Last weekend, I set off on a road trip with my dear friend Uma and her 20-year-old son, Anand. Traveling with them was both lighthearted and grounding. Anand reminded me of my younger brother, Ashok, who is twice his age in every way—his stature, smile, the bashful confidence, the way he speaks and expresses himself, hairstyle, even choice of clothing. It felt like being with a younger version of someone deeply familiar and beloved.
The initial part of our drive took us through villages in Kovai district before finally reaching the highway near the Kerala border at Waliyar toll gate. It’s because of road work that we had to go through all these winding little roads in the countryside. India is really stepping up its game on transportation infrastructure. Trains are cleaner, faster, on time, and more comfortable. Roads are being rethought, making it easier for people like us to take trips cross country (although I still prefer trains when possible). More airports are springing up in smaller towns and cities, dotting the connectivity.
We then crossed into Thrissur passing through a tunnel:
Our trip included a visit to Uma’s extended family—an aunt and a few cousins—who welcomed us warmly.
One of the most meaningful stops was a special needs school run by a cousin-in-law. I’ve worked with several such institutions in Bangalore over the years, but this one stood out for its unique offerings. The students paint on white cement pots, creating beautifully textured, earthy art. It was a fresh and distinctive approach, unlike anything I’ve seen before, and it reminded me how creativity finds new life in every corner of India.
One of the highlights for me personally was meeting the celebrated poet K. Satchidanandan—something I’d long wanted to do. What struck me was how naturally these encounters happen in smaller towns. As soon as I mentioned his name to Uma’s husband’s aunt, her face lit up with recognition: “Of course, I’ve heard of him!” she said. There’s a closeness, a cultural intimacy in these places that’s often missing in the anonymity of larger cities.
We also visited the Vadakkanathan Temple, one of the oldest and most revered temples in Kerala. Vadakkan means “northern,” and Vadakkanathan is the Lord of the North—Lord Shiva in the form of a linga. The temple complex itself is serene and expansive, with tiled roofs in traditional Kerala style—angled and layered to gracefully direct monsoon rains away. While it’s a Shiva temple, there are iconographies of Vishnu as well, including representations of the sankhu and chakra, and even a small shrine dedicated to Vishnu within the complex. The open lawns and shaded spaces gave the whole area a feeling of home and peace—a distinct quality of temples in Keralam.
Photography wasn’t allowed inside the temple, but we did manage to capture a few pictures just outside—Uma, Anand, and I, smiling against the backdrop of a place that felt timeless.
This weekend reminded me how travel, even brief, can offer layers of memory, reflection, and quiet joy. Whether in a young man’s familiar smile, a pot painted with care, or the cool silence of an ancient temple, life gently nudges us to notice—and to remember.
