Ria Bhattacharya
Part 1: Landing in God’s Own Country
It was just past noon when our flight dipped beneath a curtain of clouds and revealed a lush, endless green below. From the window seat, Kerala didn’t look like a state—it looked like a watercolor dream. Patches of paddy fields, snaking backwaters, tall coconut palms waving lazily, and a brief glimpse of a red-tiled rooftop—a warm welcome to God’s Own Country.
As we landed in Kochi, a light drizzle greeted us, the kind that smells of wet earth and sea breeze. It wasn’t hot, just humid enough to make your shirt stick slightly to your back and remind you that you’re in the tropics. The air was thick with the scent of cardamom and salt—like nature had been brewing tea.
Our cab driver, Saji, spoke in a mix of Malayalam and broken Hindi with the occasional English phrase tossed in like a spice. “Where you go, madam? Fort Kochi? Ah, many foreigners. Sea food, yes?” He smiled through the rearview mirror as we drove past banana stalls and churches with whitewashed walls. I nodded, too busy looking out the window.
Fort Kochi didn’t feel like India at first. The streets were narrow, quiet, lined with European-style houses with wooden balconies and moss-covered walls. It felt as if someone had pressed pause on time. We checked into a heritage homestay called Casa Marari, run by a retired schoolteacher and her husband. The walls were filled with sepia-toned photos and faded maps, and they served us chilled tender coconut water before showing us to our room.
By evening, the monsoon had thickened. We walked to the beach—if you could call it that. The sea was wild, and the sand was wet and grey. The Chinese fishing nets stood like ancient skeletons against the backdrop of a sky that couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be purple or blue. A group of fishermen tugged at a net, laughing between splashes, as crows hovered above them.
There was no sunset to see, but something about the mood—melancholic yet serene—wrapped around me like a shawl. As darkness fell, we ducked into a small café lit with yellow lanterns. Over appams and stew, I watched the raindrops paint ripples on the glass. A jazz track played in the background. I suddenly felt far from home and strangely at home, all at once.
Kerala doesn’t arrive with a bang—it seeps into your bones quietly, like rainwater through old window panes.
Tomorrow we head to Alleppey. But tonight, I’ll sleep with the sound of the sea humming a lullaby I never knew I needed.
Part 2: Alleppey – Where the Waters Whisper
The road from Fort Kochi to Alleppey curved gently through coconut groves and sleepy towns where schoolchildren in crisp uniforms rode bicycles through puddles. Our car windows fogged up with the monsoon breath, and I traced lazy spirals on the glass, watching the world pass by in shades of green.
We arrived in Alleppey around midday. It wasn’t a grand arrival—no signboard or sudden change of scenery—but a gradual shift in rhythm. The houses here seemed closer to the water, as though the land had quietly made space for it. You could smell the backwaters before you saw them—damp, earthy, with a faint sweetness, like rain on moss.
Our boat was waiting.
Not one of the large houseboats you see on postcards, but a modest kettuvallam retrofitted for two—wooden, woven-roofed, with soft lights and a single bedroom that floated gently when you stepped inside. Our boatman, Babu, had a smile like a secret and a silence that was never awkward.
As we pushed off into the narrow canals, I realized why they call it the Venice of the East. Not because of architecture or grandeur—but the sense of intimacy with water. Water ran beside homes, temples, toddy shops, and schools. Ducks waddled like unbothered citizens. Children waved from verandas. A man stood waist-deep in the canal brushing his teeth, looking unhurried and eternal.
Lunch was served on a banana leaf—steamed rice, avial, spicy fish curry, and a sweet banana fry. We sat cross-legged on the deck, the drizzle falling gently on the bamboo canopy above, the boat drifting as if it, too, had nowhere urgent to be.
By afternoon, the rain had paused. The sky cleared into a quiet grey and we moved into wider stretches of water—so wide it felt like we were floating on a lake. Egrets flitted past like paper birds. Coconut palms leaned out as if whispering secrets to the passing boats.
I asked Babu, “Do you ever get tired of this?”
He laughed softly. “What to get tired of, madam? Same sky. Different water.”
