Soundtracks for a Wandering Soul : From the Temple to the Tavern

 

In October 2023, when I landed in Kerala — full of  a stubborn resolve, uncertainty, and a suitcase full of confusion — I promised myself a spiritually uplifting start to each day. My chosen ritual? Listening to MS Subbulakshmi’s Sri Venkateswara Suprabhatam every morning. A prayer composed by Prathivadhi Bhayankaram Annangaracharya, this pre-dawn chant is traditionally sung to awaken Lord Venkateswara in Thirupati. So while the divine lord was being lovingly nudged awake in temples and homes across South India, I too stirred under the soft glow of coconut and banana trees and the ethereal blue of the Travancore sky.

The rendition is so powerful that, willingly or not, you picture the deity slowly rising to the mellifluous, almost maternal voice of MS. But a few months in, as the exotic thrill faded and the realisation dawned that banana trees can’t make up for friends and familiarity, I started feeling homesick.

One morning, in a move that surprised even me — and might’ve scandalised my inner aspirant of ascetic calm — I abandoned the predictably serene strains of the Suprabhatam and queued up Pandit Jasraj’s soul-stirring bhajans instead. As his voice soared, slow and reverent like incense rising in temple air, I felt something shift. A few minutes later, almost instinctively, I followed it up with Ajay Pohankar’s Shri Krishan Govind Hare Murare in Raag Bhoop, a melody soaked in bhakti but grounded in something far more familiar: memory.This wasn’t a spiritual upgrade. It was more like finding your comfort shawl in a new house — suddenly, the air felt less foreign. It wasn’t that I was ascending toward divine consciousness; if anything, I was tumbling backwards into the comforting echo chambers of my past .

Raag Bhoop, with its pentatonic simplicity and upward lilt, somehow held all my dislocation gently. It didn’t ask me to transcend. It just helped me stay — with my yearning, my loneliness, my reluctant hope — and hum along. This wasn’t music that lifted me out of the world. It was music that let me belong to it again, if only for the length of a morning.

It was just that the familiar strains made the still-unfamiliar place feel more like home. And so I woke up on humid mornings waiting for monsoon and finally sailed into the lush, green rains of Kerala — less as a spiritual seeker and more like someone finding comfort in the radio of memory.

And then came the rains in full glory. With raindrops weaving a gauzy, silvery curtain across my windows and frogs launching unsolicited monsoon symphonies outside, my mornings shifted in texture. The devotional tracks, like seasoned stage actors knowing when to exit, stepped gracefully aside. In their place emerged the soft, contemplative poetry of Tagore — verses that carried the scent of wet earth and the melancholy of waiting. Megh boleche jabo jabo, the clouds said they would leave, and yet they stayed, just like my moods. Neelo Anjono Ghono, with its indigo thunderclouds and slow-building longing, became the soundtrack to my monsoon reveries.

The music no longer needed to uplift or anchor me. It simply needed to mirror me. Some mornings, the raag in my ear matched the gentle nool-mazha — the threadlike drizzle that stitched the world in silk. Other times, the thunder would roll like timpani, and the skies would host a tula-mazha storm — dramatic, theatrical, and best set to a Tagorean crescendo. I found myself not listening to music for comfort, but with it — like an old friend who didn’t fill the silence but respected it.

By November, Kerala’s version of winter arrived — not with frost or fog, but with a faint breeze that occasionally remembered to show up. It was less of a season and more of a suggestion, like someone whispering “winter” across a steaming cup of chai. But with it came a slump I hadn’t seen coming. My romantic affair with solitude, once poetic and Insta-worthy solo travels, began to simmer into something less palatable — an overcooked stew of loneliness and unwanted introspection and procrastination. The bhajans quietly receded. Even Tagore, with all his rain-drenched wisdom, couldn’t keep me afloat. I needed music that didn’t pretend to console — I needed music that sat with me in my gloom and nodded in solidarity.

And so entered the gentle melancholy of Judy Collins, the wistful resilience of Pete Seeger, the velvet baritone of Dean Martin, and the tender ache of John Denver. Both Sides Now played like a lullaby for grown-up disappointment. Send in the Clowns waltzed in with mascara-streaked irony. Turn! Turn! Turn! felt like a cosmic shrug to everything that had and hadn’t happened. Even on mornings when the sky wore its brightest blue, these songs somehow found the shade beneath. I had officially entered my existential playlist phase — where melodies didn’t lift you up but wrapped you in a soft, flannel-lined sorrow and said, “It’s okay, you’re not alone in feeling a little lost.”

Christmas rolled in with vacations, plum cake, and an unmistakable whiff of nostalgia. The world outside sparkled modestly — just enough to remind me of carol nights and school nativity plays. And just like that, my playlist too found its way back to the pews. Gregorian chants and hymns took over my mornings. Ave Maria and Amazing Grace played as the sun filtered softly through the curtains, evoking school assemblies minus the scratchy uniform and the well-timed nudge from a best friend during silent prayer. It was less devotion, more déjà vu — a gentle revisiting of some inner sanctum lined with memory.

