24/05/2025
When the first monsoon rain falls on the red earth, everything softens—the air, the soil, even time itself. This is when the temple trail around Poothali Homestay feels most alive. Not in grand processions or fanfare, but in quiet footsteps, soaked stone pathways, and the smell of wet sandalwood from an early morning pooja.
You begin just after tea, perhaps with an umbrella in one hand and fresh jasmine tucked behind your ear. The nearby Thaliyil Temple, modest and powerful, holds stories whispered by grandmothers and carried by wind. Further on, tucked between banyan trees and village paths, the Sree Madiyan Kulom Temple waits. Its wooden carvings drip with rain, and its inner sanctum flickers with oil lamps, untouched by the world outside.
The trail is not about distance, but rhythm. You stop often—to greet a priest, to watch a coconut fall, to listen to silence. The rain falls, sometimes gently, sometimes in sheets, washing the old granite steps clean for your feet.
Each shrine along the way is a marker—not just of faith, but of memory. This is a monsoon not to escape, but to enter. Slowly. Barefoot, if you like. Letting the gods speak in drizzles, drums, and the rustle of banana leaves.