Joyce Job's Blog

Railway lines as seen from the secluded path.

Continued from Kottayam Days: The Wild Path (Part 3).

You might think it queer that a stranger turned up at the library I frequented and chose me as the proprietor of this weird business. You might find it weirder that I accepted this strange proposition without asking for clarification or raising safety concerns. 

You are not wrong. Who in their right mind will ever dedicate a month of their life to retrace the path of an unknown woman and to rethink her thoughts? That, right there, is our point of contention. Who in their “right mind”? 

When my father heard about the assignment, he didn’t object. That doesn’t mean he had no objections. From the look in my eyes, he just knew I wanted to do it. 

Besides, thanks to my elder brother’s NRI money, our one-room house was demolished, the plot was cleared to lay the foundation for a new two-storey house, and a small hut with a thatched roof was erected on the side for us to live in for the time being. 

We only had a makeshift bathroom made of braided coconut leaves and wooden sticks, with no roof. This was common in our villages, but still my family thought it best if I were away from the prying eyes of the workers and strangers climbing trees until the construction was over. 

Yes, Philomina Aunty found a man climbing a nearby coconut tree every time Mom or I entered the bathroom. That was when my dad borrowed Kunjappan uncle’s last panchayat election campaign fabric sheet, reading ‘Vote for our candidate Kunjappan in the “Hammer, Sickle, Star” symbol’ to cover our bathroom roof. 

Yes, Kunjappan uncle had won by eleven votes, and Philomina Aunty’s detective eyes never miss a thing. It was unfortunate that her parents forced her to take up a stable but boring bank job instead of supporting her lifelong passion to become an investigator. 

But my dad didn’t let me off the hook easily either. At the railway station, he gave me two pieces of farewell advice. 

One. “Many Kottayam families have migrated to other countries, especially their youth looking for better education and career opportunities. So expect most houses to be empty. Please don’t wander around remote places after dark. And don’t take unnecessary risks. Your mom and I are always worried for your safety.”

Two. “Don’t get too attached. Neither to the story nor the characters, especially not that protagonist woman. You know you always say you won’t, but then you do. Keep reminding yourself you are just a ghostwriter. Like a surrogate mother, you only have permission to form the child in your head but not to keep it. The story was never yours to tell and never will be.”

I nodded. My dad watches too much news and too many family dramas. So all his examples and metaphors oozed with melodrama, too. Otherwise, I thought it was sound advice. 

I sighed as I  reached the end of the wild path. The concrete road in the distance could lead to the railway station. But a barbed wire fence and ‘take a diversion’ board stood between us. Why do I always get so damned attached? 

To be continued…

A tryst with the wilderness – glimpses from Kottayam.

Continued from Kottayam Days: The Hostel Hunt (Part 2).

Where I come from, there are two popular stereotypes about Kottayam people.  One, they are filthy rich; except in Malayalam, we say they’ve “pootha cashu,” or rotting money. I bet this stereotype came from the ultra-rich Paala Abkaris. Two, that all Kottayam women (a.k.a. Kottayam achayathis) are baddies.

As a human and part-time writer, I try my best to stay clear of stereotypes because they fail to capture one of my favourite things about life: nuance. But Lisa Aunty is a baddie. I gaped in shock when she told me about her grandchildren. Not only did she run the hostel and take care of her family, but she was also rolling out plans to start a second hostel. 

On the hostel terrace, while Lisa Aunty pointed out the shortcut to the railway station, I stood distracted, wondering if badiness would ever be part of my life.  I should’ve paid more attention because five minutes later, I did the exact opposite of what she had told me. After paying the advance and leaving the hostel, instead of turning to the side road on the right, I retraced my steps to Good Shepherd Street Road and took a left. 

On the way, I saw a small shop, a petti kada, run by a grandma. A few days later, my roommate Ally would tell me how fresh the curd sold in that shop was. But despite being a curd lover since childhood, I wouldn’t taste it because I wouldn’t venture down that route again. 

Soon, I reached a concrete bridge. From a distance, I could hear the hoots of trains, but I didn’t know which way to tread. So I asked a tall senior passerby. 

“Moley, you don’t have to get on the bridge,” he pointed out. “See that rickety side road. Walk down that route, and you will start seeing the railway lines.”

He was right. Like the green nerves hidden under my skin, they were always there – the railway lines, glistening under the sun. Except I’m not sure if the path was meant for humans. Maybe a goat or a couple of hens, but a human? I don’t know.  

It was a one-person-wide path with cliff-like side edges. My feet were shivering; if I were a wobblier person, I would have tipped over. 

But the green grass thriving on both sides, the slanting tree branches brushing my head, the wild creepers, even the brown leaves strewn on the ground gave the place an “Into the Wild” mood. I felt like the solo female lead of a survivalist movie, exploring the impenetrable Tasmanian forest, not a mediocre wood near a local railway station.

“She would have loved it,” the thought cropped into my mind.

She would have loved it the way I love it, if not more. 

Just then, I felt a warm breath on my neck. 

I stopped in my tracks, a cold sweat dripping down my back.

“You are enjoying it, aren’t you? Watching me suffer,” I dared to ask the betaal in my head, and she cackled. Her shrill laughter echoed in my ears. 

Things were going awry sooner than I expected. But I didn’t dare to ask her that one question that keeps me tossing and turning in my bed all night.

Author’s Note

~ Kottayam Days: The Train Ride (Part 3) is a work of fiction. While real-world geography and cultural landmarks of Kerala frame this story, all characters, dialogue, and incidents are entirely products of the author’s imagination.

~ It’s the third chapter of a serial story exploring a woman’s memory, identity, and perspective across the streets of Kottayam.

~ All content is the original intellectual property of the author. © 2026 Lirio Marchito. All rights reserved.

~ No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the author.

~ Enjoying the story? Subscribe to receive upcoming instalments directly in your inbox!

A tryst with the wilderness – glimpses from Kottayam.

Where I come from, there are two popular stereotypes about Kottayam people.  One, they are filthy rich; except in Malayalam, we say they’ve “pootha cashu,” or rotting money. I bet this stereotype came from the ultra-rich Paala Abkaris. Two, that all Kottayam women (a.k.a. Kottayam achayathis) are baddies.

As a human and part-time writer, I try my best to stay clear of stereotypes because they fail to capture one of my favourite things about life: nuance. But Lisa Aunty is a baddie. I gaped in shock when she told me about her grandchildren. Not only did she run the hostel and take care of her family, but she was also rolling out plans to start a second hostel. 

On the hostel terrace, while Lisa Aunty pointed out the shortcut to the railway station, I stood distracted, wondering if badiness would ever be part of my life.  I should’ve paid more attention because five minutes later, I did the exact opposite of what she had told me. After paying the advance and leaving the hostel, instead of turning to the side road on the right, I retraced my steps to Good Shepherd Street Road and took a left. 

On the way, I saw a small shop, a petti kada, run by a grandma. A few days later, my roommate Ally would tell me how fresh the curd sold in that shop was. But despite being a curd lover since childhood, I wouldn’t taste it because I wouldn’t venture down that route again. 

Soon, I reached a concrete bridge. From a distance, I could hear the hoots of trains, but I didn’t know which way to tread. So I asked a tall senior passerby. 

Railway lines as seen from the secluded path.

“Moley, you don’t have to get on the bridge,” he pointed out. “See that rickety side road. Walk down that route, and you will start seeing the railway lines.”

He was right. Like the green nerves hidden under my skin, they were always there – the railway lines, glistening under the sun. Except I’m not sure if the path was meant for humans. Maybe a goat or a couple of hens, but a human? I don’t know.  

It was a one-person-wide path with cliff-like side edges. My feet were shivering; if I were a wobblier person, I would have tipped over. 

