Where the Forest Whispers Back: A Journey into Nelliyampathy

 

"The forests hold answers to questions we have yet to ask."

In the fairytale jungles of Nelliyampathy, there were no witches living in chocolate and wafer cottages, nor were there elves hiding behind trees, waiting to leap out with mischief. And yet, a sense of magic hung in the air—subtle, ancient, and endlessly fascinating. These evergreen forests in the Palakkad district of Kerala seemed to hum with untold stories, revealing their enchantment not through fantasy, but through the quiet, awe-inspiring presence of nature itself.

We arrived in Nelliyampathy after dusk, welcomed by the soft glow of a Phalgun moon casting silver light over the rolling hills. The route felt enchanted, every curve of the winding road shrouded in mystery. It struck me then—I hadn’t experienced a forest at night in a long time. Certainly not one as lush, as wild, and as full of life as this.

As if to welcome us, a sambhar deer trotted calmly across the highway, unbothered by the beam of our headlights. From the darkened canopy, the calls of owls echoed—joined by the rustlings of other nocturnal creatures waking to their own world. It was hauntingly beautiful.

To my surprise, our accommodation turned out to be nestled right next to a tea factory, surrounded on all sides by gently sloping tea gardens. Even though it was late, the excitement of being in such a stunning setting made it impossible to stay indoors. My bestie and I dropped our bags, put on our shoes, and stepped out for a moonlit walk. The air was cool and smelled of damp earth and tea leaves. We agreed, as we have on other such soul-stirring journeys, that some experiences are worth going out of your way for.

For us, this trip had one special purpose: to catch a glimpse of the majestic Great Indian Hornbill, the state bird of Kerala. Watching it in its natural habitat had long featured on our dream list. And now, here we were—in the land of misty hills and murmuring forests—ready for a magical encounter we’d long been waiting for.

"Trees are the earth’s endless effort to speak to the listening heaven."

— Rabindranath Tagore

The next morning, by six o'clock, the light had not yet fully arrived. The hills were still cloaked in mist, their silence broken only by the soft rustle of leaves and distant birdcalls. We began our quiet chase for the magnificent Great Indian Hornbill, hearts full of anticipation and eyes scanning the treetops.

We were fortunate—accompanied by an expert wildlife photographer who not only shared our enthusiasm but also knew exactly where to look. Thanks to him, we soon found ourselves parked along the edge of a tea estate, staring up at a tall, solitary tree with a cavity in its trunk. That hollow, barely noticeable to the untrained eye, was a hornbill nest.

Inside, the female hornbill had sealed herself in with a mud wall, leaving only a narrow slit through which the male would pass food. She would remain inside for weeks, incubating the eggs and caring for the chicks, dependent entirely on her partner’s regular offerings of wild fruits. This ritual of self-imprisonment—a marvel of nature’s design—was as awe-inspiring to witness as it had been when I first read about it.

We waited quietly, our breaths held and cameras ready, watching that opening in the tree with reverence. The forest around us slowly came alive with the soft light of dawn, and I found myself moved—not just by the sight, but by the devotion and delicate balance of trust this moment revealed.

 The hole in the tree trunk was barely wide enough for the two curved beaks to meet—just sufficient for the careful exchange of fruits and other food items. A small passage for an act of deep devotion.

Though the calendar still read Phagun, the temperature had begun to rise, edging past the comfort of spring into the hints of an early summer. But in the cool shade beneath the dense canopy, it felt like time had slowed. The breeze drifting through the trees carried with it the soft, melodic calls of hill mynas, weaving a kind of forest lullaby that made us forget the world beyond the jungle.

For a while, the forest was quiet, save for a troupe of Nilgiri langoors leaping gracefully between trees and the sight of green avocados dangling in clusters like ornaments. Then, breaking the calm, we heard it—the unmistakable, heavy flapping of wings. And there it was.

A huge male Great Indian Hornbill glided in and perched on a tree across from the nest. Majestic and alert, he paused for a moment, scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger. Satisfied, he took flight again and landed near the narrow slit in the tree trunk. The feeding began—a delicate, practiced exchange that felt almost sacred.

As if guided by clockwork, the male returned every two hours with food for his mate and their chicks—an unbroken rhythm of care and constancy. We watched, mesmerized by the dedication and precision of this partnership.

Still in a daze from the incredible beauty of what we had just witnessed, we made our way to another nesting site. Here, the female had recently broken free of her weeks-long confinement. Stepping into the sunlight just a few hours earlier, she had emerged into a world changed—and waiting.

What greeted us was perhaps the most endearing sight of birds I have ever seen. The male hornbill stood nearby, gazing toward the nest with unmistakable anticipation. In his beak, he held a freshly hunted snake—a gift for his mate, a celebration of reunion. There was tenderness in his posture, and something almost human in the way he waited.

Moments like these leave a quiet imprint on the soul. In the heart of the forest, far from the noise of daily life, we were offered a glimpse into a world built on instinct, care, and silent loyalty.

The scene unfolding before us felt no less dramatic than a well-scripted television soap—except it was real, raw, and utterly moving.

The female hornbill finally emerged, her feathers ruffled, her body visibly drained from weeks of confinement. Her flight was laboured, and she struggled to gain height. She managed to perch on a nearby tree, where the first thing she did was begin sharpening her beak—a small but necessary ritual after her long isolation.

I stood there, watching in silence, filled with awe and a touch of ache. I had read that these magnificent birds are monogamous, choosing one partner for life. Their bond is not just emotional—it’s one of survival. If the male fails to return with food during the nesting period, the female will perish inside her sealed nest, along with the unborn or newly hatched chicks. There are no second chances in this delicate balance of nature.

And yet, here they were—reunited in the forest light, after a long separation marked by trust and unwavering faith. It was one of the most profound expressions of devotion I’ve ever witnessed in the wild. A love story played out not in words, but in instinct, endurance, and silent promises.

