The Trip We Never Planned to Remember

Chapter 1: The Envelope

Until Kerala, every journey I had taken had a reason. A wedding. A family visit. A college function. This was the first journey I took simply because I wanted to see what was beyond the familiar.

“You’re nervous.”

Snigdha didn’t even look up.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m really not.”

I smiled and took the wedding invitation card from her hand.

She had been staring at the same design for nearly ten minutes. The poor designer had probably created twenty options, and my sister was still trying to decide between two shades of gold.

Three months. That was all that remained before she married Anirudh. The dining table was covered with invitation samples, jewellery catalogues, fabric swatches and handwritten lists.

Every corner of the house looked as if a wedding had quietly exploded inside it.

“You know,” I said, “you remind me of myself.”

That finally made her look up.

“When?”

“Before my wedding.”

She laughed.

“Please don’t start. If this is one of your elder-sister lectures, I’m leaving.”

“No lecture.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Then nodded.

“Fine. Go ahead.”

For a moment, I wasn’t sure where to begin. Should I start with Kerala? With Munnar? With the rain? With the two extra days that changed everything?

No.

The story had started long before that. It had started in Kolhapur. Like most stories in our family.

You remember what life was like growing up, don’t you? School. College. Family functions. Ganesh Chaturthi. Relatives arriving without warning. Relatives leaving even more unexpectedly. The same streets. The same shops. The same people.

There was comfort in that life. I never complained. But looking back, I realise something.

I had never really travelled. Oh, I had been to Pune a few times. A cousin’s wedding here. A college event there. The occasional family trip that felt more like logistics than adventure.

Every journey had a purpose. Nobody travelled simply because they wanted to see what was beyond the horizon. At least not in my world.

Travel belonged to other people. The kind of people who took photographs at airports and used words like itinerary. I wasn’t one of them.

Then I married Saurabh. And life became busy.

You know how everyone asks newly married couples the same question?

Not whether they’re happy. Not whether they’re adjusting. Not whether they’ve learned how to share a cupboard.

No.

Everyone asks:

“So, where’s the honeymoon?”

The funny thing is that Saurabh and I never had an answer.

At first, there was work. Then responsibilities. Then expenses. Then another reason. And another. One month became six. Six became twelve. Twelve became eighteen. One and a half years passed before we realised we had become experts at postponing things.

Especially happiness.

One evening, Saurabh came home carrying a small envelope. I remember because he looked unusually pleased with himself. That is never a good sign.

“What have you done?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It might be a small lie.”

I folded my arms and said –  “Show me.”

Instead of answering, he handed me the envelope. Inside were two flight tickets. I stared at them. Then at him. Then back at the tickets.

“Pune to Kochi?”

He nodded.

“Kerala?”

Another nod.

“When did you book these?”

“A few days ago.”

“A few days ago?”

“I was waiting for the right moment.”

“Or waiting until it was too late for me to say no.”

He grinned.

“I’ll admit that’s part of the strategy.”

Even now, Snigdha, I don’t know whether booking tickets before discussing them was romantic or irresponsible.

Probably both.

“What if I don’t want to go?”

I asked.

“You do.”

“What if I don’t?”

“You do.”

The annoying thing was that he was right. I did. I was excited. Terrified. Curious. All at the same time. Because for the first time in my life, I was going somewhere that wasn’t attached to a wedding, a family obligation or a social event.

We were travelling simply to travel. And that felt strangely unfamiliar. The plan was simple. Five days. Four nights. Kochi Munnar, Thekkady,  Alleppey and Back home.

A neat little holiday. Nothing complicated. Nothing dramatic. At least that’s what we thought.

Neither of us knew that Kerala had other plans. And neither of us knew that somewhere in the hills above Munnar, the rain was already waiting for us.

Chapter 2: The Flight South

“Was it your first flight?” Snigdha asked.

I smiled.

“That’s what you took away from the story?”

“No, I’m serious.”

“Technically, no.”

“Technically?”

“I had flown once before. A short trip that felt more like transportation than travel.”

“So this was different?”

“Completely.”

I still remember waking up before the alarm that morning. Not because I was disciplined. Because I was nervous.

There is a special kind of excitement that comes from doing something for the first time. And an equally special kind of fear. The night before the trip, I had packed and repacked my bag three times. Saurabh had packed his in fifteen minutes.

Naturally. Men have an extraordinary confidence in their ability to survive with almost nothing. Women know better.

By the time we left for Pune airport, I was carrying enough snacks to survive a minor natural disaster.

“You know we’re only travelling for five days, right?” Saurabh asked.

“I like being prepared.”

“For what exactly?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s the problem.”

The funny thing is that I don’t remember who won that argument. I only remember laughing. A lot.

