Ever listened to the stories of an outsider about your own city? Somehow, it is always new, something you would not have experienced, about the spots you never travelled to and the things you did not taste. And then you think to yourself, how come I have never seen that place or even bothered to explore when I have lived right here?

“Kochi Kanan povam?” – a question I relentlessly asked all my friends. But like most plans we make with full excitement, this one too was quietly put on hold for reasons none of us really know. Then life decided to bring me back to Kochi in the most unexpected way: an internship. Left with two choices, Bengaluru or Kochi, my mind barely needed a second thought. After all those conversations, postponed plans, and “someday” promises, this finally felt like my chance.

And somewhere between the smiles of auto ‘chettanmar’, the crowded billing queues of Lulu and people navigating rain-fed potholes, Kochi stopped feeling like just another city. It began to feel personal.

Through the eyes of someone seeing it all for the first time, I painted a picture of Kochi – its places, its chaos, its comfort, and the little moments that make you fall in love with the city. From the moment I stepped in, I knew I would keep coming back; it doesn’t matter where I am, it gave me a push when I really needed to get out there.

Dealing with a 9-to-6 job definitely wasn’t on my 2026 bingo card. And finding time to explore the city after office hours, maybe that’s what made it worth it. Especially when your boss tells you to go explore on a Sunday to work on this story. But Sundays would not work for me. So, after office hours, tired but curious enough, I went out anyway, chasing stories, streets, and a version of Kochi I would not have seen from behind an office desk.

Not knowing where to begin, the people of Kochi urged me to start somewhere. I cannot explain the exact feeling, something mixed with both comfort and fear. The comfort of home, people who accept you and treat you like you have been there for ages and then under the surface is fear, a fear of losing all this and returning empty-handed, with a bunch of stories to tell.

It’s funny how Bengaluru is known for its ‘auto-wale bhaiyas’, though not always for the best reasons. In Kochi, however, the first thing that welcomed me was how warm and engaging these people were, always ready for a conversation, a suggestion, or even a small story of their own.

When I arrived with two backpacks and a trolley bag that honestly weighed more than me, one ‘auto chettan’ dropped me off at my hostel and ended up teaching me the entire map of Kochi, all because I nervously asked him, “Chetta, Manjummelil ninn ingottek bus undo? (Are there buses coming here from Manjummel?)”.

Thereafter, it slowly became part of my routine to take an auto to the office every morning. And one thing I caught on to was the ‘auto chettanmars’ absolute love for small talk. It does not matter what the topic was, weather, traffic, politics, food spots, or your hometown, they will somehow find a conversation hidden inside it.

That is how I met one particular chettan who greeted me this morning with an overly enthusiastic “Good morning, madam!” At the same time, I took an awkward five-second pause just to process that someone could be that energetic in the morning. Near his handlebars were these speakers blasting old Malayalam songs, and he kept nodding his head proudly to every beat like he was the main character out here.

Then I noticed the name written behind his seat: “Sheri Krishna.” At first, I genuinely thought it was some slogan or phrase, until I realised that it was actually his name. And the funniest part of all this was that his GPay ID was actually yes krishna, Sheri Krishna.

The curiosity in me could not stay quiet anymore. I leaned slightly forward and asked, “Chettande peru entha? (What’s your name?)”

He turned back with a smile that lit up the whole auto, said, “Sheri Krishna” and started laughing on his own. Then he told me the story behind it; apparently, his grandfather really liked the name “Sheri”. But since one of the neighbour aunty’s sons was also named Sheri, his grandfather decided to make it unique by adding “Krishna” to it.

Our laughs synced. And somewhere between the traffic, old songs, and random conversations between office rides, Kochi began feeling a little less unfamiliar.

After successfully convincing my boss enough to get an off day to explore Kochi, I very productively spent half of it sleeping till noon before rushing out in panic. The plan for the day was simple, mainly because there was absolutely no plan at all. But after nearly having a mini heart attack looking at Uber rates, I had no choice but to come to terms with taking the metro.

I have never liked the metro, though I never really had one legitimate reason for it. Maybe it was the fear of ending up on the wrong platform, missing my station, or simply looking completely lost in a place where everyone else seemed to know where exactly they were going. Especially as an outsider, there is always that quiet anxiety about people noticing you standing in the middle of a crowded station, staring at signboards like they are written in some ancient code.

Everything about it felt overwhelming – people rushing to board connecting trains, brushing past you without slowing down, while you stood there trying to figure out which staircase, platform, or direction would take you where you wanted to go. And strangely, the more you stared at the signs, the more confusing they became.

Even now, I still get confused about which platform leads where. But somewhere between getting lost and finding my way again, Kochi taught me something strangely comforting: it is okay if you do not figure everything out on your own. Sometimes, all you have to do is ask for help, and more often than not, someone here will pause just long enough to guide you in the right direction.

