This is a personal love note to Kerala. I feel blessed to be a daughter-in-law of Kerala, even though I don’t live there. All through my years in Delhi, thanks to my curly hair, people assumed I was from Kerala (stereotypes at their best). Well, destiny took those questions seriously and made me a daughter-in-law of Kerala.
When you live in a dry, dusty, concrete-dense city like Ahmedabad (where I live now), you long for trees—unless you belong to another universe of brutal consumerism. So, every time I visit Kerala, I get excited at the thought of savouring its gentle beauty. That first glimpse of Kerala’s landscape from the plane window always lifts my mood instantly. Kerala’s lush greenery feels like a soothing song.
My first brush with Kerala was some 25 years ago, and it still makes me smile. When I first visited as a brand-new bride, my husband’s aunt asked me, “Deepika, chor indaka?” I was thrilled, thinking how dramatic it was to have a chor (thief, in Hindi) in the house in broad daylight. Even as I imagined putting up a brave fight against the intruder, I discovered that chor in Malayalam simply means rice. My aunt-in-law was just asking if I would like some!
I have always admired the Malayali sense of humour. On that same trip, one of those cool, sharp-tongued aunts told my husband she was relieved he didn’t have a brother-in-law. In her view, a wife’s brother usually brings plenty of nuisance value and little else!
With each visit, my love for Kerala’s food deepens. My smartphone now holds my mother-in-law’s neatly typed recipes for erissery, thoran, inji puli, kadala curry and more. On a good day, I can polish off five parippu vadas in one go. They are my absolute favourites. I once spoke so fondly of them that Hussain, our navigator during a Kerala trip, offered to buy them for me.
What I find liberating in Kerala is its natural food diversity. It isn’t forced, performative or political—it just is. People eat what they like, and let others do the same. That quiet acceptance is a beautiful lesson in respecting choices. It saddens me to see food elsewhere being communalised or politicised. Kerala’s culinary rainbow is magic.
And then there are Malayalam films. Once you start watching them, it’s hard to sit through many current Hindi films. I have a long list of favourites—Attam, Ullozhukku, Sunny, The Great Indian Kitchen, and more. Each time I rewatch them, I marvel at the originality and brilliance of Kerala’s filmmakers, actors, and cinematographers.
As a journalist, Kerala also delights me for another reason—you can see people everywhere, at verandahs, gardens, and tea stalls, reading newspapers with intent.
These days, my new love is palada payasam. Give me my share of sadya with a generous serving of it, and all will be well in my universe.
This note would be incomplete without mentioning Gulab, an auto-rickshaw driver. Gulab is timeless. Time doesn’t dictate him; it seems to wait for him. He once took us from Kalepally to Kalpathy, a heritage village. After dropping us off, he told us to call once we were ready to leave, insisting he would come back for us. Earlier that morning, he had kindly waited outside a pre-primary school while we spent time with the children.
Everyone in town seemed to know Gulab’s ‘time sense.’ Every phone call to him was met with the same reply: “I’m on my way.” Shopkeepers and vendors chuckled as they watched the three of us sitting on the verandah of a crumbling house, waiting.
At one point, I craved a samosa, and my friend quickly brought me one—served on a plantain leaf, a South Indian touch. It was delicious. We even passed time taking photos. Still no sign of Gulab. After a while, every auto-driver began to look like him—until suddenly, the real Gulab appeared. Time, as they say, stood still.
Living in cities and chasing deadlines has made us impatient. We are always hurrying, trying to ‘manage’ time. But with Gulab, time bends to his will. He is the boss. Ordinary mortals like us can only wait.
So, as Kerala celebrates Onam today, I celebrate Kerala’s people, its uniqueness, and its breathtaking landscape.
Happy Onam, once again.
Deepika Sahu has been a journalist for 29 years and she has worked with some of India’s leading media houses. Right now, she is independently engaged in content creation and curation. Twitter: @menondeepika | Instagram@moodydeepika | Facebook: Deepika Sahu
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