Travelogue No. 1


Kumily,  Kochi, Surathkal




 


My mind running miles, I woke up after my 6.30 am alarm rang, while we were still 48 minutes from Kumily. The bus seemed to have stopped, perhaps to fulfill morning obligations. As I got up, I peeked out my window to witness about the most beautiful thing I ever had: the sun was rising from behind the hills at the back of vast farmland. We stood there for some time, and I awoke myself with this view. In the midst of this natural spectacle, and the subsequent sights of recently-awakened rurality that followed as the bus finally moved ahead, it felt wrong to be worrying about anything at all. 

Pudupatti
15 March 2026
 
           





I am sitting alone at the dining table at R’s family house. My first time at a family house of my own friend, rather than my own or of other extended family. The table is empty save blue cloth placemats (set for five out of the six seats), some glass glasses and cutlery on a stand, my almost empty glass of water, and a small steel plate with homemade banana and jackfruit chips. Until a few minutes ago, I was having a conversation with R’s aunt, who came and briefly joined me at the table. We were speaking first about food— North Indian and South Indian— when she began to tell me how their family has concocted a mixture of cuisines owing to their nomadic lifestyle from her father’s government job. She told me about her life in North India, and I, in return, of how I, despite my mother’s government job, have only always been based in Bangalore.

Now, I hear from the little literal hole in the wall behind me, which connects to the kitchen, sounds of R conversating with his grandmother and aunt. I am faintly invading on this conversation, deciphering Malayalam, and hear now that they have finished speaking of R’s job and moved on to talking about my travels. The house is lovely, old but well-maintained. The conversation has moved to intrastate transport now. In the background, sounds of bird and breeze, layered onto that of laughter from the kitchen. Through the door that leads to the living room, which I see in front of me: a singularly framed image of idols housed above a small wooden home temple, backed into a corner. All the doors are open. The air is entirely fresh. I await our departure to explore the farm grounds, which call for potential sightings of bananas and bears.
Kumily
15 March 2026





Time moves slow in Kumily. It only moves slower inside Periyar Tiger Reserve. A proposed nine hours inside the jungle were spent between hiking, resting, and wondering what would happen if we fell off from these hills. Range officer Pantiyan was our brave leader, sherpa-ing us through these lands that he has inhabited for 20 years now. An ex-poacher and evidence of rehabilitative criminal reformation, he suavely smoked beedis at each of our pauses; I wish I had been less hesitant to ask him if I could try it out.

Thekkady
16 March 2026






R’s cousin, who was heading to Kattapanna for work, dropped me to the bus, informing the driver and conductor of my nescience of Malayalam and my preferred destination, Ernakulam Junction. We drove along cardamom plantations through narrow hairpin bends as I marveled at the beauty of the tree-filled hills in the awakening hours of the day.

Now, I am seated next to the window in the first seat, right behind the driver, brushed by gentle wind. Next to me is a middle-aged woman in a
blue-and-white salwar kameez with a brown handbag and a bigger green bag that indicates a medium to long stay at wherever she is headed. We attempted to communicate with each other in something that resembled the shape of a conversation with whatever broken form of Malayalam combined with Tamil I relayed. She told me where she is headed and for what, and though I nodded, I understood absolutely none of it. My accompaniments for this journey are Harry Nilsson and Bismillah. The disconcentration from my surroundings draws me into nausea.

Ayyapancoil
17 March 2026



As the bus moved from the hills towards the sea, campaign posters shifted from UDF to LDF.

We are at Aspinwall House. The sun has eaten our faces, and all that is left of us is sweat. We have just watched a short film called Alaq by Pallavi Paul, screened on three adjacent screens, each folded next to the next to resemble an opened pamphlet. Disappointed so far by the art I had seen, I was left silenced by this unpretentious narrative on grief. Seated for a second screening so E and W can catch up to what they didn’t see, this encore is auditorily taken over by the people sitting to my right. Thankfully, they leave.

Later in the day, Pepper House, hosting in one of its rooms a moving set of performance art pieces by Tino Sehgal: Kiss, Untitled, and Yet Untitled. Entering the room, we were cautioned not to speak. People sat scattered across four benches that themselves sat against the four walls of the room, completely immersed in the performance. A man sitting on the bench at the wall to my left got up and sat down on the floor to observe the Kiss closer, and soon the performance converted to Untitled. Soon after, a man who joined the person sitting on the bench across from me got up and moved around the room, gazing for a while out the window, until he too joined the floor and soon after, the performance too. Now, the performance had converted to Yet Untitled. It is evident where the performance begins, but where does the performance end?




After other smaller gallery visits and a very brief stop at a chaotic yet unlively bass set, Biennale for us ended at Bastion Bungalow, where we watched Dream Your Museum, Strata of Natural History, and Wedding Songs, the last shot on Super 8 in Kochi. While I was engaged in watching the short films, especially in awe of the Super 8, I learned later that my companions used this as an opportunity to catch sleep as respite from this long day. We ended the day with dinner by the sea, eating appam that had gone cold, talking about oil rigs, and went our ways.

