attentive presence that forms the heart of every story. Through a lifetime of stories shared and shaped, she reminds us that storytelling begins not with voice, but with the deep work of reflective listening.
In The House by the River, Parvathi Nayar offers a gentle fiction shaped by music, memory, and mourning. Inspired by her grand-aunt’s veena, she writes of rivers, ragas, and the quiet weight of inheritance. Woven through this story of personal loss is a deeper awareness of planetary grief—and the sense that we are not owners of the Earth, but its keepers, holding space for those yet
to come.
Latha Menon offers a deeply personal account of return—one shaped by the stories of farmers she meets across southern India. From turmeric and banana fields in Pallipalayam to the drumstick-growing plains of Sirraparai and a cattle shed in Nanapetti, she listens to voices contending with debt, drought, and the erosion of livelihoods. Threaded through these journeys is the memory of a small piece of land once cared for by her grandfather, and a wish that she could have kept it alive, just the way he did.
V. Sriram offers a personal meditation on how his life in the arts and history has been shaped through chance encounters, inherited stories, and the presence of place. Through buildings that carry memory and people who changed his course, he traces a journey rooted in gratitude and attention.
In Mountain Magic, Sangeetha Shinde returns to the Nilgiris, mapping a journey that began in the enchanted forests of childhood and wandered through cities, countries, and years. In a landscape where days stretch and years slip by, she listens again to the mountains that shaped her, weaving a story of belonging, and the lasting presence of place.
Priyanka Sacheti moves from seeing to hearing, attuning herself to the inner lives of trees and what they offer those who pause to listen. Through memory, poetry, and place, she listens not only to leaves and branches, but to the resonant stillness that draws her back to herself.
In The Haiku Dive into Life, Ranu Jain turns to the haiku form to listen to life’s smallest offerings—the hush of a broom, the shimmer of a rain-washed window, and the early call of birds at dawn. Through words and images, she holds space for moments that might otherwise pass unseen, showing how the fleeting can open into deeper worlds of memory and wonder.
Archana Srinivas maps a journey from Minnesota to Chennai, and the slow, aching work of leaving, and beginning again with intention. In the letting go of places and possessions, and in the shaping of small daily rituals, she finds the first contours of a slow life remade.
In Under the Skin of Silence, Krittika Sharma writes from a season of grief where silence becomes its own language. Through memory, breath, and the rhythms of everyday life, she listens to how loss moves through the body and spirit, and how healing begins in spaces that ask for presence rather than urgency.
Ahtushi Deshpande reflects on the dialogue between humanity and nature. Rooted in her work with Ladakh’s ancient rock art, she explores how the natural world is not just a backdrop to our existence but an active participant in our stories, beliefs, and sense of belonging.
General Ravindran Rajan draws on the intensity of combat in the mountainous regions of Northern India and the reflective stillness that follows battle. Through personal accounts, he shares how wisdom often arrives by way of oversight, and how listening, both on the battlefield and in the barracks, can mean the difference between life and death.
In The Room at the End of Life, Ashna Ashesh reckons with the hard compassion demanded by end-of-life care, and with what follows in the wake of letting go. She writes of the moments that call for holding on, those that ask for release, and how listening to time itself becomes a doorway into a life lived fully, with all its loss and love.
The stories from this issue will unfold on our website over the coming months, with each new piece arriving in your inbox as part of our monthly newsletter.
Our biannual journal is an independent platform exploring the intersection of slow living, nature, culture, and community—anchored in Coonoor, a hill town in the Nilgiris, and shaped by voices from across India and beyond. All stories are freely available on our website. To receive monthly updates and curated compilations, subscribe via the link in our bio or on our website.
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Your presence and support mean a great deal to us—we look forward to continuing this journey with you.
Editorial Team —
Editor: Ramya Reddy
Associate Editor: Ashna Ashesh
Advisor & Consulting Editor: Prabhu Viswanathan
Consulting Editor: Malati Mukherjee
