Motorcycle Diaries: Capturing South India's Coastal Roads
# Motorcycle Diaries: Capturing South India's Coastal Roads
Ten years ago, I named a ride "Monsoon" with the naive confidence of someone who thought they could predict Kerala's weather. The irony wasn't lost on me when, three days later, I was riding through bone-dry coastal roads under a blazing sun, my camera gear protected from rain that never came. Sometimes the best journeys are the ones that laugh at your plans.
## The Route That Changed Everything
It started simply enough in Kottayam, my hometown, with a restless feeling that only long rides can cure. The plan was straightforward: chase the monsoon clouds down Kerala's coast, document the rain-soaked landscapes, and return with a memory card full of dramatic weather photography. What I got instead was something far more valuable—a lesson in embracing the unexpected.
**Kottayam to Trivandrum** was familiar territory, roads I'd traveled countless times. But this time felt different. Maybe it was the anticipation of the journey ahead, or the weight of the camera equipment strapped to my bike, but every familiar curve seemed to whisper promises of the unknown.
In Trivandrum, my friend Cyril joined the adventure, climbing onto the back of my motorcycle. One bike, two riders, my camera gear, and the entire coastline of southern India stretching ahead of us. We had planned for rain gear; we ended up needing sunscreen.
## The Coastal Symphony
**Trivandrum to Kanyakumari** is where the journey truly began. The road hugs the coast like a lover's embrace, offering glimpses of the Arabian Sea between coconut groves and fishing villages. The absence of the expected monsoon rain revealed details I might have missed—the intricate patterns of fishing nets drying in the sun, the weathered faces of fishermen mending their boats, the way morning light danced on the waves.
At **Kanyakumari**, India's southernmost tip, we witnessed something that no amount of planning could have orchestrated. Standing where three seas meet, watching the sunrise paint the waters in shades of gold and amber, I realized that the best cinematographic moments aren't scripted—they're discovered.
The ride from **Kanyakumari to Dhanushkodi** took us along Tamil Nadu's eastern coast, a dramatic shift from Kerala's lush greenery to a more austere, almost mystical landscape. Dhanushkodi, with its abandoned buildings and endless stretches of sand, felt like the edge of the world. The ghost town's ruins against the backdrop of the Bay of Bengal created frames that spoke of impermanence and beauty in decay.
## Unexpected Discoveries
**Dhanushkodi to Madurai** was where the journey turned inward. Away from the coast, riding through Tamil Nadu's interior, the landscape became a study in contrasts. Ancient temples rose from modern towns, traditional bullock carts shared roads with speeding trucks, and every frame told a story of a land caught between timeless traditions and relentless progress.
In Madurai, we spent an evening at the Meenakshi Temple, cameras respectfully stored away, simply absorbing the energy of centuries-old devotion. Sometimes the most important part of documenting a journey is knowing when to stop documenting and start experiencing.
## The Mountain Return
The route from **Madurai through Idukki** back to **Kottayam** and finally **Thodupuzha** took us from Tamil Nadu's plains into Kerala's Western Ghats. After days of coastal vistas and temple towns, the mountains welcomed us home with mist-covered peaks and the familiar scent of cardamom plantations.
This leg of the journey reminded me why I fell in love with cinematography in the first place. The interplay of light and shadow on mountain slopes, the way morning mist clung to valleys like secrets, the golden hour light filtering through spice gardens—these weren't just scenic views, they were master classes in natural lighting and composition.
## What the Camera Taught Me
Three days, four districts, two states, and hundreds of kilometers later, I returned with memory cards full of images that told a story I hadn't planned to shoot. The "Monsoon" ride without rain taught me that the best cinematographic adventures happen when you're prepared for one story but remain open to discovering another.
**Every mile was a frame.** Riding with a camera changes how you see the road. You become hyperaware of how light falls, how landscapes compose themselves, how human stories unfold in the periphery of grand vistas. The motorcycle becomes a mobile tripod, carrying you from one visual story to the next.
**Timing is everything, but flexibility is freedom.** We had planned our schedule around weather forecasts and golden hours, but the most memorable shots came from unplanned stops—a fisherman's silhouette against the sunset in Kovalam, children playing cricket on Dhanushkodi's beaches, the way temple lights illuminated evening prayers in Madurai.
## The Technical Journey
Riding with camera equipment and a pillion rider teaches you ruthless prioritization. Every lens, every filter, every accessory has to justify its weight and space. With Cyril on the back, balance became crucial—not just for the bike, but for quick stops when a perfect frame appeared. I learned to think like a documentary filmmaker—traveling light but prepared for anything. A sturdy camera bag, weather protection, and backup batteries became as essential as helmet and riding gear.
The constant vibration of the motorcycle actually improved my handheld shooting technique. After three days of compensating for road vibrations, shooting on solid ground felt remarkably stable. Sometimes the challenges of one medium improve your skills in another.
## Ten Years Later
Looking back at those images now, I see more than just a documentation of places visited. I see the beginning of understanding that the best cinematographic journeys aren't about controlling every variable—they're about positioning yourself to capture the magic that happens when preparation meets serendipity.
That "Monsoon" ride without rain became one of my most referenced projects. Not because everything went according to plan, but because it didn't. The images carry the energy of discovery, the authenticity of unscripted moments, and the visual richness that comes from truly seeing a place rather than just passing through it.
South India's coastal roads don't just connect places—they connect you to possibilities. Every curve holds potential for the perfect frame, every village tells a story worth capturing, and every mile reminds you why sometimes the best camera work happens when you're not trying to make camera work at all.
The journey taught me that monsoons aren't just weather patterns—they're metaphors for the unexpected gifts that come when you're brave enough to follow the road, camera in hand, ready for whatever story wants to be told.