‘I expected to feel at ease in Kerala’s beach towns; instead, I felt persistently observed because of what I was wearing’

The next day unfolded at an easier pace. After breakfast at French Toast, we visited the Indo-Portuguese Museum, a treasure trove of colonial-era altar pieces with gilded wood carvings, silver processional crosses, and vestments embroidered with gold thread. There were ivory statuettes, fragments of church facades, and oil paintings depicting colonial Kochi, each artefact a reminder of the layered histories this coast had absorbed. From there, we walked to St Francis Church, the oldest European church in India, where Vasco da Gama was once buried before his remains were returned to Portugal. The simplicity of the whitewashed walls and the weight of history felt reverent.

We spent the afternoon wandering Princess Street and Jew Town, peering into antique shops crowded with brass lamps, wooden chests, and old Bollywood posters. The streets smelled of cardamom and old paper. It was the kind of unhurried, slow tourism I’d hoped for.

During my stay at Fort Kochi, I was wearing what I thought of as vacation clothes, including cut-out tops that exposed my arms and stomach, light and breathable in the coastal heat. Nothing outrageous, just clothes I’d wear at any beach destination. But even in the touristy streets, my friend and I felt the stares. Long, lingering looks from men at market stalls, in cafes, on street corners. Foreign women in similar outfits seemed to move through the same spaces without the same weight of attention, or perhaps they’d simply grown used to deflecting it. I found myself adjusting my bag to cover more of my torso, walking faster and keeping my gaze straight ahead.

On the third day, we took a four-hour car ride to Munroe Island, leaving the urban hum of Fort Kochi behind. Our cottage sat right by the backwaters, simple and serene. The setting was intimate, just a handful of cottages, no crowds, no markets. For the short time we were there, the constant vigilance lifted. That evening, we tried toddy, which is the mildly alcoholic palm sap, and watched the sky turn violet over the water. The next morning, we woke at 6 am to go kayaking. Once we were handed our separate kayaks, my friend’s kayak tipped almost immediately, sending him flailing into the water. He emerged laughing, soaked and undignified, and had to switch to another kayak while I tried not to capsize from laughter.

Once we were both steady, we paddled through the mangroves, narrow waterways enclosed by dense greenery, the only sounds were our paddles breaking the surface and birds beginning their morning calls. The sun rose slowly, casting gold across the water, and for that hour, everything felt suspended. We returned to appam and chhole for breakfast, and then packed up for our final stop: Varkala.

The drive took just over an hour, and then there it was, the blue sweep of the ocean visible from the cliff. Our hotel was perched right next to the beach, and after checking in, we headed to Cafe Sarwaa, the spot that had been flooding my Instagram feed for weeks. It didn’t take long to understand why. The food was decent, the service passable, but the view of the endless Arabian Sea, the cliff dropping away beneath your table, was what had everyone mesmerised. We ate, took photos, and walked back to change into our swimsuits.

Chinese fishing nets standing still against the rhythm of the tide. (Source: Swarupa Tripathy)

And that’s when the day shifted.

I had packed a bikini, as I would for any beach holiday. But my friend insisted I wear shorts over it. “People here don’t seem used to it,” he said, and though I bristled at the suggestion, I listened. At the beach, I quickly understood why. There were foreign tourists in bikinis scattered along the shore, and clustered around them were groups of young men, seemingly local, phones out, cameras angled. They weren’t swimming. They weren’t with families. They were watching. And photographing. And filming.

We swam, but I felt the weight of being watched. I adjusted my posture, kept my friend close, and scanned the beach constantly. The men didn’t approach, didn’t say anything, but their presence was a pressure: persistent, uninvited and boundary-less. Nothing overt happened. That was almost the point. It was the steady hum of surveillance, the quiet shrinking of space that should have felt expansive.

We left the beach earlier than planned and headed to North Cliff market for dinner, weaving through stalls selling jewellery, bags, souvenirs, scarves, and fried snacks. The crowds were thick, the energy chaotic. I kept my bag close.

The next day, we visited Jatayu Earth’s Centre, a sprawling park built around a massive sculpture of Jatayu, the mythological bird from the Ramayana. It was searingly hot, and the climb to the top was over a thousand steps, but the view from the summit was worth it. The sculpture itself was imposing, and nearby was what locals claimed to be Ram’s footprints, preserved in stone. We visited the small temple dedicated to Ram, Laxman, Hanuman, and Sita, then made our way back down, sweating and exhilarated.

That afternoon, we returned to the beach. This time, I wore a one-piece. Not because it was more comfortable in the heat, but because it felt safer. That calculation, between what I wanted to wear and what would draw less attention, had become automatic. We swam again, walked the shore, then returned to North Cliff market one last time before calling it a night.

The next morning, we left from Thiruvananthapuram Airport. I returned to Delhi with a fresh mind, yes, but also with questions I hadn’t packed.