That line stayed with me.
As evening fell, we anchored beside a paddy field where water shimmered like glass. The air was still except for the occasional splash of a jumping fish. Fireflies appeared, one by one, like scattered stars. I sat on the edge of the deck, feet dangling over water, writing in my journal while the world hushed itself into stillness.
Alleppey wasn’t just beautiful—it was meditative. Like a place you don’t merely visit, but confess to. Where water becomes mirror, and silence speaks.
Tomorrow, we move higher—to Munnar. But tonight, I’ll listen to the waters whisper me to sleep.
Part 3: Munnar – Tea, Mist, and Mountains
We left Alleppey before sunrise, the sky still a dull graphite. The rain had returned, tapping gently on the car roof as we climbed higher, leaving behind the flat, liquid world of the backwaters. As we drove toward Munnar, the air grew cooler, sharper—like someone had wrung the humidity out of it and replaced it with eucalyptus.
The road twisted like a green ribbon around hills that rose dramatically from the earth. Waterfalls tumbled down the slopes like silver threads. Every bend brought a gasp—dense forests, sudden valleys, and the endless dance of clouds and cliffs.
Munnar greeted us without ceremony. Just a quiet slope, a row of tea shops, and mist so thick it looked like you could hold it in your hands. Our stay was at a small estate bungalow, nestled inside a working tea plantation. It smelled of damp wood, cardamom, and something deeply nostalgic—perhaps the echo of a colonial past, or simply the comfort of mountains.
We took a walk that afternoon through the tea gardens. From above, the hills looked like a patchwork quilt—lush, geometric, and infinitely green. Women in colorful saris moved like brushstrokes across the fields, picking tea leaves with speed and grace. Their laughter echoed faintly through the fog.
The mist was mischievous here. It rolled in without warning, swallowed the sun, blurred the world into watercolors. At one point, the path disappeared entirely and we stood still, surrounded by white. The silence was absolute, like nature holding its breath.
Later, in the town’s bustling market, we sipped steaming spiced chai from clay cups while watching the world pass in monsoon rhythm. Shops sold chocolate, handwoven shawls, spices packed in brown paper, and tiny glass bottles of eucalyptus oil. There was no rush. Even the vendors seemed content to let the day unfold like pages in a slow novel.
Back at the bungalow, dinner was served near a crackling fireplace—vegetable stew, parottas, and a delicate pineapple payasam. We sat under a heavy blanket and watched the rain dance beyond the windowpane. Somewhere in the distance, a cricket called. Somewhere closer, a log crackled.
That night, I wrote:
“In Munnar, even silence wears perfume.”
Here, the sky doesn’t dazzle; it sighs. The roads don’t rush; they curl. The people don’t talk loud; they hum.
Tomorrow, we leave for Thekkady, where the forests grow denser and elephants walk ancient paths. But tonight, the mountains are enough.
Part 4: Thekkady – Where the Wild Things Wait
The drive from Munnar to Thekkady felt like slipping through the spine of a dream. The hills grew darker, more mysterious. Forests thickened on either side, their silence broken only by the occasional monkey leaping across the canopy or a serpent eagle circling overhead. The air smelled of wet bark and secrets.
Thekkady is a place that doesn’t try to impress you—it waits. Quietly. Patiently. Like a wild animal that watches before it moves.
We reached by noon and checked into a cottage-style resort built on stilts, hidden inside a grove of tall trees. There was a certain stillness in the air, like something ancient was listening. The wind carried a mix of cardamom and pepper, for this was spice country—the land where scents are stories.
Our first stop was the famed Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary. Not with a loud safari jeep, but on foot—with a forest guide named Thomachan who walked barefoot and knew the jungle like an old friend. “Speak less,” he said, “listen more.”
So we did.
Through the dense forest trails, the sun filtered down like shattered glass. We saw langurs watching us like judges, a family of wild boars darting through the underbrush, and fresh elephant dung steaming faintly in the cold. “They passed just an hour ago,” Thomachan whispered.