Somewhere between Kolhapur and Pune, the trip had already begun. Not Kerala. The trip.

There’s a difference. When you’re travelling to attend a wedding or visit relatives, the destination is the purpose. This felt different.

For the first time in my life, the journey itself seemed important. Even the airport felt exciting. I know that sounds ridiculous now. But at that time I watched everything.

Families rushing toward departure gates. Children dragging tiny suitcases. People speaking languages I couldn’t identify. Everyone seemed to be heading somewhere. For reasons known only to them. And for a brief moment I wondered how many stories were sitting inside that terminal. How many people were beginning something. How many were ending something.

“You’re staring again,” Saurabh said.

“I know.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

He looked unconvinced.

The truth was, I was thinking about how large the world suddenly felt. Kolhapur had always felt comfortable. Predictable. Manageable.

An airport reminds you that the world is none of those things.

A few hours later, I found myself looking out of the aircraft window. Clouds. Nothing but clouds. For a while it felt as though we were travelling through another world entirely. Then the clouds parted. And I saw something I still remember.

Green.

Not a colour. A thousand colours. Dark green. Bright green. Forest green. The kind of green that doesn’t exist in cities.

I pressed my forehead against the window.

“What?” Saurabh asked.

“Look.”

“I’ve been looking.”

“No. Really look.”

Below us, the land seemed painted. Rivers curled through the landscape like silver threads. Patches of forest stretched endlessly toward the horizon. Everything looked alive.

I didn’t know it then. But Kerala had already begun introducing itself. Not through monuments. Not through attractions. Through colour.

When the aircraft landed in Kochi, the first thing I noticed wasn’t the airport. It wasn’t the people. It wasn’t even the language.

It was the air.

It felt different. Heavier. Warmer. As though the monsoon was somewhere nearby, waiting patiently for its turn.

Outside the terminal, our driver greeted us with a smile.

Saurabh immediately started discussing routes and timings. I barely listened. I was too busy looking around. Palm trees. Rain clouds. Roads lined with greenery. Everything felt unfamiliar.

Not frightening. Just new. And there is a certain happiness that only new things can create.

The drive toward Munnar began quietly. The city slowly disappeared behind us. Buildings became smaller. Trees became taller. The roads began to curve. Every few kilometres, the landscape seemed to change its mind.

By late afternoon, the sky had grown darker. The clouds were following us now.

At first, I didn’t pay much attention. Neither did Saurabh. After all, it was June. Rain was expected. What we didn’t know was that the rain had plans of its own. And it had no intention of leaving anytime soon.

Chapter 3: The Rain in Munnar

“So this is where everything changed?” Snigdha asked.

I shook my head.

“No.”

“No?”

“That’s the funny thing.”

“What?”

“It didn’t feel important at the time.”

The road to Munnar seemed endless. Not in a bad way. In the kind of way that makes you stop asking how much farther and start looking out of the window instead. The higher we climbed, the greener everything became.

Waterfalls appeared beside the road without warning. Tiny streams crossed under bridges. Clouds drifted between the hills as if they had nowhere particular to be.

Every few minutes I would point at something outside. A waterfall. A valley. A patch of mist. Eventually Saurabh stopped looking.

“You’re going to point at every mountain, aren’t you?”

“Probably.”

“They’re all mountains.”

“They’re not.”

“They literally are.”

I ignored him. Some arguments are not worth winning.

By the time we reached Munnar, evening had begun settling over the hills.

The first drops of rain hit the windshield just before we arrived at the resort. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make the air smell different.

Fresh. Earthy. Almost sweet.

I stood on the balcony for a long time that evening. The hills stretched into the distance. Clouds drifted slowly across them. And for the first time in my life, I understood why people travelled to places like this.

Not because there was something to do. Because there was something to feel. That night, I fell asleep listening to rain.

The next morning, I woke up listening to rain. The morning after that, I woke up listening to rain again.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

Snigdha laughed.

“It rained the entire time?”

“Almost.”

At first, I didn’t mind. Rain seemed romantic. At least in films. By lunchtime, I was less enthusiastic. By evening, I was annoyed. The views we had come to see were hidden behind a wall of mist. The mountains disappeared. The valleys disappeared. Sometimes even the road disappeared.

Every time we opened the curtains, there was another cloud waiting outside. I remember standing on the balcony on the second day. Looking at absolutely nothing. The hills had vanished completely. Only white mist remained.

“This is ridiculous,” I said.

Saurabh looked up from his book.

“What is?”

“We came all the way to Munnar to look at clouds.”

“We’re inside a cloud.”

“That’s not helping.”

“It helps me.”

I threw a cushion at him. He deserved it. The strange thing was that neither of us were actually unhappy. Frustrated?
A little.

Disappointed?
Definitely.

