As they drove, the road grew crowded. Tourist buses labeled “Kerala Packages” groaned around hairpin bends. Newlyweds in matching sweaters posed on roadside cliffs. A family from Delhi argued over whether to visit the Mattupetty Dam or the Eravikulam National Park first. Horns blared. Tea vendors shouted. A baby goat tied to a souvenir stall bleated in protest.

Raju’s first fare of the day was a young couple from Mumbai, Priya and Ankit. They were clutching a selfie stick and a list of “must-see” spots downloaded from Instagram.

“Take us to the highest tea estate!” Ankit said, sliding into the back seat. “And then to that spot where the clouds touch the road.”

He steered his creaky jeep up the winding roads, past waterfalls that were still roaring with leftover rain. Below, the valley was a patchwork of emerald tea plantations, and above, a sky so blue it hurt to look at. This was the Munnar tourists dreamed of—the postcard version.

Priya lowered her phone. For ten seconds, she just stared.

Then he smiled, finished his tea, and set his alarm for 4:30. The season waits for no one.

Raju laughed softly. “Madam, in Munnar, there is no off-season. Only peak and peak-er. But,” he added, turning down a narrow lane hidden by eucalyptus trees, “I know a place.”

And they were coming. In waves.