Thiruvanathapuram : A City that Stays

“Chance or coincidence is just heaven’s way of reminding us that we are walking through a script fashioned by higher forces. Every traveller knows that it is only when you get lost that you can be found.” 

— Pico Iyer

As the saying goes, some of our most scenic routes are the detours we never planned to take. And this applies as much to the journey of life as it does to travel. When Thiruvananthapuram happened to me, it felt strange, even unfair, and certainly unexpected. Yet from the moment I landed in this quaint little temple town in 2023, the place began revealing itself slowly and gently, almost as if it was waiting to be discovered rather than announced.

It was a warmth that did not overwhelm, but stayed. It lived in home-cooked meals offered with affection, in the easy smiles of strangers on the road, in a shopkeeper’s patience as I stumbled through a language barrier, and in colleagues who suggested places not as tourists do, but as people who truly belong. What began as a posting gradually unfolded into an experience that felt intimate and deeply personal.

Sometimes, it helps to be an outsider in a place. It gives you fresh eyes, eyes that notice what familiarity often dulls. I found myself pausing at the most ordinary scenes. The tea shop owner at a roadside chaikada, rhythmically pouring tea from one steel tumbler to another, creating a frothy arc that felt almost like a performance. The wild almond trees inside the Napier Museum complex turning a startling red, as though the season had briefly set them aflame. Outside the Padmanabhaswamy Temple, little girls in half sarees moved with a grace that seemed older than memory. These were not grand spectacles, but they stayed longer than any monument.

The city delighted both me and my camera in its festivals and its ordinary afternoons, in its enchanting monsoon skies, in those endless rains that seemed to wash the world clean, and in clear full-moon nights when the sky felt close enough to speak. From my morning companions, kingfishers, oriels and egrets, to fields blazing with the yellow of sunflowers and the green of paddy, from the endless blue of the sea to the soft gold of dawn, it was always a spectrum of colour all around.

Most of all, it was the people, kind, generous, and remarkably balanced. Progressive, argumentative, rational in one moment and dreamy and emotional in another. They amused me and engaged me in equal measure, especially at work.

The love this city has for literature, music, art and debate never ceased to amaze me. At classical dance and music concerts, the audience is often made up of simple and modest people, deeply attentive and respectful. There is no performative appreciation, no need to be seen appreciating culture. Artists, writers and thinkers are valued for their substance. It is no wonder that my favourite haunt, Modern Book Shop at Pulimoodu, always drew such a wide range of readers, from students to retirees, all bound by a shared love for books.

This morning, I made a mental list of places I want to revisit before I finally say goodbye. Later I found myself smiling at the range it held. It had a temple and a museum, a library and a bookshop, a walkway by a waterbody and a beach, a specific tree and even a wetland. I added my rooftop terrace, where many evenings dissolved into reflection, and my heritage office building, whose every evening glimpses were my parting ritual from the work. It felt less like a list and more like a map of memory.

I witnessed some of the most gorgeous sunsets of my life here, met some of the most illuminating souls, forged extraordinary connections, and read countless books while sitting on golden beaches and park benches.

When I had first started writing about my Kerala journey in this blog, I had recalled the words of John Lennon, “Life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans.” And now, almost three years later, life has once again lived up to that truth. Just when I had begun to belong, to settle into a rhythm,  to make plans rooted in this soil, it decided it was time to move on.

There is a belief in Thiruvananthapuram that you do not truly leave the city unless the reigning deity, Padmanabha Swamy, permits it. Perhaps there is comfort in that thought, in surrendering one’s departures to something larger than choice or circumstance. I suppose my permission has come now.And yet, in the corners of my prayers, I find myself asking for something more, not to stay, but to return again and again. If not for long stretches, then for visits just long enough to relive the magic, to walk once more along familiar roads, to sit by the sea as if no time has passed, to rediscover those small moments that first made this city feel like home.

Like most civil servants, I have come to see myself as a modern gypsy. We do not grow deep roots in one place. Instead, we leave fragments of ourselves behind, small pieces of memory in every city we inhabit. Over time, you begin to understand that home is no longer a single place. It is scattered across cities, across people, across moments. There is one city that taught you to dream, another where you discovered your courage, and yet another where you found companionship that felt like family. Home can be a dish whose recipe you carry, a phrase that echoes in your mind, a skyline that visits your dreams, or a sound that continues to soothe you.

Kerala, though unlike any place I had lived before, came to feel, look, and sound like home.

The first time I landed here in October 2023, I looked out of the airplane window with uncertainty. In the years that followed, after many landings at one of the most scenically placed airports I have seen, each time I caught sight of Shangumugham Beach from above, my heart whispered that I was home.

But such is life. You are always leaving somewhere that feels like home, only to arrive at another place that will, in time, become the same. Every arrival carries a departure within it. And so we move, always arriving, always leaving, forever carrying fragments of every place within us.

I am old enough now to not grudge the twists and turns life takes. And yet I know this. Somewhere in the chaos of Delhi, in its traffic, its urgency and its noise, when I catch a glimpse of a dim sun struggling through layers of smog, my mind will travel back to the luminous evenings at St. Andrews Beach, where the sun did not just set, it performed with a kind of grace that stays with you.

And some places, like this one, you never truly leave at all.

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 caption.

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

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

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

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

As I write this, I’m humming:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sights and Seasons of Paradise : 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.