Though we were still spellbound by the hornbills and their intimate family drama, our attention was soon stolen by another spectacle of the forest. A noisy commotion had broken out a little further along the trail—a group of lion-tailed macaques had discovered a jackfruit-laden tree and were descending on it with unbridled enthusiasm.

Clad in sleek black fur with striking silver-gray manes framing their faces like wild crowns, these charismatic primates moved with surprising agility. Their expressive eyes and almost regal presence made them impossible to ignore. Watching them tear into the ripe jackfruits with gusto—chattering, jumping, squabbling—felt like stumbling upon an impromptu forest feast.

Our guide, with quiet excitement, explained just how rare this sighting was. Lion-tailed macaques, he said, are elusive and notoriously shy of human presence. They are among the most endangered primates in the world, found only in the Western Ghats of South India. To see a group like this, out in the open and so energetically engaged, was a gift.

He went on to tell us about the Save Silent Valley movement—a defining moment in India’s environmental history. Between 1977 and 1980, public concern over the rapidly vanishing habitat of the lion-tailed macaque galvanized one of the fiercest environmental campaigns the country had seen. The movement ultimately led to the protection of the Silent Valley forest in Kerala, a decision that still echoes as a milestone in India’s conservation efforts.

It struck me then—how much of what we were witnessing was not just nature, but history and survival braided together. These creatures were not merely part of the forest; they were living symbols of resistance and resilience.

Despite our eyes being fixed on the romantic hornbill couple, we couldn’t help but be drawn to the other equally captivating glimpses of jungle life—a hanging ant nest swaying gently in the breeze, the flickering movement of birds darting through branches, flashes of blue, green, and russet against the morning light. Every corner of the forest seemed alive with subtle wonders, each telling its own quiet story.

Not wanting to disturb the hornbills any further, we decided to move on—venturing deeper into the jungle. The road gradually faded into a wild trail, then disappeared altogether, swallowed by the thick undergrowth. Here, the jungle reigned in all its untamed glory. It was raw, unapologetic, and astonishingly beautiful.

With no mobile signal for miles, we were cut off from the world beyond—though we didn’t mind. The silence, when not broken by our own footsteps, was filled with a natural orchestra: the steady hum of crickets, the occasional scream of a peacock echoing across the valley, the rustling of leaves stirred by hidden movement. It was a symphony that required no conductor, only attentive ears.

What struck me most was the reminder that it isn’t just the charismatic megafauna—the hornbills, monkeys, elephants, or tigers—that make up the rich tapestry of the jungle’s lore. It’s also the small, easily overlooked lives—the electric blue frogs camouflaged against mossy stones, the intricate webs of giant wood spiders glistening between trees, the humble ants building their homes in mid-air. Every creature, big or small, is a vital thread in this living, breathing ecosystem.

The forest doesn’t perform for you. It simply is—unfolding its drama in layers, offering glimpses only to those patient and quiet enough to observe.

Perhaps one of the most delightful sights of all was the Giant Malabar Squirrel—its deep maroon and rust-colored coat catching the dappled light as it leapt effortlessly from tree to tree. With its bushy tail and surprisingly agile movements, it looked like a playful spirit of the forest, reminding us that beauty often comes in quiet, unexpected forms.

But the jungle still had one last gift in store for us.

As we continued our journey deeper into the woods, we stumbled upon a breathtaking sight—an unexpected, almost surreal migration of Dark Blue Tiger butterflies. Hundreds of them fluttered across our path in a graceful, hypnotic wave, their velvety black wings streaked with pale blue seeming to shimmer against the green backdrop. It felt like walking through a living painting, where the air itself had turned into something magical.

We stood still, not wanting to break the spell. The butterflies danced around us for a few fleeting moments before disappearing into the trees, leaving behind a sense of wonder we couldn’t quite put into words.

I have certainly never seen so many butterflies together in my life. They fluttered around us in such numbers that it felt like the forest itself had come alive in celebration. And honestly, if someone had whispered to me in that moment that they were fairies in disguise, part of some secret woodland fairytale, I would have believed it without hesitation. That’s how magical it felt.

Jungles have an aroma of their own—a complex blend of dead leaves, damp moss, decaying wood, and the faint trace of life lost and reborn. It’s an earthy, ancient scent that clings to the air and seeps into your senses. But this forest was different. It was fragrant beyond imagination—with the unexpected sweetness of coffee blossoms.

I’ve seen coffee plants and plantations before, but never like this. Somehow, I had never noticed—never known—that coffee flowers could be so exquisite, so intoxicatingly fragrant. The smell was heady and floral, reminiscent of lime blossoms with a delicate citrusy note. It lingered in the breeze, soft and persistent, turning every breath into a quiet delight.

We walked through the scented forest in awe, inhaling deeply, savoring the moment. Even the air felt more alive, charged with an energy that was both calming and uplifting. It was one more reminder that the jungle holds endless surprises—some hidden in plain sight, waiting patiently to be noticed.

After driving some 16 kilometers into the forest—past serene lakes alive with the flutter and chatter of tiny birds—we finally reached a watchtower perched quietly on a high point, overlooking the vast stretch of the hill ranges. It felt like the forest had brought us to its very heart.

It was a full moon night, and though daylight had not completely faded, the moon had already risen, casting a silvery glow over the landscape. It wasn’t just rising—it was smiling, luminous and unhurried, bathing the treetops in soft light and reflecting off the still waters below.

We stood there in silence, soaking in the view—part sky, part earth, entirely wonder. The breeze was cool, the air fragrant with distant blossoms, and the forest below shimmered with life. It felt like a perfect pause, the kind you don’t want to end.