But the green grass thriving on both sides, the slanting tree branches brushing my head, the wild creepers, even the brown leaves strewn on the ground gave the place an “Into the Wild” mood. I felt like the solo female lead of a survivalist movie, exploring the impenetrable Tasmanian forest, not a mediocre wood near a local railway station.

“She would have loved it,” the thought cropped into my mind.

She would have loved it the way I love it, if not more. 

Just then, I felt a warm breath on my neck. 

I stopped in my tracks, a cold sweat dripping down my back.

“You are enjoying it, aren’t you? Watching me suffer,” I dared to ask the betaal in my head, and she cackled. Her shrill laughter echoed in my ears. 

Things were going awry sooner than I expected. But I didn’t dare to ask her that one question that keeps me tossing and turning in my bed all night.

Author’s Note

~ Kottayam Days: The Train Ride (Part 3) is a work of fiction. While real-world geography and cultural landmarks of Kerala frame this story, all characters, dialogue, and incidents are entirely products of the author’s imagination.

~ It’s the third chapter of a serial story exploring a woman’s memory, identity, and perspective across the streets of Kottayam.

~ All content is the original intellectual property of the author. © 2026 Lirio Marchito. All rights reserved.

~ No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the author.

~ Enjoying the story? Subscribe to receive upcoming instalments directly in your inbox!

Continued from Kottayam Days: The Train Ride (Part 1).

SheNest Ladies Hostel – An AI-Generated image used for representation purposes only

The SheNest Ladies Hostel looked less like a birdhouse and more like an enchanted tower in a fairy tale, though no Rapunzel unravelled her braided hair-rope from its top. Three-storied houses were still a novelty in my coastal village, but what charmed me more were the tall cream walls, lavender streaks in the slanted roofs, and rows of pots with blooming roses and orchids in the garden. 

The lone teak tree shed its yellow leaves all over the courtyard, and the blue plastic net stretched over the open well. When I rang the calling bell, a sleepy lungi-clad uncle leapt from the hallroom sofa. But before answering the door, he first ran to the kitchen to turn off the water pump. The tank was overflowing, but luckily all the water fell straight into the open well. It seemed like a predicted mishap.

Lisa aunty, the sleepy uncle’s devoted wife and the hostel warden, came to the door. We had talked over the phone. 

“Mm… Jessy? From Chennai?” She asked, creasing her eyebrows.

Her straight, silky hair fell to her waist. My curly, cuckoo-nest hair could never. 

I shook my head no. She is a good businesswoman. Sharp, smart, tactful. Recalling my name would’ve made me feel important, and her sound desperate. But casually slipping in that other tenants were waiting for a spot, too? Brilliant touch! A tense tenant means she has a longer leash. 

“It’s Jesma from Kollam,” I corrected her, biting my lip, killing the urge to add my nickname. 

After studying the bearded man’s list, I had shown it to my cousin, Tony, who used to work as a cab driver in Chingavanam, Kottayam. 

“Jemma, Chingavanam is not proper Kottayam town,” he reminded me. “It’s difficult to get buses to many places, especially if you’re travelling late. So stay close to the railway station. The Nagampadam private bus stand is also nearby,” he advised.

This was the ladies’ hostel closest to the railway station. All others were at least two kilometres away. Though Lisa Aunty insisted there was a 2-minute shortcut, I had taken the longer 10-minute route from the railway station entrance. 

Mar Thomas Syrian Theological Seminary, Kottayam

Turning left from the entrance, I walked past the Mar Thoma Syrian Theological Seminary, contemplating whether my mystery woman was friends with any of the young priests or seminarians inside. I also wondered if those men were truly happy with their decision. A lot could be happening behind those walls. 

When I saw the signboard to a biblical society and later, the Good Shepherd Church, I felt this short stay in Kottayam could be the perfect chance to rekindle my relationship with Jesus Christ. In the past months, I had diligently skipped Sunday masses out of sheer hopelessness and disappointment with my life. 

Outside the compound walls of the church and bishop’s house stood a small tea shop run by a middle-aged couple. They sell great cream buns and those nostalgic little heart biscuits. Though I would later frequent this shop, I ignored the fruit seller’s stand nearby like a ritual, even when I accompanied my hostel mates to buy oranges and watermelons. Fruits don’t tempt you to spend extra money the way cream buns do. 

The side road on the left, soon after the fruit seller’s stands, led to the hostel. I rang the calling bell of two wrong houses before ending up at the right place. A teenage couple hugging and recording a dance reel outside the houses showed me the way. I didn’t feel as much of a third wheel as their guy best friend waiting at a distance. 

“No need to remove your shoes,” Aunty told me as she led me up a winding staircase to the second floor. Hereafter, no cardio needed, I made a mental note. On the way, she noticed that an inmate had spread a top on the balcony rail to dry. 

“Wet clothes only on the terrace,” Aunty scolded the girl, but it terrified me instead. I realised why the hostel was spick and span. Will I survive such a strict, cleanliness-freak warden? I wondered. 

After knocking on the door, we entered a four-sharing room with two double-decker cots and two empty upper beds. Two surprised young girls stared back at us.

“Just checking the room,” Aunty told them.

I smiled at the girls and scanned the room. I like upper beds. Closer to the lamp; great lighting to read books. Sufficient wind from the fan. The wall shelf was almost full. But that was okay; I didn’t have a lot to bring. I nodded approvingly and enquired about the washroom.

Aunty guided me to the terrace and showed the washing area and bathrooms while reciting the quote, “For the four-sharing room, monthly rent is Rs 6500. To reserve the bed, you have to pay an admission fee of Rs 250 and an advance of Rs 1000. You should pay the rest of the rent on your date of joining.”

I ran the calculations in my head. For food and accommodation, the rate wasn’t bad, provided the food was good. Even if it weren’t, I would have said yes. I don’t know the exact moment; maybe it was when I first stepped into the garden or stared at the road outside from the second-floor balcony. Something had stirred inside me. 

A primal instinct. Or a voice inside my head, nudging me to say yes.

With a heroine’s air, I parroted a dialogue someone had whispered in my ear. “We will take it.”

To be continued…

Author’s Note

~ Kottayam Days: The Train Ride (Part 2) is a work of fiction. While real-world geography and cultural landmarks of Kerala frame this story, all characters, dialogue, and incidents are entirely products of the author’s imagination.

~ It’s the opening chapter of a serial story exploring a woman’s memory, identity, and perspective across the streets of Kottayam.

~ All content is the original intellectual property of the author. © 2026 Lirio Marchito. All rights reserved.

~ No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the author.

~ Enjoying the story? Subscribe to receive upcoming instalments directly in your inbox!

Kottayam – the city of letters.

The beginning of the cold, dry months of 2025. Precisely, November 16th, a Sunday. My mind was in a pickle. I had barely made it to the railway station on time to catch the 11 am Kollam-Ernakulam MEMU, an ordinary train that passed through my destination, Kottayam. My ticket only cost me Rs 25. 

Kottayam – the aksharanagari of Keralam, the city of letters. Land of two of my favourite writers, Vaikom Muhammed Basheer and Arundhati Roy. Funny how I was also searching for a story that day. The story of a young woman I had never met. A woman I was only ever linked to through the bearded man who offered me a lump sum of money to dig up her memories. Or was it just her thoughts? I didn’t recheck with him. Maybe I should’ve. It could’ve saved me a hell of a lot of time. 

No, I’m not an investigative journalist. Just a random person who won a weekly book review contest in a local library in a coastal village of Kollam. Which one: Neendakara, Shaktikulangara, Thekkumbhagam, Thangasserry, Alappad…? You might start to ask. But if I answer, you will uncover my identity in seconds. Privacy is a joke in our villages. Everyone knows everyone’s somebody, and nobody gets away with anything. 

