The Heart In The Hills

By Jhanvi Latheesh

 Chapters

 1: The Flight to Green

 2: The first breath of kerala

 3: The Home Stay

 4: The First Night

 5: The River’s Call

 6: The climb of Giants

 7: The kitchen Fire

 8: The Rain’s Invitation

 9: Warmth and Promise

10: Jackfruit Jam

11: The Golden Border

12: Threading Jasmine’s

13: First step into the sacred

14: When the god walked among us

15: The Dance of the blade

16: The song of the loom

17: The Floating Feast

18: The Silver Screen Evening

19: The Night Market Glow

20: The Banana Leaf Secret

21: The Morning of the Mailanji

22: The Evening Glow

23: The Party by the Sea

24: Clay and sunshine

25: The morning of Goodbye

26: The box in the sky

 Chapter 1: The Flight to Green

The airplane trembled lightly as it lifted off, and her stomach did a somersault she didn’t like—or maybe she did. She pressed her forehead against the cold window, letting the vibration hum through her bones. The city shrank beneath her, a maze of gray rooftops, honking cars, and tiny, motionless people. For a moment, she imagined herself as one of them, trapped in the endless tangle of streets, staring up at buildings that never blinked.Her journal rested on her lap. She opened it and wrote, almost without thinking:
“I am leaving glass walls for green ones. I am leaving noise for silence. I hope the air smells like rain.”The clouds came, thick and cottony, and she pressed her face closer to the glass. The city disappeared, swallowed by white fluff, and her heart thumped in a strange mix of fear and thrill. The plane rocked gently, and she imagined the wind beneath her lifting her up, carrying her far away from all the things she didn’t need—rush-hour honks, crowded elevators, the endless gray.And then it broke. A curtain of clouds parted, and the world below caught her breath. Kerala. Rolling hills, forests that looked like spilled paint, rivers twisting silver through the green. Tiny red rooftops peeking like secret smiles. It didn’t look real. It looked like a dream someone had whispered into the sky just for her.Her fingers trembled as she pressed them against the window. She wanted to touch it, to step right out of the airplane and into that quilt of green, to run barefoot through the mist and feel the wet leaves on her skin. Her chest ached with longing—so much longing she could taste it, tangy and sweet, like rain hitting dry earth.Her pencil moved furiously across the page:
“I am coming. I am coming, and I hope I remember to breathe. I hope I can hold this forever in me.”For the first time in years, the city, the noise, the rush of everyday life—all of it felt distant. She felt…light. She felt…alive. And the flight, the clouds, the green world waiting below—it all felt like the beginning of something she had always been waiting for, though she didn’t yet know what it was.

    Chapter 2: First Breath of Kerala

The airplane doors opened with a hiss, and the air that rushed in was not the recycled chill of the cabin but something raw and alive. Warm, damp, heavy with the scent of earth and spice. It pressed against her skin, clung to her hair, slipped inside her lungs. For a moment she just stood there, breathing as if she’d never known how to breathe before.

Outside the glass walls of the airport, she saw palms swaying like tall dancers, their leaves shimmering with a secret language the city had never spoken to her. Rain-dark clouds hovered low, bruised purple and silver, as if the sky itself had stories to tell. A crow cawed somewhere, harsh and insistent, not like the muffled hum of traffic she was used to, but sharp and real, pulling her attention outward.

Her suitcase wheels bumped along the stone floor, but her heart bumped louder. She pressed her hand against her journal, not opening it yet, just feeling the weight of it like a promise. The words could wait. The moment was bigger than the page.

A man in a white mundu walked past, sandalwood scent trailing behind. A woman balanced a basket of bright green mangoes on her head as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Their pace was unhurried, different from the frantic rush of her city where people sprinted even when they had nowhere important to go. Here, time seemed to move in circles, not straight lines.

When she stepped outside, the rain began—soft at first, then heavier, until the world blurred into silver threads. Drops slid down her face, cool and electric. Instead of hiding, she tilted her chin upward, letting the rain soak into her hair, her clothes, her heart.

In her head, words formed before her pencil could catch them:
“The sky weeps here, but not in sadness. The sky weeps to make the earth alive. And maybe, maybe it is making me alive too.”

She pulled her journal from her backpack, its pages already curling in the dampness. With her hair dripping and her clothes sticking, she wrote the truth her heart has been wanting to speak.

  Chapter 3: The Homestay

The car jolted to a stop, and for a moment she just sat there, holding her breath. Beyond the rain-streaked window, the world looked nothing like the glass-and-concrete towers she had always known. The house waited at the end of a muddy path. Its roof of red clay tiles glistened, each one carrying a bead of rain, moss clinging to the edges like green velvet. The veranda stretched wide, with dark wooden pillars polished by years of touch. A swing hung lazily at one end, its ropes swaying as if someone invisible had just stepped off. When she stepped out of the car, the air wrapped around her—warm, wet, heavy with the smell of earth, smoke, and something sweet she couldn’t name. Her shoes sank slightly into the mud, and the soft squelch made her grin in surprise. She tilted her face up. Rain dripped from the palm leaves above, cool drops splashing on her cheeks, making her feel as though the sky itself had touched her. The door creaked open. Inside, shadows and light danced together. The floor was cool stone, smooth under her feet, whispering of countless footsteps before hers. Brass lamps stood tall in corners, unlit but powerful, waiting for dusk. The walls smelled faintly of sandalwood and time. Her room was simple, yet it seemed to breathe. A wooden bed draped in crisp white sheets. A mosquito net floating above it like a ghostly curtain. A small desk by the window, the wood darkened with age. Outside, banana leaves pressed against the glass, swaying gently, as if they were eager to look inside. She set her journal on the desk, but her fingers hesitated to open it. Words felt too small here. Instead, she listened. The dripping of water from the roof into a clay pot below. The soft hiss of wind slipping through slats in the wall. Crickets stitching the air with their steady song. Somewhere, in the distance, a cow groaned low and sleepy. It was not silence. It was life, breathing slowly, patiently, all around her. Her chest swelled, and for the first time, the restless beating of her city-self softened. She didn’t just arrive at a homestay. She had stepped into another rhythm of living—older, slower, deeper. She pressed her palm flat against the desk, feeling the grooves in the wood. This is real, she thought, her throat thick. Her journal stayed closed. She didn’t need words. For once, being still was enough.

 Chapter 4: The First Night

Night fell differently here. Not with neon signs flickering on or the buzz of traffic growing louder, but with a quiet certainty, like a soft curtain being drawn over the world. The air cooled, heavy with the perfume of wet earth and jasmine drifting in through the open window. A brass lamp flickered in the hallway, its flame steady, golden, ancient. Shadows stretched across the wooden walls, long and alive, as though the house itself breathed with her. Outside, rain whispered against the roof tiles, drip by drip sliding into the garden, where frogs answered in deep, throaty croaks. Crickets stitched the silence together with their endless rhythm. She lay on the wooden bed, tucked under the pale netting that floated around her like a private little world. The sheets were cool, smelling faintly of sun and soap. Her journal lay open on her chest, blank page glowing faintly in the lantern light, but she couldn’t write. Her pencil hovered, but words felt too fragile, too small for the vastness she felt inside. Instead, she listened. To the rustle of banana leaves brushing against the window. To the shuffle of bare feet in another room, soft and unhurried. To the occasional crackle of the lamp’s flame, as if it were speaking in sparks. The city’s nights had always been loud, impatient, restless. This night was different. It was slow, deliberate, stitched with sounds that didn’t demand attention but invited it. She closed her eyes and whispered into the darkness, though no one could hear:
“I think the earth is rocking me to sleep. ”For the first time in her life, she drifted off not to the hum of machines or horns in the distance, but to the heartbeat of nature itself—steady, patient, eternal.

  Chapter 5: The River’s Call

The mud path curved and narrowed, swallowing her sandals with each step. Ferns brushed her legs, damp and cool, and dragonflies zigzagged above the puddles, their wings flashing like tiny shards of glass. The air was thick, humming—alive in a way the city had never been. She clutched her journal tight, though her hands were slippery with sweat, as if the leather cover could anchor her to this new world.

And then, the trees opened—and the river appeared.

It was not a straight, obedient river like the gray one she had seen once behind city buildings. This river curved lazily, like it had nowhere urgent to go. Its surface was broken into colors—silver where the sunlight fell, green where the palms leaned across, deep brown where the mud swirled below. The smell hit her first: damp earth, water weeds, and something faintly metallic, as though the river carried old stories within it.

A canoe rested at the bank, black and shining, its body slim and curved like the belly of a fish. Water lapped against its sides, a patient, rhythmic sound. A boy about her age waited there, thin as a reed, his mundu tied high around his knees. His grin was quick, teasing.

