A soulful escape into tranquillity

It had been a hectic few months in Delhi, and when my friend Vikram suggested a trip to Kerala, I immediately jumped at the opportunity. The contrast between Delhi’s pulsating energy and the serene charm of Kerala sounded like exactly what I needed. A break from the concrete jungle, traffic snarls, and pollution to the tranquil backwaters was a dream I hadn't realized I was craving. And so, one fine Friday morning, we found ourselves boarding a flight from Delhi to Kochi, the gateway to Kerala’s famed backwaters.

Our first stop was Kochi, a coastal city with a rich colonial past. Stepping out of the airport, the humidity hit us, but it felt oddly refreshing. After checking into a boutique hotel in Fort Kochi, we set out to explore the town, our senses tingling with anticipation.

I vividly remember the moment we arrived at the iconic Chinese fishing nets by the seafront. They were unlike anything I’d ever seen—massive wooden structures suspended over the water, operated by teams of fishermen pulling on ropes to hoist the nets. We watched in awe as a group of young men hauled in their catch for the day. One of them, a fisherman named Ramesh, invited us to try our hand at pulling the nets. Vikram, ever the enthusiast, jumped at the opportunity. As we struggled with the ropes, Ramesh chuckled and said, “Not as easy as it looks, right?” The warmth and openness of the people in Kochi were already leaving an impression on us.

That evening, we attended a Kathakali performance. Watching the elaborately dressed performers, their faces painted in bright colours, recount mythological tales through expressive movements, I felt like I was glimpsing into the soul of Kerala. After the performance, we dined at a local family-run restaurant where Mrs. Leela, the owner, prepared a feast of Kerala’s famous appam and stew for us. Her hospitality made us feel as though we were dining in her home, and she regaled us with tales of her childhood in a small village near Alleppey.

The next morning, we drove to Alleppey, the “Venice of the East,” eager to experience Kerala’s legendary backwaters. Our driver, Babu, was full of anecdotes about the region. “You see that houseboat?” he pointed as we neared the waterfront. “My cousin works on one of those. They’re a way of life here, not just for tourists, but for us too.”

We boarded our houseboat—a wooden masterpiece with a thatched roof and open deck—and met Rajan, the boat captain. A kind-faced man in his fifties, Rajan had been navigating the backwaters for over 30 years. “This is my home,” he said, gesturing to the peaceful expanse of water around us. “My father was a fisherman, and I’ve spent my whole life on these waters.”

As we glided through the canals, the world around us seemed to slow down. The lush green paddy fields, the swaying coconut trees, and the occasional village passing by felt like scenes from another time. Rajan prepared a lunch of freshly caught fish and rice while sharing stories of his childhood spent swimming in these waters. “We used to race in the canoes,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “and the winner got to eat the biggest mango!”

The next morning, we drove to Alleppey, the “Venice of the East,” eager to experience Kerala’s legendary backwaters. Our driver, Babu, was full of anecdotes about the region. “You see that houseboat?” he pointed as we neared the waterfront. “My cousin works on one of those. They’re a way of life here, not just for tourists, but for us too.”

We boarded our houseboat—a wooden masterpiece with a thatched roof and open deck—and met Rajan, the boat captain. A kind-faced man in his fifties, Rajan had been navigating the backwaters for over 30 years. “This is my home,” he said, gesturing to the peaceful expanse of water around us. “My father was a fisherman, and I’ve spent my whole life on these waters.”

As we glided through the canals, the world around us seemed to slow down. The lush green paddy fields, the swaying coconut trees, and the occasional village passing by felt like scenes from another time. Rajan prepared a lunch of freshly caught fish and rice while sharing stories of his childhood spent swimming in these waters. “We used to race in the canoes,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “and the winner got to eat the biggest mango!”

That night, as the boat anchored in the middle of a serene lake, Vikram and I sat on the deck, marvelling at the starry sky above. In the city, such a view was impossible. The only sound was the gentle ripple of the water and the occasional call of a bird. It was as if the world had shrunk to just the two of us, floating in this peaceful cocoon.

The following morning, we cruised towards Kumarakom, a small village known for its bird sanctuary. As we entered the sanctuary, the stillness was punctuated by the sounds of birds—herons, egrets, and kingfishers all making their presence known. We had the good fortune of meeting an ornithologist named Dr. Sunitha, who was observing migratory birds from Siberia. She spoke passionately about the importance of preserving these habitats and how climate change was altering the patterns of bird migration.

Vikram, ever the conversationalist, struck up a lengthy conversation with her about the role of local communities in conservation efforts. “It’s not just about the birds,” she said. “It’s about the people who live alongside them, and how we can ensure that future generations continue to coexist peacefully.”

The day ended with a quiet canoe ride through the narrow canals. Our guide, Ashok, a local farmer, told us how he and his family had lived off the land for generations. His simple yet contented life centred around farming and fishing, made me reflect on how different our city lives were, constantly in pursuit of more, while here, they seemed to have everything they needed.

From the backwaters, we headed to the hills of Munnar, a five-hour drive that took us through winding roads and ever-changing landscapes. The temperature dropped as we climbed higher, and soon we were surrounded by mist-covered hills and sprawling tea plantations.

We stayed at a colonial-era bungalow owned by a retired tea plantation manager, Mr. Nair. He took us on a tour of the tea estate, explaining the meticulous process of tea production, from plucking the leaves to processing them in the factory. The tea gardens stretched out before us like a green carpet, and the sight of women plucking leaves with expert hands was mesmerizing.

Mr Nair shared stories of his early days managing the estate, “Back then, we didn’t have all these machines. Everything was done by hand. It’s hard work, but there’s a rhythm to it, a connection with the land.” Over a cup of freshly brewed Munnar tea, we talked about the simplicity of life in these hills, far removed from the fast-paced urban existence we were used to.

That evening, Vikram and I wandered through the tea gardens as the sun dipped behind the hills. The serenity of Munnar was intoxicating, and it was here that I felt a deep sense of peace—a connection to nature that had been missing in my life.

Our next destination was Thekkady, home to the Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary. The boat ride on Periyar Lake was a thrilling experience, with sightings of wild elephants, bison, and sambar deer. I’ll never forget the sight of a baby elephant playfully splashing in the water, watched over protectively by its mother.

We also had the chance to visit a local spice plantation, where our guide, Venu, taught us about the cultivation of cardamom, pepper, and cinnamon. Venu’s family had been growing spices for generations, and his pride in their work was evident. As we walked through the spice-scented air, he explained how the global demand for spices had changed their lives, but the essence of their farming methods remained rooted in tradition.

Our final day in Kerala was bittersweet. As we made our way back to Kochi, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude for the experiences we had. Kerala had not only given us stunning landscapes and incredible food but also moments of human connection that made the trip truly special.

On our last evening, we sat by the Kochi seafront, watching the sunset over the Arabian Sea. I thought of Ramesh, Rajan, Dr. Sunitha, Ashok, Mr. Nair, and Venu—all the people who had touched our journey with their kindness, wisdom, and stories. Kerala has shown us not just its natural beauty, but its heart through its people.

As the plane lifted off the next morning, leaving behind the coconut palms and serene backwaters, I knew this trip had been more than just a holiday. It had been a rediscovery of simplicity, of slowing down, and of appreciating the small moments. Delhi awaited us, but Kerala had left its mark, a lingering reminder of a slower, more connected way of life.

The writer is a freelance travel journalist