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.

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.

Sights and Seasons of Paradise : 2. The Backwaters and the Changing Indian Families

 Let me start with a fun question: what is something you’ll find in every nook and corner of Kerala, from glitzy malls to scenic hilltop viewpoints—and no, it’s neither a coconut tree nor a jewellery shop?

If you’ve spent even a few days in Kerala, you’ll know the answer: Gen Z and their unstoppable digital content creation. It’s impossible to miss them—youngsters striking poses for selfies, filming reels and vlogs, crafting Instagram stories, or professional photographers coaxing couples into elaborate (and often hilarious) poses for pre-wedding or post-wedding shoots. Walk through any town or market, and you'll spot numerous wedding photography studios, each with samples of couples contorting into dramatic poses—some bordering on the surreal. (As I write this, I’m vividly reminded of a viral image of a couple draped in flowing white sheets, posing amidst the misty tea gardens of Munnar.)

But beyond the occasional comedy, there’s something genuinely delightful about these photo shoots. As an outsider, I’ve found these reels and snippets to be an unexpected treasure trove. They’ve helped me discover places I would have otherwise missed—hidden streams, little-known hiking trails, and wetlands frequented by migratory birds. It was, in fact, through one such viral pre-wedding shoot during the COVID years that I first stumbled upon the breathtaking sight of pink water lilies—Nymphaea stellata, or ambal as they're called locally—blooming in the serene village of Malarickal.

(PC:https://www.facebook.com/keralaweddingphotographi)

The awe-inspiring photos of deep pink water lilies stretching out for miles, with a boat gliding through them and a shy bride gently playing with the petals, left a lasting impression on me. It was a picture-perfect scene—equal parts romantic and surreal. I remember telling my friend Archana back then, “One day, I’m going to visit that place and click my own photo with those water lilies.”

That long-awaited day finally arrived—in October this year.

When life throws you in muddy water, bloom like a waterlily- Follow the light, rise above the dirt and smile at the world

As anyone who has seen my blog design can tell, water lilies and lotus flowers fascinate me. I think it's a cultural thing—these blooms are deeply embedded in our classical literature, mythology, and art. Their symbolism is everywhere: purity rising from murky waters, beauty untouched by chaos.

During my travels in Southeast Asia, I saw them blooming almost everywhere—from upscale resort ponds to quiet roadside ditches. But, curiously, in North and West India, these flowers are a rare sight—unless you count the few passionate gardeners like me who grow them at home. So when I found myself in this part of the world, I was immediately reminded of the famous fields of Malarickal, known for their breathtaking carpets of pink water lilies (Nymphaea stellata, or ambal in local parlance). Inspired by that memory, I decided to visit Kumarakom in hopes of catching a glimpse.

Much to my disappointment, I was warned that the ambal season had just ended, and there were only a few flowers left. Still, I went ahead—and I’m so glad I did. When I reached the serene backwaters of Kumarakom, I did manage to find some water lilies. While it wasn’t quite the sea of blossoms I had envisioned from the photos, the sight was still enchanting in its own quiet way.

Hopefully, next season, I’ll get lucky enough to witness the full bloom—the endless pink expanse I’ve long imagined.

However, water lilies were just one of the many reasons I was drawn to the enchanting backwaters of Kumarakom. Nestled along the shores of the vast Vembanad Lake, this quiet, rustic town is a serene escape just beyond the bustling market hub of Kottayam—right in the heart of Central Kerala’s lush, affluent belt of rubber plantations.

Kumarakom is a treasure trove of natural beauty and tranquility. It’s home to a renowned bird sanctuary that welcomes both native and migratory species, offering birdwatchers a true paradise. The lake itself is a canvas for stunning sunrises and sunsets—every hour casting a different shade on the waters. Winding through the landscape is an intricate network of backwaters, dotted with small villages and bordered by emerald-green paddy fields. It’s as picturesque and poetic a place as one can imagine—like a postcard that’s come to life.