But unhappy?
No.

For the first time in a long while, there was nowhere we needed to be. No calls to answer. No relatives to visit. No schedules to follow.

Just rain. Endless rain. And two people learning how to sit quietly together.

I don’t think anyone tells you that before marriage. People talk about love. Compatibility. Compromise. Nobody talks about silence.

How important it becomes. How comfortable it needs to feel. Somewhere between the rain and the mist, we discovered that we were actually very good at doing absolutely nothing together. And somehow that felt important.

The turning point came on the third morning. I woke up before Saurabh.

The room was quiet. The rain had stopped. At least I thought it had. Carefully, I walked to the curtains.

For two days I had opened them hoping for a miracle. For two days there had been none. This time I wasn’t expecting anything. Maybe that’s why I remember it so clearly.

I pulled the curtains aside. And froze. The mountains were back. Not all of them. Just enough.

Mist moved slowly across the hills like something alive. The valleys glowed green. Tiny waterfalls appeared on distant slopes.

Everything looked fresh. New. As though the rain had spent two days repainting the entire landscape.

I didn’t move. I didn’t even call Saurabh. For a few seconds, I simply stood there. Watching. Then I turned around.

“Saurabh.”

No response.

“Saurabh.”

A sleepy noise.

“Wake up.”

“What happened?”

“You need to see this.”

He opened one eye. Then the other. Then he walked to the balcony. For a long time, neither of us said anything. The mountains spoke for themselves.

Years later, I still remember what he said next.

Not because it was romantic. Not because it was profound. Because it changed everything.

He looked at the hills. Looked at me. Then smiled.

“What would happen, if we stayed a little longer?” he asked. 

Chapter 4: The Two Days We Never Planned For

Snigdha looked at me.

“You stayed?”

I smiled.

“What do you think?”

“You definitely stayed.”

“We definitely stayed.”

“Just like that?”

“Not exactly.”

Because unlike films, real life doesn’t usually produce dramatic decisions. Nobody stood on a mountain and shouted,

“Let’s change our lives!”

What actually happened was much less glamorous. We sat down for breakfast. And spent forty minutes discussing logistics. Leave extensions. Hotel availability. Return tickets. Budgets.

The kind of conversation that would put most movie audiences to sleep. But somewhere between practical concerns and second cups of coffee, we both realised something.

Neither of us wanted to leave. Not yet. The funny thing was that we couldn’t even explain why. It wasn’t as though we had seen everything.

In fact, the rain had hidden half of Munnar from us. But perhaps that was the reason. Munnar no longer felt like a destination.

It felt unfinished. Like a conversation interrupted halfway through. By afternoon, the decision had been made. Two more days. That was all. Just two.

The number seemed harmless at the time. Small enough to justify. Large enough to matter.

I still remember calling home. My mother reacted exactly as mothers do.

“Everything is okay, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you staying longer?”

“Because we want to.”

A pause.

Then:

“Oh.”

As if that answer had never occurred to her. The truth was, it had never occurred to me either. Until that moment.

Most of my life had been planned around responsibilities. This was one of the first decisions I made purely because something made me happy. And that felt strangely rebellious.

The next morning, Munnar rewarded us. Not with sunshine. That would have been too predictable. Instead, it gave us something better. Balance. The rain still came. The mist still arrived. But now there were moments in between.

Moments when the mountains revealed themselves. Moments when entire valleys appeared and disappeared like secrets. Moments when the clouds moved so slowly that it felt as though time itself had become lazy.

The rest of that morning felt different. Perhaps because Munnar had finally decided to stop hiding.

Our driver arrived after breakfast and looked unusually cheerful.

“Good weather,” he announced.

As though he personally deserved credit for it. Saurabh laughed.

“You sound relieved.”

“I am.”

He pointed toward the hills.

“Today Munnar will show itself.”

At the time, I thought he was exaggerating. A few hours later, I realised he wasn’t.

The roads that had disappeared into mist for two days now stretched openly across the mountains. Tea plantations rolled across the hills like green waves frozen in place. Every turn revealed another valley. Another ridge. Another view that made me look out of the window and forget whatever I had been thinking about.

The strange thing was that photographs had never prepared me for the scale of it. Pictures showed tea gardens. Munnar showed landscapes. Endless ones. The kind that make you realise how small your daily worries really are.

At one point, the driver stopped near a viewpoint. There was no crowd. No ticket counter. No souvenir shop.

Just mountains. And clouds. What I remember most is not what was above us. It’s what was below us.

Clouds.

Entire rivers of clouds moving through the valleys. Slowly. Silently. As though the sky had slipped down into the mountains during the night.

For a long time, nobody spoke. Even Saurabh. Which was unusual. I remember standing there with the wind against my face, watching the clouds move through the hills. Not trying to photograph them. Not trying to explain them.