The next morning, the sky opened with a breathtaking palette of colors. As the sun rose, the valley was bathed in soft hues of pink and orange, gently spilling over the misty mountains that glistened as far as the eye could see. It was the kind of sunrise that made you instinctively quiet, just to absorb its majesty.

The forest stirred awake with its own music—crickets still humming from the night, peacocks calling in the distance, and monkeys chattering as they welcomed the light. The lakes, already alive at dawn, were buzzing with birds darting over the surface and calling from hidden perches.

The stillness of the tea and coffee plantations was broken by the cheerful movements of bulbuls hopping from branch to branch, their presence as joyful as their songs. Within the next hour, the forest offered up a cascade of delights: a colony of blue-black frogs gathered by the lakeside, groups of dollarbirds flashing turquoise in the sun, a pair of Malabar Grey Hornbills perched silently as if keeping watch. Spotted deer grazed nearby, their calmness adding to the gentle rhythm of the morning.

Time, by then, had completely slipped away.

And somewhere in the distance, we heard the unmistakable call of elephants—deep, slow, powerful. We couldn’t see them, but we didn’t need to. Just knowing they were there, part of this great interconnected world, was enough.

In many world cultures, people have long recognized the value of being immersed in the forest. The Japanese practice of Shinrin-yoku, or forest bathing, is now widely acknowledged for its calming, restorative effects—something even modern therapists and healers have come to embrace. But as I stood there, watching dappled sunlight filter through the high canopy, the realization that struck me was more rooted in our own ancient tradition: the wisdom of vanaprastha—the idea of retreating to the forest at a certain stage in life.

In that moment, it made perfect sense. To step away from the noise, the rush, the endless demands of the world—to go back to the forest, not just to rest, but to remember. To relearn the basics: silence, patience, stillness, humility. The forest doesn’t just offer escape; it offers clarity. A quiet mirror in which you can see yourself, and your place in the world, a little more clearly.

Sights and Seasons of Paradise: Of Cherry Blossoms and Tea Gardens

 

Kerala is a shade card of green—an artist’s dream where every brushstroke reveals a new hue of life. When I look around, I see the deep green of hibiscus bushes, the dappled tones of jackfruit trees, the jade shimmer of paddy fields, and the wild, fern green that carpets the roadsides. The sea-green calm of the backwaters, the bluish tinge of the Malabar parrots in flight, and the velvety moss that clings to old stone walls after a rain—all speak of Kerala’s endless love affair with green.

But of all these, my heart belongs to one shade alone: the glowing green of tea gardens. It’s a saturated, mature green—neutral yet luminous—with just a whisper of golden undertone. Every time I see it, my heart leaps like it's greeting an old friend.

Over the last two months, I’ve had the joy of visiting Munnar twice on back-to-back weekends. Both times, the hills rolled out their tea-green carpet for me, and I drank in the beauty with greedy eyes. But my most recent trip in February was a double bonanza—not only were the tea gardens radiant under the soft sunlight, but the entire valley was adorned with delicate bursts of cherry blossom pink.

The contrast was breathtaking. Rows of manicured tea bushes stretched across the hills like nature’s own patchwork quilt, and rising among them were cherry blossom trees in full bloom, their soft pink petals fluttering gently in the breeze. It felt as if spring had spilled a few extra brushstrokes over Munnar just for us.

The morning mists added their own magic. The soft fog drifted lazily over the hills, lifting slowly to reveal a landscape painted in poetry—green underfoot, pink in the air, and blue skies peeking through like shy companions. Walking through the tea estates felt like stepping into a living postcard, only better—because it came with the scent of earth, the chirping of hill birds, and the quiet hum of a place that knows how to breathe.

Munnar, nestled in the idyllic folds of the Western Ghats, is one of Kerala’s most picturesque hill stations—where the hills wear tea plantations like velvet, and flowers bloom as if painted by hand. But to witness delicate pink and white cherry blossoms blooming against the sculpted slopes of tea gardens is a sensory delight of another level. The soft pastels of the blossoms don’t just stand out—they harmonize, weaving seamlessly into the lush green tapestry of the land. It's as though nature has composed a visual symphony, where every shade, scent, and sound is in perfect balance.

The delicate flowers of the cherry tree have always held a special place in my heart. Their fleeting beauty has inspired poets, painters, and dreamers for centuries, particularly in Eastern cultures where entire festivals—like Hanami in Japan or Beotkkot in Korea—celebrate their bloom. I’ve admired cherry blossoms from afar and up close—marveling at them in Washington, Copenhagen, and Nanjing. Yet, the dream of witnessing Sakura season in Japan remains high on my travel wish list.

What I hadn’t expected, though, was to find them right here—quietly blooming in the hills of Munnar.

It happened by chance. I was staying at a charming guest house tucked among the tea estates. One crisp December morning in 2023, I was attempting to photograph a sunbird darting between branches when my camera lens zoomed in on something unexpected: a single pale pink flower at the end of a twig. My heart skipped a beat. Could it be? I looked closer. Yes—there it was, unmistakably—a cherry blossom. A lone bloom, shy and almost hidden, but radiating the quiet magic I had always associated with springtime in faraway lands.

By the time I returned in February, the transformation was complete. The once modest branches were now generously covered in blossoms, and not just at the guest house. All around Munnar, cherry trees had burst into bloom, lighting up the green canvas of the hills with gentle pink and white hues. It felt like the landscape had been sprinkled with poetry.

"What a strange thing!
to be alive
beneath cherry blossoms."
— Kobayashi Issa

Cherry blossoms have always held an elevated status in East Asian cultures. In China, they are often associated with love, feminine beauty, and the delicate power of the female mystique. But nowhere in the world are these elusive, ethereal flowers more revered than in Japan. In the Japanese imagination, cherry blossoms are more than just seasonal flora—they are symbols stitched into the very fabric of life. The imagery finds its way into paintings, films, haikus, and even everyday language, forming a quiet but persistent cultural undercurrent.

