In this blog post, I’ll share my experiences traveling through Chennai and Kochi, as well as the stories of the people I met there.
Young children feel anxious when their mothers aren’t around, and eventually, that anxiety overwhelms them, causing them to burst into tears. For a child—or anyone, really—there is always something essential, something like a mother, that we simply cannot live without. For me, that thing is “travel.” Like a fish that cannot live out of water, I am always thirsty to set off somewhere, and it is in that moment, standing in an unfamiliar place, that I feel truly alive. That’s why I’ve always tried to get away whenever I had a chance and loved wandering here and there. Perhaps it was because I was exhausted by the midsummer heat, but I finally decided to create that “chance” myself. I resolved to act on the longing I’d kept locked away in my heart before it was too late. There were so many things I wanted to do: a tour of Italy, a road trip through Andalusia, a backpacking journey across Europe. I boldly took a leave of absence from school and worked hard to save up for six months. I read travel books whenever I could, picking out places I wanted to visit and planning my route, all while waiting for the day I could finally set off on a journey that seemed so far away.
Looking back, I still can’t remember what prompted it, but one day, I suddenly felt the urge to go to India. I knew almost nothing about India and had never even thought of going there before, so it was truly strange. As if spellbound, I began researching India and became completely captivated by the charm I saw in the books. My dream of traveling to Europe—which I had waited nearly ten years for—was right before my eyes, and even though I didn’t have enough time to fully devote myself to that alone, I had a strong premonition that I simply couldn’t bear not to go to India. But everyone around me had negative things to say. “You’re definitely not the type who can handle India,” or “You’ll probably buy a ticket back to Korea two days after you get there.” Considering my usual personality, they were right. I was the type who liked things neat and tidy, pursued elegance and refinement, and hated anything dirty, smelly, or chaotic, so everyone was worried. But for some reason, I felt confident that I would be able to handle it, and I felt compelled to go. Eventually, I bought a ticket to Chennai, one of India’s four major cities, and on March 5, I finally boarded the plane.
As soon as I stepped off the plane, which arrived at 11 p.m., a wave of humid heat hit me. Back in South Korea, I had boarded the plane shivering in the late-winter cold, but the moment I stepped off, it felt like I had skipped a season entirely and landed right in the middle of summer. Outside the airport, crowds of people were waiting to greet travelers. People with dark skin and bright white smiles, filled with curiosity and kindness toward a stranger—they readily offered to lend their phones to someone they had just met. This was how India greeted me on my first visit: with smiles, kindness, and intense heat. I’d heard countless stories about how most cars drive like outlaws on the road, missing their side mirrors, but the car taking me to the hotel was white and spotless. But lo and behold, I guess India is still India after all. As soon as I stepped out of the parking lot, I had to talk to a police officer for running a red light, and suddenly I spotted a car coming straight at me from the opposite direction. In the same lane, no less. The car I was in was actually moving into the oncoming lane. We’d been driving in this lane all the way from the airport. I couldn’t believe it. The oncoming car was in its own lane, and the car I was in had been driving in the wrong direction the whole time. During my three months in India, I saw countless instances of people freely using the opposite lane as if it were their own, with overtaking and running red lights becoming second nature, but I still vividly remember that experience from my first day.
On my first day, Chennai welcomed me with a not-so-bad impression. But perhaps I had underestimated India too much, From the very next day, I was taken for a “tour” of downtown Chennai by a rickshawwala (a rickshaw is a motorcycle with a seat attached, and a rickshawwala is the driver) who pretended to be as kind as a father, only to be ripped off. I also got into a heated argument with an Indian man who kept butting in while I was buying a SIM card for my phone. (They sold it to me for over 30 times the price, gave me a SIM card from a carrier I didn’t want, and it didn’t even work. When I demanded a refund, they stubbornly refused, and I couldn’t help but get angry at them.) Due to the sudden change in weather, I lost my appetite and even got sick. That’s how it was. A place notorious even among Indians for rickshaw scams, bustling as one of the country’s four major cities, and with outrageously high prices. That place was Chennai. Within three days, I had mustered up every ounce of patience I had and left. I came to hate the entire state of Tamil Nadu, where Chennai is located, and eventually, I didn’t even want to travel anymore. So, I randomly opened my travel guide to the section on Kerala, a state famous as a resort destination, and decided to make the city of Kochi, featured there, my next destination.
That evening, I bought a ticket for the overnight train to Kochi at Chennai Central Station. I wanted to book a 3A or 2A (3A is an air-conditioned compartment with six beds arranged in three tiers on each side), but they were already sold out, so I had no choice but to take a sleeper compartment (a train car where three-tiered beds are lined up like a dormitory). I’d heard many stories about how dangerous it was, so I was a little anxious, but I boarded the train with excitement about riding an Indian train for the first time. Perhaps I had set my expectations too low, but it wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined. Before nightfall, I chatted with the people around me while enjoying chai (a sweet tea made by boiling black tea leaves with milk, so common that you can’t say you’ve been to India if you haven’t tried it) and snacks sold on the train. Late in the evening, I went up to my berth and lay down. By the time I woke up, I would be close to my next destination, Kochi. The next morning, I arrived safely at Ernakulam Junction Station. I took a rickshaw to the ferry terminal, boarded the ferry, and finally arrived in Kochi. At that point, Kochi was just a brief stopover where I planned to rest for two or three days. It was a time when I could never have imagined I’d end up staying here for nearly two months.