“Come, chechi,” he called. “I’ll show you the backwaters.”

Her throat tightened. “I’ve only sat in buses and trains,” she blurted, staring at the canoe. “Not…this.”

But her feet moved forward anyway.

The canoe tilted the moment she stepped in. Her knees buckled, and her journal nearly tumbled into the water. She yelped, grabbing the edge with both hands, heart hammering. The boy laughed, the sound echoing over the rippling surface. “Careful! The fish are watching.”

Her stomach knotted, but she laughed too, nervous and giddy.

The paddle was heavier than it looked, its wood slick with water. She dipped it in awkwardly, and the canoe spun clumsily, turning her in a slow circle. Her hair flew across her face, her arms ached, and the boy doubled over with laughter. “You’re dancing with the river, not paddling it!” he teased.

But then she tried again. This time the paddle cut smoother, water folding away in clean arcs. The canoe slid forward, steadier, the circles opening into a path. Her shoulders loosened, her breath came easier, and the boy’s laughter turned into a nod of approval.

She let her eyes wander. Kingfishers darted from branches, their feathers blue as ink. Dragonflies skimmed across the surface, wings catching light like tiny mirrors. On the far bank, a buffalo stood half-submerged, water dripping from its horns as it blinked at her lazily.

The air smelled richer here—green and raw, with hints of mud and wildflowers. Each breath seemed to wash the city dust from her lungs.

She pressed her palm flat against her damp journal but didn’t open it yet. For once, words weren’t big enough. Instead, she closed her eyes, tilted her face to the sun, and whispered into the breeze, almost shyly:

“River, carry me. I’m ready.”

And as the canoe drifted forward, the river seemed to answer—not with words, but with the steady rhythm of water parting, guiding her deeper into its world.

 Chapter 6: The Climb of Giants

The river’s rhythm was still inside her when she walked back along the narrow path, her slippers sticky with mud. Water clung to her skin like a secret, and her hair smelled faintly of sunlight and wet leaves. She pressed her journal to her chest, though she hadn’t written in it; the river had been too big for words.

Then she stopped.

Ahead, the coconut trees rose like giants. They weren’t just tall—they were impossible. Their trunks stretched into the sky, striped with scars where other climbers had pressed, and their crowns swayed slowly, lazily, like they were brushing the clouds. The air here carried a sharper green smell—raw, earthy, alive.

She froze, staring. In the city, towers were tall, yes—but glass, steel, cold. These trees felt alive, daring, almost mocking in their height.

A boy’s laugh snapped her back. Two village boys had tied rough cloth around their feet, hugging the trunk with bare legs. Their bodies moved upward like arrows, quick and certain. The bark squeaked under their grip. Press, push, slide. Again and again. Higher and higher. Their laughter floated down, light as birdsong.

She tilted her head so far back her neck ached. From the ground, the coconuts looked unreal—green globes glowing softly against the sun, like nature’s lanterns.

Her chest fluttered. She wanted to try.

“Can I—?” she whispered, her voice uncertain.

The boys grinned, eyes sparkling. “Try, chechi. Come.”

The tree’s bark scratched her palms as she wrapped her arms around it. It smelled of dust, salt, and old rain. Her feet slipped immediately; the trunk was wider than she thought, rougher too. She tried again, squeezing harder. Her muscles trembled. Every push upwards felt like the tree was laughing, shaking her off gently.

She slid down with a squeak, landing flat-footed, her breath catching in her throat. The boys laughed again, not unkindly—laughter that welcomed her into their game. She blushed, but grinned too.

One boy loosened a coconut from his arm and tossed it carefully to her. “Here. This one is yours.”

It was heavier than she expected. She hugged it close, the shell rough against her cheek, cool like stone just pulled from the shade. When she shook it gently, water sloshed inside, soft and hidden.

She sat under the towering tree, clutching it, as if holding the heart of the giant she couldn’t conquer. Her hands still stung from the bark, her arms ached, but her chest glowed.

Her pencil moved before she realized it:

“I couldn’t climb. I fell. The tree laughed at me. But in its laughter, I heard something else: try again, try again. These trees do not give themselves to you. You must rise to meet them.”

She set the journal down and rested her cheek once more on the coconut’s hard curve. For a moment, she swore she could feel the tree’s pulse still inside it—slow, ancient, alive.

And she whispered, almost to herself:
“Next time, I’ll climb higher.”

    Chapter 7: The Kitchen Fire

The coconut was heavy in her arms as she stepped into the courtyard. She imagined presenting it proudly—her prize from the tree, even if it hadn’t been her own climbing that won it. She imagined the grandmother smiling, maybe even cracking it open just for her.

But the moment she pushed aside the beaded curtain and entered the kitchen, the coconut slipped from her thoughts.

The air was thick with smells—coconut oil sizzling, salt, turmeric sharp and earthy, and something sweet drifting faintly from a clay pot. The grandmother stood over a black iron kadai, her silver hair tied back, her fingers moving with the speed of someone who had done this her whole life. A pile of thinly sliced banana lay beside her, pale yellow crescents stacked neatly on a steel plate.

One by one, she slid them into the oil. The sound was immediate—chhhhhhh!—a fierce, joyful hiss, like the bananas were dancing their way into becoming something new. Tiny bubbles clung to their edges, then released as the slices curled and crisped. The smell wrapped itself around the girl, golden and irresistible.

The grandmother’s bangles jingled as she stirred with a long-handled slotted spoon, her eyes sharp, watching for the exact second each chip turned the right shade of amber. Then, with a practiced flick, she lifted them out, letting oil drip back into the kadai. She spread them across a sheet of newspaper, sprinkling salt from high above so it fell like soft rain.

The girl forgot her coconut entirely. She stepped closer, her journal tucked awkwardly under her arm, her mouth watering.

“Do you want to try?” the grandmother asked, her voice low, warm as the oil.

Her eyes widened. “Me? But—won’t I burn everything?”

The grandmother’s laugh was soft, like water pouring from a brass vessel. “Burning is also learning.”

Her hands shook slightly as she picked up the plate of raw slices. She slid one into the hot oil—it splashed, and she jumped back, squealing, almost dropping the rest. The grandmother steadied her hand, her touch firm, steady. Together they lowered the slices in, and the oil hissed again, angry at first, then settling into a rhythm.

The girl bent close, fascinated. The pale bananas changed slowly, turning gold, their edges curling into crisp smiles. She felt heat rising to her cheeks, sweat collecting at her temples, but she didn’t step back.

When the chips were lifted out, she tasted one while it was still too hot. The crunch exploded between her teeth, salty, sweet, impossible to describe. She laughed with surprise, fanning her mouth, while the grandmother chuckled, offering her a brass tumbler of water.

Her journal was open before she knew it, words spilling in quick, uneven lines:

“The city taught me snacks come in packets. But here, they are born from fire and oil and hands that know. The sound of chips frying is like a festival in the air. And the taste—oh—the taste is sunshine turned solid.”

She looked at the grandmother, who was already dropping another batch into the kadai, her face glowing in the firelight. The coconut sat forgotten by the doorway, but it didn’t matter. She had been given something better—a glimpse of the heart of the kitchen.

Chapter 8: The Rain’s Invitation

The last of the banana chips still crackled faintly on the paper when she felt it—one cold drop on her wrist. She glanced up, startled. The sky, which had been bright a moment ago, was now a gathering of heavy clouds, dark and swollen, rolling together like waves about to crash.

Another drop. Then another. Then, all at once, the world broke open.

Rain poured down in great silver ropes, striking the tiled roof with a furious rhythm—drum-drummm-drum-drum—a thousand tiny fists drumming together. Water rushed off the edges in clear streams, splattering into the courtyard, pooling and spreading in ripples. The air filled instantly with that wild, earthy perfume: wet mud, crushed leaves, the sharp sweetness of new rain.

The grandmother barely looked up from the stove. She stirred her pot calmly, as though this storm were no more unusual than breathing. But the children—oh, the children—squealed with delight. One boy darted past her, barefoot, his laughter trailing behind him like a comet. Then another, and another, until the courtyard was full of flying feet and shrieks of joy.

She stood frozen in the doorway, hugging her journal tightly to her chest. Her city-self whispered warnings: Rain means sickness. Rain means dirty water. Rain means stay inside. But her heart—it beat differently now. It thumped to the rhythm of the storm, loud and insistent, pulling her forward.

“Come!” a girl called, her wet hair plastered to her forehead, her dress sticking to her knees. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, her arms stretched wide as though she wanted to hug the whole downpour.