My visit to Kumarakom reaffirmed my belief that “God’s Own Country” is far more than just a clever tourism slogan. If I were God, I think I’d choose to live in a place as breathtakingly beautiful as this.

It’s fascinating how each of us imagines paradise, and what elements we instinctively include in that mental picture. For me—even as a child—paradise has always meant lush greenery, glistening waterbodies, birdsong in the air, and flowers blooming freely. Kumarakom offered all of that, and more.

There were rain-soaked evenings that painted everything in deep emerald hues, and soft golden mornings where the light tiptoed shyly through the mist. Gentle daytime drizzles gave me the perfect excuse to slow down and simply take it all in—watching the vast landscape of Vembanad Lake come alive. Bee-eaters and kingfishers darted playfully over the water, their colors flashing like jewels. To my delight, I even spotted two Black-hooded Orioles chasing each other through the branches, their bright yellow bodies slicing through the grey drizzle like sunbeams in flight.

My stay in Kumarakom turned out to be enlightening for an unexpected reason—it confirmed something I’ve long believed: Indian families are changing, in subtle but powerful ways.

Traditionally, holidaying in India has meant either nuclear families—married couples with children—or large extended families with parents, uncles, aunts, and cousins in tow. So I was pleasantly surprised to find that my resort offered a special package exclusively for solo female travellers. It intrigued me—not just that such a category exists, but that it has grown big enough for commercial hospitality chains to take notice and tailor offerings specifically for them.

But the real surprise came at breakfast. In the resort’s dining room, I struck up a conversation with a graceful lady in her sixties, who was travelling with an old friend. The two had worked together for over three decades and had known each other for forty years. Now retired and settled in different cities, they had chosen to travel—not with their husbands, children, or families—but just with each other. It was just the two of them, laughing and chatting their way through peaceful days.

Seeing my curiosity, the lady smiled knowingly and said, “We tried meeting at each other’s homes, but you know how it is. At home, a woman is never truly free. There’s always some duty waiting. The grandkids are visiting, or the husband needs something. So I told my family—this time, I’m going on vacation with my friend, away from all the lists of chores.”

Her words struck a chord—and, to be honest, made me feel a little ashamed. How often do we, in our families, fail to give this kind of space to the elderly women in our lives? We expect them to remain in the background, always available with a hot snack or a comforting word. Even those of us who consider ourselves progressive rarely think about our mothers’ or grandmothers’ me-time. We talk of equality but often overlook how invisible we allow their personal joys to become. There is still a long way to go in how we view the lives—and the emotional freedoms—of older women in our families.

There were other interesting guests at the resort as well: a group of male friends from Bengal planning a hike, two families with kids on a joint vacation, and a father-daughter duo who caught my attention in particular. The daughter had secured admission to a university abroad and was due to leave in two months. Her father had taken time off from work for a road trip—just the two of them.

“She may decide not to come back once she’s there,” he told me. “I just wanted us to share some conversations and make a few memories—something that’s hard to do at home in the middle of daily chaos.”

That small gesture was deeply heartwarming. It reminded me of how much things have changed. The image of the distant, emotionally unavailable father—seen only when providing money or delivering the occasional scolding—is gradually fading. Today, many fathers are emotionally invested, nurturing, and active participants in their children’s lives. My own father was ahead of his time in that regard, but I find every such small act from the newer generation of fathers—including many in my own office—deeply reassuring.

It’s no coincidence that such modern expressions of relationships and family bonds are finding space in a place like Kerala. Despite its own challenges—alcoholism, gendered violence, and crime—Kerala remains one of the safest and most socially progressive states in India. A solo female traveler or a young couple posing for a photoshoot in public are far less likely to attract unwanted attention here than in many other parts of the country.

Of course, this isn’t the whole truth. For every expression of progress, there are still ten examples that reinforce old stereotypes. But that’s the thing about revolutions—especially the quiet ones within families—they unfold one small, defiant step at a time.

