Monsoons, Appams, Power Cuts and Taoism: My Rain-Soaked Tech Adventure in Kerala

It was in 2011-12, and I had started my new career after leaving my government job. It was a new journey and with a degree from a prestigious business school from India, I was eager to explore new experiences in sales.

The Rain-Soaked Journey to Kerala ??????

The rain had started in Bangalore before I even left. Fat, lazy drops tapping against my window, sliding down in rivulets as if the city itself was trying to hold me back. The monsoon had arrived early that year, eager to claim the roads, the trees, the dust-laden air. The purpose of my journey was to implement a new learning management software across several higher education institutions in Kerala. The government had approved the initiative to modernize classrooms, replacing paper records with digital systems, streamlining coursework, and enabling remote learning. On paper, it was a revolutionary step forward. In reality, it was a battle against many odds, and, as I would soon learn, the monsoon itself. It made everything seem dramatic, like a setting from an R.K. Narayan novel—buses honking in frustration, chai vendors pulling plastic sheets over their carts, and the unmistakable smell of wet earth rising from the streets.

I checked my bag one last time—laptop, charger, spare shirt, and an unnecessary umbrella, knowing full well the rain in Kerala was the kind that laughed at umbrellas. It soaked you from angles you didn’t even know existed.

By the time I reached the Bangalore bus stand, my shoes had already absorbed enough rainwater to feel like small ponds. A Karnataka RTC bus (It was called Luxury bus in those days), its blue-and-white body streaked with dried mud from a hundred other journeys, was waiting to take me to my next destination: Kerala. Specifically, Mappalpuram—a small town that, for me, was not just a place but an assignment. A government software project. My job was simple in description, complicated in execution: oversee the implementation, make sure the system worked, and convince faculty and principals that technology was not, in fact, the enemy.

I boarded the bus, found a window seat, and settled in, watching the city blur past as the driver maneuvered through rain-slicked streets. The rhythmic clatter of windshield wipers matched the drumming of rain on the roof.

The journey had begun.

Sleeping on a bus is a privilege few possess. Between the erratic acceleration, the symphony of snores from fellow passengers, and the occasional water droplets seeping in through an uncooperative window seal, rest was a distant dream. The man next to me had curled up against his seat, arms crossed, head bobbing like a metronome with every pothole we hit. He seemed content, possibly used to this journey, while I was still trying to find a comfortable position that didn’t involve my knees being permanently folded into my chest. If there are drunk passengers in an AC bus, instead of exhaling carbon dioxide they exhale ethanol (Hello organic chemistry, am I right?) fill the air with the smell of alcohol. I am sure many of the passengers will have the dream of boozing.

The bus cut through the night, the highway stretching ahead like a silver ribbon under the glow of streetlights. Outside, the rain blurred neon signs, transforming them into smudges of red and yellow, making the world seem softer, dreamier.

The bus pulled into a desolate bus stand at exactly 4 AM, as promised by the conductor, though I had secretly hoped for a delay. It was pitch dark, save for the occasional flicker of a streetlight struggling to stay alive in the relentless rain. As I stepped off the bus, my shoes landed in what I could only assume was a knee-deep puddle, soaking me instantly. The driver and conductor barely acknowledged my existence before shutting the door and rumbling off into the distance, leaving me alone with the sound of rain hammering the tin roof of the deserted shelter.

I checked my phone—no signal. The only sign of life was a sleepy stray dog curled up under the only dry patch of concrete, eyeing me warily as if questioning my life choices. There was nowhere to sit, and standing still only made the dampness seep further into my bones. So, I did what any sane person would do—I paced, waiting for the sun to rise.

It was an entirely different experience that I remember for my whole life. It was 4 AM ??????????and no human beings were there and I was transported to a different world where I was like an alien in an old bus stand in the pitch dark not knowing where to go. It was kind of fun, fear and hopelessness, ora mix of many emotions.

Once in a while, I could see buses passing nearby not entering the bus stand and I was desperately waiting for the human beings to get down from the buses.

Minutes passed. Then an hour. I watched the sky, waiting for the black to fade into something resembling morning. Slowly, the dark blue of the horizon turned into a shade of grey, and the outline of trees began to emerge from the mist. The first chai shop opened, its owner groggily rolling up the shutters. Civilization. Hope. I made my way over, my stomach growling, ready for a cup of sweet, steaming black Kerala katta chai and perhaps, just perhaps, a dry place to sit. I hurriedly went near the chai shop and asked him about the hotels nearby. (MakemyTrip and Goibibo were not so famous those days and luckily I was not aware of OYO??).

Mappalpuram was exactly how I had imagined it: lush, rain-drenched, and moving at its own unhurried pace. Government offices in India have a peculiar smell, a mix of old files, ink, and bureaucracy itself. This one was no different. I stepped inside, water dripping off my bag, and was greeted by a peon who barely looked up from his newspaper.

“Saar, you have to sign here first,” he said, pushing a register towards me with the same enthusiasm one reserves for a Monday morning.

I signed, nodded, and waited. Government work, after all, was an art of patience.