Her slippers were off before she knew it. She stepped into the storm.

The first sheet of rain slapped against her face, cool and shocking. It soaked her in seconds—her shirt clung to her skin, her hair streamed down her cheeks. She gasped, half from surprise, half from exhilaration. She tilted her face upward and let the sky empty itself onto her.

The courtyard had transformed into a playground of puddles. Children leapt into them, splashing muddy water high into the air, their squeals blending with the roar of the rain. She tried to follow, but her feet slipped, the earth greedy and soft beneath her. The mud clutched at her toes, cool and squishy, oozing between them like melted chocolate. She stumbled, arms flailing, before crashing onto her knees with a splash. Mud streaked up her shins, warm rain pounding against her back.

She expected shame. Instead, laughter bubbled out of her, loud and unrestrained.

The children whooped and circled her, clapping. One boy crouched and scooped a handful of mud, smearing it across his own face like a warrior mask. A little girl gently streaked some across her arm, then pressed a muddy handprint against the girl’s shoulder, giggling. The rain washed it down almost instantly, leaving a brown trail behind.

The courtyard was alive now, not just with people, but with the storm itself—thunder grumbled far away, lightning flickered behind the palms, and the rain pounded so hard it seemed the earth itself was shivering.

She spun with the others, slipping and sliding, her hair whipping across her face, her journal forgotten on the veranda. Her lungs burned, her cheeks ached from smiling. She felt heavy with mud yet lighter than air, like the rain had peeled away a layer of the city still stuck to her.

At last, panting, she stumbled back to the steps of the house. Her fingers, trembling with cold and joy, reached for her journal. The paper had grown damp, wrinkled at the edges. She didn’t care. She pressed the pencil to it, smudging mud across the page as she wrote in uneven lines:

“The rain doesn’t knock here. It enters like it owns the world. Children don’t hide from it—they belong to it. Today I wasn’t a guest. I was mud, and water, and laughter. I thought I fell, but the truth is—I was lifted.”

She closed her eyes, pressing her muddy hand against the page as if to seal the words forever. The storm roared on, and she whispered into it, breathless and certain:

“I have never been so alive.”

 Chapter 9: Warmth and Promise

The children’s laughter still echoed faintly in the courtyard as the grandmother’s voice called out, firm but gentle.“ Chechi! Everyone! Come inside!” They shuffled in, dripping wet, streaked with mud from head to toe. She followed, still laughing, mud clinging stubbornly to her skin and clothes. The grandmother had already laid out fresh garments, neatly folded, their bright colors a sharp contrast to the dull brown of mud. She handed them to the children—and one set to her. Her fingers brushed the soft fabric, the city fabrics she was used to could never have felt this alive: cotton that smelled faintly of sun and soap, warm and welcoming. She peeled off the mud-streaked shirt and pants, feeling relief as the heavy, wet clothes fell away. The children washed their feet first, standing in a shallow basin of water with pebbles beneath, feeling the cool stones under their toes. She followed suit, scrubbing gently, letting the water carry away the grime. For the first time that day, she felt clean, yet somehow still part of the storm outside—the memory of mud and rain clinging to her in a way that no soap could wash away. Dressed in the fresh clothes, she padded to the kitchen. Steam curled from the brass kettle, and the scent of chai, spicy and sweet, wrapped around her. Banana chips, golden and crisp, lay in a pile, glinting like little pieces of sunlight. She took a chip, biting into it with delight, the salt and crunch filling her senses. As she sipped the warm chai, letting the spice travel down to her chest, the door opened. A man appeared, holding a large, strange fruit wrapped carefully in banana leaves. Her eyes widened—she had never seen anything like it.The grandmother’s face lit up as she took the fruit, fingers tracing its unusual shape. “Ah,” she said, eyes sparkling. “Tomorrow, we are going to make jackfruit jam!”A cheer erupted. The children clapped, jumped, and squealed, and she found herself laughing too, the excitement swelling in her chest. The promise of sticky, sweet jam bubbling in the kitchen made her heart leap. She looked around at the warm, fragrant kitchen, the children chattering, the grandmother smiling, the rain still pattering gently outside, and she felt a deep, quiet happiness settle inside her. She scribbled quickly in her journal, pencil scratching over slightly damp pages: “The storm has passed, but its magic remains. Warmth, laughter, and the promise of jackfruit jam—this is what it feels like to belong. ”And for the first time that day, she sipped her chai slowly, savoring every drop, every bite of banana chip, every laugh echoing around her. Tomorrow, the adventure of the jam awaited—and she could hardly wait.

Chapter 11 : The golden border

The grandmother’s voice came gently that morning, like the ringing of a temple bell. “We will go to the shop today. You need proper clothes for the temple.”

Her heart skipped. Proper clothes. She thought of her suitcase in the corner, filled with denim jeans, noisy T-shirts, and sneakers. They felt too heavy, too loud, too wrong for this place where everything seemed to breathe in rhythm with the earth.

The walk to the shop was like stepping into a picture she never knew she longed for. The road was narrow, shaded by coconut palms swaying like green guardians. A woman sat by her doorway, stringing white jasmine flowers, their fragrance floating in the air like a blessing. She slowed her steps, breathing it in as though storing the scent inside her chest.

The shop itself was small, humble, with wooden shutters propped open. But inside—it was a world of color and light. Shelves groaned under piles of folded fabric: soft cottons stacked like clouds, silks that gleamed like captured sunsets, and lengths of cream cloth edged with gold that shimmered like morning sunlight on water.

The grandmother’s eyes softened as she reached for one. “This,” she said, holding up a simple off-white skirt with a golden border, “is kasavu. Pure and bright, just like you should look tomorrow.”

She touched it, and for a moment, it was as if her fingers were dipping into cool river water. The fabric was light, yet carried a quiet strength. When the gold caught the light, her chest tightened in wonder. This wasn’t just cloth. It was something sacred.

The shopkeeper stepped closer, smiling kindly. “This will suit her. Simple, beautiful—like Kerala itself.” He pulled out a cream blouse with tiny golden embroidery. It was delicate, almost shy, yet glowing.

Her throat tightened. “But… will I look strange?” she asked softly.

The grandmother chuckled, her bangles clinking like laughter. “No, child. You will look like one of us.”

Those words filled her more deeply than she expected. She held the folded set against her chest and caught sight of herself in a mirror leaning on the wall. The girl staring back seemed different—less like the hurried city child she knew, and more like someone softer, lighter, carrying a piece of Kerala in her reflection.

She felt a lump in her throat. Was this what it meant to belong, even just for a little while?

The shopkeeper wrapped the fabric carefully in brown paper, tying it with jute string. She pressed her palm against the parcel as he handed it over, feeling the smooth edges, her heart thudding as if it were something fragile, alive.

On the way back, she hugged the package to her chest. The jasmine sellers were still threading flowers, their hands moving quickly, petals dropping like stars onto the ground. She inhaled deeply. Tomorrow, she thought, I won’t just be a visitor anymore. I’ll carry Kerala not just in my journal—but on my skin.

That night, under the hum of the ceiling fan, she opened her journal and wrote with quick, glowing strokes:

“I chose my first temple clothes today. They are white and gold, like light trapped in fabric. I held them and felt shy, almost unworthy, but also something new—like Kerala is whispering, ‘Here, wear this, and be part of me.’ Tomorrow, when I put them on, maybe I will not just see Kerala. Maybe I will feel it breathe through me.”

Chapter 12 – Threading Jasmines

The sky was painted in soft pinks and purples as the evening sun dipped behind the coconut palms. The air smelled faintly of wet earth and jasmine, carried from the small courtyard where the grandmother and the village girls were gathered.“Come, child,” the grandmother called, holding out a thin string and a small basket of tiny white jasmine buds. “Tomorrow you will wear these to the temple. Let me show you how to make a garland.”Her fingers trembled as she took the first bud, careful not to crush its delicate petals. The girls giggled and whispered to each other, threading flowers quickly and easily, their hands moving with practiced rhythm. She concentrated, knot by knot, struggling at first but slowly finding the flow. The jasmine petals were soft and cool, their fragrance curling around her nose and settling in her chest, calm and sweet. The grandmother’s hands moved beside hers, patient and steady. “Feel each bud,” she said softly. “It is not just a flower. It is a blessing. ”She smiled at the thought. Slowly, her string grew longer, small white stars shining against the thin thread. When she finished, she held it up to admire her work. The girls clapped lightly, and the grandmother nodded with approval. “Tomorrow, when you wear this, it will remind you of today,” the grandmother said. She tucked the garland carefully into a small basket, imagining it in her hair the next morning. Her heart fluttered. Tomorrow, she would step into the temple in her new kasavu clothes, carrying this fragrant garland and the pride of having made it herself. The sky darkened, stars beginning to peek through the soft twilight. She watched the petals in her basket, inhaling their sweet scent, and whispered to herself, “I can’t wait for tomorrow.” That night, she scribbled in her journal: “Today I threaded jasmine flowers with grandmother and the village girls. Each petal felt alive in my fingers, soft and fragrant like a little blessing. Tomorrow I will wear them to the temple, and I will feel like I belong here, even if just for a little while.”