Much like my other favorite flower, the waterlily, cherry blossoms hold deep significance in the Buddhist philosophy of the East. Both are steeped in symbolism that touches the soul. The cherry blossom, in particular, is a timeless metaphor for human existence—fragile, beautiful, and fleeting. Their blooming season is short, yet powerful; glorious, yet transient. And it is precisely this transience that gives them such emotional weight. They remind us that everything is impermanent. That joy, sorrow, beauty, and life itself—are all momentary. They ask us, gently but insistently, to live in the present and to embrace each moment as if it were a petal that might drift away at any time.

Standing beneath cherry blossoms in Munnar, far from the traditional Sakura trails of Japan, I felt that same tug at the heart—the quiet ache of beauty that doesn’t last. It made the experience even more poignant, like stumbling upon a secret the hills had kept just for themselves.

Finding bulbuls, finches, and shrikes flitting among the cherry blossoms in the early mornings filled my heart with quiet joy. Watching them nibble at the delicate petals—completely at home among such beauty—was like witnessing a conversation between birds and blooms, and I felt lucky to be eavesdropping on nature’s little secret.

While the cherry blossoms and the birds dancing through them were undoubtedly the highlight of my visit, Munnar offered much more than I could have imagined. The hills rolled gently into mist-veiled valleys, streams gurgled with playful abandon, and waterfalls tumbled down rocky faces like silver threads. Every corner of the landscape seemed curated with care—as if Mother Nature had taken special pride in this part of the world.

The tea plantations, with their uniform yet undulating rows, provided both rhythm and calm to the eye. The rare flora, the occasional glimpse of wild creatures, the scent of eucalyptus in the air, and the ever-changing skies—it all came together to create an atmosphere that was both serene and awe-inspiring. Munnar didn’t just feel like a destination—it felt like a poem written in green and gold, with pink blossoms as its punctuation marks.

I was told that Munnar gets its name from its unique geography—nestled at the confluence of three rivers: Kannimalai, Nallathanni, and Kundala. In Malayalam, "Moonu" means three and "Aru" means river. So, quite literally, Munnar is the land where three rivers meet—a fitting name for a place where so many elements of nature also come together in harmony.

Today, Munnar is a lively hub, drawing in tourists, honeymooners, nature lovers, and hikers from across the world. And it welcomes each one with open arms—offering something different to everyone. Whether it's the mist rolling over the tea-clad hills, the thrill of a trek through a shola forest, the hush of hidden waterfalls, or the quiet company of a cherry blossom tree, Munnar never runs out of ways to enchant.

It’s rather funny—and a little surprising—that this gem of a place remained relatively unknown to the wider world until just about 150 years ago. The story goes that John Daniel Munro, the British Resident of the Travancore kingdom, first set foot in Munnar in the 1870s while resolving a border dispute between Travancore and the neighbouring Madras Presidency. Captivated by the beauty and potential of the region, Munro persuaded the royal family to lease the land to him.

What followed was a quiet transformation of the landscape. In 1879, the North Travancore Land Planting & Agricultural Society was formed, and soon, experimental cultivation began—ranging from coffee and cardamom to cinchona and sisal. But it was the introduction of tea that would rewrite Munnar’s destiny.

Tea arrived with a man named A.H. Sharp, who planted it on around 50 acres of land at Parvathy—now part of the Seven Mallay estate. The success of that modest beginning soon overshadowed all other crops. By 1895, the influential Finlay Muir & Company (James Finlay and Company Limited) acquired 33 independent estates, and two years later, the Kannan Devan Hills Produce Company was established to manage them.

Today, most of the sprawling estates are managed either by Tata or by the Kannan Devan Plantations Company—continuing the legacy that began over a century ago. The rolling tea gardens that stretch as far as the eye can see are more than just scenic—they are chapters in a story of ambition, adaptation, and transformation.

I’ve come to believe that it’s nearly impossible to visit any part of Kerala without encountering a tale from the Ramayana or Mahabharata woven into its landscape. The land feels storied—its rocks, rivers, and forests quietly echoing the steps of mythic figures. The moment you travel out of Trivandrum towards Kottayam, for instance, you come across the massive Jatayupara—the rock where the legendary bird Jatayu is believed to have fought Ravana as he abducted Seeta.

Closer to Munnar, nestled deep within the lush serenity of the Devikulam Reserve Forest, is a secretive lake known as Seetha Mata Lake. It is said that Seeta bathed here during her exile. The lake lies hidden amid the tall woods, about 13 km from Munnar, and remains a place of quiet reverence for those who visit. Many locals believe the waters have therapeutic properties, though I cannot vouch for the legend or its healing powers. But what I can say is this—on the rainy day I visited, with mist drifting between trees and raindrops dimpling the lake’s surface, it was a vision of untouched purity. Even under the clouds, it felt sacred. And it wasn’t hard to imagine how breathtaking the place must be on a clear, sunlit day, when the water mirrors the sky and the forest glows emerald.

On my way back from Munnar, winding through the serene tea estates draped over sloping hills, I found myself once again reflecting on the quiet wisdom nature offers us. Across cultures and centuries, humans have turned to the natural world—for solace, for worship, for meaning. We pray to its forces, celebrate its changing seasons, and find comfort in the eternal rhythm of transformation.

Take cherry blossoms, for instance. Their delicate bloom has long symbolized the impermanence of beauty—how something so fleeting can still leave an indelible impression on the soul. In their brief, breathtaking appearance, they teach us to live in the moment, to treasure what is, and to let go with grace. The sentiment echoes through the pages of time, most notably in The Tale of Genji, where Murasaki Shikibu wrote:

“Yes, the cherry trees put this truth very plainly: none of the glory of blossoms and autumn leaves lasts long in this fleeting world.”