Kottayam Railway Station

Nobody waited at the Kottayam railway station to receive me. It was a bit rich of me to assume they would. After all, the bearded man could be one of the zillion homeless beggars in my country. One who had a stash of money to dispose of. But it wasn’t fake currency. Philomina aunty, my mom’s childhood catechism friend, had cross-checked and confirmed. Aunty was a bank employee on the brink of retirement, sworn to secrecy.

The money was real. So was the man and his task. So I had to deliver, even though it wasn’t clear what was truly expected of me. 

I replayed his words in my mind: “See Kottayam with her eyes and tell me what she would’ve thought. Tell me what she would’ve felt. Go to all the places in this list and write detailed notes. I will come to collect them once you’re done.” 

“But how will you know when I’m done?” I dared to ask.

“I will know,” he assured me.

“How will I know when I’m done?” I asked.

“You will know,” he insisted.

You might find it queer that out of all the questions I could’ve or should’ve asked, those were the two I selected. But people are peculiar that way. 

To be continued…

Author’s Note

~ Kottayam Days: The Train Ride (Part 1) is a work of fiction. While real-world geography and cultural landmarks of Kerala frame this story, all characters, dialogue, and incidents are entirely products of the author’s imagination.

~ It’s the opening chapter of a serial story exploring a woman’s memory, identity, and perspective across the streets of Kottayam.

~ All content is the original intellectual property of the author. © 2026 Lirio Marchito. All rights reserved.

~ No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the author.

~ Enjoying the story? Subscribe to receive upcoming instalments directly in your inbox!

Continued from Konni Elephant Rehabilitation Centre.

Our traveller rode through the Konni forest range, navigating its curvy, bumpy, and steep roads, with hills and lush green trees on both sides. Pathanamthitta Konni buses occasionally sped past us. A baby girl in our travel gang danced to the Param Sundari song, while the rest of us hyped her up with claps and hurrays. By 11:15 am, we reached the Manneera Waterfall. 

Manneera Waterfalls

Zen-like Manneera Waterfalls in Pathanamthitta, Kerala

After parking the vehicle at a safe spot, we walked the hundred meters to the waterfall. Have you seen those zen indoor water fountain showpieces? That’s what the waterfall reminded me of. Water rushed down the rocks with force, splashing droplets onto our faces, forming a deep pool where we could swim, but there was a zen-like calm to it. 

An unfinished brick-and-concrete house stood near the fall. My team members used the space to change into their swimming clothes, mostly T-shirts and shorts. 

I loved how the mother-son duo always jumped head-on into the adventures. They were always the first ones to reach the tricky spots on the rocks and shower under the fall, followed by a few men, holding the hands of their women and kids.  

The kiddos had a blast playing in the water, but the ladies needed more coaxing. Being an aquaphile, I didn’t need any encouragement, but unfortunately, I hadn’t brought a change of clothes. Since I was wearing a kurta-legging, I pulled up my pants and folded them near my knees before strolling through the water bed. 

The water was so fresh and cold. I wished I could swim in it. My feet touched the rocks, pebbles, and slimy mosses underwater. Dragonflies flew in swarms just above the water. Near the house, there was a banana plantation, and in the distance, at the top of a hill, a lone house. 

We clicked selfies and group photos before the waterfall, many of us fully drenched, our faces wet, sunshine sparkling in our eyes. Around 12, we left the waterfall, and after a ten-minute ride, we reached the Adavi tourism spot on the banks of the Kallar River.

Adavi Kutta Vanchi

Coracle rides at Adavi Ecotourism Point, through the green waters of Kallar River

While Viji Chechi, our buddy, bought tickets for the coracle ride, I strolled along the bank, clicking photographs of the river and coracles. Everything around me, the water and the reserve forest on its bank, seemed soaked in dung green. Soon we were busy fastening the orange lifejackets.

We split into groups and hopped onto two bowl boats. Crickets were creaking around us. We watched as our boatman, Varghese Chetan, struggled to row against the tide.  Near the shores, he had to be wary of the big tree roots. “Does it get easier as we row deeper into the river?” we asked, and Chetan shook his head. “As the depth increases, the water current also increases,” he reminded us.

There was a grasshopper-like, but brown insect in the water around us. I didn’t know its name then—water skimmers—but I thought they could be cool design models for boats and jangars. They have an even cooler name in Malayalam, Vellathilashan, meaning Masters in Water.

Varghese Chetan enlightened us that the Kallar River merges with Pamba. Bathing in the holy Pamba River is a big part of the Sabarimala pilgrim journey. He pointed at the teak plantations and reminded us that we were close to Tamil Nadu’s coastal regions.

When we reached the middle of the river, at a four-foot depth, Varghese Chetan started spinning the boat. Scared yet excited, adrenaline rushing in, we laughed and screamed at the top of our lungs. Our team members in the other boat clicked our photos and videos. Later, when it was their turn, we recorded them as well.

The boatman of the other kutta vanchi entertained everyone with his tricky riddles and silly jokes. Varghese Chetan didn’t shy away either. He broke out into retro Hindi songs. He sang pretty well, too. Just then, it drizzled. 

There’s something so romantic about listening to an old Hindi song crooned by a boatman while riding a coracle with a bunch of strangers, floating over a green Kallar river surrounded by an even greener forest. I lay back against the coracle, resting my head on its rim, looking up at the raindrops falling from the sky, and letting them splatter all over my face. I remember thinking, “This is life.”

Occasionally, I turned toward the water and dipped my fingers in, creating ripples all around us. For a second, my fingers could have mistaken the water’s surface for a loved one’s soft hair. 

By 1, we walked out of the vanchi, thanking Varghese Chetan and his friend for the enjoyable ride. Up next, we went to the Aranyakam Eco Cafe and had lunch. I bought kappa, fish curry, and some fish fries. The cafe was situated in the woods; a small bridge at its back led to a big gate and a cluster of bamboo treehuts. The staff informed us that the huts were under repair. Four people can rent one hut for Rs 3200 for a day; this included food charges. 

Chuttipara 

Chuttipara in Pathanamthitta

We started for the Chuttipara hill by 2 and reached there within half an hour. The steep cement road leading up to the hill, surrounded by small houses clinging to the slope, deterred many of the seniors. They chose to stay back near the houses, having cold drinks and snacks from a nearby shop. 

Meanwhile, the rest of us climbed the slope holding onto the rails. At the top, stone-cut steps on the rock cluster made the ascent easier. At the top of the hill, we posed for photos. But gusts of wind made both our dresses and hair go haywire, resulting in some funny photos. “Ithentha kombo?” (Are those horns?) We asked each other, poking fun at our hair. 

Many stray dogs and their puppies also climbed the hill with us. Some, we reckoned, had made the hill their home. At the hilltop there was a shrine of Lord Shiva, featuring a sankalpam (conception) of Harihara, Shiva and Vishnu combined. The local myth associates the rocks with the Ramayana and claims that Lord Rama himself worshipped this idol. 

From the top of Chuttipara, we could see the adjacent hills or rock clusters of Chelavirichapara, believed to be the rock where Sita dried her clothes, Kattadipara with a Hanuman temple, and Pulipara, a cave believed to have served as a shelter for Rama and Sita. Kattadipara was just opposite us, and we watched in wonder as a young couple went down a steep way to reach there. While many of us hesitated to follow them, the mother-son duo and kiddos in our gang climbed it in no time. 

I was scared to go down that route. So I lay down on the rock, looking up at the blue sky and the eagles circling it. It reminded me of my village back in Alappuzha, where the lore claims that whenever St Sebastian’s statue is taken out of the church as a procession to the beach during his feast in January, eagles always circle him. 