 Chapter 13 – First Steps Into the Sacred

The morning sun had barely touched the rooftops when she stepped out, dressed in her cream-and-gold kasavu outfit, the golden border shimmering softly. The jasmine garland she had threaded the night before rested delicately in her hair, its fragrance curling around her head like a gentle halo. Her chest fluttered nervously. Today, she was not just visiting; she was stepping into a world she had only glimpsed in stories.

The narrow lanes were alive with morning bustle. Women balanced brass lamps, men walked barefoot with folded dhotis, children ran laughing across the streets, and the scent of fresh flowers and incense mingled with the earthy smell of the road. She held her grandmother’s hand tightly, each step echoing differently on the stone-paved path. Every sight and sound made her heart beat faster: this was not the city, not her world. This was alive, ancient, breathing.

Outside the temple, a flower seller sat cross-legged, her lap a mountain of jasmine and marigolds. She reached out timidly, picking a few extra buds for herself. The petals were soft and cool against her fingers, their sweet perfume intoxicating. The grandmother smiled. “Keep them for the offerings,” she whispered. She tucked the extra flowers into her pocket, imagining placing them at the deity’s feet.

At the temple steps, she removed her sandals and felt the cool stone beneath her bare feet. It sent a shiver up her spine—sharp at first, then grounding, as if the earth itself had welcomed her. She took a deep breath, inhaling the mingled scents of sandalwood, camphor, and incense, and stepped inside.

The temple hall was vast yet intimate, filled with flickering lamps, their tiny flames swaying like golden dancers. Shadows danced across the walls, making the carvings appear alive. The rhythmic clang of bells and the soft murmur of chants vibrated through her chest. She had never heard anything like it—the sounds seemed to speak to her soul directly.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw it: the elephant. Massive and magnificent, standing near the side of the courtyard, its dark skin gleaming, decorated with a glistening nettipattam that caught the sunlight in a thousand golden sparks. She froze. Its deep, steady breathing was hypnotic; its dark eyes seemed almost human in their calm awareness. She had seen elephants before—in pictures, in the zoo—but here, so close, in this sacred space, she felt tiny, awed, and strangely connected all at once.

After the prayers, she followed the line of devotees toward the prasadam stall. A man handed her a small packet wrapped carefully in a banana leaf. She opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was warm payasam—golden, thick, fragrant with jaggery and cardamom. She lifted a spoonful to her lips and gasped softly. Sweet, rich, and comforting, it melted in her mouth, a taste she had never imagined. Her eyes widened; it was as if the flavor carried the warmth of the sun and the gentle patience of the temple itself.

Grandmother gently touched her shoulder. “Come, I want to take you to a place “

They sat on mats on the temple floor. Banana leaves were laid out, gleaming green and fresh. One by one, little mounds of food were placed: steaming white rice, tangy sambar, spicy coconut curries, crisp pappadam, tangy pickles, and golden banana chips. She hesitated, unsure how to eat with her fingers, but then laughed softly and joined in.

Each bite was a revelation. The rice mixed with curry, tangy, spicy, and sweet, melted together in perfect harmony. The banana leaf beneath her hands felt alive, almost like it held the spirit of the meal itself. She tasted textures and flavors she had never imagined: soft, crisp, creamy, spicy, and sweet—all at once.

She leaned back against a pillar, jasmine still fragrant in her hair, the golden border of her skirt brushing her ankles. Her stomach and heart both felt full, but more than that—her mind felt expanded. She was part of something bigger now, something ancient, warm, and alive.

That evening, she scribbled furiously in her journal:

“Today I stepped into a temple, and it stepped into me. My bare feet touched cool stone, my hands held jasmine, my eyes met an elephant, and my mouth tasted sweet payasam for the first time. I ate on a banana leaf, and each bite was alive with warmth, color, and tradition. I feel Kerala in me now, not just around me.”

  Chapter 14 – When the Gods Walked Among Us

They arrived just as the temple clock struck five.

The world outside was still half-asleep, but the courtyard was awake—alive, trembling with something that was not entirely human. The air itself pulsed with the deep, rolling beat of chenda (drums). The sound wasn’t just heard; it was felt, vibrating in the ribcage, rattling through the ground beneath bare feet.

Smoke curled upward from burning coconut husks, bitter and sweet all at once. Torches hissed in the damp morning air. The crowd pressed together, faces half-lit in the glow, eyes fixed on the empty, dirt-packed stage at the center.

Then came the first.

Gulikan.

He did not walk—he struck the earth. Each step was a stamp of judgment, his heavy staff thundering into the ground, his anklets crashing like iron chains. His face was painted with black and red, streaked in sharp lines, with white circles widening his eyes until they looked too large, too fierce, too alive. His palm-leaf skirt brushed the earth as he turned, mirrors on his ornaments flashing sparks of torchlight into the crowd.

He moved slowly, deliberately, like a god measuring the sins of those who dared stand before him. She felt her heart climb into her throat. Every stamp made her flinch. The hairs on her arms stood on end, as if Gulikan could see through her skin and bones into every secret she had ever kept.

And then came the storm.

Vayanattu Kulavan.

He did not enter quietly. His arrival was wild, untamed. He charged into the courtyard stamping harder, faster, his anklets shrieking with a metallic frenzy. His painted face was terrifying—blood red streaks across white, edged with black, his eyes glowing in the torchlight with a mad energy. A tall conical headgear towered above him, shaking with every step. A bow rested against his back, like a reminder that he was once a hunter of the wild forests.He carried fire in his hand and was surrounded by fire .

The crowd gasped as he circled the fire pit in the center. Flames roared higher, fed with husks until sparks spat upward like fireflies gone mad. His palm-leaf skirt swayed dangerously close to the blaze. The drumming quickened—so fast now that it seemed like her own heart was being beaten like a drum.

And then it happened.

With a scream that split the air, Vayanattu Kulavan leapt into the fire.

She gasped, stumbling back, clutching grandmother’s hand so tightly her knuckles ached. The flames swallowed him—his body disappeared in a burst of orange and gold. The heat slapped her face, searing her skin even from a distance.

But out of the fire, he danced.

Through sparks and smoke, he stamped and spun, his palm-leaf skirt glowing at the edges where the fire kissed it. His arms slashed through the air, wild and untamed, his body moving with a frenzy that no ordinary man could bear. The flames seemed to bow to him, bending, curling, breaking apart at his command.

The crowd roared, some crying out in prayer, others shouting his name. Her breath came in short bursts. Her skin prickled with heat, her throat dry, her chest trembling. She could not look away.

“Grandma,” she whispered, terrified, “he will burn—”

Her grandmother’s eyes never left the fire. Her voice was steady, reverent: “No, child. Tonight, he is the god.”

Her body quivered. Her eyes filled with smoke, but also with something else—something like tears.

And then, just as the eastern sky began to soften into pale blue, the drumming slowed. The frenzy quieted. The fire sank to embers glowing red.

A hush fell.

From the shrine emerged Bhagavathi.

If Gulikan was judgment and Kulavan was wild fire, Bhagavathi was something greater—an ocean of wrath and grace combined. She glided forward in robes of deep red, her enormous circular headpiece rising above her like the morning sun, its mirrors catching the first rays of dawn.

But it was her eyes that struck her most—sealed shut, painted over in red and white. Bhagavathi did not need eyes to see; she looked through every soul without them. The sealed gaze was more powerful than any open stare. It pierced deeper, into places hidden even from oneself.

The goddess moved slowly, each anklet chime a decree, each sway of her palm-leaf skirt a ripple of divine authority. The crowd bent low, some pressing their heads to the ground, others whispering desperate prayers.

When Bhagavathi passed near, she froze. Though those eyes were sealed, she felt utterly seen. A weight pressed on her chest—not heavy with fear, but heavy with truth. Tears slid down her face before she knew they were coming.

And then the sun rose fully, turning the smoke into threads of gold. The drums softened into silence. The gods had come, danced, burned, blessed, and gone.

She stood unmoving, jasmine wilting in her hair, smoke clinging to her skin, her whole being trembling with awe.