And perhaps that is the truest takeaway from my time in Munnar—that in the ephemeral lies the eternal. The pink of the blossoms, the tea-green of the hills, the call of the bulbuls, the mist over the valleys—all may pass, but the memory of their presence lingers. Munnar, in its quiet grandeur, reminds you not only how beautiful the world is, but also how beautiful it is to notice.

Sights and Seasons of Paradise: Deities, Temples and the truth about religion

As a Hindu I follow a faith that offers a veritable smorgasbord of options to the worshipper of divinities to adore and to pray to, of rituals to observe (or not), of customs and practices to honour (or not), of fasts to keep (or not). As a Hindu I subscribe to a creed that is free of the restrictive dogmas of holy writ, one that refuses to be shackled to the limitations of a single volume of holy revelation.

-Shashi Tharoor

It is said that whatever you can rightly say about India, the opposite is also true. The same can also be said about Hinduism. Shashi Tharoor in the initial chapters of his book ‘Why I am a Hindu’ lists out how Hinduism is different from other religions  and what aspects of it appeal to him personally. Many of these like absence of dogma, no declaration of being the ONLY-truth, a fair amount of flexibility in practices and the deep philosophical traditions – are my reasons too for appreciating the religion I was born into. I consider myself a believer. Though I do not follow any specific ritual or sect, I acknowledge the presence of a superior power and I do bow to Her pretty often. I express gratitude when good things happen to me, I pray when things go tough. That said, my religion is a very personal and private matter. As taught by my parents, both of whom were against any pomp or show of religion, I don’t believe in showing my faith in the way I dress, decorate my house etc. Much like most other Hindus of liberal upbringing , I have no problem in accepting other beliefs, visiting churches, dargah, mosques or other religious shrines. Neither I face any problem in visiting various kinds of temples that exist in India. I was born in a family that professed Arya Samaj hence there was no specific significance for any idols for me. Yet I face no dilemma in appreciating a work of art in a Ganesha statue and I have a whirling dervish next to a Buddha figurine in my drawing room. I do not relate that to religion as such.

But occasionally I wonder if the kind of liberal intellectual “fit” of religion which I inherited in my family, is now a thing of past. We are passing through a time when in India a temple has become a socio-cultural, political and even legal issue. It is a time when the lines between my truth and your truth have been blurred and there is a frenzied search or rather declaration of ‘the’ truth. I find myself unable to agree with the violence, self-glorification of football-hooliganism and a very male -chauvinistic interpretation of rules of Hinduism.

That brings me to my problem with temples in south India and why I am always torn in visiting them. South Indian temples are far more exquisite than the northern temples and are architectural marvels. Many of them have huge historical significance as well and are associated with many stories of past. But these temples today are a strange amalgamation of faith, culture, business, and society around them. In many ways, they are materialistic enough to have a separate VIP darshan line (where you pay more to cut the crowd) and in some cases they are extremely misogynistic taking shelter of tradition or modesty.

Kerala temples have been in news for many wrong reasons. When I started this series of posts, I mentioned that I am in the city of Padmanabh Swamy. The city not only derives its name from the reigning deity of the temple- but it is also in many ways, still a temple town. A town which despite being a seat of political power, very stubbornly shies away from the look of a big city. It is as if, the city is very content, even takes pride in its image of a temple town. I am very curious about the temple in more than one ways, but I am still postponing my visit.

The thing is the temples in south India do not allow you to have a worship of the deity on your own terms. Entire event is closely regulated and controlled by temple administrators (all men).

As per my Hinduism, there should not be any restriction for non-Hindus in entering Hindu shrines. History provides ample evidence when Hindu temples welcomed believers of other faiths and even felicitated them. But  today, in some of these temples there are ban on entry of non-Hindus. The ban is quite ironical as many temple group take great pride that they also have an affiliated temple in US or Australia. The hypocrisy of such restrictions has come to light in many cases. There is a famous case of legendary singer K.J.Yesudas, a Catholic by birth. His devotional songs are played in many of these temples where he was refused entry many times. Finally in 2017, at the insistence of a Ex-Royal trustee, the temple board of Padmanabh Swamy temple did an exception for him.

 Furthermore, there are dress-codes and even within dress-codes there are restrictions for women. At times some parts or even some temples are kept out of bound from women. These aspects make me uncomfortable. Though I am a saree clad person on all workdays, I find it difficult to accept a dress-code for visiting the deity. While men cannot wear shirts and have to be in traditional mundu / dhoti , women cannot visit unless they are in saree or covered till toe. In 2016, after a court case, temple authorities allowed salwar suit or churidar for women – though I am told that in practice, it is still not adhered to.

Modesty or decency in clothes is an ever-changing societal yardstick. There is nothing traditional or religious about it.  For women specially, it emanates from a regressive patriarchal thinking that some men sitting in temple authorities need to dictate what women should wear. In the same temple, few decades back women were not allowed to come wearing blouses. The ongoing “tradition” being – 3 unstitched clothes for men and 4 unstitched clothes for women. That was changed with time – then it was decided that saree with blouse is decent but not other Indian or western dresses. Now Salwar and churidar are accepted but not pants and shirts or other dresses. End of the day, the rules that dictate what women can wear or not, the changes in those rules and the decisions on those changes, is an exclusive male domain. It is some men sitting in positions of power who decide and dictate terms on modesty and decency. I find this unpalatable. Specially so in a state where till few decades back women did not have a right to cover their upper body. The right was granted and now temples take a 180 degree turn to impose covered dresses in the name of religion and tradition. Same holds true for mensurating women. The dress-code, the restriction on the entry of women and an option of VIP darshan- takes away all spirituality out of a temple visit for me.