Just watching.

I think that was the moment I understood why people travel. Not to see places. To feel things they cannot feel anywhere else.

Later that afternoon we stopped at a small restaurant overlooking the hills. Nothing fancy. Just a few tables and a view that would have made a luxury hotel jealous.

While we ate, the rain returned. Softly at first. Then steadily.

A few days earlier, I would have been disappointed. Another view hidden. Another plan interrupted. Instead, I found myself smiling.

Saurabh noticed immediately.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You look happy.”

“I am.”

“The rain is back.”

“I know.”

“You spent two days complaining about it.”

“I know.”

He shook his head.

“I don’t understand you.”

I looked out at the hills disappearing behind mist once again.

Then smiled.

“I don’t think I understand Munnar either.”

The truth was, I no longer felt the need to.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t trying to reach a destination. I was already there. That evening we sat on the balcony again.

Tea in our hands. Mist drifting across the hills. Neither of us speaking very much. Eventually Saurabh broke the silence.

“If we leave tomorrow, will you be satisfied?”

I already knew the answer. That was the problem.

No.

Not because there were attractions we hadn’t visited. Or viewpoints we hadn’t seen. Or photographs we hadn’t taken.

No.

Munnar felt unfinished. Like a conversation that had only just become interesting. I looked at him. Then at the mountains. Then back at him again.

“I don’t think I’m ready to leave.”

He smiled.

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Because neither am I.”

One afternoon, we found ourselves standing beside a tea plantation. No crowd. No noise.

Just rows and rows of green stretching across the hills. I remember asking Saurabh a question. A ridiculous question. One that still makes me laugh.

“What do people do here all day?”

He looked around.

“Maybe this.”

“What?”

“This.”

I didn’t understand. Years later, I think I do.

Sometimes people don’t travel to do something. Sometimes they travel to stop doing everything else.

The extra days changed the rhythm of the trip. The original five-day version of our holiday had been full of plans. The seven-day version became something softer.

We stopped rushing. Stopped checking the time. Stopped worrying about what came next. For perhaps the first time since our wedding, life felt wonderfully unimportant.

One evening we sat on the balcony watching mist roll across the hills. Neither of us said much. There wasn’t much to say. And yet I remember that evening more clearly than entire months of ordinary life.

Maybe memories work that way. Maybe they choose their own moments. As the light faded, Saurabh looked at me and smiled.

“You know what’s going to happen, right?”

“What?”

“You’re going to start wanting more trips.”

I laughed.

“No chance.”

“You will.”

“I won’t.”

“You definitely will.”

Snigdha interrupted.

“And?”

“And what?”

“Was he right?”

I looked at her.

Then out of the window.

Then back at her again.

“That’s a story for another day.”

The next morning, we left Munnar. But something stayed behind. Or perhaps something came with us. I’m still not entirely sure.

All I know is that the woman who arrived in Munnar wasn’t exactly the same woman who left. And waiting for us further south was a forest that would teach us another lesson entirely.

Chapter 5: The Forest That Asked for Nothing

The road from Munnar to Thekkady felt different. Not because the scenery had changed. Because I had.

A few days earlier, I would have spent the entire drive searching for famous places. Viewpoints. Attractions. Anything worth photographing.

Now I found myself looking at smaller things. The shape of the road. The way mist lingered above the valleys. The tiny streams running beside the tarmac before disappearing into the forest.

The journey felt slower. Or perhaps I had finally stopped rushing through it. Somewhere along the way, our driver pulled over beside a small tea stall.

It wasn’t the kind of place that appears in travel brochures. Just a modest structure with a rusted tin roof and a few wooden benches placed outside.

Rainwater dripped steadily from the edges of the roof. A faded calendar hung on one wall. An old radio sat near the counter, playing a song I couldn’t understand but somehow enjoyed.

The owner handed us small glasses of tea. Hot. Sweet. Strong enough to wake the dead.

I remember standing there watching the steam rise into the cool air. Nobody seemed hurried. Not the shopkeeper. Not the people who occasionally stopped by. Not even the rain.

The entire place seemed to operate at its own pace. A pace the rest of the world had forgotten.

Years later, I don’t remember the taste of the tea. But I remember how peaceful it felt standing there.

As though time had briefly slowed down for everyone. We stayed only a few minutes before continuing south. The road gradually narrowed. The forest thickened. The trees moved closer. The hills became quieter.

Every now and then a vehicle would pass us. A bus. A jeep. A motorcycle. Then long stretches of nothing. Just the road and the forest.

I remember looking out of the window and realising how completely disconnected we were from everything familiar. No shops. No buildings. No crowds. No mobile notifications. Just green in every direction.