That morning , her journal overflowed with shaking words:

“At five in the morning, I stepped into a world where the gods walked among us. Gulikan stamped judgment into the earth. Vayanattu Kulavan leapt into fire and came out blazing. And Muchilottu Bhagavathi, with sealed eyes, saw me more than anyone ever has. The drums still thunder in my chest. The fire still glows in my skin. Kerala showed me its gods, and I will never be the same .

  Chapter 15 -The dance of the blade 

The morning air was soft and damp, thick with the smell of wet earth and oil lamps.The world still felt half-asleep after the night of gods and fire, but somewhere beneath the surface, something hummed — quiet, alive, waiting.When grandmother said they were visiting a kalari, she had imagined a hall or a gym.It wasn’t that at all.

It was a pit.A sunken rectangle carved into the earth, its floor cool and brown, the walls packed tight with red clay.Torches burned in the corners, their smoke curling lazily toward the roof of palm leaves.The air was heavy with sandalwood, oil, and the faint metallic scent of sweat.And in the center, before a small brass lamp, stood the Gurukkal.

He was barefoot, dressed in a white mundu, a strip of red cloth tied at his waist. His skin gleamed with oil. His eyes were calm but sharp, like still water hiding great depth.

“Tuck your hair back,” Grandmother whispered, tying her scarf around her head. “The Gurukkal says hair should not hide the eyes.”

She obeyed.

“Before you learn movement,” the Gurukkal said, his voice deep and steady, “you must learn to bow.”He placed his palm to the ground, then to his forehead, then to his heart.“To the earth that bears us.To the light that guides us.To the self that must awaken.”

Everyone repeated the gesture. The cool soil kissed her fingertips. When she touched it to her forehead, something stirred inside her — like the earth itself was whispering: stand tall, little one.

Then the lesson began.

The first stance was called Poothara — the blooming ground.Feet wide, knees bent, spine straight. Her thighs shook almost immediately.Her heart raced faster than her breath.The others looked strong, focused, still.She felt like a tangled coconut branch trying to stand like a tree.

“Again,” said the Gurukkal.She tried.The soil pressed against her soles, cool and grounding. She found her breath.In. Out.In. Out.Something inside her began to quiet. Her body stopped fighting itself.

“Better,” he said. “Now, listen to the air before you strike.”

Then came the steps — the flowing circles, the lunges, the sudden stillness that followed. The students moved like water and fire at once, their limbs slicing through air with grace and control.Every sound — the slap of a foot, the jingle of salangai, the hiss of breath — wove together into rhythm.

Kalari was not a fight. It was a dance.

When the wooden sticks came out, her stomach fluttered. The older students moved so fast their bamboo staffs blurred into streaks of gold in the torchlight. Each crack — thak-thak-thak! — echoed like thunder rolling inside the earth.

The Gurukkal handed her a smaller stick.“Move with your breath,” he said. “Let the air lead you.”

She swung once — too fast. The stick slipped from her sweaty hand and fell with a dull thud.A few boys laughed quietly.Her ears burned.

But the Gurukkal only said, “The stick fell because your heart raced ahead of your body. Balance begins with breath.”

She picked it up again.This time, she didn’t rush.She breathed in deeply, smelling earth and oil and her own heartbeat.Her muscles softened, her arms lighter, her mind still.When she moved, the stick cut through air like an answer, not a question.

Outside, thunder rumbled far away.Inside, her world had gone silent — only her heartbeat and the whisper of air around her arms.She felt something spark — not pride, not power, but peace.

By the end of the session, her legs trembled and her palms were red.The Gurukkal raised his hand toward the small lamp.“What you learn here,” he said, “is not how to fight. It is how to stand. Even when the ground shakes beneath you.”

When she stepped outside, the rain had begun — fine, silver rain that made the world shimmer. The red soil clung to her feet. The oil from the lamps lingered on her skin.She walked slowly, letting the raindrops slide down her face, each one cooling the fire inside her.The sound of sticks striking and feet stamping echoed behind her, like a heartbeat she could still feel in her bones.

That night, she wrote:

“Today, the earth became my teacher.Kalari taught me that strength is not loud, not fast, not perfect.It is the silence before the strike.It is the breath that steadies the heart.When I held the stick, I was afraid of dropping it.But the Gurukkal said the earth catches everything that falls — even us.Maybe that is why warriors bow before they fight.Because the earth never lets us fall forever.”

    Chapter 16 – The Song of the Loom

The next morning, the sky over was pale and washed clean, like a page waiting to be written on.

A thin mist still floated over the paddy fields. Dew sparkled on every leaf like tiny stars. The air smelled of wet grass, coconut oil, and distant smoke from breakfast fires. She held her notebook close, her heart. Today, she wanted to see the weavers.

The path to the weaving village was narrow, bordered by hibiscus shrubs heavy with red flowers. The ground was soft from last night’s drizzle, and her slippers left small prints on the muddy road. The rhythmic sound she’d heard before — clack, thump, clack — grew louder as they neared.

When she stepped into the weaving hall, the world changed.

It was dark and golden at once — sunlight trickling through gaps in the tiled roof, falling on clouds of cotton dust that floated lazily in the warm air. The looms stood like gentle giants, their wooden arms stretching and creaking. The sound of them filled the hall — hundreds of hands and feet moving together, each thread finding its place.

A young woman named Devaki waved her over. Her hands were stained slightly blue from dye, her smile soft as silk.

“Sit here,” Devaki said. “Want to try this ?”

The girl nodded eagerly. She took her place at the loom, feeling the rough wood under her fingers. Devaki showed her the steps — dipping the shuttle in golden thread, passing it carefully between the stretched warp, and pressing the pedal with her bare foot.

The thud that followed was deep and beautiful.

It was like the earth was answering.

For hours, she watched and worked — learning how each thread had a rhythm of its own. The women around her talked in Malayalam, their laughter rising like music between the looms. Someone sang a folk tune — low, rhythmic, almost like a lullaby.

Devaki leaned close and whispered, “When we weave, we don’t just make cloth. We weave our breath into it. Our days. Our prayers.”

The girl felt goosebumps rise on her arms.

She saw colours in a way she never had before — the golden border of a kasavu saree shining like sunlight on a temple lamp, the red like the earth after rain, the cream threads soft as moonlight.

Outside, skeins of dyed thread hung over bamboo poles to dry. They swayed gently in the wind — a thousand ribbons fluttering in the morning sun. She walked among them, touching each one lightly. The air was warm and smelled faintly of soapnut and dye. Her hands came away stained pink. She didn’t mind. It felt like carrying the colours of Kerala on her skin.

Grandmother appeared with two steaming cups of Chaya (tea ) and kalthappam ( rice cake ) and handed one to Devaki.

“Your hands are learning,” she said with a proud smile.

The girl smiled back, shy but glowing. “I think the loom was singing to me,” she whispered

When they left the hall, the sun was already high. The village road shimmered with heat. Women carried baskets of yarn on their heads, their sarees fluttering behind them like their shadow .

At the bend of the road, she turned to look one last time at the hall. The steady rhythm of the looms still followed her — clack, thump, clack — a heartbeat that seemed to belong to the land itself.

That night, she wrote :

“Every thread has a voice. Some tell stories of festivals, some of the sea, some of waiting and hope. I thought weaving was a craft — but it is a language. And today, I think Kerala taught me my first word “.

Chapter 17 – The Floating Feast

The morning was still half-asleep when she stepped out into the cool air.
Mist clung to the trees like a secret the dawn wasn’t ready to share. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster called, and the backwaters shimmered, soft and silver, like a mirror holding the sky.

At the jetty, the houseboat waited—a long, arched beauty made of woven bamboo, shining in the early light. Its reflection wavered gently in the rippling water, as though the river itself was smiling. Her grandmother stood beside her, adjusting her cotton saree, the faint smell of coconut oil drifting from her hair.

“This will be your first real backwater ride,” Grandma said softly, her voice blending with the hum of the waking day.

As she stepped onto the boat, it rocked ever so slightly, the wood groaning in greeting. Inside, it smelled of old timber, fresh paint, and the faint trace of spices that never really leave a kitchen. The air was warm and still, except for the whisper of the breeze that carried the scent of salt and earth.

The boat began to move, slow and certain. The world seemed to glide backward — palm trees bending low to see their faces in the water, fishermen waving from narrow canoes, white cranes gliding just above the glassy surface. The sound of the motor was soft, more like a heartbeat than a hum.

She sat at the front, letting the wind push strands of hair across her face. It smelled of wet wood, distant smoke, and something faintly sweet — like the promise of a meal cooking somewhere nearby.