But nobody was there to tell me that Mattancherry shuts down after 7, especially when I had been dreaming of buying those cheap elephant wind chimes, the same kind my mother once bought from Jew Town and hung around our house. The reality check came from an ‘auto chettan’ standing right outside the Mattancherry Water Metro Station. “Jew Street okke adachallo mole (Jew Street has closed down, dear),” he said.

So then, where next? I had no clue. I asked him how far Fort Kochi was. He smiled and replied, “Only 3 km.”

The evening air at Fort Kochi carries a strange kind of stillness despite the noise around it. People walk past, some holding hands, some not. Ferries move slowly across the water, uncles sitting in trios and discussing politics, aunties holding a round-table (minus the table) discussing life with seriousness… and somewhere in between all of it, Kochi quietly continues being Kochi.

A couple, perhaps in their forties, walks past me dressed in matching black and gold outfits, moving together with the ease of people who have spent years understanding each other without needing many words. Nearby, a cat wanders confidently between strangers, demanding scratches and attention. She pauses near me for a second before deciding I am not worthy enough and walks toward a group of men instead, happily accepting their affection.

Just a few steps away, a little girl was arguing with her father over a packet of chips she refused to share. He kept trying to steal one while she clutched the packet tighter, unwilling to compromise. For a moment, the crowd, the sea, and the noise disappeared into the background as their tiny argument became the centre of the evening. A ferry swayed gently with the wind as the waterfront slowly began to gain a crowd.

Perhaps that is what Kochi really is, not just landmarks, cafés, or tourist spots, but a collection of small moments unfolding all at once.

Among the crowd sat another couple, probably in their thirties. She wore floral prints while he was dressed in white. Both were busy scrolling through their phones, barely speaking to each other. At first glance, they seemed disconnected, lost in separate worlds. But then he suddenly looks up and smiles at her softly. She notices him staring, a shy laugh and a light whack on his shoulder. It barely lasted seconds, yet somehow it felt enough to restore your faith in love.

Fort Kochi also has a way of surprising you with the people you accidentally meet. What began as a simple request to an old man to take his photograph quickly turned into an unexpected encounter with Desmond Rebeiro, the well-known painter. Before the conversation could go any further, he abruptly ended it with complete honesty: “I don’t like talking to people.” Then shut the door. Blunt, unexpected, and strangely memorable.

Nearby, a group of boys waited with bated breath for their boat ride while I stood there, trying to ignore my lifelong fear of boats and drowning. But against the backdrop of the sunset sea, the fear felt smaller. With Prateek Kuhad playing through my earphones and the evening breeze cutting through my hair, even panic begins to settle quietly into the rhythm of the water.

But Kochi is not always calm. The city moves with its own impatience, especially on the roads. Bus drivers honk endlessly at every vehicle ahead, as if saving a few seconds is a personal achievement. ‘Auto chettanmar’ squeeze through narrow streets with songs blasting from tiny speakers, and getting on an Uber bike can feel like a near-death experience, especially with the ones riding KTMs, Hondas and watch out for that one dude in Access 125. It may be cheap, but if you want a cameo version of ‘Fast and Furious’, you definitely will not be disappointed.

Some greet you enthusiastically every morning, while others carry the permanent irritation of those who have already argued before breakfast. And still, there is warmth hidden inside them all.

Evening turned into night, and somewhere between hunger and curiosity, I found myself wandering through the narrow lanes of Fort Kochi. I stumbled upon a multi-cuisine restaurant sitting above a money exchange shop. The place gave off slightly shady vibes, and after my recent food poisoning episode, a part of me wondered if this was another terrible decision waiting to happen. Still, hunger won the argument, and thankfully, the food turned out to be worth every rupee.

It was almost empty, with just two or three people at a corner table quietly sipping tea, while I sat there with my lassi, pretending not to look suspiciously at the kitchen every five minutes. I could have walked into one of the posh cafés or famous restaurants lining the same street. But then I would have missed the scribbled walls filled with names, sketches, declarations of love, random doodles, and unfinished stories left behind by strangers who probably wandered in accidentally, too.

Hours later, the same cat finally curls up beside me for a nap and lets me pet her, almost like showing a small sign of acceptance. Her whiskers fluttered lightly with the wind while the city continued moving around her, footsteps, ferry horns, conversations, traffic, laughter, and waves hitting the shore. She slept through all of it as though she completely belonged here.

Perhaps that is what Kochi slowly teaches outsiders, too. Belonging does not arrive all at once. It builds itself quietly through metro rides you were once afraid of, random conversations with auto drivers, smiles from strangers, people helping you find the right platform, and evenings spent watching a city exist without trying too hard to impress you.

Kochi does not demand your attention loudly. Instead, it slowly sits beside you, shares its stories, and before you realise it, the city has already made a space for itself in you. Once, it made me feel like a new girl in the city. Now, I am just a girl in Kochi, and that feels a lot like home.