The rain returned. Not heavily. Just enough to leave tiny droplets hanging from leaves. Just enough to make the entire forest smell fresh. Then the driver slowed down. Without saying anything. He pulled the vehicle to the side of the road.

“What happened?” Saurabh asked.

The driver smiled.

“Nothing happened.”

Then he pointed.

At first, I couldn’t see it. Then I heard it.

Water.

A few seconds later, I spotted the waterfall. Hidden among the trees. Almost secret. Not particularly large. Not famous. Not the kind people travel hundreds of kilometres to see. In fact, if we had been driving slightly faster, I might never have noticed it at all.

We stepped out of the vehicle. The road was wet beneath our feet. The forest stretched endlessly around us.

The waterfall slipped over dark rocks before disappearing into thick greenery below. The sound filled the air. Steady. Uninterrupted. Ancient.

For a while, nobody spoke. There wasn’t anything to say.

A truck appeared around a distant bend. Passed us. Disappeared. Silence returned.

A few minutes later, another vehicle crossed our path. Then nothing again.

I remember looking both ways down the road.

No people. No movement. No signs of a town. Just a narrow ribbon of asphalt cutting through the forest.

Our driver. Saurabh. Me. And a waterfall that didn’t seem to care whether anyone was watching.

The strange thing was that I never once felt unsafe. Looking back, perhaps I should have. Instead, I felt something else. Something I didn’t have a word for at the time. Freedom, perhaps. Or peace. Or maybe simply the feeling of being very far away from the life I knew.

“Wait.”

Snigdha interrupted me.

“What?”

She stared at me for a moment.

Then shook her head.

“You still remember all this?”

“The waterfall?”

“Everything.”

She laughed softly.

“The road. The vehicles. The rain. The trees.”

She leaned forward.

“This happened years ago.”

I smiled.

“That’s the funny thing.”

“What?”

“I don’t actually remember the waterfall.”

She looked genuinely confused.

“What do you mean?”

I thought about it for a moment.

Then answered honestly.

“Maybe some of the details are wrong.”

“What?”

“Maybe it was five minutes.”

“Maybe it was ten.”

“Maybe two vehicles passed us.”

“Maybe three.”

“I honestly don’t know anymore.”

She stared at me.

Then smiled.

“Then what do you remember?”

For a moment, I looked out of the window. Not at the present. At that road. That forest. That afternoon.

“I remember how it felt.”

The room grew quiet.

“For those few minutes,” I said softly, “there was nowhere else I needed to be.”

No schedules. No responsibilities. No expectations. No future plans. Just a road disappearing into the forest. A waterfall hidden among trees. And the feeling that the world was much larger than I had imagined.

I think that’s what stayed with me.

Not the waterfall.

The feeling. And somewhere beyond that forest, Thekkady was waiting to teach me an entirely different lesson.

“Was Thekkady your favourite place?” Snigdha asked.

“No.”

“Munnar?”

“No.”

“Then what was your favourite?”

I smiled.

“That’s the wrong question.”

“Then what’s the right one?”

“The right question is which place stayed with me the longest.”

“And?”

“Thekkady is still trying.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You’ve become impossible since marriage.”

“That’s fair.”

The drive from Munnar to Thekkady felt different.

Perhaps because we were different.

When we first arrived in Kerala, everything had felt unfamiliar. Now the unfamiliar was beginning to feel comfortable.

The roads curved through forests. The air grew warmer. The hills changed character. Even the silence seemed different. Munnar had been soft. Thekkady felt watchful.

As though the forest was quietly observing everyone who entered it. The first thing I noticed wasn’t the trees. It wasn’t the lake. It wasn’t even the wildlife.

It was the sound.

Or rather, the absence of it.

Back home there is always something. A scooter. A television. A neighbour. A pressure cooker. Human life constantly reminding you that it exists.

The forest was different. It didn’t care about us. And there was something strangely comforting about that.

The next morning we joined a nature walk. I remember feeling slightly disappointed.

“What if we don’t see anything?” I whispered.

“Like what?” asked Saurabh.

“Animals.”

He laughed.

“You think wildlife works on appointment?”

I ignored him.

For the record, I thought that was a perfectly reasonable concern.

The guide led us through the forest at an unhurried pace.

Nobody rushed. Nobody talked loudly.

For the first time in my life, I became aware of how much noise people carry with them. Even when they are silent.

The forest seemed to operate under different rules.

Everything moved carefully. Everything listened. And gradually, so did we.

For nearly an hour, nothing happened. No elephants. No deer. No dramatic wildlife documentary moments.

Just trees. Leaves. Bird calls. And endless shades of green.

To my surprise, I wasn’t bored. I was calm. More calm than I had been in months. Maybe years.