Let us not forget, this is the land that gave eighth century Vedic philosopher and the high-priest of Hindu Sanatan dharma Adi Shaankaracharya. Shankaracharya’s philosophy, his travels across the country and his deep philosophical treatise is a treasure trove of knowledge of this most fascinating ancient faith. But for me one event of Shankara’s life stands out as a defining moment of Hinduism. It is his meeting with the Chandala or an ‘outcaste’- the man who works at crematorium, lowliest of lowly caste of people.  The event it is believed happened in the narrow alleyways of the embankment of Ganga in Varanasi.  Shankara was going for holy dip in the river when he came upon the chandala. True to the prevalent belief of  those days that Brahmins would to be 'defiled' by the very shadow of those of this caste,  the disciples of Shankara asked the 'outcaste' to move out of the way. However, the chandala retorted by asking the question:  

अन्नमायादन्नमयमथवा चैतन्यमेव चैतन्यात्

यतिवर दूरीकर्तुं वाञ्छसि किं ब्रूहि गच्छगच्छेति

 To move matter from matter, or to separate spirit from Spirit? O best among the twice-born, which of these two do you wish to achieve by saying, “Move away, move away”?

(That is how will you become impure by touching me? How do you differentiate between a Brahmin & a Chandala,  because both our bodies are made of the same elements: earth, water, fire, air and space, even though we look different. Our aatman (Brahman) is the same and is absolute. This one aatman is expressed in all living beings. So tell me, when we are made of same elements and same aatman, how can you ask me to move away and not touch you?)

That is when Shri Adi Shankaracharya realised the Chandala was teaching him his own philosophy of Advaita Vedanta, and prostrated before Chandala and composed Manisha Panchaka.

I consider this anecdote,  a defining moment for Hinduism as it demonstrates how the religious truth often clashes with the societal norms and how a true sage of faith needs the rationality to go beyond the ever-changing rules of society to accept the manifestation of divinity in all forms and ways and in all creatures of God – even if they do not profess your own faith.

 When I read in history books about Vaikom Satyagraha in 1920s when people had to agitate to get their right to access to public spaces in this land of Shankara, I found it strange. Stranger perhaps is the insistence a century later in 2020s to keep the temples closed and rigid , in the name of tradition to fit the understanding of few men. But then, strange things happen in the name of religion all the time. People fighting, killing and spreading hate in the name of religion often forget what Hindi writer Sardar Pooran Singh wrote in his famous essay ‘Aachraan ki Sabhyata’ ( The Civility of conduct ) “सच्चा साधु धर्म को गौरव देता है, धर्म किसी को गौरवान्वित नहीं करता।"A true saint gives glory to religion, religion does not glorify anyone .

I feel distraught at the pomp, show and politicization of my faith because in this process we are not only discarding the deep spiritual legacy of Hinduism but we are, in many ways acting just like the people of other religions professing their truth as the only truth.   With  eclecticism  as its core competency , my faith does not believe in  rejection of other forms of worship and other ways of seeking the truth. Stopping other forms of worship, objecting to a dress or a food – for me is not the way of my religion.

Choice of Adjectives- Remembering Empress Sisi

"I am a seagull, of no land, I call no shore my home, I am bound to no place, I fly from wave to wave.

Empress Elisabeth of Austria

If you have been to Vienna, it is difficult to miss Empress Elisabeth or Sisi, as she is often called. From chocolate boxes to posters and from museum tickets to souvenir shops – she is everywhere. A true popstar of her time, the biggest icon of Austrian Royal family, compared with Lady Di by biographers, subject of novels and movies- she is presented as a glamourous but depressed queen.  The Hofberg palace has a full museum dedicated to her – displaying her personal articles, her chamber, her letters, and her famous dresses. It was first in this museum that I read her poetry. It is sad that with so much emphasis on her doll like persona of a fairytale princess, her other remarkable characteristics of being a poet, an avid traveller, reader and an intellectual – a woman very aware of her socio-political situation, are never highlighted. Her concern for women suffering in lunatic asylums of Europe of her time, is often ridiculed and so is her free spirit and constant demand for privacy even as an Empress of Europe’s biggest empire of that time. Her media avatars are either of innocent young girl trapped in court politics or of a cold-hearted vain woman obsessed with physical beauty. In fact, her insistence for physical exercise by installing a gym in every palace she lived in, is also depicted as her unreal desire to be ageless. In today’s vocabulary, she would be a health enthusiast, a fitness icon even.

 I was suddenly reminded of this as I was watching a DW documentary - Sisi’s Legacy 

 this morning and I noticed something. In this documentary as well as in numerous articles written about Sisi or the TV series or movies based on her, the choice of adjectives is very problematic. The documentary calls her eccentric, narcissistic, obsessed with ageless beauty, a mother who neglected her children, a woman who refused to stay on with her husband and finally someone who was reckless enough to get assassinated. She is also guardedly blamed for taking her first daughter on travel with her causing her death. The commentary is quite easy to the fact that she was fifteen when she was made empress, sixteen when she was a mother and that she was unaccustomed to the ways of the most proper and stifling court of whole of Europe.

Oh swallow, give me your quick wings

And take me with you to distant countries.

I'll be happy to break the chains that hold me

And to break the bars of my prison ...

If I could fly with you

Through the blue eternity of heaven

How I would make thank you with all my being

The Goddess that men call freedom!

