The Sweet Everything of Coconut Lagoon, Kumarakom
AI has permeated into our all conversations. Awkward pauses are now filled in with pepperings of ChatGPT, varying from vague to downright technical, as per understanding. Shop-talk steeps with coffee and make-believe words and worlds suffixed with verse. But none of them managing to achieve the enchantment or the organic physical poetry of the word - at least, not yet. And it had me thinking of that - organic, physical poetry. The soft lapping of waves against the prow of a boat. The satisfying thunk of teak nestling into teak, as you close a hundred year old door. The ephemeral caress of the morning sun on the more photogenic side of a fuchsia water lily. The beautiful but steadily rising lake that waits like a magnificent predator - gorgeous and placed but all teeth and claw when it comes down to real business. The lake that schemes with climate change and apathy, to take over the lands that it now sustains. Kumarakom is all about this organic, physical poetry. And just how fleeting it all is.
There is that obscene beauty about this place - the kind we associate with youth. Opal cheekbones and slim shoulders. Collarbones that hold light, the way morning clouds hold the dawn. Blood red hibiscus lips pouting at the sun, willing and winning favours with just one look. An untethered, free spirit that skips as lightly as sunbeams on a prolifically beautiful lake. I’ve wondered if the name Kumarakom came from this characteristic. The place holds itself with the air and easy assurance of a young prince who is yet to grow into enormity and arrogance of his birth. A golden boy, not yet spoilt - quite like the young, cherub-faced Lord Subramanya or Kumara, whose namesake the island is supposed to be. The blue horizon hedged by the jade of palm fronds and the warm air persuades you to slow down, that you still have time, that you’re young. It convinces you that you’re on holiday. I don’t know how people get any work done here - the scenery is too damn distracting. A siren constantly singing in your ear.
CGH Coconut Lagoon holds court over the Vembanad Lake from a majestic cove that’s accessible only by boat. That’s your first clue and cue - that, out here, one must just surrender. To call the boat ride to Coconut Lagoon, a “Boat Ride” is to do it severe, plain, unpoetic injustice. The steady hum of the engine and the answering chuckle of the water, as they take you further and further away from the sound of car horns and into the heart of the lake. While you, yes gawping, loose-jawed you, dumbstruck at the sheer tenacity of the green around you, feel every bit of the privilege that this is. This isn’t granted - all this beauty that you’re drinking in greedy, thirsty gulps. You’re aware that what was once free is becoming a privilege and comes at a price - but that’s just the cost of existing, isn’t it?
Gentle flute music brings you back from your pessimistic philosophising to the moment - a page in time that’ll fondly be bookmarked in gold, soft whiffs of sandalwood and a deep sense of tranquility. It is quiet enough to hear the rustle of the handloom fabric worn by the hospitality staff, the hum of the wooden beams, the crooning water, as they try to harmonise with the flute solo. An early afternoon sonata that’s working itself into a full bodied orchestral piece.
You sip on refreshing tender coconut water, straight out of the coconut, while you check-in. The wood-heavy architecture looks every bit authentic and vintage because they are. Many a broken down tharavadu or traditional Kerala homestead has found a second life at Coconut Lagoon. These earthy-toned, wood and tiled behemoths that were designed for the joint family, turned out to be too expensive, too bothersome and too outdated, much like the concept of a joint family itself. What was meant to last forever and bequeathed from one generation to the next, were stripped down and portioned off to accommodate more convenient, far less aesthetic, concrete structures that couldn’t be more distant from their beautiful ancestors. This is where ecologically and culturally conscious resorts like Coconut Lagoon come into play as preservers - holding space for architectural traditions that are on the verge of disappearing altogether. Each cottage is a carefully reconstructed ode to an architectural past that was at once austere and magnificent.
The afternoon sun begins to soften and the shadows get longer, the guests throng towards the main courtyard. A stately lady in a crisp saree rows down one of the many canals on her little canoe with tea and snacks. The light mimics the goldenness of the tea, turning all the little canals that divide the property into tree shadow and tree reflection, into liquid gold.
And there is me - sitting in comfortable wooden chairs, eating my fried snacks, sipping tea and gossiping with my mother, sister and husband. All of us golden, in this benediction of an evening. A tortoise leaves its golden home and decides to joins us as we go back for seconds. In this moment, we are aristocrats albeit stupidly dressed ones. We are touched by a more discerning Midas.
The evening deepens as the trees come alive with flitting shadows and phantom bird calls. Spirits of real royals arrive in feathered disguises, darting in the leaf light. The lake beckons and we answer. The sunset cruise is balm for the harried soul. The flautist who welcomed us at the reception joins us. Sweet flute music and the Vembanad twilight - I don’t know seven other words that fail so miserably in capturing its very own essence. It is sweet, it is sorcery, it is gorgeous.
The sun flambes the lake, as a murmur of ibis bring the purple of the night on their wing. Slowly spreading dark on the otherwise iridescent oyster shell sky. The enormity of the mighty Vembanad hits you, as the jagged, palm-fringed horizon looks further away than you imagined. At the heart of the lake, the impending blackness of the night has a different meaning. It’s a dark peopled by waifs, moans of unrequited loves and demigoddesses of twisted intent. We arrive back to the shore, guided by lamplight and distant temple bells. Lamps in the sky mirror the little flames of the sandyadeepam. The practice of lighting a lamp to officiate the passing of day into night feels a bit less ritualistic and more necessary here.
We go back to the main courtyard for a pre-dinner bharatanatyam performance. The dancer’s anklets echo in the quietness of the night, and I feel the surrounding trees drawing closer to our little orb of light and living. Silent spectres and spectators, wanting to partake in the enchantment of the performance. Magical things drawn by magical things.
The Kuttanad region is blessed in every way and its cuisine is as bountiful as its scenery. Our dinner at the Ettukettu was replete with the flavours and meats and textures of the region. Fat steaming grains of Kerala’s famous matta rice, cuddling with the best gifts the lake has to offer - prawn, duck, karimeen, crab - food that’s just as much for the soul as it is for the stomach. Resort food usually feels more like “last resort” kind of food. But not so in CGH properties - the food always stays true to the flavours and variety of the community. The kind that creates a deep, restful quiet in you, lulling you to sleep almost as soon as you hit the bed.
As always, as per holiday traditions, I woke up early next morning. I decided that I should commune with the dawn - whatever that means. I snuck out of the cottage and sat in the half light, observing the comings and goings on a canal from the cottage’s verandah. A phantom laughs in the bushes - a thick unnerving laugh. A heron guffaws - a sound as startling as the white underwing that flashes as it flies. Meanwhile avian histrionics are well at play. Dawn falls like a soft silk slip. Slides on the surface water, gently awakening it. Quite not unlike goosebumps.
I decide that I should join the morning bird walk and what a rewarding activity it turned out to be. We walked across paddy fields, and by the edge of lake and under the trees straining our eyes, looking out for a change of colour in the leaves. For plumage in the foliage, the quick dart of colour across the sky, or a placid little fellow simply enjoying its morning swim. The squirrels are fat fellows here and my god, aren’t they in a mood in the mornings. My severe case of holiday FOMO has always held me in good stead and this early birdwatcher was rewarded with many bird sightings.
Looking for birds, while the golden Vembanad morning wakens the colours and shades of its watery horizon is not half bad a way to spend the morning. In a few hours we would leave this tiny heaven with its beautiful wooden cottages and blue skies and teeming-with-life lake. In a few hours we would go back to back to the commonplace. But for a few hours, we were aristocrats albeit stupidly dressed ones.