Then something happened. Not what I expected. Not an elephant. Not a tiger. Just a bird. A small bird perched quietly on a branch.

The guide stopped. Pointed. And began explaining something about its behaviour.

I don’t remember the species. I don’t remember the details. What I remember is the way everyone stopped to look.

Ten adults.

Completely fascinated by a bird they would have ignored in any city. And suddenly I understood something. Travel wasn’t about collecting extraordinary moments.

Travel changes you because it teaches you to notice ordinary ones. The lesson arrived quietly. Almost by accident. The best lessons usually do.

Later that afternoon, we took a boat ride across the lake.

The water was calm. The sky was grey. Clouds drifted slowly over the hills. Every now and then someone pointed excitedly toward the shoreline.

A deer. A bird. A movement in the trees. Most sightings lasted only a few seconds. Then they were gone.

I spent much of the ride waiting for something spectacular. An elephant perhaps. Or a herd of animals. Something worthy of a photograph. It never happened. And strangely enough, I didn’t mind.

When the boat returned to shore, I realised something had changed. For perhaps the first time in my life, I had enjoyed an experience without constantly asking for more from it.

The forest had offered exactly what it wanted to offer. Nothing more. Nothing less. And somehow that felt enough.

That evening, while walking back to our room, Saurabh asked me a question.

“What have you liked most so far?”

I thought about Munnar. The rain. The mountains. The extra two days.

Then I thought about Thekkady. The silence. The forest. The bird.

The feeling that the world could continue perfectly well without my attention.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“That’s a good sign.”

“Why?”

“Because it means you’re experiencing the trip instead of ranking it.”

I laughed.

Trust Saurabh to turn a holiday into life advice. But he wasn’t wrong. For the first time, I had stopped comparing moments. Stopped measuring them. Stopped asking whether one place was better than another.

I was simply there. And that, as it turns out, is much harder than it sounds.

The next morning we left for Alleppey. At that point, I thought I understood Kerala. The mountains. The rain. The forests.

I was wrong.

Kerala had saved its slowest lesson for last. And it was floating quietly somewhere among the backwaters.

Chapter 6: The Water That Didn’t Hurry

“You cried, didn’t you?” Snigdha asked.

I stared at her.

“What?”

“You cried somewhere during this trip.”

“Why would you assume that?”

“Because you always cry.”

“I do not.”

“You cried during that tea advertisement.”

“That was emotional.”

“It was tea.”

I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my coffee.

“No, I didn’t cry.”

At least not in the way she meant.

Alleppey arrived quietly.

Which, in hindsight, was very appropriate.

Everything about it seemed to move more slowly.

The roads.

The boats.

The conversations.

Even time itself appeared less interested in rushing.

After Munnar and Thekkady, I expected another destination.

Another place to explore.

Another list of things to see.

Instead, Alleppey felt like an invitation to slow down.

The houseboat was smaller than I imagined.

And more beautiful.

Not because it was luxurious.

Because it felt alive.

Wooden floors.

Open windows.

The gentle sound of water against the sides.

Nothing felt artificial.

Nothing felt rushed.

As the boat moved away from the shore, I stood watching the backwaters unfold around us.

Villages appeared along the banks.

Children waved.

Women washed clothes near the water.

Small boats drifted silently past.

Life continued exactly as it had long before we arrived.

And would continue long after we left.

There was something oddly comforting about that.

For a while, I kept looking for the highlight.

The moment.

The photograph.

The thing I would tell people about later.

Eventually I stopped looking.

Because nothing was happening.

And somehow, everything was happening.

“That makes no sense,” said Snigdha.

“It didn’t make sense to me either.”

Until Alleppey.

The strange thing about modern life is that we’re always moving toward something.

A deadline.

A meeting.

A plan.

A goal.

Even while travelling, many people are secretly hurrying toward the next experience.

The next destination.

The next photograph.

The next memory.

Alleppey refused to cooperate with that mindset.

The boat moved at its own pace.

The water moved at its own pace.

The day moved at its own pace.

And eventually, so did we.

At one point I checked my phone.

Then realised I hadn’t looked at the time in hours.

Hours.

For someone like me, that was practically a spiritual experience.

Saurabh noticed immediately.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You haven’t checked your phone.”

“So?”

“You check your phone every twenty minutes.”

“That’s not true.”

“It absolutely is.”

I opened my mouth to argue.

Then stopped.

Because he was right.

The annoying thing about husbands is that occasionally they are.

The afternoon passed in a way I find difficult to describe even now.

Not because it was extraordinary.

Because it wasn’t.

The boat moved.

The water flowed.

Clouds drifted overhead.

Lunch arrived.

Tea arrived.

Evening arrived.

Nothing dramatic happened.

