ON A RETURN TRIP TO MY FAMILY'S ANCESTRAL HOME IN KERALA, I FOUND THE BEAUTIFUL BEACHES AND FRAGRANT SPICE MARKETS I REMEMBERED — AND SO MUCH MORE

Kerala, in southwestern India, played a crucial role in the ancient spice trade. On a return visit to his ancestral home, one writer finds a place both changed and eternal.

Whenever I think of Kerala, the faces of my grandmothers appear before me. These two women, centers of goodness and strength in our family, frame how I see the land of my parents’ birth. I close my eyes and I’m once again seated in my maternal grandmother’s kitchen, the pampered grandchild back for the holidays, watching clay pots simmer over wood fires and inhaling the aroma of roasted cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, red chilis, and pepper. It is a soothing and quintessentially Kerala daydream, because spices are at the heart of this one state that feels so different from India’s other states, almost like another country.

The “Spice Coast,” as it has been known since the days of ancient Greece, is a ribbon of territory on the southwestern edge of India. Just 360 miles long and 75 miles at its widest, the state sits sandwiched between the Western Ghats — a mountain range that runs parallel to the coast — and the Arabian Sea. A wonderful alchemy of geography, temperature, rainfall, wind, and soil composition allows pepper, cloves, cardamom, and other spices to grow wild on the mountains’ lower slopes. Roman soldiers brought that pepper home from the Spice Coast; later, Arab and Indian sailors made small fortunes selling the seasoning in Venice and Genoa. By the 13th and 14th centuries, the craze for spices — not only pepper but also ginger, cloves, and cinnamon — was sweeping Europe.

"Our holiday visits to their ancestral homes in Kerala felt like a return to a land that existed before time. At dusk, in the years before electricity arrived, the gentle glow of oil lamps enhanced the night. The unforgettable meals were all sourced from our family’s properties and nearby streams, prepared and consumed that day."

Astonishing medical claims fueled the frenzy, including the assertion that ginger smeared on flagging body parts could restore virility. For all that, no one in Europe seemed to consider dry-roasting and powdering the spice, then frying it with mustard seeds, shallots, and perhaps cumin, turmeric, and coriander, to make a masala, the first step in so many Indian dishes.

What made these spices so valuable was not so much their flavor as the difficulty in procuring them. The urgent desire to find their source (which the Arabs naturally kept secret) eventually brought the Portuguese, French, Dutch, and British to India. England enslaved and plundered the country for two centuries, first through the East India Company and then through crown rule. So many of the magnificent edifices of government and education in Britain were built on this loot. (Even the word loot is stolen from the Indian vernacular.)

My older brother and I were born in Ethiopia, where my parents were hired to work as teachers. Our holiday visits to their ancestral homes in Kerala felt like a return to a land that existed before time. At dusk, in the years before electricity arrived, the gentle glow of oil lamps enhanced the night. The unforgettable meals were all sourced from our family’s properties and nearby streams, prepared and consumed that day. During my medical-school years in Madras (now Chennai) I visited regularly, but after my grandparents’ passing and the sale of their homes, there was little reason to return. Still, over the course of the past 10 years, while I was researching and writing a novel set in Kerala, I went back multiple times. Soon after The Covenant of Water was released in May 2023, I set off on one more visit, this time to fulfill a vow.

My partner, Cari, and I landed at Kerala’s southern end, in the capital city of Thiruvananthapuram (formerly Trivandrum), and planned to travel north through the length of the state. It was Cari’s third trip to India, but her first to Kerala. She grew up in Hawaii, a place whose lush green foliage, coconut palms, and beaches I find so reminiscent of Kerala.

Despite major growth and development, Thiruvananthapuram retains a sleepy, small-town feel. For centuries, maharajahs from one lineage ruled from here over “Travancore” — present-day central and southern Kerala. They worshipped at the Sree Padmanabhaswamy Temple, an awe-inspiring and beautiful shrine, making lavish offerings to the temple’s deity, especially when invaders from the north threatened. In 2011, a court-ordered inventory of the temple vaults revealed hillocks of gold jewelry, precious stones, gold coins, and stone-encrusted idols weighed down with diamonds and gold chains. The value of the temple’s treasures is estimated to be in the trillions of dollars.

We chose to stay two nights outside the city in Kovalam, a popular beach town, at the splendid Leela Kovalam, a Raviz Hotel. This sprawling property is perched on a cliff, with panoramic views of the ocean and a private beach below. Upon our arrival, the Leela’s chef took us to the hotel’s organic garden to pick produce for our thali lunch. A thali is a complete meal: rice with many small dishes, including dessert, served on a single dish or banana leaf. Ours came in a round stainless-steel tray embracing an inner circle of stainless-steel cups. These held bitter gourd in a coconut curry; red spinach and green chiles in a fiery red curry; okra fried with onions — which we had picked that morning — along with yogurt, lobster curry, fish curry, and pickle.

The second night, the chef set a table for us near the beach. The water lapped close by as he plied us with delicacies including karimeen, or pearl spot fish, a great Kerala favorite, which he prepared by marinating it in a paste of onions, chiles, and spices, then steaming it wrapped in a banana leaf.