-                                                                                                                                                --  Empress Elisabeth (1856)

 

Last year another movie titled ‘Corsage’ came in European theatres. Once again , Sisi is the unhappy Royal who is hysterical and irresponsible. Forcing modern feminist sensibilities on her is hardly doing any justice. Most of her biographers are sympathetic towards the shy, young girl, miserable at court, but then they start to chide Sisi for her selfishness in disregarding her husband's concerns, neglecting her duties, feigning illness etc. While there may be some truth in all these – the contemporary portrayals for her husband and son are not this harsh despite their very questionable personal and public conduct.Neither there is any probe in why an Empress had to feign illness or avoid public scrutiny ? Even in this documentary, there is no judgement of Franz Joseph for subjecting his son for very cruel “physical and psychological hardening” (which eventually was put to stop by ‘irresponsible’ mother Sisi) but Sisi is repeatedly judged for leaving her children behind for her travels (‘on State Expense’) or for not staying in the court. Her son Rudolf, similarly,  is painted as a man ahead of his time in his views- while underplaying the fact that he neglected his wife and daughter, had series of affairs , got a STD due to his visits to brothels  and killed his mistress before committing suicide. Sisi, however is judged even for smoking, wearing black after the death of her son or refusing to get photographed.  

My friend Zehra recently wrote on Facebook how women are accused of not knowing their mind, though the reality is that most of the times, they do know exactly what they want. The problem comes in acceptance from community and family on ‘what’ women want. Our family and society are yet to mainstream the true wishes of women and are very quick in judging them for their conduct and desires with wrong set of adjectives. Even in popular media, for every portrayal of a woman who speaks her mind there are ten where the stereotypical loving wife, mother and the sacrificing woman image is reinforced. It is often the fear of being judged, labelled as ‘difficult’ that makes women hesitant and unclear in expressing their mind.  When I see women politicians and actresses being shut down from serious discussions and being judged so unfairly and blatantly on their appearances, accessories, and private lives, I wonder how we blame women in families to be shy in expressing their true wishes and opinions? It is a bane of our times that at times in ordinary houses people are willing to take steps in the right directions yet our system, our organisations and even our courts paint it the other way. It is still rare in communities and public forums to allow women space to express themselves freely. to shake off the stereotype and not being  subjected to scrutiny and judgment. From Empress Sisi to Mahua Moitra and  from mythical Draupadi to Sunny Leone – it is a continued stream of judgement  and use of negative adjectives that colour the narrative of what women want.

Captivating Calicut -Where the Spices Once Sailed

History and life don’t always agree on what’s important. Both, in their own ways, suffer from a lack of lasting perspective. Events once hailed as momentous often fade into obscurity, while seemingly minor incidents sometimes go on to define entire epochs. It’s a humbling realization—that the so-called “game-changing” moments of the past may now live only in the margins, forgotten by the very places and people they once touched.

I was fortunate—or perhaps sobered—to encounter such a moment of collective amnesia during a recent visit to Kozhikode (Calicut). Here, in this coastal city cradled by the Arabian Sea, history quite literally landed one day centuries ago. And yet, as I wandered its streets, that legacy felt strangely muted.

I love my work most when it leads me to new places—when it opens doors not just to conference rooms and files, but to hidden stories, unfamiliar streets, and forgotten corners of history. My recent trip to Kozhikode (Calicut) began as a routine work visit. But as with many places in Kerala, it didn’t take long for the landscape to cast its quiet spell.

Kozhikode, the historical capital of the Malabar region, was once the mighty seat of the Zamorins—rulers whose maritime prowess turned this coastline into a vibrant hub of spice trade. But beyond its local legacy, Kozhikode holds another monumental place in global history: this is where the Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama first set foot in India in 1498, opening the sea route that would change the course of empires.

You would expect such a momentous event to be marked with grandeur. And yet, near the golden sands of Kappad beach, all that stands is a modest, barely noticed plaque declaring that “Vasco da Gama landed here in 1498 AD.” That’s it—no museum, no interactive display, no storytelling installation. Just a small stone, weathered by salt and sun, bearing silent witness to an event that reshaped continents.

The irony was striking. This beach was once the threshold between two worlds—Europe and India—yet today, it’s a quiet stretch of sand where children play, vendors sell ice cream, and the waves continue their rhythm, indifferent to the tides of history.

Kappad Beach was nothing short of magnificent—surprisingly secluded, astonishingly pristine. Except for a small stretch where tourists mingled with local children, the shore belonged mostly to birds and crabs. The golden sand shimmered beneath the caress of gentle waves, while egrets and storks danced along the tide in quiet joy.

Even in the human-inhabited corner, life flowed gently. Children played with unbridled glee, their laughter rising above the sound of the surf. Nearby, fishermen stood by their boats, haggling over the day’s fresh catch—straight from the sea, still gleaming, still alive with salt and story.

There was a tranquil rhythm to it all, like a poem written in sand and sea breeze. I found myself wondering how such a gem of a place had escaped the intrusive glare of mass tourism. And then, I silently thanked the universe for that stroke of fortune—for letting Kappad remain untouched, unhurried, and deeply, undeniably poetic.

The city beach of Kozhikode stood in stark contrast to the serene solitude of Kappad. Here, noise replaced silence, and human presence overwhelmed the natural rhythm of the sea. It was alive—but in a way that felt more chaotic than charming.

The Kerala Book Fest was underway, and the entire beachfront had transformed into a maze of makeshift stalls, vendor carts, and throngs of students and visitors. Every inch of sand seemed claimed—by book displays, food counters, or selfie-taking groups. The vibrant energy might have felt festive to some, but on that hot and humid afternoon, it felt almost suffocating.

Plastic wrappers fluttered in the breeze. Loudspeakers competed with the chatter of crowds. Even the sea seemed muted beneath the cacophony of human activity. After the poetic quietude of Kappad, this urban beach reminded me how quickly natural beauty can be drowned in noise, unless fiercely preserved.

The magic of Malabar wasn’t done with me just yet. At sunrise, I found myself in Kadalundi—around 20 kilometers from the heart of Calicut—just as the first light kissed the water. Kadalundi–Vallikkunnu Community Reserve, nestled at the estuary where the Kadalundi River meets the Arabian Sea, holds the distinction of being India’s first riverfront community reserve on the Malabar Coast.

