By Rishin, Fortkochi | Jan 30, 2025 | 3 min read
Nestled in the misty folds of the Nilgiris, far from Ooty’s tourist clamor, lies Devala — a hamlet where time bends to the rustle of tea leaves and whispers of gold. This unassuming town, with its tapestry of cultures, faiths, and layered histories, is a microcosm of South India’s colonial echoes and delicate present.
For decades, life in Devala pulsed around the Rousdonmullai Tea Estate (formerly Surulimalai Estate). Established under British rule, the estate became an economic anchor for generations: Tamil migrants who fled Sri Lanka after 1960s ethnic strife, Kannada-speaking laborers from Karnataka, and Malayali workers from Kerala. Even local Muslims — many descended from families displaced after the Mappila Rebellion (1921–22) against British zamindars — found refuge here. Others, like the Pathans and Jaks, nomadic communities who migrated through the land, now thrive alongside them.
Devala’s lanes hum with Tamil, Kannada, Malayalam, and now Hindi, Bhojpuri, Bengali, Odia among other North Indian languages, while its two masjids, Hindu temples, and a modest church stand as quiet monuments to harmony — a reflection of South India’s syncretic ethos.
The Mappila Legacy:
Post-rebellion, Muslim families blended with Tamil and Malayali communities, weaving a shared cultural fabric.
If tea built Devala’s economy, gold fueled its shadows. British-era mines, documented in a 2018 Tamil Nadu Minerals Limited report, once pockmarked the region. Post-Independence, illegal mining boomed, driven by desperation.
Today, clandestine miners still scour abandoned pits. “We know it’s risky, but what choice do we have?” says Raju (name changed), his hands etched with dirt. Environmentalists decry the ecological toll, yet for many, gold dust eclipses tomorrow’s worries.
"In Devala’s quiet corners, coexistence isn’t a slogan — it’s survival."
Devala is a paradox — a place where history lingers in tea-stained soil and riverbeds glittering with stolen gold. Its people, forged by exile and resilience, now navigate new tensions: wildlife conflicts, Forest Department land disputes, and the slow creep of tourism. Yet, here, mosques, temples, and churches share the same rain-laced air, and three languages melt into a singular, resilient hum.
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