Another quiet revolution is also brewing here—in the stories Kerala chooses to tell through its cinema. Many new films are boldly exploring themes of changing family dynamics, gender roles, and personal identity. But that’s a story for another post.

In the Land of Apsaras

Cambodia for me is a country of light and darkness- both metaphorically and literally. Years back when I first read about the temples of Angkor in history books, I assumed that the history of these sites is fully known and documented. Well, it is not. There are gaps in our understanding of why these marvelous places were built and abandoned. In my imagination, the scale of these temple was also far smaller than I actually found them. World’s largest religious sites of Angkorwat temples is spectacular in its scale, design and motifs. It was enlightenment at its peak- before nature engulfed it in its roots- literally.

Earlier this month, standing in the Phnom Penh Genocide museum, I felt a chill down my spine. The audio guide in my ears was narrating one horror after the other inflicted by Khmer Rouge, and my mind was struggling to accept that the people whose ancestors in 12^th century achieved such unconceivable engineering feat at Angkorwat , can go so foolish in their attempt to turn the clock back, to carry out such inhuman atrocities on their fellow men and women. And then for two decades there was darkness. And now again, the country is raising a toast to its heritage as well as its future. A zigzag of light and darkness- very much like the Indian myths.

It is always interesting to find your childhood motifs and characters in far off lands. I was mesmerized by Bali few years back to see the sameness of culture. Now in Siem Reap, it was again the statues of Ganesh, Varun, Vishnu and Buddha that reminded me of India’s centuries old international relations. But historically, the influence came to these part not directly from India, but via Sri Lanka. But there is so many Indian tales around Angkorwat that one cannot mistake the cultural continuation. Now that the west-propagated theory of “discovery” of these temples by a lone European in the dense jungles, has been junked, one would like to believe that these monuments continued to be revered by local Khmer people always.

It is believed that the spatial dimensions of Angkor Wat Temple parallel the lengths of the four ages (Yuga) of Hindu thought. Thus the visitor to Angkor Wat who walks the causeway to the main entrance, is metaphorically travelling back to the first age of the creation of the universe. The central tower is Mount Meru, with its surrounding smaller peaks, bounded in turn by continents (the lower courtyards) and the oceans (the moat- Big Barray). The seven-headed naga (mythical serpent) becomes a symbolic rainbow bridge for humankind to reach the abode of the gods. To top it on 4 sides of the city there are bridges adorned with the statues of Devas (Gods) and Asuras (Demons) in the famous “Amrita Manthan” – Churning of sea to get the pot of nectar.

But what many people never realize till they reach Angkor is that Angkor Wat is just one of the many temples in the Angkor. Each temple is unique in its own way. I still dream of the unbelievable roots strangling the ruins of Ta Prohm and the 216 smiling, serene faces were carved onto gigantic towers at Bayon Buddhist temple. I fell in love with the smaller but uniquely built temple of Neak Pean , the entwined serpent . The entry to this temple was through A fascinating fact about all these temples is that unlike in India, existence of Buddhist statues with statues of Vishnu marks no contradiction or inconsistency in their beliefs. After all, Buddha was among the ten avataras of Vishnu.

Yes, all this was very impressive and spectacular. But even beyond temples, Siem Reap was a delightful place. Though we never managed to see the famed sunrise, the beautiful waterlilies and lotus in every pond on both sides of the road was a sight to behold. Equally charming was the Apsara (nymph) motif which was present everywhere. 

The roots of strangler fig tree were so dramatic and were adding to the romance of the place. Not to miss the unique TukTuk as our mode of transport was superb. Luckily for us, mostly during our stay it was a light drizzle or overcast. While it may have affected the dramatic pictures adversely, it was great help to me in climbing those innumerable stairs of temples and other complexes.

Castles and Cold Waves of Copenhagen

If Copenhagen were a person, that person would be generous, beautiful, elderly, but with a flair. A human being that has certain propensities for quarreling, filled with imagination and with appetite for the new and with respect for the old - somebody who takes good care of things and of people.