The young girls around me were discussing books and politics. One of the guys in our gang started arguing with them, and soon Viji Chechi jumped in to back the girls. I listened dispassionately to the political conversation for some time, before blocking them out with the sounds of the wind and imagining the hills as a herd of snoring elephants. 

By 4:30, we hiked down the hill, listening to Viji Chechi’s work life and fond memories from other trips. On the way back, we stopped at a family restaurant named Kalavara and had tea and pazhampozhi (banana fritters). Carrying around our gang’s dancing baby girl in my arms and babbling with her outside the shop was such a heartwarming experience.

Back to my nest

Appooppanthaadi Gang at the top of Chuttipara, in Pathanamthitta

Our bus rode through the velvety greens of Konni to Kilimanoor, the birthplace of renowned Indian painter Raja Ravi Varma, to Pirappancode. When I started seeing the signboards of  Vembayam, Vattapara, Mannanthala, Nalanchira, Paruthippara, and later MG College, Keshavasadapuram, and Pattam, the route finally made some sense to me. 

After bidding everyone goodbye on the bus and wishing them safe journeys, Jayashree Ma’am and I got down at Palayam around 8. We reached the PMG Junction. Before hailing her ride, Ma’am insisted I take an auto back to my hostel and call her once I reached. I told her I would, but instead took a bus to Kazhakoottam. I was saving money for future trips. 

I reached Kazhakoottam bus stand by 8:45, but had to wait a full, nail-biting 20 minutes before my bus came. In between, I befriended a junior guy who was also waiting for the bus. He seemed more tense than me and told me he was new in town. He was from Punnapra in Alappuzha and worked at UST Global as a software engineer. I couldn’t help but think that for a woman, it would have been suicidal to disclose such details to a total stranger. 

By the time I reached my hostel, there was a missed call from Jayashree Ma’am. We talked and made plans to meet again before I left Trivandrum. We both honoured that promise and met for a masala dosa, podi dosa lunch date at Ariya Nivaas in Aristo Junction, near Thamanoor, the day before I vacated my hostel. She also called and wished me on my next birthday, read a few of my blogs and gave me encouraging feedback. 

I’m writing these blogs almost a year late, but I still look forward to sending these blog post links to her. I’m excited to hear her thoughts about this. I still remember what she told me when we bid each other goodbye at Palayam that night: “You were the best part of the trip.” Even though it was the sweetest thing someone had told me in ages, I believed it, because getting to know her was my favourite part of the trip, too. 

Author’s Notes

~ Ownership of all group photos and nature images belongs to the individual hikers or Appooppanthaadi. 

~ All other content on this blog is the intellectual property of the author. © 2026 Lirio Marchito. All rights reserved.

~ This blog is part of a series exploring my travels through Pathanamthitta, one of the 14 districts in my home state, Kerala, in India. You can read more posts from this series here. Pathanamthitta | Kerala| India

Elephants of Konni – Krishna in Musth, Priyadarshini enjoying her morning bath, and Meena testing the strength of her chains.

Have you seen those viral Instagram posts claiming, “Elephants’ brains react to humans the same way that human brains react to puppies… they think we are cute”? Or its highly pookie reply: “My life has had no greater joy than knowing elephants think I’m cute.” It’s a fantasy I want to revel in. Unfortunately, thanks to Snopes‘ buzzkill, my rational brain knows there is no scientific basis for this claim.  

However, if any esteemed scientific community working in forested areas ever cajole an elephant into an MRI scanner to capture its brain reactions to a cute human, I will volunteer.  100%! I will be there.

It was this outlandish, illogical human desire to pet and impress an elephant that motivated me to book the one-day Adavi trip organised by Appooppanthaadi, my favourite travel partner. Our itinerary included a visit to the Konni Elephant Rehabilitation Centre, where the gentle giants are cared for, followed by a serene coracle or kutta vanchi ride through the clear waters of the Kallar River, a shower and dip at the Manneera Waterfalls, and a climb to Chuttipara to enjoy its panoramic view. Super exciting, isn’t it?

Adavi is located in Pathanamthitta district in Keralam. Though it shares a border with my native place, Kollam, it was my first time visiting, so I was equally excited to strike off another spot from my to-visit list. This trip happened in the middle of my one-month stay in Trivandrum, soon after I explored the Kerala Chalachithra Academy and paid a short visit home. 

Early Morning Rush 

On 28th September 2025, the day of the trip, I snoozed my 3:45 am alarm and continued cuddling my pillow. Only when my sister called me at 4 and drilled some sense into me did I finally wake up. I had to exercise, freshen up, and catch the 5 am bus to Thampanoor to meet my travel gang by 6. 

When I switched on the lights in the common hall to brush my teeth, I gave my hostel’s chef aunty a good scare. She was sleeping on the hallroom sofa. The Poocha Sir (His Majesty the Cat), who had made our hostel his home by sheer cuteness and constant disrespect to our shooing, was also curled up on another sofa. Aunty scrambled to prepare food, but I assured her that I would have breakfast on the way. 

My whole body shivered at the first touch of water. My respect for early morning office-goers peaked. I can only do it on trip days or for love. I changed in the hall room as my roommates were still sleeping. With just four minutes left on the clock, I dashed out of my hostel to catch the bus. 

Scrambling to the Bus Stop

Dark sky and a cold drizzle enveloped me. Like a toxic parent scolding her lazy lad to go to school, I said some mean things to myself: “Nobody is coming to save you. You gotta get out there and work hard for the life you want.” When you are alone, you feel grateful for the minutest support, like the glowing yellow streetlights on the road that day and my own shadow on the ground. I was scared I would be alone at the Attinkuzhi bus stop, but guess who was there already? 

Two absolutely stunning grandmas, with the most innocent and gorgeous smiles. They reminded me of my late maternal grandma. Silver-haired, clad in golden kasavu sarees, I thought they were going to a wedding. “Just a temple visit,” they corrected me, giggling. 

When the 5:10 am low-floor bus rolled past us without stopping, they scolded the bus driver before me. We boarded an ordinary bus five minutes later and bought a Rs 28 ticket to Thampanoor. The conductor assured me we would reach by 5:30-5:35, but my anxiety made me worry if he actually meant 6:30-6:35. 

Runners on the wet road before the Lulu Mall, men with laptop bags playing online chess or constantly checking train statuses inside the bus, the good morning messages that had started pouring into our travel gang’s WhatsApp group, and the prayers I murmured under my breath painted my morning scene. 

A New Friend En Route

Elephant mural paintings and statues exhibited inside Konni Elephant Art Gallery

My heart leapt in joy as our bus entered the Thampanoor bus stand by 5:40 am. Within five minutes, I was crossing the road to the railway station. I thanked God for punctual KSRTC buses, police, and all the hardworking people going somewhere on a Sunday morning.

After buying snacks, I met the travel gang near the small Ganapathi temple outside the Thampanoor railway station. By 6, we met our coordinator, or Buddy, Viji, and boarded the traveller. 

Riding through the Kilimanoor-Venjaramoodu route, by 7:30, we reached Ayur and had breakfast at the vegetarian hotel Aariyas. We enjoyed the plain dosa, coconut, mint, and tomato chutneys, sambar, and uzhunnu vada and resumed our journey at 8 sharp.

We were a fifteen-member travel gang. There was a mother-son duo, friends’ gangs, families, and solo travellers like me. At the railway station itself, I had befriended a lady named Jayashree Ma’am. She was a retired English professor who used to work in Palakkad. 

I don’t know why, but she reminded me a bit of my mom. Maybe it was her well-dressed look with a tinge of makeup, or the effort she put into initiating conversations with everyone. Her positivity and warmth encouraged me to sit next to her on the bus. We ended up having wonderful conversations about her siblings, son, music and her travels to different countries and other states of India. 

