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

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

-Shashi Tharoor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

अन्नमायादन्नमयमथवा चैतन्यमेव चैतन्यात्

यतिवर दूरीकर्तुं वाञ्छसि किं ब्रूहि गच्छगच्छेति

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

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

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

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

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

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

Choice of Adjectives- Remembering Empress Sisi

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

Empress Elisabeth of Austria

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

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

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

Oh swallow, give me your quick wings

And take me with you to distant countries.

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

And to break the bars of my prison ...

If I could fly with you

Through the blue eternity of heaven

How I would make thank you with all my being

The Goddess that men call freedom!

-                                                                                                                                                --  Empress Elisabeth (1856)

 

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

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

Captivating Calicut -Where the Spices Once Sailed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Sights and Seasons of Paradise: The Beginning

 Sometimes you have to let go of the picture that you have thought it would be like and learn to find joy in the story you are actually living.

-        Rachel Marie Martin       

Life, as John Lennon said, is what happens to you when you are busy making other plans. My plans got unsettled in a very poetic way this year. I was gazing at Cleopatra’s pool at Pamukkale, Turkiye on 12th September and the alignment of stars changed somewhere for me.

Cut to scene two. It was mid-October, and I was in “God’s own country”. Thousands of miles away in a part of the country where I have not been for last twenty years and language and ways of which I was blissfully ignorant of. Well, the common wisdom says that mortals have no control on the invitation from Gods. It is supposed to be sudden and so it was. But again, can a mere mortal resist the invite- I could not and so here I was- in the city of Padmanabh Swami. A city which has seen an amazing milieu of history. A city where at different points of time – artists, traders and intellectuals took refuge and got settled. Also a city, where you come and leave only with the divine will.

It did not take me long to get lured by the sights spread out before me. The colourful floral tributes outside temples for Navratri puja, tall trees of jackfruit, coconut and more, the heritage buildings with their wooden roof and ex-royal emblem – they were all very inviting and I gaped like a tourist. It rained every now and then and the weather was warm. The entire scene was so unlike north that on some nights I got up just pining for the familiar sounds, tastes and sights.

My welcome was amazing and the gestures for help- a plenty. Yet it took me time to push back the fear of unknown from my mind. Once in routine, my mind wandered on what I would like to fill my days with. Luckily, it was just then the state festival started. Criticized by some and attended by all, it was a crash course of state culture and mindset for me. I was floored with the variety of events and exhibitions, discussions, and debates. But first impressions barely give you the full picture. The depth of the issue often hits you much later. My introduction to Kathakali masks, for example, came in the most unusual way.

Building of Fine Arts College, Trivandrum

It was just an art exhibition at the Fine Arts College. I went there just for curiosity and to admire the college building. I saw some strange exhibits (as usual) and some good ones. But what I found most creative was a re-creation of Da Vinci’s The Last Supper, with Kathakali artists. 

I marveled at the art and creativity of the photographer (Vivek Vilasini), took and shared pictures of it with friends. It was only the day after, when a learned acquaintance pointed this out that I realized what these masks actually represented! The photograph was not only creative, but it was also provocative as Jesus and his apostles were wearing masks meant for negative characters. It was an interesting first introduction to city’s love for breaching the line of social sensibilities and rules in all aspects of life. Well, I guess, that is how they are a city of thinking people. Where classical arts and radical Marxism thrive side by side. Where, as a colleague pointed out to me – even Christian and Muslim communities have a Vidyarambha ceremony and the child is supposed to write” Om shree ganapataye namah”, where all communities happily enjoy dishes made out of beef (while rest of the country can’t dream of that) and where Virgin Mary in some village churches merrily dons traditional Kerala cream saree with golden border.

Arattu Procession on the Runway

But then, I should not be surprised about the contradictions and incredibility of things in this state. Certainly not after I came to know of Arattu procession, which happened just days after my coming here. The day when international airport suspended services to give way to a temple procession. Well, I have seen enough number of Mazars and temples inside public institutions, but this was a first for an international airport. As it turned out, twice every year, the beloved deities of Padmanabha temple of Trivandrum, take their ritual bath or Arattu . The idols are taken from temple to the Shangumugham beach for this purpose, following an ancient path. This is going on for last few centuries as per record. Now in 1932, when the airport was to be constructed and the runway design fell on the traditional route of this procession. The land belonged to the temple through the Royal Family of Travancore. Temple happily gave the land ( you see, Indian Gods are never in the way of progress and modern ways) but the condition was -  twice every year, planes will halt to give way to the Gods. Even now this continues. This, for me was very symbolic of the soul of this city and this land of Gods. Always open to progress and new ways and yet deeply rooted in the traditions of history.