No great revelation.

No cinematic moment.

And yet, years later, if you ask me which part of Kerala I revisit most often in my memory, it is that afternoon.

Not because of what happened.

Because of what didn’t.

For a few precious hours, nobody needed anything from me.

I wasn’t someone’s daughter.

Someone’s wife.

Someone’s employee.

Someone’s responsibility.

I was simply a person sitting on a boat, watching the world move past.

And that felt unexpectedly freeing.

As the sun began disappearing behind the coconut trees, the water turned gold.

Not bright gold.

Soft gold.

The kind that lasts only a few minutes before evening quietly takes it away again.

I remember standing near the edge of the boat.

Watching the reflection ripple across the water.

And for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I felt grateful.

Not excited.

Not overwhelmed.

Just grateful.

For the trip.

For the extra two days.

For the rain.

For the forest.

For the simple fact that we had said yes.

Life had given us dozens of reasons to postpone this journey.

And for once, we had ignored them.

As darkness settled over the backwaters, Saurabh joined me.

Neither of us spoke for a while.

The silence felt familiar now.

Comfortable.

Like an old friend.

Finally he said,

“You know what I’m thinking?”

“What?”

“We almost didn’t come.”

I looked out at the water.

Then back at him.

“Let’s not think about that.”

He smiled.

“Agreed.”

The next morning we left Alleppey and drove back to Kochi.

The trip was ending.

At least officially.

But somewhere deep down, I already knew something.

The journey home would not be the same as the journey that had brought us here.

Because the woman returning to Kolhapur wasn’t quite the woman who had left it.

And I think Kerala knew that before I did.

Chapter 7: The City That Let Us Go

By the time we reached Kochi, the trip already felt different.

Not finished.

Just different.

The way the last few pages of a good book feel different from the first.

You know the story is ending.

You simply aren’t ready for it.

The rain had followed us again.

Not the heavy rain that greeted us in Munnar.

Just a light drizzle.

Enough to darken the roads.

Enough to leave tiny reflections shimmering beneath streetlights.

After checking into the hotel, we rested for a while.

Neither of us spoke much.

The silence felt comfortable now.

Like something we had learned during the journey.

As evening approached, Saurabh looked up from his phone.

“Want to stay in?”

A week earlier, I probably would have said yes.

I was tired.

The trip had been long.

The next day we would be travelling home.

But something inside me resisted the idea.

“No.”

He looked surprised.

“No?”

“I want to go out.”

“Anywhere specific?”

I thought about it.

Then shook my head.

“Not really.”

That answer surprised me more than it surprised him.

The old me always needed a plan.

A destination.

A reason.

This time I just wanted to walk.

So we did.

Fort Kochi felt older than every place we had visited so far.

Not historic.

Old.

The kind of old that doesn’t try to impress anyone.

The streets seemed comfortable with themselves.

Rainwater flowed quietly along the edges of the road.

Old buildings stood shoulder to shoulder.

Wooden balconies overlooked narrow lanes.

Brightly painted doors appeared unexpectedly between weathered walls.

Somewhere nearby, I could smell coffee.

And the sea.

A combination I would forever associate with Kochi.

We walked without purpose.

Without urgency.

Without checking maps every few minutes.

The rain came and went.

Sometimes falling softly.

Sometimes disappearing completely.

At one point, we turned into a narrow lane.

Then another.

Then another.

Eventually Saurabh stopped.

“Do you know where we are?”

I looked around.

The truth was, I had no idea.

A week earlier that answer would have worried me.

Now it made me laugh.

“Not really.”

He laughed too.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“That means we’re doing it right.”

We continued walking.

No destination.

No schedule.

Just curiosity.

And somehow that felt enough.

By the time we reached the waterfront, evening had begun settling over the city.

The sea stretched quietly into the distance.

Grey water beneath a grey sky.

The horizon barely visible.

People wandered along the promenade.

Children ran ahead of their parents.

Vendors chatted with one another.

Couples sat looking out at the water.

Nobody seemed in a hurry.

I had noticed that throughout Kerala.

The mountains.

The forests.

The backwaters.

Even this city.

Every place seemed to operate at its own rhythm.

And somewhere along the way, I had started following it.

We found a place to sit.

For a while neither of us said anything.

The sound of the waves filled the spaces between conversations.

A light breeze carried the smell of rain across the water.

“What are you thinking?”

Saurabh asked.

I smiled.

The question felt familiar.

He had asked it several times during the trip.

Usually when I was staring at something.

A mountain.

A forest.

A stretch of water.

Back then, I always answered the same way.

Nothing.

The funny thing was that I was usually thinking about everything.

This time was different.

For the first time in days, I wasn’t thinking about tomorrow.

Or work.

Or responsibilities.