Outside, the rain continued. The monsoon in Kerala wasn’t just weather; it was a presence, something that wrapped around you, seeped into your bones, and made you feel both insignificant and alive at the same time. I took a deep breath, the scent of wet earth and the rain lingering in the air. The journey was long, the project daunting, but at that moment, with the rain drumming a rhythm only Kerala understood, I felt at peace.

If you are open-minded, you can feel bliss even in sales. I said even in the sales profession.

The office was a cavernous space, lined with metal cabinets filled with ancient files whose edges had turned brittle with age. A few ceiling fans rotated lazily, barely disturbing the thick, humid air. A government officer, wearing a white shirt that had clearly seen better days, peered at me over his glasses.

“Software implementation, ah?” he asked, more statement than question.

“Yes, sir. We will be rolling out the new system this week,” I said, trying to sound authoritative.

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “You IT people from Bangalore (ah, all Bangloreans are IT people) think everything is simple. But here, nothing is simple.”

I used to sit on that side of the table. In the sense, I was a government employee for a few years and I knew the rules of the game. I knew what to tell and what not to tell. Life is so funny. When we were kids, we used to play 'Police - Thief game'. In the game, you become the police and chase the thief, and you have to be the thief, and your friends chase you. Life is also like this. You wear different hats and play the gam, and if you do not enjoy the game, you will be in misery.

I had heard this before. Every office had a similar skepticism when it came to technology. The trick was patience—and chai.

“Shall we discuss over a cup of tea?” I suggested.

His expression softened. “Ah, now you are talking sense.”

A peon was sent to fetch tea, and I settled into my chair. This was how things moved forward—one slow step at a time, just like the journey itself.

Over the next few days, I found myself in smaller towns like Birunani and Nishna Cross, each drenched in rain, each with its own rhythm. At a tiny eatery in Nishna Cross, I discovered the joy of appam—soft, lacy-edged rice pancakes with a gentle sweetness, paired with a fragrant stew of coconut milk, curry leaves, and chutney or Sambar. ( I know, you like it with chicken or mutton). The flavors were warm, comforting, the kind of food that made you feel at home even when you were miles away.

But Kerala, for all its beauty, had its own brand of chaos. The rains had knocked out electricity in several government colleges where the software was to be installed. I arrived one morning, laptop in hand, ready to begin training the faculty, only to be met with a group of professors standing in the hallway, shaking their heads.

“No power,” one of them said, stating the obvious.

“When will it be back?” I asked.

A collective shrug.

“Maybe evening. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week.” (He was OK with it. Taoism was at its peak

I stared at my laptop, which was as useful as a rock without power. The backup generator, an ancient, wheezing machine, tried its best but gave up after a few sputters. We waited. Then waited some more. Someone suggested we pass the time by having tea. Then, inevitably, more tea. By the third round, we had reached a sort of resigned camaraderie, bonded by our collective uselessness.

By evening, as I sat under a tree outside the college, the rain finally relenting, I realized something. In Kerala, you didn’t fight the pace of life—you surrendered to it.

In chinese philosophy, named Tao Te Ching, they say life is like a river, you should flow with the water. If you resist the flow, you will be miserable.

At the colleges, I was welcomed with an easy friendliness that made me feel less like an outsider. The lecturers, dressed in simple cotton saris and neatly pressed shirts, were a mix of old-school academics and younger, tech-savvy faculty eager to see the system in action—whenever the power decided to return. They spoke of their students with pride, of the ways they adapted to change, and of how technology was both a blessing and a challenge in a place where traditions ran deep.

The students, on the other hand, were quick to bring up the one topic that united us all: movies. It started as a passing conversation while waiting for the generator to cough back to life, but soon, we were in the midst of a heated discussion about the golden era of Malayalam cinema from the early 2010s. They swore by movies like Traffic, Ustad Hotel, and Salt N' Pepper, debating whether Fahadh Faasil or Dulquer Salmaan had the best performances of the decade. I found myself defending Drishyam as one of the finest thrillers ever made, while they laughed and called it a film “every Malayali family has discussed over dinner.”

Many of the students wanted to go to either Bangalore or Middle East and our discussion was always about the job opportunities in IT in Bangalore.

(The dream of IT crowd in Bangalore is to escape to Wayanad and experience little rain. I wonder man will not realise the value of the things he has until he loses them).

By the end of the week, I had learned more about Malayalam cinema than I had ever planned to. Between power outages, Banana Chips and tea breaks, I had gained new friends, a deeper appreciation for Kerala’s unhurried charm, and an unshakable craving for appam and coconut chutney that I knew would stay with me long after the project was completed.

As I packed up my laptop on the final day, I found myself reluctant to leave. The project, despite its many hurdles, had somehow come together—just like everything in Kerala seemed to, at its own unhurried pace. The rain continued its endless symphony, the tea stalls remained abuzz with chatter, and the students, now friends, still debated over movies with an intensity that rivaled election debates.

Before boarding my bus back, I had one last appam, letting the soft, coconut-laced flavors linger a little longer. Kerala had taught me patience, taking life easy, and the fine art of surrendering to the flow of life. And as the rain continued to patter against the roof of the bus, I smiled—knowing I would carry a piece of 'Mallapuram' with me, long after the journey had ended.