Connie Nielsen

It appears that Ms. Nielsen was describing my Danish landlady when she said these words. At the age of 82, Eva was standing outside her Osterbro home, wearing a warm smile on that chilly morning. She was braving the cold wind to welcome me to Copenhagen on the Monday after Easter. One look at her and I felt at home. If you go from one of the most populous countries of the world to Scandinavia, you marvel about many things. To begin with, octogenarian landladies who wear red lipstick and ride bicycle, live alone, plant flowers, bake cakes and are perhaps fitter than you. The warmth, pride in Danish culture   coupled with eccentricity runs in all streams of Danish life. It reflects in their majestic castles, their cuisine and also in their quirky designs. But at some level the life is much evolved. Luckily, I got to decipher this Danish puzzle in the best season of the year – spring.

Talking of weather, April was supposed to be warm and welcoming. Then why  there  was this skin piercing cold wind which not only moved the gorgeous windmills in the sea but also quaked my bones covered with multiple layers of clothing. The trees on the road were bereft on any leaves and the green grass below was only half awake after the harsh winter. There were hardly any flowers in sight – even in the famous King’s Garden. To my Indian mind, this was no spring.

For me the first look of the city was of a deserted town. There were absolutely no signs of humans on street. First I blamed it on winds, then on extended Easter holidays. Finally on the third day,  the realization dawned that perhaps there are not many people in the city. Well, this was true till the weekend came. As Helen Derbyl writes in her guide on Denmark that the population is scant unless the weather is very sunny or the Swedes very thirsty. So it was only on the first weekend that we saw people and cycles – people on cycles and people walking on the streets…mostly to the beer  bars .

 It’s a strange capital city- a place where pedestrian set the pace not the automobile traffic. It was rather common to find in Copenhagen mothers safely parking baby carriages (or the famous Christiania bikes with a cart to carry stuff/ babies in front) outside bakeries while outdoor cafés fill with cappuccino-sippers, and super fit lanky Danes pedal to work in lanes thick with bicycle traffic.

In my 11 minute walk to workplace in Mormovej every morning , it was a sheer delight to face the crisp morning air punctuated by golden sunshine in the pedestrian streets redolent of baked bread, baskets of organic strawberries  and soap-scrubbed storefronts. If there's such a thing as a heartwarming city sight, this was it!

No wonder that when today’s glittering world metros with their high-rises and  traffic troubles , seek enlightenment, they commonly look to Copenhagen. The Danish capital regularly tops world liveability lists. This is one of the globe's greenest, cleanest, most sustainable urban centres, a place where cycling is serious transport, where buses and the metro run frequently and around the clock, and where the harbor is squeaky clean enough for a bracing dip.

But Copenhagen has always been far more complex than Denmark’s “happy nation” reputation. It had other layers to show as well- in all shades of greys , much like the designer coats I admired people wearing there  .   The gorgeous old town with splendid historic buildings stands near areas that have only recently seen a renaissance after years of gang violence, prostitution and ethnic tensions. The in-famous Freetown Christiania was just a walk away from the city centre with its cannabis selling Pusher Street. In my tour of “alternative”-Copenhagen, I saw some of these areas and was amused to find the unique “solutions” devised by the policymakers to deal with these. To quote one, the state funded designer drug consumption rooms providing a safe haven for drug addicts to inject themselves in calm surroundings may sound weird to many of us. But as the experiment shows, it has proved to be an effective method of bringing down the drug menace and making the neighborhood safe for kids.

For me the more attractive were the places associated with city’s history of witch hunts, executions, mobsters and murderers. With such morbid details of history, it is funny that the city is also reputed to be the fairy tale city. When I set out to explore the Fairy tale side of the city, I went in search of Hans Christian Anderson’s Little Mermaid and almost accidentally discovered magic of Danish weather. In the Langelinie Park, the trees which were standing bare just the other day were almost bursting into pink Cherry Blossoms. With a cute little English Church in the backdrop, combined with the imposing Gefion fountain depicting the Norse goddess Gefjun, the cherry blossoms were on a bloom leaving no doubt that the spring had finally arrived.  It, however took me another weekend to realize that there can be an even better place to admire cherry and almond blossoms – Bispebjerg Cemetery. The explosion of a pink and white flower sky was mesmerizing in sprawling space of Bispebjerg Cemetery.