She laughed at how easily we had become friends despite our age gap. There’s something so beautiful about two strangers giving each other a chance, having open conversations, sharing experiences, finding similar interests, and just connecting, right? Maybe it was one wanderer soul recognising another, because conversations flowed easily, we laughed a lot, and it genuinely felt like my soul was happy to have met her.

The rows of rubber trees lining both sides of the road, the many Punalur buses that overtook our traveller, and the nostalgic-romantic-vibe-dance songs our buddy played from her curated playlist wooed and kept us company. By 8:40 am, we reached Pathanapuram. 

Disturbing Aanakoodu & Kheddas

When we reached Konni Ecotourism Point at 9, songs from the evergreen Malayalam movie Summer in Bethlehem were playing in the background. Since the place opened only at 9:30, we sat inside the bus crooning.

Konni Elephant Rehabilitation Centre, also known as Aanakoodu or Elephant Kraal, is situated 11 km away from Pathanamthitta town. It contains an elephant museum, a 3D theatre, gardens of medicinal trees and plants, and a rehabilitation centre where we can watch elephants being fed and bathed. Open six days a week, with Monday a holiday, the entrance tickets to this place cost Rs 80 for adults and Rs 50 for children/students. 

Aanakoodu in Konni – Wooden structures constructed in 1942 to cage and train wild elephants

When the gates opened, Viji bought our tickets and let us in. Though the medicinal garden and museum lured us, we were stoked to see the elephants first. But on the way, pre-independence-era wooden structures, constructed in 1942 and used to cage wild elephants, soured our moods. We were relieved to learn that both the cages and elephant rides were strictly prohibited in the centre. 

Reading about inam (reward) pits and khedda, systems used by past governments and royal rulers to capture wild elephants to train and domesticate them, filled me with repulsion.  The renowned painter, Ravi Varma, had captured Mysore Khedda in his 1906 paintings. Luckily, such activities were criminalised in India under the Wildlife Protection Act of 1972. 

But I guess the true elephant lovers will still cringe at the sight of mahouts, the goads they use to tame elephants, the chains wrapped around the animals’ legs, prized possessions made of ivory and elephant tail hair, and even the elephant processions during temple festivals or poorams. 

No Calves, and A Tusker in Musth 

Whenever I manifest meeting elephants, I conjure a very specific image in my mind. A baby elephant, or calf, barely 5-6 months old, named Maya or Mia, playing football with me, with its cute feet and wiggly trunk. Unfortunately, there were no calves in the centre; only three graceful lady elephants and one tusker in musth. 

While the ladies, Priyadarshini (42), Meena (34), and Eva (23), charmed us with their poise and calm, the youngest lad and only tusker, Krishna (13), seemed angry and restless. Clueless, I tried to click his photo and immediately got scolded by his mahout. 

He shouted: “Komban madhapaadilanu. Aduthunnu maaru!” (Meaning the elephant is in musth. Move away!) When a male elephant is in musth, its reproductive hormones spike, and it can be super aggressive; in many such instances, they have killed humans in the vicinity. Another trainer explained Krishna had bashed even them with its morning serving of cooked rice. 

For safety’s sake, I kept my distance from the elephants, but continued observing them.  Their half-sleepy, half-lazy faces as their trainers scrubbed their bodies, hosed them or tossed coconut leaves and jaggery as food were adorable to watch. Meanwhile, Krishna’s trainer sprayed him with cold water to calm him.

Aesthetically & Intellectually 

Up next, I visited the elephant art gallery and shop. I already have a few painted elephant miniatures at my house. Still, I ogled the numerous elephant-themed paintings, statues, artworks, movie posters, books, and gifts in the art gallery. Exquisite, but pretty expensive. 

While the gallery was aesthetically pleasing, the museum was intellectually stimulating. Did you know the word Elephos in Greek means “antlered beast or stag”? I eagerly read the wall posts describing the evolution and life of the largest existing land mammals and even stared at a few elephant skeletons. 

Elephant fossils and photographs exhibited at Konni Elephant Museum

I can barely recollect those elephant facts now, but here are a few I still remember. There are three main elephant species: African Bush Elephant, African Forest Elephant, and Asian Elephant. Their natural environments are grasslands, moist deciduous and semi-evergreen forests. They are social beings with a matriarchal family structure, and frequent human-elephant conflicts occur due to habitat destruction, habitat fragmentation, discontinuity of corridors and even the planting of their favourite crops like sugarcane.

One section that disturbed me was the brutal tools used in the past to capture or tame elephants. How can man, who calls himself civilised, use nail snares, traps, tusk rings, bush knives, tethering chains, spiked hobbles, and goads against another sentient being? Equally disturbing were the exhibits demonstrating elephant trapping methods and elephants participating in logging activities. 

I was a tad bit disappointed to learn that the papermaking unit was no longer functional. The audio-visual 3D theatre, where I could push buttons to listen to various forest sounds and visuals, was fun, but it needed more maintenance. Many buttons didn’t work. However, it exhibited many elephant-themed stamps, coins, and stunning wildlife photographs.  

Ashokavanam

By the time I skimmed through the theatre and checked out the forest products in the Vanashree eco shop, such as oils, honey, ayurvedic soaps, gifts, etc., half my gang was either roaming through the medicinal garden or taking turns on the swings. Seniors were more enthusiastic than kids. It was a joy to photograph them. 

In the medicinal garden, an area was marked as Ashokavanam. The term Ashoka means the one that removes sorrow. So “Ashoka tree” literally means “Sorrowless Tree.” If you’re familiar with Indian epics, you might recollect that Sita was held captive in a grove of Ashoka trees (Saraca Asoka) in Lanka after her abduction by the rakshasa king Ravana. 

Scenes from the Ashokavanam inside Konni Ecotourism Centre

Also, Sree Buddha’s mother Mayadevi gave birth to him under an Ashoka tree. One of his ardent followers who spread Buddhism in India was the Mauryan Emperor Ashoka. I strolled through the grove, enjoying its shade, gazing at its orange flowers. If an Ashokavanam could cure my heart of all its sorrows, I would live under its shade forever and never leave, even if there were no Raavana to imprison, or a Rama to rescue me. 

By 10:30, we were all strolling through the garden like Sita’s clueless maids. The sky drizzled for a bit, then the clouds cleared, and the sun shone again. A typical fox and hen wedding! Sipping refreshments, nibbling biscuits, and listening to Rahman sir’s playlist, we rode to the next spot on our list. 

To be continued…

Author’s Notes

~ All content on this blog is the intellectual property of the author. © 2026 Lirio Marchito. All rights reserved.

~ This blog is part of a series exploring my travels through Pathanamthitta, one of the 14 districts in my home state, Kerala, in India. You can read more posts from this series here. Pathanamthitta | Kerala| India

Kathakali artists from Kerala Kalamandalam portraying Nalan and Damayanthi.

“The Kathakali Man is the most beautiful of men. Because his body is his soul. His only instrument. From the age of three, it has been planned and polished, pared down, harnessed wholly to the task of storytelling. He has magic in him, this man within the painted mask and swirling skirts.” ― Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things 

Missed Experiences

In the famous Malayalam movie Manichitrathazhu, just before the iconic ‘Oru Murai Vanthu Parthaya’ song and climax, the heroine Ganga, played by the legendary danseuse and Malayalam actress Shobana, goes to watch Kathakali in the nearby temple.  Watching it as a child, I remember thinking how many such unique experiences my siblings and I missed just because we grew up close to a Christian Church instead of a Hindu Temple. 