It is a place where land and water meet not just geographically, but also in spirit. The reserve includes a bird sanctuary and thriving mangrove swamps—forming a delicate ecosystem that shelters a fascinating array of native and migratory birds, insects, and aquatic life.

Gliding into the mangroves in a small wooden boat, I was struck by how intimate the experience felt. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic splash of the oar and the occasional calls of birds overhead. A large colony of seagulls had claimed an island in the estuary, their chatter filling the air as they nested in peace. The damp, dark soil shimmered with seashells and coral fragments—remnants of an ancient conversation between sea and land.

It wasn’t just a journey through a protected natural space; it felt like entering a world where humans were not intruders, but participants. This was my most memorable encounter with social forestry—an example of what community-led conservation can achieve when nature is treated as a neighbor, not a resource.

Later that day, we journeyed from the dense, breathing green of Kadalundi’s mangroves to the windswept shores of Beypore. At first glance, Beypore may seem like just another port town—modest, functional, perhaps even unremarkable. But its shores hold a secret whispered only to those who pause and listen. Here, under the open sky and beside the ancient Chaliyar River, lives a craft that connects Kerala to the distant lands of Arabia—a tradition of shipbuilding that dates back over a thousand years.

This is the home of the Uru—the legendary wooden dhow, once the lifeblood of maritime trade between India and the Middle East. These majestic vessels, called "Fat Boats" for their wide girth, were designed to carry heavy loads across vast oceans, and today they are the largest handcrafted boats in the world. To witness the making of a Uru is to witness living history—no blueprints, no computers, no formal manuals. Just the inherited wisdom of generations of craftsmen, passed down through memory and muscle, heart and hand.

Beypore’s shipyards don’t shout their legacy; they hum it quietly. From the outside, they look like any other industrial space—timber stacked high, tools scattered, workmen deep in concentration. But if you look closer, it unfolds as a story of extraordinary craftsmanship, deep-rooted cultural exchange, and India's ancient seafaring connections with Mesopotamia and the Arab world.

Once used to ferry spices, textiles, and treasures across oceans, these Urus now often find new lives as luxury yachts in the Gulf. Yet they remain faithful to their origins—still crafted from the famed teakwood of Nilambur forests, still built by hand on the very islands that dot the Chaliyar River, and still echoing the rhythm of a thousand years of tradition.

Standing there, among the scent of timber and the sounds of wood being chiseled and caressed into form, I couldn’t help but feel I was in the presence of something sacred. Not just boats—but heritage, memory, and the silent pride of a community that has shaped the oceans with their hands.

These boats are not just vessels—they are living sculptures, embodying a unique architectural genius honed by a specially skilled group of artisans from Malabar. What’s most astounding is that there are no blueprints, no sketches, no digital plans guiding the construction of a Uru. Everything, from conception to completion, lives in the mind of the maistry—the master builder—whose intuition and inherited wisdom guide the process with uncanny precision. It’s as if the boat flows from memory, spirit, and skill—like magic, every single time.

In traditional methods, not a single iron nail was used. This wasn’t just for aesthetics—it was practical. Iron rusts, and rust leads to leaks in the salty sea. So instead, the wooden planks were sewn together—yes, literally stitched—with coir rope, and then sealed with resin. The craftsmanship is as poetic as it is functional, a rare symphony of ingenuity and sustainability.

Woven into this story is the seafaring heritage of the Mappila Khalasis—a legendary community whose strength, teamwork, and rhythm have powered the launch of these giant boats for centuries. There’s a saying in Malayalam that goes “Othupidichal Malayum Porum”, which means, “If we act together, even mountains can be moved.” It’s not just a proverb—it’s a living truth in the hands of the Khalasis.

Watching them work is nothing short of mesmerizing. There are no cranes or hydraulic machines in sight. Only wooden rollers, sturdy ropes, pulleys, and the sheer willpower of dozens of synchronized human beings. They chant in unison as they push, pull, and guide vessels that weigh hundreds of tons—from land to sea and back again. It’s an ancient performance—raw, rhythmic, and deeply spiritual.

The energy of their collective effort is infectious. You don’t just see it—you feel it in your bones. And to truly grasp the magnitude of their creation, you must stand beside one of these majestic Urus, or better yet—climb onto one, as I did. Only then can you comprehend their true scale, their grace, and the soul embedded in every grain of wood.

To witness this tradition in a quiet construction yard near Beypore was one of the most humbling experiences of my journey. It made me realize how much of our world still runs on the brilliance of human hands, on ancestral knowledge, and on the silent strength of communities who carry their history forward with pride.

No account of Kozhikode would be complete without a tribute to its famed spices and cuisine. After all, this city—once a thriving hub of the global spice trade—is often called the mecca of Malabar pepper. The best-quality black pepper and a host of other aromatic spices have been cultivated in the verdant hills around here for centuries, bringing not only prosperity but also a rich, multicultural legacy to the region.

And the cuisine that blossomed from this legacy is just as enchanting. From the bustling street corners to elegant dining halls, the Malabari table is a celebration of warmth, hospitality, and depth of flavour. I had the privilege of dining at the legendary Paragon restaurant—where even for a staunch vegetarian like me, the experience was unforgettable. The flaky Malabar parotta and its delicate, noodle-like cousin nool parotta were sheer indulgence—soft, layered, golden perfection paired with spicy, fragrant gravies. Even the humble banana chips and pickles packed more flavour than one could expect from their simple appearance.

As I boarded the train for my return journey, the landscape began to recede—golden sands, quiet rivers, and the mangrove swamps of Kadalundi. But this time, they didn’t feel like just places I had visited. The mangroves, glowing in the twilight, stirred something unexpected in me—a wave of nostalgia for a place that had only recently entered my life. I suddenly realized that I was far away from the places I’ve always called home. And yet, a part of me felt rooted here too, as if something ancient and enduring had quietly woven itself into my memory.