While the little Mermaid surrounded by selfie clicking tourists did not impress me much- it opened my mind to the idea of discovering fairytales at oddest possible places. And then I found them – underwater bronze statues of the family of Agnete and Merman, twisted dragon tales on the old Stock Exchange (Borsen), the spiral stairs to (almost) heaven on the baroque Church of Our Saviour , snow leopards and wolves adorning the town hall building …and of course , Holger the Dane who sits asleep in the casemates of Kronborg Castle - until the day when Denmark is in real trouble and he will wake up and defend the mother country.

After a month of stay, I came to the conclusion that despite all jokes about their language and behavior, Danes definitely have their lives sorted like none of us. They do appreciate what really matters – clean air, green grass, blue waters of the sea….and perhaps a good drink to go with it. They live simple lives enjoying and not destroying nature. They peddle their cycles with great joy – without any pretensions and consciousness of wealth or class . 

In the words of  Xenophobe’s Guide to the Danes –

“For the Danes, culture is a way of shedding the modern world and retracing their roots. All Danes are inveterate nature lovers. They cultivate an almost masochistic feeling of insignificance coupled with awe at nature’s power and the forces of life. Danish literature is full of examples of characters trying to come to terms with man’s essential loneliness and unimportance.”

If you ask me that is the way to go.

Yerushalayim Shel Zahav - Jerusalem of Gold

There can be various reasons for never ever visiting Israel and if you ask me, the rude airline staff of El Al should feature in top 5.  But that is not all. Visa interview for Israel is a unique experience too. On the day of my visa interview at Israel embassy I was asked, along with other two visa aspirants  to stand 250 meters away from the gate in blazing sun so that we are no security threat to the embassy. After one hour of wait, in the interview I was asked (very politely) that how do Israel Embassy assure itself that I do not intend to take up a permanent employment in Israel. I was clueless how to politely convey that I am not mad enough to leave a steady job of 17 years in Indian Civil Service to think of migrating to Israel. But the guy was not just completing the checklist. It was a serious question asked earnestly. So I responded with a serious face and luckily was able to satisfy him that someone who is neither Christian nor Muslim nor Jew may also consider to visit Jerusalem for vacation. The person before me was not so lucky, when he explained that he has no intention of staying in Israel beyond 7 days of vacation, and that he has a comfortable life and business in India, the Embassy officer shrugged with disinterest. He said “Prove it.” Visibly baffled, the person exclaimed – “How? And with such rude behavior, I doubt if I would like to go there at all.” The embassy clerk looking straight into the visa aspirant’s eye and  told him “As you wish. You wanted to visit Israel, we never asked you to.” That was my first introduction to Israel’s paranoia with security.

However, with all the problems of getting visa, firming up travel and logistics and the scolding of people around us (“Israel! Who travels there for leisure...go to US or Western Europe.”), the bunch of crazy five (actually 4.5) landed at Tel Aviv earlier this year.  And looking back, what an experience it was! Unique. Incredible. Breathtakingly thrilling.

Israel is spectacular. It is nothing like Europe or Asia or any other place in the world (perhaps). Tel Aviv the cosmopolitan city stands next to Jaffa old city, which is still frozen in medieval age. Israel Philharmonic Orchestra was divine and the Museums were world class.   Haifa the port town is picture perfect. Dead Sea is seen-to-be-believed kind of place.  Even the barren hills of Masada fort leave you so awestruck. Haifa, Caesarea, Jaffa ...all places are beautiful but nothing prepares you to face Jerusalem. There is something about this ancient city, a disputed city that is so important to people of three Abrahamic religions - Judaism, Islam and Christianity. It is so mind blowing that it attracts - or perhaps even causes - a special kind of madness. For some people, Jerusalem is a condition, like being in love; for others, it is a state of mind, a constant tension between rival flags and faiths, or members of the same faith. You may feel moved, energized, or swept into the maelstrom of contemporary or even historical issues—but the city will not leave you unaffected. No, none of us came back with the famed Jerusalem syndrome but then, it was nothing less than a mad plan for us to go there in the first place.

