I glanced out of the window, feeling the warm rush of the breeze, and signaled Harshit to slow down.
“We’re at the Maravanthe stretch!” I said, my voice tinged with excitement, my eyes scanning the horizon.
“I can’t see the river though… should we take a U-turn?” he asked.
“It’s better in the photos,” I replied, my voice trailing off as I gazed at the stretch of beach.
“But this stretch… it’s something else. It’s unique,” I added, the wind ruffling my hair.
And so we paused, stretching our legs and sipping water, as we chatted lightly. We had been driving from Gokarna to Udupi, with a brief stop at Murudeshwar temple. But the temple had been crowded—too crowded, and we kept our visit brief, only staying long enough to pay our respects to the towering Shiva statue. The sounds of bells ringing in the distance had mixed with the murmur of people, creating an atmosphere that felt both sacred and bustling. Afterward, we continued our journey, the landscape unfolding like a painting, dotted with quiet coastal towns—each one a colorful splash of life, nestled against the shore.
Maravanthe beach was a perfect pit stop. As we got back into the car, though, I realized the snacks we’d had weren’t going to cut it. The sun was blazing, and my head was starting to spin. We hadn’t seen a good pure veg restaurant along the way, but luck was on our side. Near Kundapura, I spotted a place called Paakshala, which had glowing reviews. It wasn’t far off the highway, so we took the exit, hoping it lived up to the praise.
Parking was a breeze, and I was immediately reassured when I saw the restaurant nestled in the local market—no chance of being a tourist trap. We were greeted by the staff and seated quickly. I felt lightheaded from the heat, so I immediately ordered two chilled lemonades. The tangy drink revived me. We opted for khara bath (a spicy version of upma) and rava onion dosa. The food was simple but satisfying, and the oversized soda glasses were just what we needed to fill our bellies. We were ready to hit the road again, full and refreshed.
The parking lot attendant waved us off with a smile as we thanked him for his help in parking and guiding us out. I always feel that when people are smiling at their jobs, it’s a good omen for the journey ahead. It’s the grumpy ones that make everything feel more tedious.
Back on NH66, the sun blazed even hotter, the air thick with heat, despite the AC’s best efforts to cool us. I couldn’t wait to leave the highway behind and finally reach our stay. As we passed through a bustling local market, the sounds of people haggling, the rustle of goods being exchanged, and the distant calls of vendors filled the air. The smell of fresh fish, spices, and saltwater mixed in a heady blend. I commented on the lively rhythm of daily life in this corner of the world. The market faded, and soon the road narrowed, winding through serene backwaters. Trees swayed gently in the breeze, and the place seemed almost surreal, so peaceful after the noise of the highway.
I remarked to Harshit, “This place must be a dream during the monsoons. It’s so lush, so alive.” We crossed another tiny bridge, and our destination was just 200 meters ahead.
Turning left, the car rolled to a stop at the villa’s gate, and I was momentarily lost in the vast expanse of the Arabian Sea before us. The villa, perched right on the beach, looked as if it were part of the sea itself.
Shivani, the caretaker, greeted us with warmth and led us inside. The villa was modest but charming, with two cozy bedrooms, a small kitchenette, and a welcoming common area. Stepping out onto the patio, I took a deep breath, the salty air filling my lungs as Shivani pointed out the path leading from our sand-filled yard straight to the beach. It felt like having our own private stretch of the coastline—just us and the waves.
The villa had an airy, open feel. The bathroom even had part of the roof made of glass, allowing natural light to spill in and fill the space with warmth. Though the place could use a little sprucing up, it had a relaxed charm that made it feel like home. I could tell it was originally designed as a vacation retreat—spacious and private, with just two rooms ensuring a sense of intimacy. The living area was simple, with a comfortable couch, a large flat-screen TV, and a small fridge. Shivani had her own little cottage nearby, and while the house was clean, I could tell it could use a deeper cleaning, especially the furniture.
After freshening up, I stretched out for a nap, agreeing that we’d go for a late lunch.
We woke up around 3:30 pm, hunger gnawing at us. A quick search on Google led us to MTR in Udupi, about 20 minutes away. We made our way there, the sun less harsh by now, and I marveled at the town gate as we entered. At first glance, Udupi seemed unassuming, with its gently rolling roads and a slight saltiness to the air.
At MTR, we ordered thalis and dosai, and when the food arrived, we dug in with unbridled joy. The vegetarian dishes were a delight, and my husband savored multiple servings of kesari bath. We ended the meal with a cool, creamy gudbud shake, savoring the sweetness as we joined the swarming crowds on the road.
When we returned to the villa, the dipping sun was casting its golden glow over the Arabian sea. The sky was streaked with orange, pink, and purple, the colors unfolding like a masterpiece. We ran barefoot along the beach, shrieking and laughing as the waves lapped at our feet. The beach, vast and serene, seemed to stretch on endlessly, and yet we were alone—just five souls on this expansive shore. The sound of the ocean was like a lullaby, and in that moment, I whispered a quiet prayer to the universe, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace and gratitude.
I stood still for a moment, taking in the vastness—the infinite sky, the endless sea, and that moment, I was aware of how small my worries seemed in the grand scheme of things, how fleeting and insignificant they felt in the face of nature’s vastness. From a distance, the villa seemed so tiny, just like the problems I often obsess over. I felt my heart, heavy with the weight of the world earlier, now light and full of hope, as the evening breeze swept away the weariness. The sky darkened to a deep velvet, and the first stars began to appear, twinkling like promises of all the possibilities yet to unfold. It was as if the universe, in all its beauty, was gently hinting at more moments like this—more sunsets, more laughter, more quiet joys, and more surprises waiting just around the corner.
We returned to the villa’s porch, the soft notes of “Ae Zindagi Gale Laga Le” floating in the air. It was a reminder to embrace life fully, to hold its fleeting moments close, and to remember that every ending—no matter how small—is just the beginning of something new. As the night deepened around us, I knew this wasn’t the last beautiful moment we would share. It was only the first of many more to come, and the thought of it filled me with a quiet thrill for all the joys the future would bring.
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