We drove north from Kovalam to my father’s hometown of Mannar, and the nearby Parumala church, a famous pilgrimage destination for the Christian community in Kerala — my community. Dad was an altar boy at Parumala; his father, who is buried there along with my grandmother, was a deacon. Legend has it that Christianity came to India in A.D. 52 with the arrival in Kerala of Saint Thomas, “Doubting Thomas” of the 12 apostles. He converted a few Brahmin families. Today that community, the Saint Thomas Christians, has grown to 6 million, though they make up just 18 percent of Kerala’s population. Parumala holds the tomb of the first saint of our church, Mar Gregorios (1848–1902).

Christians from Kerala put great store in prayers to Mar Gregorios, and visiting the saint’s tomb was the main reason for this trip. At one point during the 10 years I spent writing The Covenant of Water, I broke my contract with my original publisher — I felt they didn’t get the story. It was a scary time, with the fate of my manuscript uncertain, and an advance to repay. I took a vow then that I’d come to this tomb if the novel ever got published. It did. Indeed, it succeeded beyond anything I could have hoped for — a miracle, as far as I was concerned. And so now, as I stood at the saint’s tomb, shoulder to shoulder with Cari and so many others, all of whom had their own reasons for being there, I was overwhelmed with gratitude, and the tears welled up. I felt one with the faith of my forefathers; the spirit of my late mother, so instrumental to the genesis of my novel, was present. My prayers had been answered. My vow was fulfilled.

We drove on to Kottayam, a town in central Kerala that is the epicenter of the state’s Christian community. Kottayam has many churches, some so close together that the sermon in one could serve both congregations. It is also the home of my college friend Jacob Mathew, or “Chacko,” who is part of the fourth generation of the family that has published Kerala’s Manorama newspaper since 1890. The Manorama, a daily staple of my grandparents’ lives, now has 17 million readers. Chacko’s late mother published 27 cookbooks; it’s a rare Keralan house that doesn’t have at least one of them. Chacko’s wife, Ammu, continues the great culinary tradition. At her table we feasted on my favorites: appam (a pancake made from rice flour) and fish curry; erechi olarthiyathu (a beef dish); and some dishes that were new to me, such as a dessert of tapioca and coconut milk crowned with tender toasted coconut.

Chacko had generously arranged — indeed insisted — on having his car and driver meet us when we arrived in Kerala and stay with us on every leg of our journey. It was a huge help. Saying our goodbyes to Chacko and Ammu, we got on the road again. From Kottayam, we headed to the backwaters, hundreds of miles of natural and man-made canals, which in the pre-automobile era were Kerala’s highways, transporting goods and people across the state. Our destination was Kumarakom, a village on the shore of the vast Lake Vembanad — India’s longest and South India’s largest lake. Homestays, small hotels, and vast resorts hug the shore; bird-watchers come to visit the Kumarakom sanctuary nearby.

We stayed at Kumarakom Lake Resort — or “KLR” — a Paul P. John property. John, a Christian from Kerala, is best known for his single-malt premium Indian whiskey, which shocked connoisseurs by winning medals internationally and capturing a sizable world market share. I think Paul John whiskey is better than any single malt (but I won’t tell my Edinburgh friends).

KLR is a “heritage” resort, at the heart of which are two large, repurposed family homes that have been transported to the property; one houses KLR’s signature restaurant, the other its superb ayurvedic spa. The buildings showcase the classic features of traditional Kerala architecture: peaked roofs with exquisitely carved and decorated wooden gables; inner and outer courtyards and broad verandas; windows, doors, and wall vents designed to maximize airflow. The guest villas are miniature versions of the two larger homes. Ours had teak walls polished to a beautiful finish, heavy wooden doors with ornate locks, and cement floors painted with red oxide. Each of these villas also has a private swimming pool. The interiors felt so familiar that on my first night I dreamed about my grandparents — their house was built by a skilled carpenter, or Ashari, following ancient Vedic principles in terms of the house’s position on the plot, its orientation to the sun, and the prescribed ratios for the support beams and roof timbers.

"Now, as I stood at the saint’s tomb, shoulder to shoulder with Cari and so many others, all of whom had their own reasons for being there, I was overwhelmed with gratitude, and the tears welled up. I felt one with the faith of my forefathers."

Chacko and his family keep a motorboat on Vembanad Lake, and he had made arrangements for us to get a backwater tour. The next morning, just before the sun rose, we met the boatman on the KLR jetty. Vembanad was as smooth as glass, and would have seemed endless had we kept going north. But we soon steered away from its center, toward a shore that unfolded to reveal the entrance to a broad channel. There were raised mud embankments on either side of this passage, beyond which flooded fields stretched away in the distance. These are the rice paddies of Kuttanad, where, for more than two centuries, rice has been cultivated below sea level, making use of ponds, reclaimed swamp, and lagoons and using an elaborate system of irrigation and drainage.

