The little town of Kannur wakes gently, not with the blare of honking horns, but with the low, rhythmic pull of the sea against the shore and the distant calls of fishermen heading out at dawn. The town, tucked along Kerala’s northern Malabar coast, wears its history lightly: Portuguese, Dutch, and British traces scattered in the faded buildings, spice-scented lanes, and the unmistakable aroma of freshly baked Thalassery biryani, simmering in small home kitchens.
I make my way past narrow streets lined with shuttered shops and coconut palms, the scent of the sea hanging in the humid air, until the remnants of Dutch Fort rises in the distance as a silent, ochre sentinel above the Arabian Sea. Built in 1708 by the British East India Company, its thick laterite walls still bear the scars of centuries, and the old cannons perched on its bastions point toward the horizon as if still guarding the trade routes once brimming with pepper, cardamom, and tales of intrigue. I climb the uneven ramparts, brushing my fingers over walls made of jaggery, lime, and stone, the sun warming the rough surface. Below, the sea glimmers, dotted with fishing boats painted in every colour of the rainbow. From above, you can see the boats returning, laden with the morning’s catch, bobbing gently with the tide like children at play.
Descending toward the harbor, I arrive at a chaotic, intoxicating life of the fish market. Fishermen drag nets heavy with glistening mackerel, kingfish, and the odd silver pomfret. The air is alive with shouts, the slap of scales on wooden planks, and the pungent tang of the sea. Women in cotton saris or 'maxis' haggle with a practiced eye, while children dart between crates, their laughter ringing like tiny bells. A fisherman grins, wiping his hands on his dhoti. “Fresh from the Arabian,” he says, and I can almost taste the salt and the sun baked into its scales. Around me, locals exchange gossip, the smells of frying fish mingling with wet sand and coconut husks. And all the while, the fort looms overhead —not as a relic but as a living witness. Its cannons, once aimed at foreign invaders, now seem to watch the rhythm of everyday life: the boats rocking, the nets cast, the chatter of a community that has survived centuries of trade, conquest, and exile. On a small hilock is an early 20th century colonial bungalow which used to be a judge's residence. A short walk leads me to a great mosque built with wood: the Odathil Mosque built in 1806. A dark thin man is squatting on a window frame, waering lungi and shabby shirt. "I'm Portuguese, bu I live in Kannur,"he informed me. I kept a straight face.
Kannur's Dutch Fort represents a life shaped by the sea, where the past is remembered in stones and cannons and lives in the hands, voices, and laughter of the fishermen who return each morning to a sandy shore that has nurtured them for generations.