Then it came — that smell.
A warm, rich, dizzying swirl of fried onions, roasted coconut, and red chili oil.

From the small kitchen at the back of the boat came a hiss — the unmistakable sound of something hitting hot oil. Mustard seeds crackled like tiny firecrackers, and a cloud of spice rose and drifted through the boat, clinging to her clothes, her skin, her soul.

“Ready for brunch?” called Sajeevan, the boat cook, with a grin that belonged to someone who loved what he made.

He laid out wide, green banana leaves on the polished wooden table, the steam from them rising faintly.
And then, one by one, the dishes arrived.

A mound of kallummakkaya roast — mussels cooked till their shells had opened like small black flowers, their meat soft and golden beneath a blanket of fried onions, curry leaves, and roasted coconut. The smell was sharp and deep, like the ocean itself had been reduced to spice and heat.

A glass of chaya, thick and dark, poured from high above, its surface crowned with froth. It smelled smoky, sweet, and comforting.

Soft, round pathiris, white as clouds, stacked in a small steel plate.
Beside them, a clay bowl of kozhi curry — chicken simmered in coconut milk, red with roasted masala and oil that shimmered on top like melted gold.

A packet wrapped in banana leaf was opened to reveal meen pollichathu — fish roasted till the edges had crisped, the masala inside dark and sweet with tamarind and pepper.
And finally, a plate of beef fry, blackened with spice, studded with fried coconut bits and tiny onions that gleamed like amber.

The air itself became heavy with flavor.

She tore a piece of pathiri and dipped it into the chicken curry. The first bite made her close her eyes. It was hot, creamy, and deep — the coconut milk soothing, the spices chasing each other across her tongue. It tasted like the sun and the rain had met somewhere in between.

Then she tried the mussels — soft, chewy, their taste sharp with chili and smoky from the pan. There was something wild about it — like tasting the sea after a storm.

The fish was tender, the masala caramelized, each bite pulling apart like a sigh. The beef was dark and fierce, each piece bursting with pepper and salt and something that lingered long after she swallowed.

Her grandmother laughed gently. “Don’t rush. The river never does.”

She slowed down, chewing carefully, trying to memorize every texture — the crisp edge of fried coconut, the sweetness of curry leaves, the sting of chili, the calmness of rice. It felt like Kerala itself was unfolding on her tongue — calm and fierce, soft and sharp, hot and kind all at once.

When the plates were almost empty, Sajeevan poured another glass of chaya. She held it close, letting the steam rise to her face. The tea was thick, slightly burnt, and so sweet it almost hurt. But in that sweetness was something ancient — a memory, maybe, of every morning that had ever been lived near water.

Outside, the sky had turned the color of brass. Ducks floated past, leaving trails like lines of poetry on the river. Somewhere, a temple bell rang, its sound soft and certain.

She leaned over the railing, her hair swaying in the breeze. The river smelled of salt, coconut, and life.
Her grandmother joined her, quiet, smiling.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said.

“It feels like I’m eating the world,” the girl whispered.

Grandmother chuckled. “Here, that’s the only way to live.”

The boat drifted on, slicing gently through the green stillness. And as the sun warmed her face and the taste of spice lingered in her mouth, she realized — this wasn’t just food or a journey. It was a memory that had found her.

That night, in her journal, she wrote:

“Today I floated through flavour and silence. I ate mussels that tasted like the ocean, tea that tasted like warmth, and sunlight that had turned into curry. The river didn’t just carry me — it fed me, it taught me to slow down.”

  Chapter 18 – The Silver Screen Evening

When the boat finally curved back to shore, the sun was sinking low — half gold, half fire — painting the water in ripples of orange and pink. The girl stepped off the wooden plank, her feet sinking slightly into the wet mud. The air was thick with the smell of rain, river, and fried snacks from the tea shop nearby. She looked back once more at the houseboat, now drifting away slowly, its lanterns flickering like sleepy fireflies. Her stomach was still warm from the food, and her heart felt even warmer. The path home wound past the coconut trees and the small bridge that arched over the narrow stream. Somewhere, a radio played an old Malayalam song, soft and wistful. The village was alive in that glowing hour — hens fluttering into their coops, smoke curling from kitchens, and laughter echoing from every open doorway. When she reached the house, there was a kind of excited chaos inside. Grandmother was adjusting her hair in front of the mirror, the younger children were giggling and changing their clothes, and someone was shouting from the verandah,
“Quick! The movie’s starting soon!” She blinked. “Movie?” “Yes!” one of the cousins grinned, his eyes bright. “There’s an open-air show in the school courtyard. Come with us!” Before she could answer, someone had already handed her a shawl. The next thing she knew, she was walking with the crowd — bare feet brushing against the dust, the smell of rain-soaked earth rising all around. The night was alive. Lanterns swung in doorways, their yellow light pooling on the ground. At the school ground, a huge white sheet hung between two bamboo poles. Wooden benches were lined up in front, and the sound of chatter filled the air. A projector whirred softly at the back, sending a trembling beam of light through the dusk. She found a seat between her grandmother and a girl her age who handed her a packet of roasted peanuts wrapped in newspaper. The air smelled of wet grass, roasted chickpeas, and the faint metallic tang of the projector. The screen flickered, and suddenly — there it was.
Ennu Swantham Janakikutty. She didn’t understand all the words, but the story — the emotion — reached her anyway. The girl on screen laughed, cried, and ran through green fields that looked exactly like the ones she had seen that morning. Someone kindly switched on English subtitles, and she followed every line with wide eyes.

Chapter 20 – The Banana Leaf Secret

The walk back home was slow, heavy with the smell of fried snacks, wet soil, and warm banana leaves. The stars hung low over the narrow path, glimmering between the silhouettes of coconut palms. The girl carried her parcel carefully in both hands — the banana leaf was still warm against her palms, its smooth green skin glistening with a faint trace of oil. Each step she took, the smell drifted stronger — spicy, smoky, and rich.When they reached the homestay, Grandma pushed open the wooden door with a creak. Inside, the single oil lamp glowed in a corner, its flame steady and golden. The floor was cool underfoot, the air faintly sweet with the lingering scent of jasmine from the flowers they had strung earlier that evening. The family gathered around the old wooden table. The parcels lay in the center, their soft green folds shining like hidden treasure. The girl leaned closer — her heart beating a little faster. “What do you think it is?” she whispered. Grandma only smiled. “Patience, mole. The best things reveal themselves slowly. ”She untied the coconut fibre string with a practiced flick. The leaf opened with a sigh — a soft shhhh — releasing a rush of steam that filled the entire room. For a moment, nobody spoke. The smell was so rich, so layered, that it wrapped around them like music. And then she saw it — biryani. Golden rice, long and delicate, glistening with ghee. Crispy fried onions lay scattered like caramel threads, their sweetness dancing in the air. Cashews shone like tiny pearls, and the faint green of coriander leaves peeked through the steaming grains. Beneath the top layer, nestled like a secret, were tender pieces of spiced chicken — their edges browned, their centers soft and juicy. The first bite was pure heaven.
The rice melted on her tongue, buttery and fragrant, each grain separate yet soaked in the deep flavor of spices — cardamom, cinnamon, bay leaf, and a whisper of smoky clove. The chicken was so soft it barely needed chewing. The taste was warm, layered, alive. The sweetness of the onions, the salt of the ghee, the kick of green chili — everything came together like an orchestra, rising and falling in perfect harmony. She closed her eyes. It wasn’t just food. It was a feeling. Someone poured steaming tea into steel tumblers — the kind that sang softly when placed on the table. The sound mingled with the faint chirp of crickets outside, with the rustle of banana leaves in the night wind. The house smelled of spice, warmth, and something ancient — the kind of scent that felt like it had lived in the walls for generations. The cousins laughed and reached for second helpings, their fingers brushing over the banana leaves, shiny now with oil and flavour. Grandma tore off a small piece of chicken and held it out to the girl with her fingers. “Here,” she said, her voice soft. “Taste this. This is how Kannur cooks her stories. ”The girl smiled, her mouth full, her heart fuller. The biryani was unlike anything she had ever eaten — deeper than restaurant food, richer than anything made from a packet. It was love disguised as spice, patience disguised as flavour. They ate until their fingers glistened with ghee and their stomachs ached from happiness. The air grew heavy and slow, filled with the sounds of contentment — spoons clinking, bangles chiming, someone sighing happily. When they were done, Grandma folded the used banana leaves neatly, her hands slow and gentle, as though closing a sacred ritual. “Nothing wasted,” she murmured. “Even the leaf has given us something tonight. ”The girl watched, her mind quiet.
The smell of biryani still floated in the air — a soft, golden perfume that clung to her fingers and hair. She looked around at everyone — Grandma smiling, cousins laughing, the oil lamp flickering against the clay walls — and thought: This is what it feels like to belong to a place you’ve just met. On the table, beside the neatly folded leaves, the bundle of those weird leaves still waited. Their green shimmer caught the lamplight, filling the room with the faint scent of earth after rain. Grandma glanced at them and smiled, a knowing spark in her eyes. “Tomorrow morning,” she said, “we’ll use these. They’ll tell their own story. ”The girl nodded, sleep tugging at her eyes. Outside, the night deepened, the wind whispering through the coconut trees. The moonlight spilled through the open window, soft as silk, painting the room in silver. As she drifted to sleep, the taste of biryani still lingered on her tongue — warm, spiced, and endlessly comforting.
And in her dreams, Kerala smelled of masala and ghee . 

