I didn’t know what to expect when I stepped off the train in Thrissur. A local friend had told me, “If you’re in Kerala during April, you must see Pooram.”
What he didn’t say was that I’d feel it in my bones.
The morning of the festival, the town was already wide awake, draped in gold and anticipation. I followed the crowd to Vadakkunnathan Temple, my eyes darting between flower vendors, young girls in kasavu skirts, and boys chasing balloons shaped like elephants. But it was the sound that got me first—the chenda melam.
Thunder without rain. It rose like a wave, pulling me into its rhythm before I even saw the source.
And then, they appeared.
Caparisoned elephants. More majestic than I ever imagined. Each one standing like a mythical guardian, head high, eyes still. Their foreheads were adorned with golden nettipattam, and behind them, the kudamattom began—umbrellas flipping in a riot of colors, met with deafening roars of approval from the crowd.
I stood shoulder to shoulder with locals, grandmothers and children, strangers and saints. There was no ‘me’ anymore. Just us. One body swaying to the drums, eyes locked on a sky pierced with fireworks in broad daylight.
The scent of jasmine mixed with gunpowder. My clothes, soaked in sweat and temple dust. But I’ve never felt more alive.
I didn’t understand every chant. I didn’t know the legends.
But in that moment, I understood Kerala.
It’s not just a place—it’s a pulse. And for one sacred day in Thrissur, I was lucky enough to feel it beat from the inside.
