There is a peculiar disorientation that comes from being flung backwards in time, as I write this from a tiny village in Kerala where my mother lives. It’s a place wrapped in rubber estates and an endless hush of green, punctuated only by a myriad birds chirping. For me, the greatest hardship here is the absence of WiFi, and the phone signal being at the mercy of the 4G gods. Yet this deprivation slowly teaches me lessons.
My brother flew in from Singapore, and I from Bengaluru, both of us arriving to sort out our mother’s bank work, among other things. Being used to the impersonal service and transactional politeness of big city institutions, we were shocked by what we encountered here: genuine care. At one bank, the problem of a dormant account was sorted out within minutes, as we sat across the table with the executive. At another, the manager invited us into her cabin, spoke gently to our mother, and handed over her personal number. Later that evening, she messaged to ensure everything was resolved. This would never happen in a city.
Even the taxi rides here are different. The driver who picked me up from the airport chatted cheerfully in Malayalam, asking who I was visiting, talking about his children, listening with real interest to anything I shared. Another cab driver spoke about his years in Dubai, telling me why he was back in Kerala. He said that a young Malayali man had died alone in his room. No one noticed for three days. Deeply shaken, he had helped bring the body back to Kerala. ‘Human connections matter so much,’ he said quietly. He had returned to recover, to feel anchored again. Contrast this with city cab drivers who stay glued to their phones or blast music, waiting for the ride to end.
Right now, local body elections are on. Posters flutter everywhere, and jeeps crawl around with loudspeakers asking for votes. Yet there is no frenzy. Even political ambition moves at an unhurried pace. Small moments reflect this ethos. At a roadside tea stall, a man asked for ‘pallum-vellam’, milk diluted with water. The vendor stiffened. ‘We serve only pure milk here,’ he bristled. His is a tiny shop, but he has standards he refuses to compromise.
What also strikes me is that in cities, everyone is chasing something. Deadlines, money, or the next big idea. But here, people have time. The tea vendor has time to take pride in his milk. The bank manager has time to personally check in. The taxi drivers have time to share reflections.
The next day, when hundreds of Indigo flights were cancelled nationwide, mine included, I calmly booked a bus to Bengaluru. What would have been a major stressor for me in the city, the cancelled flight, the scramble for alternatives, felt strangely manageable here. The village had already slowed me down, softened the edges of urgency.
It’s not that this life is better or worse. It’s profoundly different. And spending these days here, drinking unadulterated tea, watching election jeeps drift lazily by, being known as someone’s daughter in a place where everyone knows everyone else, it slowly dawns on me what we’ve traded for speed, convenience, and anonymity.
I’m not entirely certain we got the better deal.