The gap between the brochure and the ground

Kerala is marketed as progressive. Literate. Tourist-friendly. And in many ways, it is. The infrastructure is there. The backwaters are stunning. The food is exceptional. But there’s a gap between how a place is sold and how it is lived, especially if you’re a woman moving through it.

I spoke with D K Ghatani, a travel consultant and CEO of Sikkim Expeditions, about how women can assess destinations beyond glossy campaigns and literacy statistics. His perspective was clear: reputation tells you very little. What matters are micro-signals: how locals respond when a woman sets boundaries, whether women are visible across age groups in public spaces, how transport staff and vendors behave when approached alone, and whether authorities are present and responsive, not just symbolic.

Flaky Kerala porotta, fresh fish wrapped in leaf — comfort on a plate (Source: Swarupa Tripathy)

“A place that is truly tourist-friendly,” Ghatani told indianexpress.com, “allows women to move without having to constantly scan their surroundings or adjust their posture and pace to avoid attention.”

I thought about the beach in Varkala. About changing my swimsuit. About leaving earlier than I’d planned. About the men with their phones. Nothing overt happened, but I never stopped scanning.

Ghatani calls this hyper-vigilance. “It’s a continuous state of low-grade alertness rather than fear,” he explained. “Nothing overt happens, yet the body stays braced, always anticipating intrusion. Psychologically, it leads to fatigue, reduced enjoyment, and a sense of shrinking oneself to fit into public space.”

That shrinking is subtle. It’s choosing shorts over a bikini. It’s skipping a sunset walk because it’s getting dark. It’s keeping your friend close even in crowded, supposedly safe spaces. It’s the constant recalibration of how you dress, where you linger, and when you leave. And it’s exhausting in ways that don’t show up in travel photos.

Dressing for safety

The advice women get about packing is often framed as protection, but it can slide quickly into blame. Dress modestly. Don’t attract attention. Cover up. The burden shifts from the people staring to the person being stared at.

Ghatani reframes this. “Practical dressing should be framed as situational awareness, not moral responsibility,” he said. “Women are not dressing to prevent harm but to reduce friction in unfamiliar environments. The key is choosing what allows you to move comfortably and confidently, not what disappears you.”

I appreciated that distinction. I wasn’t wrong for packing a bikini. I wasn’t naive. I was making decisions based on climate and comfort and then adjusting them based on safety, which is a societal issue, not a wardrobe failure.

Still, the packing decisions linger. The summer clothes I’d looked forward to wearing stayed folded in my bag.

Where discomfort becomes risk

In crowded spaces like beaches, markets, and temple complexes, staring is often dismissed as cultural or harmless. But when does persistent attention cross a line?

Ghatani’s answer was direct: “Discomfort becomes risk when staring escalates into following, blocking movement, photographing without consent, or when it continues despite clear non-verbal cues to stop.”

At Varkala, the men didn’t follow us. They didn’t block us. But they photographed. They filmed. They treated women’s bodies as a public spectacle, and that entitlement, when left unchecked, normalised, is its own form of boundary violation.

“Women should trust their instincts rather than wait for an incident to justify action,” Ghatani said. “Safety is not about enduring unease politely, but about recognising when attention crosses into entitlement.”

I wish I had confronted them. I didn’t. I left. And that, too, is a kind of answer.

Varkala was beautiful. The stares weren’t (Source: Swarupa Tripathy)

The role of men in making spaces safer

Conversations about women’s travel safety often centre on what women should do differently. Dress differently. Move differently. Be more careful. But what about the men in those spaces?

“Men play a crucial role in shaping public space,” Ghatani said. “Fellow travellers can intervene subtly by standing nearby or checking in when they sense discomfort. Local vendors and service providers can discourage harassment by setting clear norms in their spaces. Bystanders can make a difference simply by acknowledging inappropriate behaviour rather than ignoring it.”

He added, “When men treat women’s presence as normal and non-negotiable, it reduces the burden on women to constantly adapt. Safer travel environments are created not by women adjusting endlessly, but by communities actively reinforcing respect.”

I thought about the men on the beach. And I thought about my friend, who told me to wear shorts. He was trying to protect me, and I’m grateful for that. But the deeper question is: why was protection necessary in a popular tourist destination in a state known for its progressive values?

What I brought home

I came back from Kerala with beautiful memories. Kayaking at sunrise. The seafood in Fort Kochi. The quiet of Munroe Island. The sheer blue of the ocean from Varkala’s cliffs.

But I also came back with a sharper awareness of the invisible labour that goes into being a woman traveller in India. Kerala is stunning. It deserves its reputation for natural beauty and cultural richness. But ‘women-friendly’ can’t just be a tagline. It has to be a lived reality, one where women, local and visiting, can move freely, dress comfortably, and exist in public space without surveillance, without shrinking, without vigilance.