Sitting under a banyan tree, chitchatting with friends; lighting oil lamps before evening prayers; dipping in the temple pond; draping a kasavu saree or mundum neriyathum and attending morning prayers or pooja;  ringing brass bells with cold sandalwood paste on our forehead; adorning our braids with tulsi leaves and jasmine; rolling on the ground as penance – shayana pradakshinam; dancing to the rhythm of old Mohanlal dance numbers during gaanamelas – musical concerts of temple festivals; and whatnot. On September 29, 2025, in the middle of my wanderings through Trivandrum, I got an opportunity to live one such missed experience – watching Kathakali.

Kathakali 

Kathakali is one of the most complex traditional classical Indian dance forms. It’s native to my home state, Keralam. Originated about 400 years ago as a dance form performed in royal courts and temples, it combines vocal storytelling with elaborate makeup, grandiose costumes, percussion music, dance moves, and facial acting. 

Kathakali artists don’t speak. Instead, they use 24 specific hand gestures, or mudras, and intense eye and facial expressions to convey nine basic human emotions, or Navarasas: Shringara (Romance), Hasya (Laughter), Karuna (Compassion), Raudra (Anger), Veera (Courage), Bhayanaka (Fear), Bibhatsa (Disgust), Adbhuta (Wonder), and Shanta (Peace). 

Margi Theatre

Margi Theatre is an artistic and cultural organisation dedicated to reviving ancient, classical dance forms Kathakali and Koodiyattam. They provide a Gurukula system for artists, where students stay with the Guru, or teacher and learn from them. Among its many other cultural contributions, Margi Theatre also conducts free public Kathakali performances twice every month.

I knew the Kathakali performance would begin at 5:30 pm sharp. But ten minutes before its commencement, I was still running in circles in front of the Sree Padmanabhaswamy Temple, clueless about how to reach the theatre. Finally, admitting defeat, I rang the contact number, and the staff patiently explained that I was standing at the East entrance of the temple. To reach the theatre, I had to walk towards the West Entrance. “Moley, it’s close to the SP Fort Hospital,” he added. 

Running as fast as I could, following the GPS directions, panting, sweating, I mumbled to myself, “You might never get another opportunity to watch Kathakali. Don’t miss the beginning, Jo!” As I shed my pista-green jogging shoes and blue socks at the entrance of the iconic Margi theatre, a grandpa in a white shirt and mundu welcomed me with a bright smile and said,  “It’s about to begin.”

Would you believe my luck? Only when I settled onto a plastic chair in the last row of the small audience did one of the singers blow the conch, announcing the start of the performance, and light the attavilakku or lamp. 

Nalacharitham

A man dressed in a traditional mundu and shirt read a description of the play. I will share the crux of his announcement. The Kathakali play, or Attakatha, about to be performed was Nalacharitham. It features King Nalan and Queen Damayanthi, both famous characters from the Indian epic Mahabharata. Structured as a four-day play with multiple scenes, I was about to witness the first three scenes of day 2. 

In the first scene, Nalan and Damayanthi stroll through the royal garden after their hard-fought marriage. As they explore the garden, Nalan describes Damayanthi’s beauty, reminisces about the swan, or hamsam, that acted as a messenger between them, and the hardships he endured to marry her. He says the only enemy still separating them is her shyness. After exchanging pleasantries, they return to the palace. I’m a fan of well-written romances and rom-coms, so I was excited to watch how an epic tale would portray Shringara. 

“I love my villains more.” – S. S. Rajamouli. The villainous Kali.

The second scene introduces the play’s villains: Kali and his accomplice, Dwaparan. Kali, who yearned to marry Damayanthi, is pissed when he learns about Nalan and Damayanthi’s wedding from the gods Indra and Yama, so he vows to separate them. Well, a love triangle sure does spice up a romantic story; it has takers even among Gen Z. 

In the third scene, Kali and Dwaparan persuade Nalan’s envious younger brother, Pushkaran, to gamble with Nalan, beat him, steal his kingdom, and exile him to the forest. But a righteous man like Nalan would never gamble away his kingdom. So Kali waits atop a fig tree for 12 years for Nalan to make a slip. 

One day, drunk with love, Nalan forgets to wash a small part of his heel before rushing to the evening prayer or sandhyavandanam. This minute impurity gives Kali the chance to enter Nalan’s body and influence him to gamble with Pushkaran.  I couldn’t wait; Nalan, possessed by Kali, would be a treat to watch. 

I was surprised to learn that all characters, including Queen Damayanthi, were played by male artists from Kalamandalam. 

Curtain Raiser 

Until then, the stage was adorned with only a black cloth screen at the back, with the Malayalam words Margi Thiruvananthapuram written in bold white. Just then, two shirtless men in white mundu stretched a colourful curtain of concentric squares across the stage, behind the attavilakku. A green square surrounded by a white one, within a red one, then yellow, black, and red again, with a golden border, and crossed diagonals.  

Behind the curtain, I could see traces of the singers and dancers moving onto the stage. The crown of the Kathakali artist playing Nalan was a huge giveaway. Not to mention the percussionists bringing their instruments and sound-checking them.  

When the veil was finally removed, I could see two Kathakali artists and four instrumentalists on stage. The musicians played percussion instruments: chenda, madhalam, chengila, and elathalam. Those playing chengila and ilathalam also had a mic in front of them, indicating they were singers, too: lead singer (ponnani) and assistant singer (shinkiti), respectively.  

It was easy to distinguish between Nalan and Damayanthi among the two Kathakali artists. Male characters wear a crown or kireetam, whereas female characters wear veils. Noble male characters, like kings and gods—Nalan in our case—wear green (pacha) colours on their faces. Meanwhile, women wear yellow, and villainous characters like Kali and Dwapara use red and black.  

Attakatha 

The play began with a welcome note. I watched Nalan and Damayanthi holding hands adorably. As the beats grew louder and faster, Nalan’s eyes moved, eyebrows raised, lips perked, cheeks twitched, and fingers curled into mudras. Even his long black hair and steely nails added so much character to his performance. 

While his steps synced with the rhythm of the beats, describing the garden’s beauty and flirting with his wife, Damayanthi stood rooted to the spot. At times, her eyes lowered, and her head bowed, but ever graceful, listening, admiring, and thinking. Her curved lips, eye blinks, reddening cheeks, the subtle touch of her veil, jewellery, or hair in response to his Shringara. The worry lines on her forehead and sadness in her eyes when he narrates his hardships in courting her. Nalan’s occasional shrug as he fails to break her silence.

I couldn’t exactly understand the attakatha narrated in the background, or the hand mudras. But thanks to the initial announcement, I knew the context, and that was more than enough to let my mind imagine and wander, and the emotions permeate my heart.  

When Nalan and Damayanthi romanced each other through subtle, shy gestures, flirtatious smiles, and the lingering longing in their eyes, the music gently nodded in joy like the swans and peacocks strutting in the royal garden. But when they eventually hugged and burst into laughter, the musicians took the percussion to its height, celebrating the love and union. 

Almost an hour into the performance, Damayanthi broke her silence and stillness and danced. I couldn’t believe it was the same woman from a moment before. Hell, I never doubted it wasn’t a woman inside. She was so expressive; her eyes and gestures emoting love, longing, worries, joy, and sorrow. Nalan, now resting on a stool, listened in rapt attention, much like the audience. 

Lost in Translation

Older Malayalee men, dressed in mundu, bespectacled, or grey-haired, keeping the beat with their hands, tapping feet, or nodding heads, formed the majority of the crowd. I presumed they knew enough about the art form to decipher every glance and every mudra. 

Though many saree-clad women and teenage girls in ethnic silk skirts had shown up, within an hour, many had trickled out, except for a few couples. My most intriguing part of the audience was the two rows of foreign kids and teenagers who sat in the front. I wondered if they were part of some cultural exchange program. 