    Chapter 21 – The Morning of the Mailanji

The first light of morning crept through the windows like a gentle secret. A rooster called somewhere far off, and the soft hum of women’s voices floated through the courtyard. The girl blinked awake, still tasting the memory of biryani on her tongue and hearing the faint clink of Grandma’s bangles. Outside, the air smelled of earth, coconut oil, and crushed leaves. She followed the scent to the backyard, where Grandma and the girls had already begun their work. A large ammi kal — the old, flat grinding stone — sat in the center of the courtyard. It was dark and smooth from years of use, its surface glistening with a thin layer of water. Beside it lay the freshly plucked mailanji leaves ( leaves used to henna ) , bright green, still wet with dew. Grandma sat cross-legged in her cotton saree, her silver hair shining in the sunlight. “Come, mole,” she said, patting the spot beside her. “We’re making magic today.” The girl knelt down, the stone cool beneath her fingers. Grandma placed a handful of henna leaves on the ammi and began to grind them slowly, in circles — her palms firm, her movements unhurried. The leaves made a soft scrrrk, scrrrksound, their juice turning the stone dark green. The smell was deep, earthy, and a little sweet, like the scent of rain soaking through old soil. “Now your turn,” Grandma said. The girl pressed her palms down and began to grind. The leaves squished softly, releasing their bright, raw scent. Tiny flecks of green splattered her hands, staining her fingers with faint color. She giggled, and the cousins joined her, taking turns to grind and scrape, their laughter mixing with the rhythmic sound of stone on stone. When the paste was smooth and thick, Grandma gathered it into a small clay bowl. “Perfect,” she said. “Like butter. ”They all sat in a circle, spreading old newspapers and holding out their hands. The girl watched as Grandma dipped a small stick into the henna paste and began to draw — slow, sure strokes that curved like vines and petals. The paste was cool against her skin, its smell filling the air. The designs grew — swirls, dots, circles , and delicate curls that wrapped around their fingers. The girl couldn’t look away. Each hand looked like a story being written in green. Her cousin leaned over. “When it dries, it’ll turn dark red,” she whispered. “The darker the colour, the deeper your love. ”The girl laughed softly. “Then mine will be as dark as Kerala’s soil. ”They spent hours there — talking, teasing, trading stories. Grandma hummed an old Malayalam song as she worked, her voice soft and full of peace. The hens pecked nearby, a cat curled in the shade, and sunlight poured through the coconut leaves like liquid gold. When their hands were covered in green paste, they held them out to dry. The girl lifted hers to the light. The scent of henna rose warm and sweet, wrapping her in a calm she had never felt before. It wasn’t just decoration. It was belonging — to a moment, a family, a rhythm older than memory. As the paste dried and cracked, Grandma brought out sweet black tea and small appams . The girls sipped carefully, laughing at how they couldn’t touch anything properly. In the evening ,” Grandma said, smiling, “we’ll see whose hands the earth loves most. ”The girl looked at her palms — green now, but soon to bloom red — and thought how strange and wonderful it was that a leaf could hold so much colour, so much meaning. She leaned back, watching the sunlight flicker through the coconut trees, her hands open to the sky. Kerala smelled like henna that morning — fresh, rich, and full of promise.

      Chapter 22 – The Evening Glow

By the time the sky began to turn the colour of ripe mangoes, the scent of mailanji—henna—still hung heavy in the air. The courtyard shimmered in soft light, wet from the afternoon wash, and the smell of damp earth mingled with coconut oil and smoke from the kitchen fire.

The girl sat cross-legged on the red stone steps, her hands stretched out in front of her. The henna paste, now dry and cracked, clung to her palms in delicate flakes. It looked like green dust about to crumble into secrets. She had watched the others rub theirs off, laughing, comparing whose colour would come darker. But she waited, watching how the last bits clung stubbornly to the thin lines drawn by Grandma’s wrinkled hands earlier that day.

When she finally began to peel it off, the paste came away in tiny curls. Beneath it, her skin was stained a deep, glowing maroon , like the first light of sunrise. She turned her hands over, and the designs—swirling leaves, tiny dots, and curling vines—looked alive.

It was the first time she had ever worn henna.

For a moment, she just stared at her palms, feeling as though the patterns told a story she couldn’t yet read. Each curl looked like something from Kerala itself—one like a coconut frond, another like the curve of a wave, another like the bend of a jasmine stem.

Grandma came out, wiping her hands on her saree, and smiled.
“Ah, it’s taken beautifully,” she said. “You see? The earth gives colour when your heart is quiet.”

The girl smiled back, shyly. “It feels… warm,” she said.

Grandma nodded. “That’s how it should feel. Like it’s alive.”

The girl looked down again. The henna shimmered faintly in the fading light. Her palms smelled of leaves and the stone grinder they had used earlier. She remembered how they’d all sat around it in the afternoon, crushing the leaves on the ammi, the stone’s rhythm echoing like a heartbeat. The paste had stained everyone’s fingertips, even Grandma’s, though she’d pretended to be annoyed about it.

Now the laughter was replaced by the soft sound of evening—the rustle of banana leaves, a distant bird calling, and the faint hum of prayer from a nearby temple. The air felt slower, thicker, full of quiet magic.

She walked to the brass basin by the corner of the yard and dipped her hands into the cool water. The leftover flakes floated away like green petals. The touch of water sent a shiver up her arms, the scent of mailanji deepening as the designs glowed darker under her skin.

When she lifted her hands out, the colour had deepened even more—burnt orange with hints of crimson. She smiled, almost not believing it was hers.

The cousins came running to show their hands too, comparing whose stain was richest. One had drawn flowers, another had stars. But Grandma’s design—simple vines and tiny dots—was the most elegant. The girl looked at her own again and realized hers were somewhere in between—simple but alive, as if the leaves had crept right from the soil onto her palms.

As night fell, the crickets began their song. The oil lamps were lit along the veranda, each flame trembling softly in the breeze. The girl lay back on the cool floor, hands resting on her chest, watching the sky fade into indigo.

Her palms still smelled faintly of mailanji.
Her skin tingled where the paste had been.
And somewhere inside her, a thought began to bloom—
maybe some colours don’t come from what you paint,
but from what the earth leaves behind in you.

