We asked Pooja to write about Varkala in her own way, and this journal is her take on the place as it’s lived day to day, slow, familiar, and quietly meaningful.
Pooja | 23rd January 2026
"Varkala has a certain je ne sais quoi—it draws you in, in ways unseen, unthought of and only felt."
Varkala doesn’t announce itself. It slowly lets you in.
I was born by the ocean in a city that had a beach life while I was growing up, when Mumbai was Bombay. I feel more at home in the water than on land. So, when it came to sharing my yoga practice at Soul & Surf in Varkala—a sleepy, stunning coastal town of coconuts, waves, temples, mosques, and content souls—it was an easy choice.
2018, the first time I arrived at Soul & Surf I was met with warm, eager anticipation everyone knew of the yoga teacher from Bombay. Everyone knows everything in the village. Everyone knows everyone in the village. Community is a way of life here not an algorithm.
Seven years of annual visits, now when I get here – my grocery guy, my four-legged friends of Temple Road, neighborhood restaurant owner and the neighbor’s neighbor that I have been smiling at for a few years– welcome me with a high-pitched hello or a warm breakfast while I settle in.
Once our resident rickshaw driver Anil anna bought me, an adult, a pack of wafers because – hey welcome back! Warms the proverbial cockles of my heart. Every single time.
Oh! the power of soft landing. Bless!!
Waking up to the crisp breezy mornings and distant chants from the 2000-year-old Janardhanswamy temple and the sweet hustle of the neighboring kids hopping into yellow school buses while I amble along the way to my morning class I often find myself staring at soft streaks of morning light through bushes of bright pink sunny flowers that have seemingly erupted overnight.
On my way to work—a familiar two-minute-and-thirty-second stroll—I often catch myself smiling at life. In the sun-kissed morning lane, the women of the house, their freshly washed hair gathered in loose buns, reach for blooms, preparing for their temple ritual. That’s when I know I’ll arrive just in time for my class.
On the mornings I go surfing, the first rays of possibility just before the morning surf session from the shala upstairs—are a thing of exquisite beauty.
Some welcomes don’t change, no matter how many years pass.
One of my favorite rituals is watching wanderers step into the shala for the first time, their lips break into pure awe as they take in the view. The joy of unadulterated beauty is a biohack—to see through time in this paradigm, wrapped in amazing grace.
Once I settle into the rhythm of my daily life here which is largely oscillating between online and offline classes —I find myself surrounded by lifelong friends. From trailblazing matriarchs to quietly distinct girls choosing a life less ordinary, far from home. The seriously hilarious people at Soul & Surf or my 75-year-old colourful Brazilian friend who has called Varkala home for 19 years. It’s a small, close-knit community of kindred wayfarers and locals, bound by the simple joy of this place.
Varkala is an amplified experience—intense, emotional, and deeply felt. Perhaps it’s the proximity to the ever-churning ocean, the natives who wear their emotions like a badge of honor, or the people I share my practice with—far from home, trusting me with their stories. Maybe it’s the shedding of old identities in search of new ways of being, the catharsis of surfing, or the salt of the ocean cleansing both soul and toe nails, offering a fresh start in this ever-unravelling thing called life.
Breakfast is shared with the stoked—the avid readers, artists, musicians, linguists, scientists, filmmakers, peacemakers, dancers, bankers, surfers, and healers alike. All wanting to be part of something bigger without feeling small. Here, friendships form, and best-laid plans dissolve in favor of the now— whatever sparks a deeper sense of aliveness.. It’s a place of unhurried possibilities, best enjoyed with a side of toast and coffee. I like that time of the day.
Varkala shows me no two days, no two waves, are ever the same. A perfect day—catching waves, a heady head standing heart-opening class full of sincere practitioners vibing with my moves and grooves, a sunset – I am convinced God sent exclusively for my hedonistic pleasure - shall pass.
A shitty day—where the ocean feels like it’s conspiring against me or craving some sourdough & burrata that I will not find within 15 miles of radius or maybe practitioners fresh from the hot yoga studios of the world’s great metropolises wanting a sweaty class - shall pass too.
Because by day three, they surrender to the salty sweetness of slowing down, easing into yin mode, sinking into a slower rhythm. My favourite transformation to witness—in them, and in myself, each time I arrive.
Varkala is a traveller’s town, not a settler’s. The transient tide of visitors coming and going, feels like a living reminder that “We’re all just walking each other home.” I become part of their soul memories, their unsuspecting “aha” moments in a class on a holiday. I’ve watched people process big emotions, life events—the very things they came here to take a break from. It is intimate and an honour to hold space for such moments in the lives of complete strangers, another reminder - we are all made of the same things.
No matter who you are—white, brown, or purple; young or old; man, woman, cerebral or free-spirited—everyone feels that fleeting moment of deep peace and synchronicity in an asana class just as they do in the pure joy of riding a wave.
There’s something mystical about an ocean, stirred by feisty winds, forming a generous wave that chooses to give me a good time. It makes life feel fuller, richer.
Breakfast conversations, salt in the hair, and plans that don’t need fixing.
Speaking of finding richness in the same place every day—at Soul & Surf, watching the sunset together is an unspoken ritual among staff and guests alike. I usually experience it from my cinematic class in the shala, where I face away from the horizon that is bursting with Pantone twilight hues of burnt oranges, coral pinks, deep purples and everything in between. I know it’s a spectacular sunset when I see the light reflected on my practitioners’ faces. One of my favorite thing is guessing the foot-candles of that gilded glow, imagining the perfect camera aperture.
Eventually, how you experience something matters more than what you experience.
Rural India isn’t for beginners—not even for city-bred Indians. It’s layered and paradoxical, shaped by limited means yet an abundant spirit. Here, the scarcity consciousness that burdens big cities dissolves into vast skies and open seas. There’s no frantic urge to seize the day or frenetically add to cart to fill a gaping hole. Instead, people live with intention and a deep sense of kinship.
Have you seen the morning ocean blues here—the kind that make you want to ride every wave life offers, no fear of failure? Above all, there is time—enough time to simply be.
Speaking of time the ancient Greeks understood time better than the rest of us do. They had two words for the concept of time — “chronos” and “kairos”. The word “chronos” root to “chronological” refers to quantitative time. Measured with clocks & watches.
The second word for time is “kairos” it is what philosophers and mystics would refer to as divine or transcendent time where the world seems to pause. This kind of time can be measured in deep exhales, a shared giggle or an absurdly magnificent kaleidoscopic sunset. It is qualitative time where you have the opportunity to deepen your presence in the moment liberated from ticking clocks or a buzzing calendar.
Kairos - my way of life in Varkala.
PS – while I was writing this a Van Morrison song showed up – Days Like This , and it goes
When you don't need to worry there'll be days like this
When no one's in a hurry there'll be days like this
When you don't get betrayed by that old Judas kiss
Oh my mama told me there'll be days like this
A traveller’s town, held together by people who keep returning.
