India: Kerala – A day in Thakkedy

🌿 Thekkady: From Spices to Spectacle

Our journey from Alleppey to Thekkady was a vivid transformation from tranquil waterways to the misty highlands of Kerala’s Western Ghats. As we left behind the shimmering backwaters and palm-fringed lagoons, the scenery gradually changed into a rugged panorama of hills, forests, and spice plantations. The air grew cooler and lighter as the car climbed higher, winding through lush slopes thick with cardamom and pepper vines. Occasionally, the forest canopy opened up to reveal tea estates glinting in the afternoon sun, and small villages where roadside stalls were piled high with bananas, coconuts, and fragrant spices. It felt as though we were travelling from one world to another — from the humid stillness of the lowlands to a region that seemed to breathe with the scent of the earth itself.

The approach to Thekkady was breathtaking. The road twisted through deep green valleys and dense jungle, with sudden clearings offering sweeping views of cloud-draped peaks. Every bend brought a new glimpse of Kerala’s wild heart — monkeys darting across the road, spice farms with drying peppercorns laid out on mats, and homes with tiled roofs tucked among banana trees. By the time we reached our hotel, it was mid-afternoon. Thekkady felt untamed and alive, the air rich with the aroma of cardamom and eucalyptus. It was easy to understand why this region, bordering the Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary, has long been celebrated as one of Kerala’s great natural treasures.

🌸 Our Exploration of Thekkady

It was Prakash, our ever-resourceful driver, who suggested that we experience two of Kerala’s traditional art forms while in Thekkady — a Kathakali performance and a Kalaripayattu martial arts show. He had spoken to one of his local friends who knew where to find both, and by the time we unpacked our bags, he had already made a few calls. We agreed without hesitation. After a day of travel through the mountains, a taste of Kerala’s culture seemed the perfect way to round off our arrival.

But first, there was the matter of the ayurvedic massage. The place was a short walk from our hotel, tucked down a quiet street where the air smelled faintly of camphor and sandalwood. The moment we arrived, we realised this was no luxury spa. The massage rooms were down a steep flight of stairs, and halfway down, a troop of monkeys eyed us suspiciously as if guarding the entrance. Inside, I was led to a small, dimly lit room. My masseur, a muscular man with impressive shoulders, handed me a paper G-string and instructed me to lie down. What followed was an hour of intense, occasionally painful kneading, involving vast quantities of herbal oil. At one point, he seemed to be using his chest muscles to massage my scalp, an experience that was as bewildering as it was memorable. When I emerged, I smelled faintly of sesame oil and pain relief balm — but I had to admit, I felt remarkably loose-limbed. Karen, however, was far less enthusiastic about her session.

🎭 The Art of Kathakali

Back near our hotel, the Kathakali theatre was already filling with visitors when we arrived. The performance began, as always, with the elaborate process of makeup — though this time it was shorter than the one we had seen in Kochi. The actors transformed before our eyes, their faces painted in vivid greens, reds, and yellows, with intricate headpieces that towered above them. Even though the story was the same mythological tale we had seen before, this performance felt more alive. The actors moved with sharper precision, their gestures and facial expressions more vivid and dramatic. Every flick of the eye, every twitch of a muscle conveyed emotion — rage, devotion, sorrow — in a way words never could.

Kathakali is not a quick or casual art. Each motion is rehearsed for years, each gesture codified within the tradition. The rhythmic drumming and chanting built an atmosphere of mounting tension, and the small stage seemed to pulse with life. We could feel the sweat, hear the stamping feet, and sense the concentration behind every movement. The audience, half tourists and half locals, sat rapt. When the final scene concluded — the hero triumphant, the villain vanquished — there was a brief, reverent silence before applause filled the hall. Compared to the performance in Kochi, this one felt rawer, more connected to its roots. It was theatre not as spectacle but as ritual — something living, not just preserved.