From Train Window to Kerala Temples: A Journey That Brought Back My Words

It all began with the soft rattle of train wheels and the sight of sunlight filtering through fields. I was just a quiet observer, staring out of the train window, when something shifted. The green blur of trees, the distant silhouette of a temple, and the rhythmic sway of the train somehow felt like poetry. I wanted to hold on to that moment forever. But a photo wouldn’t do justice. I didn’t want an image. I wanted to relive the feeling. So, I wrote it down.

That was the first time I ever truly wrote. It wasn’t a planned beginning. It was instinct.

From that day, I started scribbling wherever I went — in class, in the park, at cafes, in dusty hotel corners on school trips. The world became my notebook. Every little thing began to whisper a story: the lady in the red sari at the temple gate, the street dog sleeping under a sugarcane cart, the aroma of filter coffee in a railway canteen.

But like every journey, mine had its bumps.

When Words Felt Heavy

Over time, the magic faded.

What once came pouring onto the page like a monsoon cloudburst began to feel like a leaky tap. I stared at blank pages. The stories around me continued, but I couldn’t find the words. Every sentence I wrote felt forced. Every notebook stayed half-empty. I was stuck.

Then came the break I didn’t know I needed.

My parents, perhaps noticing the cloud of stillness around me, suggested a trip to Kerala — a state that had always felt like a second home to my heart. The journey was simple, unpretentious. Just us, a few bags, and the promise of green.

Little did I know, the writer in me was waiting at the state border.

The First Breath of Kerala

As our car rolled into Guruvayur, I could already feel the change. The air grew gentler. The sun felt warmer, but softer. Tall coconut palms stood like silent poets along the roadsides. Banana leaves rustled like paper. Even the breeze carried the scent of something old, something sacred.

I closed my eyes and listened.

Birds chirped in rhythmic verses. Distant temple bells chimed like punctuation marks. Somewhere, a temple drum echoed.

And just like that, the block began to lift.

Guruvayur: Where Devotion Writes Its Own Verse

The Guruvayur Temple is not just a place. It’s an emotion wrapped in incense and prayer. Walking barefoot on the temple floor in the early morning, I felt the cold stone and warm energy beneath.

People moved in quiet devotion, carrying offerings. Some cried. Some smiled. Some closed their eyes as if listening to something deeper.

I watched a child offer a single jasmine flower.

That night, in our cozy room (booked effortlessly through cheQin.ai, which found us 5 of the best hotel deals without a single scroll-fight), I picked up my pen again.

And this time, the words came back.

Writing in the Cradle of Culture

After Guruvayur, we drove towards Thrissur. Often called the cultural capital of Kerala, Thrissur felt like a celebration in motion.

Our first stop was Vadakkunnathan Temple. The mural-covered walls and centuries-old trees whispered stories I could never have imagined.

Every stone, every chime, every barefoot step around the temple premises felt like a word returning to me.

At Snehatheeram Beach, as waves touched my toes and seagulls traced arcs in the sky, I wrote again. This time, not about the beach, but about how freedom feels when it returns. I wrote about the silence between waves. I wrote about how sometimes, you don’t lose words — they just wait for the right setting.

Nature’s Poetry in Kerala

Driving through the winding roads, I saw life in vibrant detail. Fishermen casting nets at dawn. Elephants walking with dignity through temple gates. Women selling fresh jackfruit on roadside carts. Kids playing cricket in rice fields.

Kerala didn’t just rekindle my writing. It rewired my senses.

At a local homestay in Thrissur, I sat by the window sipping spiced tea. It started raining, lightly at first, then like a concert. The world outside turned into a watercolor painting.

That evening, I wrote my longest journal entry in months. I didn’t worry about grammar or punctuation. I just poured.

The Subtle Magic of Movement

Travel doesn’t give answers. But it nudges questions. It awakens forgotten parts. It shows you a sky you hadn’t noticed in your rush to exist.

Kerala reminded me that creativity isn’t about constant productivity. It’s about presence. Watching. Absorbing. Trusting.

And yes, having a smooth journey matters. With cheQin.ai, we didn’t waste precious time scanning hundreds of hotel sites. It gave us quick, budget-friendly options with clarity and ease — which meant more time for temple walks and sea gazing, and less time grumbling over where to stay.

From Pages to Purpose

By the time our trip was nearing its end, my diary looked like a jungle of ink and emotions. I had documented temple details, funny roadside moments, overheard conversations in tea shops, and my own little fears and hopes.

What started with a train window years ago had returned with the window seat of our car, now foggy with Kerala rain.

For Fellow Travelers and Writers

To you, the aspiring writer, the reluctant poet, the traveler who’s lost their muse:

Don’t wait for perfection. Start with what you see.

Travel isn’t escape. It’s exposure. Let the world show you a new way to feel.

Let writing be messy. It will clean itself up later.

Book your stays wisely. Apps like cheQin.ai genuinely help you skip the unnecessary, so you can focus on what matters: being present.

The Journey Never Ends

We returned home, but a part of me stayed behind. Somewhere between the temple bells of Guruvayur and the rain of Thrissur, I found my spark again.

And every time I open my journal or type another line, I remember:

Writing didn’t save me.

Travel did.

But writing made sure I remembered it.