So that is how it began, I in the divine land. Much like the fabled ships of King Solomon landed in a port called Ophir (now Poovar) in Thiruvananthapuram in 1036 BCE, my ship has landed here. The thought of chronicling the experience came couple of days back while enjoying a golden sunrise surrounded by lush green tea gardens of Munnar- but more on that in a separate post. Hopefully I will try to capture the sights and seasons of this amazing place regularly for a year.

The Old New Tale

 

“...the secret of the Great Stories is that they have no secrets. The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably. They don’t deceive you with thrills and trick endings. They don’t surprise you with the unforeseen. They are as familiar as the house you live in. Or the smell of your lover’s skin. You know how they end, yet you listen as though you don’t. In the way that although you know that one day you will die, you live as though you won’t. In the Great Stories you know who lives, who dies, who finds love, who doesn’t. And yet you want to know again.
That is their mystery and their magic.”

                                                      ― Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

Like any other reader, I too have my favourites tales which I like to read and re-read. Characters who are as real as my real life friends and some more. Places which I have visited only in these tales and yet they are so much my own. The quote above resonates in more than one ways. Familiarity with a favourite story adds to its charm. I always find difficult to deal with sequels and prequels written as fan-literature. I read many of them as they bring back to life, some of the favourite characters and sometimes add to the stories known till then. But at the same time, the new twists and new plots sometimes disappoint even enrage me. Fan literature of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice is a good example of that. There have been numerous searches into the finer points of Elizabeth’s and Darcy’s characters. Some sequels make monsters out of them others try to find modern sensibilities in their tale. I am not sure I like either.

But retelling of stories is not limited to modern classics. Fairy tales have been written and re-written with numerous versions over the years. From Victorian purists to BBC and Disney’s adaptations, several changes have been attempted in the tales of Cinderella, Rapunzel, Snow White and even Aladdin. Many of these tales originated in China, found their way to middle east and then reappeared in Europe. At each appearance, they changed colours and subtle nuances of the tale. Back in India, traditionally, there have been infinite versions of stories of Ram and Krishna. Many add local flavours, others omit some unsavoury detail or end with very charming twists in the tale. In modern times, stories of Ramayan and Mahabharata have been written from the point of view of several different characters including women characters. Some of these retellings appeal to me. e.g. when they make women characters more independent, strong and significant or when the fairy tale princess is not only a blonde with blue eyes. (Writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie brilliantly sums up the sentiment of the danger of a single story here. )

But I thought of writing this post due to two attempts of retelling of myths/ stories, which I came to know in last few days. First was Luciano Garbati’s sculpture “Medusa with the Head of Perseus” which was unveiled on 13th October 2020 in Lower Manhattan.

 I do not think the sculptor has feminism or #metoo movement in mind when he inversed the sculpture. He stated that he was inspired by a 16th-century bronze: Benvenuto Cellini’s “Perseus with the Head of Medusa.( Perseo con la testa di Medusa)”  which stands in Loggia dei Lanzi, Florence In that work, a nude Perseus holds up Medusa’s head by her snaky mane. Mr. Garbati then thought of a sculpture that could reverse that story, imagining it from Medusa’s perspective and revealing the woman behind the monster.

Well, undoubtedly, like many other myths whether Indian, Egyptian or Greek - the original Greek myth of Medusa offers plenty to be angry about. The monstrous being with snakes for hair starts out as a human woman, who Poseidon rapes in Athena’s temple. The goddess then punishes Medusa, the rape victim, by turning her into a Gorgon and exiling her. Perseus is later sent on an errand to bring Medusa’s head to King Polydectes. Equipped with a mirrored shield, winged sandals, and a special sack for her head, Perseus creeps up on Medusa while she lies sleeping, cuts off her head, and then uses it as a weapon for turning enemies into stone. No wonder, the retelling of inverted story by Garbati today provides a powerful symbol of women’s rage against violence and injustice.  While I do admire the symbolism of placing the Garbati sculpture in front of the court where many cases of crime against women including rape come for hearing. The timing too could not be better. World over the anger is coming to surface against ongoing injustices and most violent crimes against women. Except for the fact that I would have liked Medusa to hold heads of not only Perseus but also Poseidon, the man who raped her and even Athena, who punished the victim, I find the sculpture very powerful. It is a retelling of a tale we need in the world today.

