Changaram: Whispers from the wetlands

I stumbled upon the Changaram wetlands almost by accident.

It was a sultry afternoon in May and the heat and humidity was at its peak. The kind when the coconut trees stand still, as if conserving their breath, and the backwaters hold a dull glint under a sleepy sun. I was heading back home from the Kadamakudy wetlands when an old man at a wayside chai kada mentioned a “shappu” (toddy shop) near Changaram that served fiery fish curry and had views that was better. And he said those magical words...birds.

Intrigued more by the rhythm of the word “Changaram” than the fish curry, as I am vegetarian, I set off the next morning, along a narrow twisting road, past sleepy homes and rusted signboards, glimpses of the sea and found myself in a place that felt suspended in time.

There are not many places to stay but it is just an hour's drive from Cochin. But I wanted an immersive experience so took a room in the lovely Kondai lip resort there.

A Liquid Landscape

The first thing that struck me was the silence. Not the absence of sound, but a kind of watery quietness—a silence that rose from the marshes, mingled with the cries of distant egrets, and settled gently in the soul.

The land here was hardly land at all. Water flowed into everything—fields, pathways, dreams. A narrow bund led me deeper, past clusters of tall grass and half-submerged banana plants. On either side, pools of still water reflected the sky, broken now and then by the flick of a fish or the ripple of a breeze.

I had entered a wetland that breathed—gently, rhythmically, like an old mother rocking her child to sleep.

I took off walking through the narrow pathways, through fishing villages, fish farms, talking to people going about their daily life surrounded by water.

People of the Water

A boy, no more than ten, paddled by in a dugout canoe, whistling. He gave me a toothy grin. A little later, I met Shaji, a fisherman sorting his nets. He told me that the wetlands stretch across seasons and lifetimes. “Our grandfathers fished here,” he said. “And maybe our grandchildren will too, if the waters allow.”

He spoke of bird visitors from Siberia which no longer come, fish that disappeared in the 2018 floods and returned the next year, and how the moon still decides when to cast the net. There was no lament in his voice, just a deep understanding—a kind of acceptance I’ve only seen in those who live close to nature.

A Moment in Stillness

Later, I sat near a bend where the marsh met a stand of tall trees. I watched a pair of purple herons lift off like slow-moving kites. A dragonfly danced on the breeze. Somewhere far away, someone was singing—a tune lost in the reeds, but oddly familiar.

And I thought: this is not a place you visit. It’s a place that visits you and then lives in you; slips into your skin, your breath, your memory.

Why I Write This

I’ve travelled much of Kerala—coastal stretches, highland plantations, forest hamlets—but Changaram felt different. It didn’t try to impress. It didn’t tell stories loudly. It simply existed, wet, wild, and wondrous.

I remembered my childhood when vacations were at my maternal grandfather's house, a village tucked into the foothills of the western ghats.

Places like this don’t make it to glossy brochures. They aren't packaged as 'must-see'. And yet, they hold something essential, a truth about our connection to the land, and what it means to live with water, rather than against it.

So here I am, trying to hold a bit of that truth in words.

And maybe, the next time you're near Alappuzha, you’ll turn off the highway too. Follow a muddy path. Listen to the herons. Speak to a fisherman. And, just for a moment, let a wetland change you and show you the miracle that's nature.

Yes, I did see birds, but the landscape blew my mind.

Have you ever found a place that crept quietly into your heart? I'd love to hear your story. Leave a comment, or better still, come share a chai with me under the rain trees of Cochin.

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