The parallel with two other cities – Varanasi and Rome comes to mind when you think Jerusalem as an eternal city. Now that I have been to all three I can say with certainty that each of these three sacred cities have their own character – they do have great energies but apart from that each one is unique. 

Jerusalem is a city suspended between heaven and earth, East and West, past and present—parallel universes of ancient wall with wailing pilgrims and trendy coffee shops not so far from it. The first thing you notice in this holy city is that the past is not past but it is still passing. Whether it be the past associated with biblical tales or that of holocaust, it continues to live in every moment of the city. The stories of Jesus’s life do not seem to be mere stories written in some ancient sacred text- they suddenly appear to be very real. The grief of Holocaust is not a thing of past- it still guides the minds of the people in their individual and national decisions.  And ironically, this is perhaps the only city where facts are irrelevant. Beliefs , sayings, traditions and even dreams rule the flow.

And so, as we continued our exploration of the Holy City of Jerusalem, we too began to take things on faith. The guides issued repeated  disclaimers  while showing sites and parallel sites of the same events  but after a while, it simply didn’t matter . If you are a Muslim, you believe that the Prophet Muhammad ascended to heaven from Temple Mount, conversed with God, and returned to inspire his followers. If you are Christian or Jewish, you believe that the stone inside the Dome of the Rock is the place where Abraham was ordered by God to sacrifice his son Isaac. Druze, Samaritans, Bahá’í, Coptic Christians, Ethiopian Christians, and Armenians all believe that miracles of faith occurred in this ancient city. And almost everyone chooses to believe that if you write a prayer on a slip of paper and shove it into a crack in the Western Wall, your prayer will be granted. Like everyone else, we descended to the wall and dutifully left a note. I am not particularly a religious person, but my rational mind tells me that there must be something in this land that faiths which otherwise do not agree on most things, agree on the sacredness of this place.

Like Varanasi for Hindus, the faithful of the Abrahamic religions aspire to be buried on Mount of Olives. From atop the Mount of Olives we surveyed the Holy city of Jerusalem in all its glory. Directly below us, white marble caskets in the Jewish cemetery tumbled down the hillside like giant rows of dominoes. This cemetery may be the most expensive real estate in the world as the tradition holds that those who are buried here will be the first to be resurrected when the Messiah appears. No wonder that people from all over the world pay thousands of dollars for one of these tiny plots.  The price of eternity, however, is escalating as the cemetery is fast running out of space.

 But the mountain in not only just the cemetery. It is also ( believed to be ) the place  from where Jesus ascended to heaven , Garden of Gethsemane where Christ prayed before God for the very last time before being betrayed by Judas and Chapel of Dominus Flevit, the place where, according to the Gospel of Luke, Jesus wept over the fate of Jerusalem.

Travelling in and around Jerusalem is mystifying. There is so much history, so many legends and so much to understand. How do you cram 4000 years of history, faith and myths in one week? For some of us it is also our first encounter with the world of Jewish ideology and symbols - I mean beyond books and movies.  For the youngest member of our group it was also her first introduction to the horror of holocaust. For all of us it was a happy introduction to the “food that Jesus ate” but most importantly it was our first experience to the great divide between the places where Jesus was born and where he was buried. The physical distance was not much but the political divide made such visible difference between Philistine and Israel. The tensions are all-around. The paranoia with security is very visible (and very irritating). There are claims and counter claims. But the golden Jerusalem stands strong amidst all these - this is after all , not the land which grows on worldly facts – it is a land created on beliefs and  legends of centuries and thrives of those too.