The Boatman of Kochi

A few weeks back, I embarked on a solo trip to Kochi, Kerala. It was an equal parts work and an equal parts 'wrap your head around life’ kinda trip. There was no real itinerary. All I knew was I wanted to be close to the backwaters , visit the famed Fort Kochi area and eat one of the delectable chocolate cakes and take in the wonderful art at Kashi Art Cafe. I was also looking forward to fitting in a meeting with a very dear friend. 

I landed in Kochi just before dawn on a red-eye flight from Sharjah. By the time I got into a cab, fatigue was gnawing at me. What should have been a ninety-minute drive to my hotel turned into an endless crawl through traffic. The digital map mocked me with a frozen ‘35 minutes to destination’ for nearly an hour. Just as I was about to give in to irritation, the skies opened. It rained with the kind of balance only nature knows: gentle enough to enjoy, strong enough to stir something in the heart.

I pretended to be in a Hindi movie and stuck my hand out just enough to feel the rain drops on my palms. I'm sure the driver judged me but after leaving the 50-degree heat in a desert country and not seeing rain in over a year, I didn't care too much. 

The traffic seemed like the only dampener in Kochi. Everything else felt like a gift. The hotel staff were kind enough to upgrade me to a suite with a breathtaking view of the Marine Drive. The view was magnificent, the coffee strong, and I even had two bathrooms, one of which I promptly converted into a makeshift dressing room. For a moment, life felt perfectly aligned.

I wrapped up a few work tasks and met a friend later that evening. We talked endlessly, ordered a lot of food, ate absolutely nothing, and managed to rack up a beverage bill that could have easily fed a small family. We parted ways and I head back to the hotel to call it an early night. 

Only to be woken up by the staff who had arrived at my room with a plate of Mutton Biriyani. Between all the jet lag and lack of sleep and pure excitement I was running on, I'd forgotten my order. But I quickly wolfed down my dinner and knocked off. 

The next morning I was up bright and early and decided to visit the Fort Kochi area. It was a 45-minute drive from my hotel and it was a scenic drive with bridges arching over water, roads flanked with coconut trees and little glimpses of daily life unfolding on either side.

My first stop was Kashi Art Café. Just as I had imagined, it was a sanctuary of art and warmth. I lingered over installations, one in particular—birds painted against a collage of newspaper clippings—spoke to me with its unique amalgamation of flight and words. Over pancakes and hot chocolate, I let myself sink into the mood of the place. There was no room to try their renowned chocolate cake, but I did ask for them to pack it up for me. 

I asked the staff at Kashi what nearby areas they recommended and they told me that a street called Peter Celli Street was right around the corner. They told me it was a good place to get a glimpse of colonial architecture. They also mentioned it was a beautiful spot to get photographs taken. 

If you know me, you know I’m not someone who enjoys being in front of the camera, thanks to my less-than-photogenic tendencies. But capturing pictures OF a place is an entirely different story, and that alone can have me walking for miles. So, after thanking the staff, I set off toward Peter Celli Street.

Even before my eyes spotted the street sign that indicated it was Peter Celli Street, I knew I was in the right place because of the many photo ops that were taking place there. A young girl stood with one leg placed against the wall giving the camera that was photographing her a smoldering look. Probably for her modelling portfolio, I assumed. A young couple stood in another corner pulling off awkward poses that their photographer was recommending. Perhaps this was their pre-wedding shoot I assumed. And in yet another spot, another young couple. The man, kneeling down had his hands placed on the woman's belly. I had to squint a bit to see the baby bump. 'Should have probably waited a month or two before they did this,' I remember thinking to myself. 

But a second later, I smiled at their eagerness to capture beginnings before they had fully arrived. Happiness, I realized, does not wait for perfect timing.

Then I spotted a young girl, perhaps a few years younger than me. Looking a little lost. I wondered if I looked like that. Among a sea of people, who were there with purpose, celebrating life, new beginnings, some of us walked alone, no real reason to be there and yet here we were. She pulled out her phone to try and get a selfie but she was clearly not happy with it. 

Without thinking, I crossed the road and asked if she’d like me to take her picture. She agreed with a shy smile, and after a few clicks she offered to do the same for me. I declined, admitting my reluctance to be photographed, and walked on. There was something comforting in the exchange, like two strangers quietly acknowledging each other’s solitude.

The hours slipped away as I explored Fort Kochi: the beaches, the giant Chinese fishing nets silhouetted against the sea, the haunting calm of the Dutch Cemetery viewed through its locked gates. Even overgrown grass could not dim its dignity; it felt like a bridge to the afterlife.