Wandering around looking for a place to stay while carrying a huge backpack was incredibly exhausting. Then I met Chadu, a rickshaw driver who was taking a break, and through his introduction, I decided to stay at his friend’s homestay. I took out the pink silk sari I’d bought in Chennai for my Cochin tour and put it on. Of course, since I didn’t know how to wear it, the homestay owner and her daughter helped me. I had definitely set out with Chadu intending to go on a “Cochin tour,” but after visiting two or three tourist spots, he suddenly started taking me to his own home and his friends’ homes, introducing me to the people there. Although I didn’t get to do much sightseeing, thanks to that, I got to know many people, and after that, through their invitations, I became immersed in the real lives of the locals and spent time with them. Almost every day, I would bring a small gift in response to invitations like “Come visit our house,” play and sing with the children there, cook with the lady of the house, and chat with the man of the house while watching TV. Occasionally, I would hang out with Cha-du and his friends and go all the way to Ernakulam to drink beer, and I even went on a picnic to Attirappalli Falls with a family I had become close to. Also, my friends gave me the name “Surya,” which I really love.
One day, I went to a house where the family was hosting a meal for their friends and neighbors before a wedding. The youngest son of that family was a friend of Chadu’s, so we hung out often, and that’s how I ended up being invited to the meal. It was a family with three sons, and I heard the second son was getting married in a month. For some reason, the mother, father, and the eldest son really took a liking to me. Perhaps because they only had sons, they treated me like a daughter. When they went shopping for wedding gifts, when they were preparing for the wedding, and even on ordinary days, they would often call me over to go with them, showing me things and looking after me. In Malayalam, “Mom” is “Umma,” “Dad” is “Papa,” and “older brother” is “Jaitan.” Whenever they saw me, since they couldn’t speak English, they would speak to me in Malayalam. We communicated through gestures and eye contact, and they insisted I call them Umma, Papa, and Jaitan. Whenever I did, they would light up with joy. In this place so far from South Korea and so different from home, I found people who felt like family to me. There was Mom, who would hug me tightly and always try to feed me all sorts of things; my eldest brother, who looked after me and even snipped my bangs; his wife, who subtly looked out for me as if I were her real sister-in-law; and Dad, who didn’t say much but would always slip away when he saw me, come back with snacks, and quietly hand them to me with a smile.
I spent such happy days here, surrounded by nothing but immense love. How could I possibly leave a place like this? Since I had promised to attend the wedding, at some point I just ended up settling down here. I became close with Baht, the owner of a souvenir shop on the tourist street; Mir, the manager there; and Unie, Baht’s niece and a part-time worker. I came and went from the shop as if it were my own, and I hung out every day with many friends at the street restaurants—people who would always say things like “No money, no funny, but we make happy” or “Don’t worry, chicken curry”—and who actually lived up to those words. I wake up late and head to a fairly famous café called Tea Pot. I enjoy a leisurely brunch while reading the newspaper, then go to Mir’s shop to help out with work here and there, chat, and have lunch with them. Afterward, I chat with my friends at the street restaurants and head to Fort Cochin Beach around sunset. I enjoy a stroll while listening to music, watching the sunset every day, and reflecting on this trip, my life in South Korea, and what the future holds. Once the sun had completely set, I’d return to Mir’s shop and spend the rest of the evening just as I had in the morning until they finished work. When they closed, I’d go back to my room and end the day. I attended a wedding and met many other people; by then, there was hardly anyone around the tourist street in Fort Cochin who didn’t know my name. Day after day, I was showered with so much love, and I, too, poured all my affection into them.
Naturally, as the day of my departure approached, sadness set in, and I ended up bursting into tears on the day I left. I promised to return, said goodbye to each household one by one, and made plans for the future. And so, my life in India as “Surya” came to an end. I believe I experienced true happiness here that I had never felt before. Of course, there’s hardly any air conditioning, finding iced drinks isn’t easy, and the bathrooms are so different from those in South Korea that it’s hard to call the standard of living high or comfortable. Yet, I was able to feel a genuine sense of ease here that I’d never experienced before. This is a place where people willingly offer a love like family to a stranger. People who live each day content with themselves, enjoying life, rather than competing, envying, or resenting one another. This is a place where everyone lives with “No Problem” on their lips. A place where even worrying feels like a pointless waste of time.
To others, this must sound like a truly strange trip. Perhaps it can’t even be called a trip, but here I received nothing but immense love and was able to engrave precious memories—ones I will never experience again in this world—deep within my heart. Even now, after returning from India, I still can’t explain why I wanted to go so desperately or what captivated me so completely. But I have absolutely no regrets about not going to Europe. On the contrary, this trip has become a precious and irreplaceable beautiful memory. There is a phrase called “Inshallah.” It means “Everything is according to God’s will” and is often used by Muslims as a greeting. When we were saying goodbye, someone said this to me: “Everything will be as God wills, and in the end, you’ll come back here,” they said. They say that a person who has a place to return to is a happy person. Having found a place to return to even here, far from my homeland, I suppose I’ve become twice as happy.