Like an average Malayalee, eagerly watching YouTube channels where foreigners react to Malayalam movies, trailers, and songs, I scanned the front rows to check if the kids were enjoying the performance. Their yawns, constant chit-chat, and giggles with friends made me realise they were beyond bored. When the temple bells rang at seven, they were relieved and ready to leave.   

As a writer, I’m no stranger to rejections or failures. But being rejected by an unknown panel of judges or an invisible reader feels like a breezy walk through a meadow, compared to what those Kathakali artists were experiencing. A distracted live audience walking out in the middle of a performance must have been nerve-wracking. I wondered if years of training had made these artists immune to such audience responses. Or do they simply go on, despite these everyday heartaches? 

Blisters and Bad Boys

I couldn’t blame the foreign kids, though. Since the announcement was in Malayalam, they didn’t have the context of the play or general knowledge of the Indian epics that made this performance accessible to me. The only good thing that came out of their departure was the empty seats they left behind in the front rows. I occupied one of those seats, grateful for the closer view and better camera angle for my photos. 

My eyes were drawn back to the stage by the iridescent Damayanthi in action; as if pleased by my thoughts and decision to move closer, she held me with her stare and let me in on an intimate secret. By instinct, my eyes followed the curve of her lips to the turns of her feet. Her feet were tied with chilanka, or anklet bells. Her left foot was covered in ripe blisters. 

Bad boy aura is real. The villainous Dwaparan in Chuvanna Thadi Vesham.

Just then, Nalan got back on his feet; the staff removed the stool from the stage. He jested, breaking Damayanthi from her trance, and danced with her to their heart’s glee. Soon, the song stopped; only the percussion rang loud in the night. The couple retreated wrapped in each other’s hands. The colourful curtain was stretched across the stage again. End of scene one. 

Within a few seconds, the air tensed, the night breeze chilling, as if a sinister power was amongst us. Even in their big crowns and Kathakali costumes, the forces behind the curtain couldn’t fool us. We could feel their anger, their malice, their evil from a mile away. 

In Karutha Thadi Vesham, a grand black costume with streaks of black and red on his face, black hair, and a white beard, Kali screamed, threatening to pull down the curtain. Soon, Dwapara joined in Chuvanna Thadi Vesham, a white costume and beard, but his red hair and red-black streaks on his face told us he wasn’t to be trusted either. Their roars were electric, but their wicked grins and smirks were unnerving. 

People can say what they want, but the bad boy aura is real. Villains add so much drama and intrigue to stories. In fact, a noble man’s life becomes a story worth telling because a villain stepped in to wreak damage. No wonder S. S. Rajamouli, the filmmaker of blockbuster movies like Baahubali, confessed: “I love my villains more.” Only a powerful and complex antagonist can convince an audience that a hero’s triumph was earned. 

Abrupt Endings & Coincidences

All stories, good and bad, come to an end. Some, unfortunately, are cut short. Since I was accompanied by only fictional accomplices in my head, my driving skills were nonexistent, and I didn’t have a private vehicle at my disposal, I was forced to leave the Margi theatre by 8 to catch the last bus to my hostel. Just as the curtain fell on Kali Dwapara’s introduction scene, I stood up. One chetan tried to deter me, “Moley, it ends by 9:30.” Nope. Clockwork like Cinderella at 12, I had to leave. 

I rushed to the East Fort Bus Stand, past a lady trying to sell me lottery tickets, past the closed entrance of the Sree Padmanabhaswamy temple—Lord Krishna must have been sound asleep, past the bells tolling at the Sree Mahaganapathi temple, past the open shops, and the streets still alive with people returning from work or prayers. 

Waiting for a bus to the Technopark area alongside other travellers, munching cold masala kappalandi (groundnuts), I didn’t know then that within a few months, I would have the honour of briefly talking to Mr Margi Vijayakumar sir, who specialises in portraying female characters in Kathakali, as part of my work. Or that the photographs I took that night would become reference images for designing a book’s cover. Life is sprinkled with such beautiful coincidences. 

When I reached my hostel at 9:30, my heart was full. Not simply because I had watched a live Kathakali performance, but because, for a few hours, I had finally stepped inside a part of Keralam I had only ever watched from the outside.

Author’s Notes

~ All content on this blog is the intellectual property of the author. © 2026 Lirio Marchito. All rights reserved.

~ This blog is part of a series exploring my travels through Trivandrum, the capital city of my home state, Kerala, in India. You can read more posts from this series here. Trivandrum | Kerala| India

[image error]Pexels.com" data-large-file="https://liriomarchito.wordpress.com/w..." width="863" height="575" src="https://liriomarchito.wordpress.com/w..." alt="" class="wp-image-5558" style="aspect-ratio:1.5008794215360564;width:775px;height:auto" srcset="https://liriomarchito.wordpress.com/w... 863w, https://liriomarchito.wordpress.com/w... 1726w, https://liriomarchito.wordpress.com/w... 150w, https://liriomarchito.wordpress.com/w... 300w, https://liriomarchito.wordpress.com/w... 768w, https://liriomarchito.wordpress.com/w... 1024w, https://liriomarchito.wordpress.com/w... 1440w" sizes="(max-width: 863px) 100vw, 863px" />Photo by kriisszzz kriisszzz on Pexels.com

Will you be there on the day I win?

After all these years of scraping vessels

just to make ends meet…

Will you be there on the day I win?

In a black tux, holding my hand,

leading me toward the stage?

Or beaming proud, tearing up…

the loudest claps in the crowd?

Riding that long distance from home,

crowded trains, general tickets, no seats.

Throngs of people, boarding and departing,

how we fought for air just to reach the door.

Late trains, missed trains, monsoon rains…

A black umbrella, dripping.

A golden lady, glimmering.

Every crevice in the platform

sprouting a flower now.

Every doorless waiting hall

rolling out a red carpet.

Will you be there on the day I win?

In that black tux, cleaned up pretty well.

Knowing a million trivia, people would die to know,

between me, and you, and God, sealed forever.

Author’s Notes

Thank you for reading.

Did someone come to mind while reading this poem: a sibling, a best friend, a lover, or a mentor who stood by you through the difficult days? Send this to that special person to let them know.

Missed how this crazy journey started? Catch up on Part 1 and Part 2 first. 

A Traumatic Encounter

While I was resting in a shopfront in Puthenthoppu, a lady – a total stranger demanded money from me. She shouted and berated me when I refused. 

Surely, nobody wants to be publicly yelled at for no reason! However, despite being scared and intimidated, I had a secret advantage – it wasn’t my first time. Yikes!

Over the past 12 years of my working life, many toxic managers, writers, editors, and seniors had trained me in the art of being treated like a housemaid (not that anybody, including housemaids, deserves to be treated that way).

Underpaid but overworked, shouted at, belittled, yet forced to endure it all in silence until they returned, guilt-struck, realizing they overreacted or misunderstood the situation, and apologized for jumping the gun.

So, even when the stranger’s remarks got personal, I didn’t budge. Anybody who listened to her would have mistaken me for a lady up to some shady business in Puthenthoppu, without my husband’s knowledge. 

In between, I dared to update her that I was unmarried. Furious and irritated, she insisted I was lying: “Why you don’t have a husband? You look like you have a husband!” 

Stupid of me to believe that I could get through to a stranger like her! 

A Narrow Escape

Like an angel rescuing a child from a snake’s mouth, a KSRTC bus scooped me up from the shores of Puthenthoppu, just inches away from the lady’s fangs, and flew to Muthalapozhi Harbour. Never in my life have I leaped into a vehicle so fast. 

My whole body was shaking.  Like a convict who had just escaped the prison, I kept looking back at the windows, worrying the lady’s orange paan-stained teeth were still following me.  