The heat - and the weight of two heavy laptops- was slowly starting to bear down on me and it was time to head back to the city. My cab driver turned out to be from Kasargod, close to my own city, and in the half-hour that followed we traded fragments of our stories. He gave me his number, insisting I call him directly next time for a discounted ride. Small kindnesses like his dotted my entire trip.

Later that evening I wandered to Marine Drive. The crowd was thicker than I expected, but it was my last night in Kochi and I was determined not to waste it. Tour boats ferried groups of tourists across the water. I hesitated to join them; the thought of drifting in close quarters with thirty people felt stifling rather than serene. 

And then I noticed a small speedboat docking, carrying just a couple who thanked the boatman before stepping ashore. Almost without thought, I walked up and asked for his price. He quoted me for half an hour. I nodded.

It was only after I was in the boat did questions like 'is this safe?' pop into my mind. But there was just something about the boatman that made me feel in my gut that he could be trusted. So, when he asked if we were ready to move, I nodded my head.

I watched in silent awe as the Kochi shoreline, with skyscrapers and affluent shore-side buildings disappeared from sight and the landscape shifted. It felt great to be out in the waters. I sat right at the bow, elbow resting on my knee taking in the beauty. A few minutes later, I looked at the boatman and asked if it was okay if I got my lifejacket off. He asked if I could swim and when I replied in the affirmative, he seemed happy. Perhaps he saw how much being there meant to me. Which was when he said, “Madam, if you have one-hour, I can take you till the backwaters.”

I was in a real dilemma. Knowing perfectly well that should I take the 1-hour trip, it would definitely be dark before we got back. And yet, still I was yearning with all my heart to do it. It took a bit of courage (and what my roommate would later describe as a dash of stupidity), but I asked him to take me till the backwaters. He gave me a revised price and I nodded my head in agreement. 

Turns out, signing up for the hourly package, gets you special privileges. The boatman asked if I wanted to steer the boat. I refused politely, not wanting to break the spell of silence between us. Instead, he pointed to a portable speaker tied above his seat and asked if I had Bluetooth. 

I nodded my head violently in excitement and in sign language and mono-syllables, we managed to connect my phone to the boat speaker. I went to my 'recently played' and let the music take over. The music drowned out the low hum of the speedboat engine and that was one of the last thoughts I remember having before being transported to another world. Radiohead's 'Motion Picture Soundtrack' played a few times. Chappell Roan's 'Picture you' also played quite a few times. 

We sailed past a few Chinese fishing nets and it was around the same time that the rain began to pelt down. The makeshift tarpaulin cover of the boat did not give us much shelter because of the winds and for the next few minutes we went through choppy waters. For a minute I debated if getting the lifejacket off was a good idea. 

The boatman, ever so sensitive to my shifting moods, spoke and said, “Don't worry, Madam. No problem.”

I gave him a wry smile and hoisted the life jacket across my lap as some sort of protection from the rain. We sailed a little closer to the shoreline and a couple of kids who were playing in the rain spotted us sailing by and threw a wave in my direction. I waved right back. 

As we entered the backwaters, everything slowed. The water smoothed out, the sky muted and my mind went utterly still. I'd had a similar 'quietening of the mind' experience when I'd gone Scuba-Diving a year ago and this came pretty close to that. 

In that moment, every worry I had carried with me dissolved. The city, the work, the future..they all seemed so small compared to the vastness of nature. I brushed off a solitary tear that I'd no idea had gathered in the corner of the eye. 

"Madam, turn back?" The boatman asked. 

I looked at my phone and realized it was almost 7pm and there was barely much light left. He had kept his end of the bargain and we'd already been on the waters for more than 40 minutes.

I nodded and we slowly turned back.

For the benefit of the boatman, in my strange attempt to not make him feel left out, I decided to play some Hindi music on my ride back. Amit Trivedi's 'Madhubala' and Prateek Kuhad's 'Kadam'  rang loud and clear and provided the perfect background score for what felt like a good farewell. 

By the time we docked, the rain had turned into a downpour. I stumbled off the boat, trying not to topple into the water. As luck -and my own poor planning - would have it, I did not have an umbrella on me and I was soaked to the bone. 

The boatman took one look at my sorry state and handed me over his umbrella. “You take, return some other time.” I told him I would be leaving the next day. His response stayed the same. 'Some other time.' 

I thanked him profusely and left. 

Walking back to my hotel through the Kochi rain, umbrella in hand, I felt the city lingering with me like a secret whispered at dusk. In just thirty-six hours it had given me more than I had asked for. The freedom to lose myself on winding streets, the warmth of an old friend’s laughter, the unexpected grace of strangers who asked nothing in return. And then there was the boatman, who for one fleeting hour let me borrow his world, and who sent me away carrying not just his umbrella but a memory that would shelter me long after the rain had stopped.