The silence here was different from Munnar’s misty hush. It had weight. It had rules. It asked for respect. Even our footsteps felt intrusive.
Later, we boarded a bamboo raft and floated across the Periyar Lake, its water dark and calm like ink. Dead tree trunks rose from its depths like ancient guardians. On the banks, we spotted spotted deer, and once, the flicker of a tusk disappearing into green. Babu said if we were lucky, we might hear a tiger’s call. We weren’t. But somehow, the waiting became part of the magic.
Dinner was a smoky barbecue of local vegetables and grilled jackfruit, enjoyed under a thatched roof while rain whispered around us. The resort staff spoke little, moved slow, and smiled with a warmth that didn’t need translation.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
Not because of fear—but because I felt too alive. Every sound outside felt like a story unfolding in the dark. A rustle. A distant howl. A branch breaking.
In Thekkady, you don’t just visit the wild. You remember that you, too, once belonged to it.
Tomorrow, we’ll descend again—this time to Varkala and the Arabian Sea. But tonight, under the velvet sky of Thekkady, I feel like I’ve walked not through a forest, but through a prayer.
Part 5: Varkala – Where the Cliffs Meet the Sea
We left Thekkady in silence, the jungle still breathing somewhere behind us. The descent from the hills was gentle, almost reluctant, as if the mountains were whispering one final goodbye. By late afternoon, the air had changed again—warmer, saltier, and charged with something vast. We had arrived in Varkala.
Unlike the sleepy serenity of Alleppey or the mist-wrapped hush of Munnar, Varkala had a pulse. It beat softly, rhythmically, like waves meeting rock. Here, the land didn’t lie flat beside the sea—it stood above it. Red laterite cliffs rose sharply from the shoreline, crowned with swaying palms, cafés, and the occasional hammock tied between two dreams.
We checked into a cliffside cottage painted sea-blue, with a wide verandah that opened to the Arabian Sea. The ocean stretched endlessly beyond the edge, roaring and retreating like a wild thing tamed only by rhythm.
By evening, we wandered down the narrow cliff path lined with shacks offering everything from Tibetan momos to tarot readings. Musicians played unplugged blues under fairy lights. Tourists in linen lounged with books and beers. Locals sold handmade soaps, beads, and brass anklets that jingled softly with movement.
We reached the viewpoint just as the sky began its slow transformation. Unlike the misty moods of the hills, Varkala’s sunset was a spectacle. Bold, unapologetic. The sun dipped low, casting gold across the waves, turning the cliffs into silhouettes. Below us, the sea hissed against the rocks like it was tasting fire.
We sat on the grass, barefoot, watching.
Sometimes, you don’t need to speak. Sometimes, all your senses sit down beside you and say: Look. Just look.
Later, at dinner, we chose a beach shack lit with lanterns and the distant glow of fishing boats. A young man played the sitar while the waves added percussion. We ordered grilled pomfret, coconut curry, and sweet plantain fritters, all served on banana leaves still warm from the kitchen.
A soft drizzle began, and the diners clapped—not in panic, but in celebration.
That night, the sea was restless outside our window. I left the doors open and let its song fill the room. There is something comforting about the sound of waves in the dark—a reminder that the world keeps moving even when you lie still.
Varkala wasn’t about silence or grandeur. It was about being on the edge—between water and sky, rest and motion, endings and arrivals.
Tomorrow, we journey to our final stop—Thiruvananthapuram, where city meets coast and history walks in sandals.
But tonight, I dream of cliffs and sea foam and the smell of salt in my hair.
Part 6: Thiruvananthapuram – Where History Wears Sandals
We left Varkala under a sky painted in shades of faded blue and soft grey, the sea still humming behind us. It was a short drive to Thiruvananthapuram, yet the energy shifted palpably—like stepping from a quiet poem into a bustling paragraph.
Thiruvananthapuram, or Trivandrum as the British called it, is a city with a gentle kind of chaos. Not loud like Delhi or sharp like Mumbai, but layered—where modern cafés sit beside ancient temples, and buses honk past colonial mansions shaded by rain trees.