Fort Kochi
17 March 2026


Other notes made throughout the day:

                   428pp for dinner @ seagull 12283

                   letters from wolf street at the film forum?


                   between china’s visible steady rise and reactionary moves made by rival nations,

From anxiously refreshing train 12283’s status since 5.30 am, I have gotten to enjoy a little bit of the fantastic view of the coastal stretch of Duronto Express.

Thokuttu
18 March 2026



Today, a complete change of pace in my days. After a tiring train journey that allowed bare amounts of rest, my ear infection had graduated from suspected to confirmed. I scraped my way to the guest house. An auto from Mangalore Junction to Lalbagh, a bus from there to Surathkal, six neer dosas at Sadanand, and one final auto led me to a long shower and longer sleep. I awoke to my parents' arrival, and we headed to lunch: a simple meal of kadle curry and capsicum palya with chapati, followed by curd rice. Now, nothing much except working on the couch, hoping my ear feels fine by tomorrow.

Surathkal
18 March 2026


Writing from KMC Hospital, my first time giving in to go to the doctor in all the times I have fallen sick this year. Woke up with my ear hurting so terribly when I had expected the pain to have disappeared already. My parents were already going to take my brother to the hospital today, so there was no excuse not to go. A lung cancer informer is on the screen in front of me, which swiftly switches to a list of the hospital’s facilities and services in Kannada, but only after I have finished reading. I can barely hear at all from my right ear, so I am speaking very softly too.

This long-overdue visit to the ENT confirmed my even longer suspected sinus issues. Thank you, Dr Deviprasad, for your service. Now, lunch at Woodland’s. With a sprinting nose, the next stop, a proper and necessary Mangalore pilgrimage: Pabbas.

Mangalore
19 March 2026


My family narrowly made it to the temple before the moon’s rise, and I to the sea, to watch the setting sun. On the edge of land, elevated from the beach, sets of two, three and four sat facing the water. Tens of conversations in tens of languages overlapped each other, which themselves overlapped the sounds of simultaneously crashing waves— altogether, music to my ears. The orange sky turned purple, and then a deep blue, till all that could be seen were the silhouette of the tree in front of me and a mere few stars in the sky. One boy, sitting at the edge of this gathering, smoked a cigarette and, soon after, followed it with another one; the light of his matches replaced the sky’s former orange. Two girls joined my bench and spoke, in Hindi, of living away from home and experiencing emotions that had to be kept from parents. It is odd, to hear of this as a recent adult, still only newly out of these yet novel feelings. I reflected on my own days of being these people and everyone that I have met in the process of being them. I miss my friends, all of them, half of whom will always be in another side of the world.

Surathkal
19 March 2026


The most beautiful beach in the world. The most beautiful beach in the world. To think that I almost said no to going out this evening. All we have done is eat and relax; se manger, se reposer — seulement. We had lunch at New City Lunch Home; they were all out of palyas, so it was a simple meal, still nice and good pickle (my personal standard for satisfactory lunch). Then, ice cream at Shetty Ice Cream Parlour, a frequent of my dad’s in his days as Mess Manager of Mysore Mess. He would take six people with him each Wednesday (chosen from a queue that would begin on Monday) to pick the ice cream flavor for Sunday’s dinner. Each week, it was butterscotch, Appa’s favorite and a generally reliable classic. Naturally, I had the butterscotch ice cream, which was more the color of mango than butterscotch’s pale chrome. Dad ordered the gudbud and Mom parfait; they switched when they got their orders. Everything was more heavily dyed than my parents’ hair.

We returned to the guest house, and I took a walk while on call with A. I walked up to the Amul store at the main gate and bought myself a cold Thums Up, although the sun here isn’t all horrible as Kochi’s. Our call got interrupted by another call from my dad with a proposal to return to New City for golli bajje. With only two hours left till French class, I was reluctant to make another trip out, and we had only just had lunch. But I had already finished my devoir, and I can’t say no to Goli Bajje, so we left once again, and an impromptu trip to see the lake at Sasihithlu was planned. Snacks: goli bajje, one singular mangalore bun, and pundi; all customary and just okay. After, we drove to Sasihithlu, a narrow and unending village of a line of houses that face the sea. The sun was at its peak before it set, blindingly bright. The sea to our left, we occasionally could see the Nandini river on the right. Fern trees lined the street as we reached the edge of the white sand beach, people in their Eid outfits taking photos and young surfers struggling to carry their boards. There was some indescribable beauty in this place, surely in some part carried in the ephemerality of this moment, for we were to return to the guest house in time for class. The best beach I have ever seen. The most beautiful beach in the world.


Sasihithlu
20 March 2026