We were lucky to spot a toddy tapper climbing down from a tall palm tree, his tools hanging from his belt. Toddy is the sap from the palm’s flowering top. Each day the tapper “taps” on the fruiting body to soften it, makes a few incisions, then inverts a clay pot to collect the sap. The next day he empties the receptacle, and repeats. We purchased his fresh toddy, which ferments at once, its taste for now sweet and tangy. By lunchtime it would have the potency of an IPA. Toddy shops abound all over Kerala, housed in nondescript shacks. They famously serve a fiery cuisine — which requires you to drink more to douse the flames.

We passed several houseboats during our excursion. These converted rice barges are air-conditioned floating suites, complete with pilot and chef. We would have loved to have spent a week on a houseboat, exploring the far reaches of the backwater, and a second week relaxing at KLR. But we didn’t have enough time, and Cochin (or Kochi, its new name) beckoned.

Kochi — “The Queen of the Arabian Sea,” as it is called — is a congregation of islands where backwaters and ocean meet that, once a modern harbor was built in 1920, anchored the spice trade. Most visitors will choose, as we did, to spend their time exploring Mattancherry and Fort Cochin, neighborhoods where the city’s rich history is most evident.

Negotiating the gridded streets of Fort Kochi, we arrived at Brunton Boatyard. As the name implies, this classic colonial building, with its tall arches and pillars, was once a prosperous boatyard owned by an Englishman. It has been beautifully transformed into a hotel, its hallways and walls decorated with colonial artifacts. On the broad veranda you can close your eyes and imagine the privileged life of a British expatriate as you stretch out on a teak-framed recliner, sip a gin and tonic, and let yourself be cooled by the shore breeze.

Brunton Boatyard is steps from the seawalk; from there we watched the ferries shuttling between the surrounding islands. Stalls selling fresh fish offered an education on the species that abound in the Arabian Sea: sardine, mackerel, pomfret, mullet, seer fish, prawns, and mussels. In the early mornings you might see fishermen bringing in a fresh catch, including crabs, lobster, and tuna. Our stroll brought us to the iconic “Chinese” fishing nets, cantilevered over the water by wooden beams like giant cranes; no tourist leaves Kochi without photographing these structures.

The St. Francis Church was also on our walking route. Built in 1503, it was the first European church in India. We stood alongside other tourists and stared numbly at the vault where Vasco da Gama is not buried. (He was, briefly, entombed here, but then his body was taken back to Portugal.) This Catholic church became Protestant in the Dutch era, and Anglican when the British came.

Our last stop was Mattancherry, once home to the large spice markets where traders came to bid and barter. Now this quaint part of Kochi is famous for its antiques shops, many of them selling wonderful artifacts recovered from old ancestral homes, such as doors, arches, decorative panels, and locks. Mattancherry once had a large Jewish community, but most left after the creation of Israel. The neighborhood of Jew Town remains — its label is not derogatory, but a designation given over time as more Jewish people arrived in the area. The synagogue is the main attraction. On a visit I made in 2000, a congregation of fewer than five people remained. Now the congregation is nonexistent; its members have all either died or emigrated to Israel.

Once the sun set, we were back in Fort Kochi, which now took on a different character, the returning sea breeze having brought about a revival. The foreign backpackers who had been tucked away in hotels in the side streets emerged, looking pleased, as though they might stay forever. Families came out to stroll, teens to meet friends. Kochi is host to the popular Kochi-Muziris Biennale, which began in 2012. It has had an effect on the city that lasts all year: art galleries buzz with visitors, and coffee shops and elegant restaurants light up the street. The ocean was dark and invisible, illuminated only by the lights of ferries crisscrossing between islands like fireflies.

Our time in Kerala had run out. There was so much more to see: the wildlife sanctuaries in the jungle preserves of the Western Ghats; the cities of Kozhikode (formerly Calicut) and Kananur (formerly Cannanore) farther north; visits to the estate regions of Wayanad, or Munnar, where tea and rubber are grown on mist-shrouded slopes; perhaps a stay in one of the many individual estates —properties that encompass thousands of acres — where the original planter’s home has transformed itself into luxury lodge or hotel, far from the crowds of Kochi and Thiruvananthapuram. We planned to come back again, next time for a longer, more leisurely stay. Cari, an anthropologist, had loved learning about the history and culture of Kerala, and meeting my friends and extended family, seeing my roots.

When Vasco da Gama landed in Kerala in 1498, he claimed he was there to bring Christian salvation to the heathens. Little did he know that Christianity had been extant there since A.D. 52. And here I was, a descendant of those first Indian Christians, returning to fulfill my vow. It felt good.

Where to Stay

Brunton Boatyard

The 26 rooms at this Kochi hotel, once a British shipyard, draw on colonial style and overlook the point where Lake Vembanad meets the Arabian Sea.

Kumarakom Lake Resort

This luxurious heritage resort on the shores of Lake Vembanad has a number of villas modeled after manas, the traditional homes of the region — as well as larger pavilions and even houseboats.

The Leela Kovalam, a Raviz Hotel

From its clifftop location, this 188-room resort, a member of Preferred Hotels & Resorts, has superb views of the Arabian Sea. Ask for one of the four suites in the former Halcyon Castle, a 1932 royal building that has been restored.

A version of this story first appeared in the August 2024 issue of Travel + Leisure under the headline "Still Waters."

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