Going off script: Our front row view of another Kerala story

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a day ago

Growing up in Uttar Pradesh and Bihar, the only Kerala story we ever encountered was the one in our GK books. It was the state with the highest literacy rate, an equitable gender ratio and a capital city that was notoriously difficult to spell.
These days, however, back home, thanks to a National Award-winning film, it's a very different Kerala story doing the rounds. One filled with ISIS recruits, love jihad, and forced conversions.
Which one is real?
Perhaps there are as many Kerala stories as there are tellers.
As migrant students living in Thiruvananthapuram for the last seven years, this is the one we choose to share.
A dignified life
It's often said that the state is most visible in its absence. Who would know this better than two PhD scholars from North India, brought into Kerala by life's strange design?
Kerala is far from perfect. It has its own hierarchies, tensions, and exclusions. But in our years here, we've caught glimpses of what the world could look like when human well-being is prioritised, not just in reports and indexes, but in the quiet practices of everyday life. Where the right to a dignified, pleasurable life isn't tied solely to one's income.
Used to fending for ourselves, for everything from healthcare to, at times, even personal safety, we couldn't help but gawk at the public infrastructure here. Coming from Bihar, now infamous for setting records in bridge collapses, we have watched with disbelief as Kerala's roads withstand some of the harshest monsoon rains without giving in to potholes.
From punctual, airy buses to trains with sparkling clean general compartments, and smooth-running hospital OPDs, nothing appeared short of a marvel to our eyes.
When a beloved campus cat fell seriously ill, we felt helpless. We realised that there was a government veterinary clinic nearby but we approached it with little faith in the system – and no money in our pockets.
Our half-stray cat received the kind of treatment that even VIP human patients back home struggle to access. She was referred from the clinic to the district veterinary hospital and eventually to the super-speciality centre. She underwent blood tests, ultrasounds, IV drips, and finally a surgery that saved her life. All of it was almost free of cost.
But it not just our cat who got this special attention. During the Covid-19 pandemic, we were both in precautionary quarantine after travelling back to our institution. In most states, the focus then was still on getting basic facilities in place. In contrast, we received regular calls from Kerala's health department checking up not on just our physical health but also mental wellbeing, offering to arrange calls with psychological counsellors if needed.
At a time when we ourselves forgot our emotional needs, someone on the other end of the phone was remembering to ask.
Another astonishing experience for us was attending a state-level pre-budget meeting open to the general public. The state finance minister was presenting proposals not just to bureaucrats, but to representatives from farmers unions, trade unions, business associations, academicians and more.
From those showering praise to those with sharp criticism, everyone was given space. We sat quietly at the back, trying desperately to remember who the finance ministers of our states even were.
Kerala doesn't make a show of its efficiency. But in our time here, we've come to recognise the many invisible ways the state does its job, and in how the people here don't just hope but expect it to perform. Welfare is seen as a right, not a favour.
We've gradually come to see that you don't always need a new scheme or a ribbon-cutting to feel the state's presence. Sometimes, it's enough that the bus comes on time, the road holds, and the cat is treated.
Leisure for all
In much of India, leisure is a class-coded luxury. Something to be earned, often reserved for the middle and upper classes, and mediated through gated spaces and expensive entry points. But in Kerala, leisure feels more evenly distributed. It is not seen as a rare break from survival, but as part of the rhythm of life itself.
As we approached a pet store to buy treats for our now-healed cat, our auto driver too joined us to buy fish for his aquarium. An ordinary moment on the surface, yet a quiet reminder of the deep inequalities back home. Where in Uttar Pradesh would an auto driver have the time, headspace and financial ease to indulge in a hobby like fishkeeping?
Every evening, as the sun begins to set, another deeply Malayali ritual quietly unfolds, one we've joyfully embraced. By 5 pm, people from all walks of life begin lining up at the countless tea stalls that dot Kerala's landscape. Inexpensive chaaya, kaapi, and lemon tea are relished alongside ulli vadas and parram puris, with a side of hot debate thrown in.
Construction workers and IT professionals queue at the same stalls. Women, though fewer, are also present and it is not too unusual to find a Jaguar beside a two-wheeler in the same queue.
In a country where leisurely spaces and simple pleasures are becoming increasingly unaffordable, Kerala offers a different template. One where joy is not a privilege, but part of the everyday landscape.
Everyday environmentalism
One of the quiet blessings of living in Thiruvananthapuram is having the blue flag beaches of Kovalam and Varkala in near vicinity. However every time we plan a trip to the sea, we find ourselves facing the same amusing dilemma – how to store our wet clothes after a swim?
Single-use plastic bags are so rare in Kerala that you would be hard pressed to find one, even if you're willing to pay. Newspaper wraps, brown paper envelopes, and the ever-versatile banana leaf usually come to the rescue.
On a visit to the famous Athirappilly waterfalls, our plastic water bottles were tagged at the entrance and checked again on the way out to ensure they hadn't been discarded into the forest.
Here, waste is seen not just as a personal issue but a shared responsibility. Waste segregation norms are taken seriously, and recycling and composting are household activities.
At our own institute, compost pits generate biofuel that helps power the kitchens. The idea of sustainability isn't framed as a painful chore but simply as a way of life.
Radical egalitarianism
At our institute, the cleaning lady who handles waste segregation arrives on a scooty, wears gloves and often shares a canteen table with us, chatting between bites. She has an everyday ease that still feels radical to those of us who grew up in deeply caste-coded and class-divided spaces.
This sense of dignity extends across the state, including to migrant workers who form the backbone of Kerala's economy. The state refers to them not as outsiders but as guest workers. In conversations with migrants from Uttar Pradesh, Bihar and neighbouring states, we've come across stories that stay with us: a coconut shop-sitter earning Rs 30,000 a month; a dosa stall worker whose employer gives him a month-long paid break and pays for annual flights home; an entrepreneurial Bengali migrant who began as a daily wage earner and now runs a thriving food stall selling Bengali delicacies.
These are quiet reminders of what work can look like when dignity is built into the everyday.
The Kerala model of development has long been debated in academic circles, but its true meaning can only be felt by living it. Up close and over time. Especially after spending much of one's life in states that routinely rank among the lowest on development indicators.
In the end, there can be many Kerala stories. But this is the one we witnessed. Curious, wide-eyed, and from the front row.