Or plans.

I was simply there.

Listening to the sea.

Watching people pass.

Existing inside the moment.

“Nothing,” I said.

And this time it was true.

The rain returned just as we stood to leave.

Softly.

Almost gently.

We began walking back through the streets of Fort Kochi.

Neither of us hurried.

There was no point.

The trip was ending.

That much was unavoidable.

But for the first time, I wasn’t sad about it.

Perhaps because I had finally understood something.

I had spent most of my life believing happiness came later.

After the work was finished.

After responsibilities were handled.

After the timing became perfect.

Kerala had quietly taught me something different.

Sometimes happiness is the thing you choose before everything else is finished.

As we turned the final corner and headed back toward the hotel, I looked up at the rain and smiled.

Years later, when people ask what I remember most about Kerala, they expect me to mention a destination.

Munnar.

Thekkady.

Alleppey.

Fort Kochi.

The truth is simpler than that.

I remember how it felt.

And somehow, that has always been enough.

Chapter 8: What I Wanted You to Remember

For a while, neither of us spoke.

The room felt quieter now.

Outside, evening had settled over the neighbourhood.

The wedding invitations still lay scattered across the table.

Half-finished decisions waiting for another day.

Snigdha slowly turned her empty coffee cup between her hands.

Then looked at me.

“So?”

“So what?”

“That’s it?”

I laughed.

“What do you mean, that’s it?”

“I don’t know.”

She searched for the right words.

“I thought there would be something bigger.”

“Bigger?”

“A lesson.”

“A conclusion.”

“Some grand piece of elder-sister wisdom.”

I shook my head.

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

She smiled.

Then looked down at the invitation cards again.

For a moment, I thought the conversation was over.

Then she asked a question I wasn’t expecting.

“Do you think it was really Kerala?”

“What do you mean?”

“The way you talk about it.”

She paused.

“It sounds like the trip changed you.”

Maybe she was right.

Maybe she wasn’t.

I thought about the rain in Munnar.

The tea stall.

The waterfall hidden in the forest.

The silence in Thekkady.

The slow water in Alleppey.

The rainy streets of Fort Kochi.

Then I shook my head.

“No.”

She looked surprised.

“No?”

“No.”

“Then what changed you?”

I smiled.

“The decision.”

“What decision?”

“The decision to go.”

For a moment she didn’t say anything.

So I continued.

“I spent most of my life waiting for the right time.”

“The right time to travel.”

“The right time to do something new.”

“The right time to take a break.”

“The right time to be happy.”

I looked at her.

The wedding invitations.

The endless planning.

The endless future.

“You know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“The right time never arrived.”

She laughed.

“That’s not very encouraging.”

“It’s true.”

Life never becomes perfectly organised.

There is always another responsibility.

Another bill.

Another reason to wait.

Another reason to postpone something.

The trip happened because, for once, we stopped waiting.

The room fell silent again.

Somewhere outside, a motorcycle passed.

Then another.

Ordinary sounds.

Ordinary evening.

The kind that never seem important until years later.

Finally Snigdha spoke.

“You know what scares me?”

“What?”

“What if I become one of those people?”

“What people?”

“The ones who keep saying ‘next year.’”

I smiled.

Because for the first time that evening, she wasn’t asking about Kerala.

She was asking about herself.

And that meant she had understood.

I leaned back in my chair.

“Then don’t.”

She laughed.

“That’s your advice?”

“That’s my advice.”

“Very profound.”

“I know.”

We both laughed.

Then she became serious again.

Just for a moment.

“Do you ever wish you could go back?”

“To Kerala?”

She nodded.

I thought about it.

The rain.

The mountains.

The forest.

The sea.

Then I smiled.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Because I already had.

Hundreds of times.

Every time I told the story.

Every time I remembered the waterfall.

Every time it rained unexpectedly.

Every time I looked at a photograph and remembered a feeling.

The trip had ended years ago.

The memory never did.

But instead of saying all that, I simply looked at my sister and smiled.

“You’ll understand after your first journey.”

She rolled her eyes.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The elder-sister wisdom.”

Maybe she was right.

Outside, the first drops of rain began tapping softly against the window.

Neither of us noticed immediately.

When we finally did, we looked at each other and laughed.

Somehow it felt appropriate.

And for reasons I still can’t explain, I thought about Munnar.

Not the mountains.

Not the views.

Just the rain.

The same rain I once blamed for ruining our plans.

The same rain I wouldn’t change if given the chance.

The same rain that had quietly taught me that not every beautiful thing arrives the way you expect.

And perhaps that’s true for journeys too.

Some stories end with a destination.

Ours ended with a decision.

To go.

To stay a little longer.

To stop waiting.

And years later, that still feels like the best decision we ever made.