By late January something shifted. Kerala’s version of spring arrived — not with daffodils and cherry blossoms, but in more grounded, tropical metaphors. The hibiscus everywhere bloomed like red punctuation marks in the green paragraph of landscape. Mangoes began appearing on trees with quiet confidence, and the koel, that seasoned herald of Indian summer, cleared its throat and began practising its solo. Butterflies performed delicate choreography across the yard, and kingfishers sat like royalty on electric lines, tossing glints of blue into the air like confetti. And so, my mornings bloomed too — with the elegance of Vivaldi’s Spring, the whimsy of Carnival of the Animals, the floral swirl of Waltz of the Flowers, and Debussy’s dreamy fauns dancing somewhere between my coffee and my consciousness. Life, in those moments, felt like a meadow in a French painting — but with a distinctly Malayalam

 caption.

Then came summer — hot, reflective, and restlessly existential. The air hung heavy with unanswered questions, and so did I. Living alone, once a thrilling badge of independence, had lost its charm and was now a slow-burning ache. The wait for change felt endless, like a buffering wheel spinning in the middle of my life. Thoughts of my faraway family weighed down on my chest in the early hours, and I sought solace not in music, but in monologues — TED Talks on AI, gender dynamics, mental health, and Stoic philosophy. If Socrates had curated a Spotify playlist, I think we’d have been algorithmic besties, matching notes on the futility of desires.

But as my mornings grew more abstract and my inner world more unruly, I realised I needed something gentler — something that didn’t dissect my brain but wrapped it in silk. And so, I turned to Studio Ghibli. I needed that world of meandering rivers, rustling trees, noodle bowls, and floating spirits — where life unfolded in its own quiet rhythm and the stakes, though high, never screamed. Always With Me and The Name of Life — became my morning companions, in all their avatars — vocal, piano, flute. Their gentle melancholy and quiet hope transported me straight into an anime universe, where even loneliness looks like a hand-drawn masterpiece.  Their delicate sorrow and childlike wonder offered a kind of invisible hand to hold. Mornings began to feel like painted scrolls: I wandered through them slowly, eyes wide, heart open, as if I too were a character in a Ghibli film — wistful, a little lost, but beautifully scored.

And just when I thought I’d run the full circle of sonic self-discovery, the rains returned. The scent of the earth made me long for Malhaars and Kajris, for music soaked in monsoon. But even Kishori Amonkar's Barsan Ghan Aayo Rangilo and Shubha Gurtu’s Kajris didn’t quite satisfy.

Until this morning. When Manna Dey began singing Harivansh Rai Bachchan’s Madhushala, I smiled — this was it. This was the frequency I had been searching for.

As I write this, I’m humming:

छोटे-से जीवन में कितना प्यार करूँ, पी लूँ हाला,
आने के ही साथ जगत में कहलाया ‘जानेवाला’,
स्वागत के ही साथ विदा की होती देखी तैयारी,
बंद होने लगी खुलते ही मेरी जीवन-मधुशाला !

"In this brief life, how much love can I give, how much wine can I drink?
No sooner had I arrived in this world than I was called 'the one who must leave'.
Even as I was being welcomed, preparations for my farewell began.
No sooner did my life’s tavern open than it began to shut."

What a year and a half it’s been — not just a chronicle of shifting weather and evolving playlists, but a quiet cartography of the soul. My mornings have been chapters in a private novel — each song, each note, a footnote to my state of being. I began this journey hoping for spiritual discipline and found, instead, the sprawling, shapeshifting terrain of inner life.

Music, I’ve come to realise, is less of a background score and more of a portal. A certain raga can transport you to a courtyard you’ve never visited, with rustling neem leaves and the sound of anklets in the dusk. A Ghibli piano piece can drop you into an animated landscape where silence speaks and even sorrow glows. Judy Collins can make you believe that everything — your choices, your doubts, your longing — is part of some vast, tender pattern.

Sometimes, music gives you strength — not the marching-band kind, but the quiet steel that lets you fold the blanket and face another uncertain day. Sometimes it wraps around you like your mother's saree, smelling faintly of nostalgia, offering no solutions but plenty of company. And sometimes, it simply says, “I know.”

In its mysterious way, music holds space for all versions of you — the hopeful seeker, the weary thinker, the wide-eyed child, the homesick adult. It doesn’t demand answers. It doesn’t hand out prescriptions. It just plays — gently tuning your heart to the frequency of the day.

If Spotify Wrapped could capture soul-searching, mine would be a tangle of chants and cello suites, rainsongs and revolutions. It would be confusing, yes. But it would also be a story — and a beautiful one at that.

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.