Padding through Paradise
Glide through Kerala’s emerald veins—its quiet backwaters—on a kayak. Trade noisy engines for the rhythm
There’s a moment just before the rains arrive in Kerala—when the air thickens with anticipation, and the scent of damp earth begins to rise even before the first drop falls. I still remember standing under the red-tiled awning of an old Tharavadu house in Kuttanad, watching coconut fronds dance against darkening skies. My friend, Shanil, who studied music at our conservatory in Berlin University of the Arts, sent me a warm invitation after we finished graduating. So here I was, experiencing the monsoon in Kerala — revelling in the rains, getting drenched in the showers, and loving every moment! The locals are used to the monsoon, for it knocks on their doors, returning every year in June. They don’t check the forecast; they look at the clouds, smell the wind, and know: monsoon has returned.
The monsoon in Kerala is a distinct way of life: In the backwaters, paddy farmers greet the rain like an old friend. I watched them wade through knee-deep mud, laughing, as they sowed the Virippu crop. Their ankles sank into the wet earth with each step, yet there was joy in every movement—it was the beginning of a new cycle, a promise of harvest, months away. Oxen splashed through the fields. Children floated paper boats in the flooded lanes. The rain had redrawn the map of the land, turning every road into a rivulet.
Shanil suggested I get an authentic homestay experience. So I stayed with a family known to Shanil, in a traditional Nalukettu house in Wayanad, where we gathered on the wooden verandah as rain beat down on the tiled roof like a percussionist’s fingers. Mornings were made unique with my host, Suresh, serving me a steaming cup of Kaapi or coffee, and the scent of freshly fried banana fritters, Ethakka Appam, wafting from the kitchen, my plate to arrive soon. Evenings were for stories. His grandmother told us tales of the Yakshi who roamed the forests on stormy nights and described the monsoon festivals of her youth.
One morning, I followed Suresh into the forest to witness an Aadhi Vedan, the season’s Theyam performance—one of the few that happens during monsoon in certain sacred groves — a sacred dance that is a ritual of perfection and symbolizes a communion with the divine. The performers, in crimson paint and towering headgear, danced with divine energy even as rain soaked the shrine, amid resounding drum beats. Afterward, the performers visited every village house in a celebration of community.
On Shanil’s recommendation, I signed up for a Panchakarma cleanse in a small center, where the doctor explained that the body is most receptive to healing during this season. The oil massages, herbal decoctions, and steam baths were more than treatment—they felt like a conversation with my body, the same way the monsoon is a dialogue with the land.
Back in Berlin, as I write this, I can still hear the pitter-patter of rain on palm leaves, the boatman’s call echoing across the misty backwaters, the sizzle of spices in a clay pot. Monsoon in Kerala is not something you survive. It’s something you surrender to. A season that slows you down, wraps you in romance, and whispers the old ways of nature back into your heart.
Glide through Kerala’s emerald veins—its quiet backwaters—on a kayak. Trade noisy engines for the rhythm
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