The second provocation for this post came from much closer home. I am an avid reader and collector of Amar Chitra Katha Comics. I always adored their titles and have written about my love for ACK in this blog also. Of late, I do not like the new titles as much as I like the old ones. the charm of hand drawn illustrations and the level of research has gone down over the years. Just by chance I came to an ACK title Shakti – the tales of Goddess, and while I can find many details either missing or incorrect in it, I loved this book. The book is very sensitive to the classic tales of mother goddess and also to modern sensibilities. Surprisingly, it was a good read.

These two retellings, made me think, why it is important for us to add new details in the old stories or to change the end of familiar tales. Is it our obligation to the next generation to tell them that the stories can have alternative endings too? or is it because the alternative stories were always in our minds and they just came out now? I think I agree with Mark turner who said - 

“Narrative imagining — story — is the fundamental instrument of thought. Rational capacities depend upon it. It is our chief means of looking into the future, or predicting, of planning, and of explaining.” 

I am sure with each new reader, a story adds another name to its owners who have every right to add their own narrative, their own experience, their unique prediction of future to it. Some of that may feature in other retelling and thus continues the tale. After all, after nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.

Garden Diaries: March ( A season passes by )

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

Ecclesiastes 3:2

On 5^th March, my garden was on full bloom. Sun was shining bright and birds were chirping as usual. When I went home for lunch around 2 PM, I happily checked my flowers and my seedlings (sunflower and zinnia) and even took some photos of Delphiniums, Larkspurs, Nasturtiums and Cineraria.

Hailstorm

Around 4 PM, there was a sudden hailstorm……. the lawn turned white and the flowering plants were slayed within minutes. Hailstones of the size of golf ball were too much for my delicate flowers to bear. At the end of it Nasturtiums, cinerarias and Petunias were gone completely. Few pots and flower beds in shade of trees survived the worst.  Kalnchoes and Impatiens suffered major damage and in short, the garden was ruined. It was a sad sight and it broke my heart.

Orange blossoms

Next morning, the sun was back, so were the birds and while I was still mourning the destruction of yesterday, nature had started building up. The geraniums started showing new buds in few days and even the petite pansies fought back. The water in waterlily tubs had turned black but soon, I saw new leaves of waterlilies too. The calendulas and Helichrysum braved the damage and again stood tall.

 I was still sad thinking of the premature ruin of my pretty flowers. Then on a Saturday, standing out in bright sun I saw a blue sunbird happily frolicking among the larkspurs. It was such a heart-warming sight. Standing in the middle of ruined flowerbeds, I smiled.

Since then, slowly but surely things have warmed up in the garden. Nastratiums are now replaced by the tiny seedlings of Zinnia and in place of my pretty pink petunias, I have planted Giant Russian Sunflowers. Gaillardia and Vinca will be next and of course Kochia and Portulaca. It is said that “A good gardener always plants 3 seeds -one for the bugs, one for the weather and one for himself.” But well, I did not. Hailstorm also killed many of the seedlings. The mis-calculation has costed me one full month. At present I have vacant flower beds but nothing to plant. My Mixed Zinnia seeds are coming up slowly and hopefully in another 20 days I will be all set to face the summer with my summer flower garden.

Trays of Succulents 

Meanwhile, I had collected some succulents and had arranged two trays of them. They also suffered some damage in the storm but these tiny plants are known for their sturdiness. So they are doing fine. I am still not too enchanted by them as I find flowers much more delightful. But who knows? I also got some more succulents as gift and may be another arrangement will soon follow.

Helichrysum- the everlasting flowers

To see a world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wild flower Hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour.

                                                                                       -- William Blake

That is funny part of being a gardener. Your garden often knows better than your imagination and skill. The storm had damaged one part of mango blossom also and yet the other side of this good old tree is still  a sight to behold – full of pale yellow blossoms. As I have always believed – Mango blossom is the true portent of summer. So here it is – the summer of 2020.

Outside the limited world of my garden, there is a real scare of an epidemic. The virus is spreading world over and the normal life has been shut down in so many countries. For the first time the scorching summer sounds very welcoming. Temperature in the city is touching 32 and hopefully, we won't be affected much with the deadly virus thanks to the heat.

I just remembered that this is the 12th edition of my garden diaries. It was fun writing these posts. I do hope I will read them in future and remember the joy my garden brought me whole year through. It was a great learning for me as gardener and also as a person. I learnt the lesson of patience and moderation, a lesson of learning the skill right and most of all, I learnt that it takes a dallopful of faith and trust in nature for a garden to bloom. I am ever so grateful that I could hear the music of the earth and could hum its tune this whole year through.