Our stay was in a heritage guesthouse near the old quarters—white walls, tiled roof, carved wooden doors. The caretaker, an elderly man named Shankarettan, welcomed us with jasmine garlands and stories. “The city,” he said with a smile, “has many skins. You must walk to understand it.”
So we did.
We began with the Padmanabhaswamy Temple, its gopuram rising like a golden mountain etched in stone. We didn’t go inside—entry is restricted to Hindus—but just standing outside, watching the stream of barefooted devotees in white mundus, was a humbling experience. There was a rhythm to their devotion, something ancient and undiluted by time.
From there, we wandered into the Napier Museum, where Indo-Saracenic architecture met monsoon-damp corridors lined with ivory carvings, bronze deities, and oil paintings of forgotten royals. In one dimly lit gallery, a Kathakali mask stared back at me—its expression frozen in theatrical fury.
Outside, children ran through puddles in the museum gardens, their laughter mixing with the distant bell of an ice-cream cart.
Lunch was at a no-frills eatery run by Ammachi and her daughters. On the banana leaf came a symphony of flavours: red rice, spicy sambar, crisp papadam, tangy mango pickle, and a slow-cooked thoran that tasted like memory. We ate with our hands, licking spice from our fingertips, listening to old Malayalam songs playing on a crackling radio.
In the evening, we drove to Shankumugham Beach, where the waves weren’t calm—they crashed with purpose. Local boys played football barefoot in the wet sand, their shouts rising over the surf. A giant sculpture of a reclining mermaid watched the sea, indifferent, majestic.
We bought roasted peanuts and sat on a broken wall, watching the horizon swallow the sun in a hurry. The sky turned orange, then plum, then the color of secrets. In the distance, a temple procession passed—drums echoing, lamps flickering, feet pounding earth with reverence.
Back at our guesthouse, rain began again—steady, old, familiar. Shankarettan brought us filter coffee and sat quietly with us on the verandah, watching the storm grow.
“Do you like Kerala?” he asked finally.
I looked at the rain, at the way it fell on mango leaves and stone steps, at the sound it made like pages turning.
“I think,” I said slowly, “Kerala doesn’t ask to be liked. It asks to be remembered.”
He smiled. “Then it has done its work.”
The Journey Ends, But the Rain Remains
Back home now, the rhythm of everyday life has returned—alarm clocks, traffic lights, stainless steel kettles whistling in modern kitchens. The monsoon still lingers here, but it doesn’t feel the same. It rains on balconies instead of banana leaves, on concrete instead of red earth.
But Kerala… Kerala still drips quietly through the corners of my mind.
I find it in the scent of wet soil when the first rain hits the ground. I hear it in the soft gurgle of boiling tea, in the echo of temple bells through my morning playlist. I see it in shadows—the way light filters through trees, the curve of a boat, the shape of mist hanging above rooftops.
Travel doesn’t always change you with fanfare. Sometimes, it leaves small marks. A recipe scribbled on a napkin. A word in a language you still can’t pronounce but never forget. A line from a stranger that becomes a mantra. A moment when you didn’t take a photo, because the heart was too full.
Kerala gave me many such moments.
The soft rebellion of a canoe drifting through Alleppey’s backwaters. The hush of tea gardens in Munnar where thoughts brewed slowly. The watchful stillness of the jungle in Thekkady that taught me what silence can mean. The wild cliffs of Varkala that turned the ocean into poetry. The old, story-filled lanes of Thiruvananthapuram that reminded me history isn’t just found in books—it’s worn, walked, worshipped.
And above all, the rain.
In Kerala, the rain is not background noise. It is the storyteller. The beginning and the punctuation. It doesn’t ask for umbrellas or apologies. It asks for your attention. And in giving it, you learn how to pause.
I went to Kerala with a suitcase full of sunscreen, sandals, and plans. I returned with damp notebooks, the smell of sandalwood on my clothes, and something I can only call stillness.
If you ever go, don’t just look. Listen. Don’t just visit places. Let them visit you. Let the rain follow you home.
Because if you’re lucky, some journeys never quite end.
They just begin again, every time it rains.
The End