By 3 pm, I landed at the Muthalapozhi Harbour stop. When the salty coastal air hit me, the first thing I did was save the contact details of the Coastal Police, Anchuthengu, displayed on a signboard.

Muthalapozhi Harbour

I was too traumatised and pissed off when I explored the Muthalapozhi Harbour, the beach, and the bridge. Though I saw many beautiful, ugly, and confusing sights that day, I couldn’t make much sense of it then. 

Only later, while listening to Kerala’s revised budget for 2026-27 delivered by Chief Minister V D Satheesan,  did those sights finally make sense to me. He had allocated funds to fix the unscientifically constructed Muthalapozhi Harbour.

Let me share what I learned about the harbour and its issues.

Boats docked at the Muthalapozhi Harbour

Muthalapozhi is a natural sandbar sandwiched between the villages of Perumathura and Thazhampally. It is also an estuarine inlet where the Vamanapuram River meets the Arabian Sea. 

Historically, the river mouth of this estuary was accessible only during the monsoon from June to November. The estuary had to be closed around February or March as it silted up during summer. 

The Muthalapozhi fishing harbour and the rock breakwaters were constructed by the government to ensure the fishermen could navigate year-round. Though it offers wanderers like me stunning sunset views, with a river on one side and the sea on the other, over the last decade the harbour has been in the news for all the wrong reasons.

Mouth of Death

A crow kept me company at the Muthalapozhi Beach

Known notoriously as the “Mouth of Death,” Muthalapozhi Harbour has witnessed the tragic deaths of over seventy fishermen due to frequent boat capsizes. These accidents have also caused widespread damage to local boats and fishing equipment.

Both natural and man-made factors are to blame. Sediment from the Arabian Sea and the Vamanapuram River creates underwater hillocks that are dangerous to navigate, and irregular dredging compounds the risk.

During the monsoon, rough seas push boats against the rocky breakwaters and tetrapods installed to prevent coastal erosion, putting both the fishermen and their vessels in constant danger.

Clueless 

While I was roaming the Thazhampally part of the Harbour, I had no idea the locals were suffering from such grave issues.  A middle-aged Chetan, in a blue lungi, showed me the rows of small and big boats docked in the harbour. 

He wanted to know why I was visiting a smelly fishing harbour, while most visitors came only for the sunset views from the beach or bridge. So I told him a bit about my blogging and trips. 

A sight that confused me – an open pipe gurgling black liquid into the beach .

Walking past the miraculous shrine of the Holy Cross (as I was not in the mood for miracles), I reached the beach area. The familiar sights of families laughing, people savouring ice creams, clicking photographs, the warm beach sands, the milky clouds, the whistling pines, crows and cranes, litter, and the footprints of innocent kids on the wet sand felt like nature’s attempt to cheer me.

Irregular sand mounds and an open pipe gurgling black liquid into the beach irked me. Both were unsafe, especially for kids. What if they accidentally fell into it while playing on the beach?

I blew raspberries at the beach and climbed the bridge to cross to Perumathura. 

Muthalapozhi Bridge 

View from the Muthalapozhi Bridge

I was standing atop the bridge enjoying the view when a man collecting money for an event approached me. When I refused to pay, he seemed taken aback and asked if I was studying or working, throwing glances at the mobile phone in my hand. 

After the last mishap, I didn’t have the energy for another wild personal conversation. So I said sorry and walked away. 

Fish sellers, both ladies and men, with vessels full of fish soaked in ice, didn’t force me to buy. As they sat on the ground, swatting the mosquitoes and flies off their catch, I smiled a sad smile, and they smiled right back at me.

Boats docked at the Muthalapozhi Harbour – a view from the bridge.

Every time a heavy vehicle such as a lorry passed through, the bridge shook. When I reached the other side of the bridge, I gazed at Perumathura’s side of the harbour. 

Opposite me, at a distance, I could see the long stretch of rock breakwaters and tetrapods laid out in the sea. But I sighed. I didn’t have the energy to explore it. 

My Demons

A hypothetical husband and constant demands for money! Patriarchy and capitalism loomed over my mind like Mephistopheles over Doctor Faustus. 

“Get married. Have kids. Do a 9-5 job. Go the conventional route. Maybe you won’t win big, but at least you won’t fail so hard. If you have a family and money, society, the Betaal might finally be off your back,” they whispered in my ear.

Cold darkness spread into my heart. Only one voice has ever broken through that ice.

My elder sister playfully nudging me every time I feel disheartened, asking, “Ithrayumeyullo Indian kathakrithukkal?” It means “Is this all there is to Indian storytellers?” It’s her way of saying, “Don’t give up, writer. You got this.”

Society had shown its teeth; it was time to bare my fangs at them.

I stared at the rocks lining the sea and gulped. “Geez. Now, I gotta climb that, don’t I?”

Rocks and Tetrapods

Walking through the Muthalapozhi breakwaters.

I walked all the way to the end of the rock breakwaters. I even saw the area where they mixed sand and cement to make tetrapods. Tetrapods lay bare in the sun, drying, cementing. 

Many youngsters were sitting in a row near the tetrapods and rocks, and even under the shade of the bridge, fishing with rods. Small boats and speedboats passing under the bridge were a mesmerising sight.

Children played in the sand hills. Some construction activity was going on.  Families wet their feet in the Perumathura beach area. 

Battery Down

Around 4 pm, my phone battery was a bare 16%. My body battery too. I had walked over 20k steps. Dead tired, I didn’t stop to chitchat with the people fishing near the rocks or check out the cut fruits in the stall.

I waited 45 minutes at the Perumathura bus stop, counting a guy riding a horse, a child who got scared of the horse and ran away, a girl riding a bullet with a proud boyfriend at the back, and a thin drunkard who asked me the time, sat on the ground, and announced – the bus will arrive at 5 sharp. I prayed he was right, and thank God he was. 

At 5, I boarded a bus to Kaniyapuram. It was the only one available at that time. While the bus rode through the Puthukurichy route, I bought a Rs 20 ticket and settled in a seat, letting my guard down for the first time that day. 

After weekend traffic and the railway crossing at Kaniyapuram, I boarded another bus to Attinkuzhi, reaching my hostel just after 6. 

Reflections

Silhouettes of people fishing at the Muthalapozhi rock breakwaters.

When I started my journey in the morning, my only worry was why no buses were plying between Kazhakkoottam and Menamkulam. Turned out there were many buses connecting the Veli-Perumathura-Muthalapozhi route. Later, safety concerns crowded my mind.

I was hoping to become a braver, more empowered, and compassionate version of myself through these trips. But all the moral and social policing that day made me wonder whether I was shrinking back into silence. 

Later, learning about the tragic deaths of fishermen in Muthalapozhi filled me with guilt. I had let the minor mishap put me in a bubble, insulating me from other people’s lives and hardships.

By navigating my country alone and experiencing all its glories and shortcomings firsthand, my idealistic, naive self was getting a masterclass in realism. My rose-tinted glasses were finally cracking.

References

The New Indian Express: Article ‘Muthalapozhi Turns Death Trap: Two More Fishermen Drown,’ dated August 12, 2025.Mongabay: Article ‘A fisher haven that harbours death,’ dated September 4, 2024.South First: Article ‘Blood-thirsty Muthalapozhi in Kerala gobbles up lives as fishermen keep sailing into the mouth of death,’ dated July 12, 2023.

Author’s Notes

~ All content on this blog is the intellectual property of the author. © 2026 Lirio Marchito. All rights reserved.

~ This blog is part of a series exploring my travels through Trivandrum, the capital city of my home state, Kerala, in India. You can read more posts from this series here. Trivandrum | Kerala| India