      Chapter 23 – The Party by the Sea

The day passed quietly — the kind of lazy morning that drifted by with no rush, only the sound of distant temple bells and the rustle of banana leaves. But as the sun began to sink, painting the sky in shades of orange and rose, a girl about her age appeared at the gate, smiling wide. “Come with us to Payyambalam Beach!” she said, her eyes sparkling. “There’s a party tonight — music, friends, and seafood!” A thrill ran through her. She hadn’t been to a real beach party before. Soon, she was walking with a group of teenagers down a narrow lane that smelled faintly of jasmine, smoke, and salt. The sound of the ocean grew louder with each step — a soft, steady rhythm, like the heartbeat of the earth. And then they reached it. The Payyambalam Beach opened before her — wide, golden, endless. The horizon shimmered like melted copper under the last of the sunset. Waves rolled in, spilling white foam that licked their feet. For a long moment, she just stood there, her breath caught in her throat. The sea was alive — wild, untamed, calling her name. Then someone shouted, “Come on!” and the group ran laughing toward the water. She followed, her feet sinking into the cool wet sand, her heart pounding with pure, unstoppable joy. The first wave rushed over her toes, cold and electric. She gasped, then laughed — a full, unfiltered laugh that carried with the wind. They splashed each other, fell into the waves, chased shells, and let the salty water soak their jeans. The sea spray glistened on their hair, the wind whipped their faces, and their laughter blended with the rhythm of the waves. By the time the sun disappeared, the beach was glowing with firelight. Someone had built a large bonfire near the rocks. The flames flickered orange and gold, dancing in the wind. The group gathered around it, their wet clothes drying in the warmth, faces shining in the glow. Then came the food. The air filled with the scent of seafood roasting over charcoal — thick smoke, crushed garlic, pepper, and coconut oil blending into something heavenly. A man carried a wide pan to the circle, steam rising from it. She leaned forward, her mouth watering. Inside were crabs, shells cracked open to reveal tender white meat glistening with red masala. Next to them lay prawns, coated in fiery chilli and crisped till golden at the edges. And at the center fish roasted inside banana leaves, the smoky aroma curling through the night air. Someone handed her a banana leaf plate piled with food. She sat cross-legged on the sand, firelight painting her face, and took her first bite. The crab was soft and juicy, soaked in pepper and ginger. The prawn crunched as she bit into it — smoky, spicy, the sea and the flame mixing in perfect balance. The fish was delicate, the masala rich with lime and tamarind. Each bite felt alive — salty, hot, wild.
It wasn’t just food; it was Kerala itself on her tongue. Around her, the teenagers sang songs in Malayalam — loud, funny, sometimes off-key, but full of joy. Someone tapped a beat on a drum, and soon everyone was clapping, their voices rising with the roar of the sea. Some even danced to each others songs ,The night wind smelled of smoke . The bonfire crackled, sending sparks into the dark sky. She leaned back, watching them float up and vanish into the stars. The laughter, the taste of spice, the warmth of the fire — it all felt like a dream, a small world built just for this night. For the first time in her life, she didn’t feel like an outsider from the city.
She felt like she belonged — her hair salty, her hands stained red from the crab shells, her heart beating in rhythm with the sea. When she finally looked up, the waves glowed silver under the moonlight. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, the smell of the ocean filling her chest. And in that moment, she thought —
if freedom had a taste,
it would be exactly like this .

                             Chapter 24 – Clay and Sunshine

The day began softly, wrapped in gold.
The sunlight filtered through the coconut leaves, flickering over the floor like gentle ripples. From the kitchen came the familiar rhythm of Grandma’s bangles clinking as she worked, the smell of roasted coconut drifting through the air. Everything looked the same — yet it all felt different. Tomorrow, she would leave. Even the walls seemed to know. The silence in the house had changed — no longer lively, but warm and heavy, like the last breath of a song. After lunch, Grandma called her outside.
“Come, mole,” she said, smiling, “one last thing before you go. ”Under the mango tree, the cousins had gathered around a lump of red clay placed on a low wooden table. The clay gleamed wet and dark, the smell of earth thick in the warm air. A bowl of water glimmered beside it, catching the light like a little sun. “We’re making clay balls,” Grandma said. “They’ll dry by tomorrow. ”The girl dipped her hands into the clay. It was cool and alive — soft as butter, heavy as soil after rain. She rolled it between her palms, feeling it mold and shape, smooth and round. The clay left rusty streaks on her skin, staining her with the colour of the land she had come to love. Laughter filled the air — light and bright and young. The cousins teased each other, showing off crooked shapes and squashed balls. Grandma’s voice floated between them, calm and steady, reminding them to be patient. “Don’t rush, children. Let the earth take her time. ”The girl slowed down. The rhythm of her hands matched her heartbeat.
Press. Roll. Shape. Breathe. When they finished, they laid the small clay beads in neat rows on a mat in the sun. The air shimmered with heat, and the beads glowed deep red, drying slowly, quietly — just like her heart was learning to. She sat still for a long time, watching the sunlight slide across them. And then, the feelings she’d been holding all day spilled gently into her thoughts —She felt as if the clay in her hands had become part of her, as if every laugh, every smell, every sound of Kerala had sunk into her skin. She wanted to take the sea wind, the rain, the coconut leaves, and Grandma’s smile with her — to tuck them into her suitcase and never let them go. She wasn’t ready to leave this warmth, this peace, this rhythm that had made her slow down and breathe again. In the city, everything was loud and fast and bright. But here, time moved like water, soft and patient. And somewhere between the red clay and the golden sun, she had found something she hadn’t known she was missing — herself.The wind moved through the courtyard, gentle and warm, brushing her cheek like a goodbye she wasn’t ready to hear.They washed their hands at the well, the water turning faintly red as the clay slipped away. She looked at her palms — the stains still there, faint but certain — and smiled.Tomorrow, the beads would dry.
Tomorrow, she would go.
But tonight, her hands still smelled of earth,
and her heart still beat to the rhythm of Kerala.   

                  Chapter 25: The Morning of Goodbye

She woke up before dawn, the first light filtering softly through the curtains, painting the room in pale gold. The quiet of the morning felt almost sacred, and a strange heaviness settled in her chest. Slowly, she dressed, each movement careful, as if trying to hold onto the morning forever.Downstairs, the pooja room glowed under the lantern’s warm light. Grandma was there, holding a woven box filled with treasures of this trip. She handed it to her with a gentle smile, eyes glistening. Inside were the clay beads she had made, the jar of jackfruit jam, the biryani she loved, a saree, glass bangles, a dried jasmine flower that had once adorned her hair, and a letter that smelled faintly of home.Her heart ached as she hugged Grandma, feeling the warmth and the love that words could never fully capture. She moved through the house, saying goodbye to everyone—neighbors, friends from the camp, everyone who had laughed and shared moments with her. Each farewell tightened her chest, and silent tears threatened to spill, but she blinked them back, letting the sadness sit quietly behind her eyes.She climbed into her ride, the woven box resting carefully beside her. As the car wound through the hills, she watched the greenery roll past, mist curling over fields and coconut palms swaying gently. Every curve of the road, every glimmer of sunlight on the leaves, felt like a reminder that this place had touched her in ways she hadn’t realized.Her hands rested lightly on the box, feeling its weight but not opening it. She couldn’t—opening it now would feel like letting go too soon. Instead, she held it close, as if by holding it, she could carry a piece of this home with her. Silent tears slipped down her cheeks, unbidden, and she pressed her forehead to the window, staring at the hills fading into the distance. Her heart was full, heavy with gratitude and longing, aching with the knowledge that she would miss everything—the laughter, the smells, the warmth, the quiet moments with Grandma—but also alive with the certainty that a part of this place would always be with her.

                             Chapter 26: The Box in the Sky

The plane hummed softly beneath her, the clouds outside a vast, endless sea of white. She clutched the woven box in her lap, still unopened, still heavy with everything she had left behind. Her fingers traced the woven pattern absentmindedly, feeling the grooves like the heartbeat of a place she already missed.Finally, with a deep breath, she untied the small ribbon holding it closed. The lid lifted, and the scent of jasmine drifted up, soft and familiar. Her eyes widened. Inside were the clay beads she had shaped with care, the golden-brown jackfruit jam, the fragrant biryani, the saree folded neatly, the delicate glass bangles, the dried jasmine flower, and the letter—edges slightly curled, warm to the touch.She picked up the letter first, hands trembling.My Dear,Carry these little pieces of home with you—every laugh, every smell, every quiet sunrise we shared. You are braver than you know, stronger than you feel, and loved more than words can hold. Wherever life takes you, remember: a part of this place—and my heart—will always be with you.Forever,
GrandmaHer eyes blurred as she read the words, Grandma’s love spilling out in every line, words that spoke of pride, of memories, of hope. A tear slipped, and then another, and she let herself cry quietly, hidden in the corner of her seat.Then her fingers went to the biryani. The familiar aroma rose, rich and spicy, and she scooped a small bite, savoring it slowly. The flavors—warm, spicy, with the faint sweetness of coconut—flooded her senses. Suddenly, she was back by the campfire, laughing with her friends, the sound of the waves nearby, Grandma’s quiet humming in the kitchen. Tears blurred her vision again, but this time they were mixed with a smile. She ate slowly, letting each mouthful carry her home.Next, she lifted the clay beads, running them through her fingers, remembering the laughter, the careful shaping, the tiny imperfections that made them hers. The jasmine flower, delicate and fragrant even in its dryness, brought back the morning sun, the gentle sway of the coconut palms, the quiet moments with Grandma. She traced the saree’s folds with her fingers, imagined her going back to the temple and clinked the bangles softly, a sound that made her smile through her tears.Her chest swelled, a strange mix of joy and longing. She pressed the letter to her heart, letting the scent of jackfruit and jasmine fill her senses, feeling that even as the plane carried her away, she was carrying home with her—every memory, every laugh, every quiet moment of love tucked into this small box.For the first time since leaving, she smiled through her tears, knowing that though the journey was ending, the adventure—and the heart of Kerala—would ride with her forever.

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By Jhanvi Latheesh