If you want to see what a writing deadline looks like in the wild, go hike Makalidurga trek Bangalore with friends.

Not the “reel version” where everyone looks effortlessly heroic and nobody sweats or wheezes or stares into the distance calculating the nearest loo like it’s a life-or-death expedition.

The real version.

The version where you start, of course, with food.

The Breakfast Ritual (and the Eternal Question of Toilets)

We slipped through the early morning dark, collecting our little group of four like precious pages you don’t want to lose. The road still belonged to the night. Street dogs yawned. The city was quiet in that rare and precious moment that takes you back to simpler times.

Then we stop for breakfast—because no one I know climbs anything on an empty stomach, especially not a hill in a National Forest with rocky opinions.

We pull up at the only restaurant open in the early morning, an Udupi restaurant in Yelahanka: idli, vada, and cautious coffee (cautious because coffee is always followed by that very practical thought: Where is the bathroom and how far is it and will it be open and will it be… civilised?)

Even in a familiar place, I found something new: the glorious Mangalore bun — sweet, soft, slightly mischievous. Like the kind of sentence you write when you stop trying to impress people and start trying to tell the truth. 

Note: Yelahanka is a very familiar place – this is where two of my children were born. I reckon I gave them a gift – not just born in Bangalore, but specifically, Yelahanka.

Writing lesson #1: Newness isn’t always a new destination. Sometimes it’s a new bite in an old restaurant. Sometimes it’s a new line in a story you’ve told yourself a hundred times.

The Group That Keeps You Honest

We met the rest of the crew—assembled by White Magic trekking group (I’ve trekked with them before, which matters, because trust is a kind of oxygen). It wasn’t just the four of us, but nearly thirty of a larger group – and we all had to say hello to each other. All happy and cheerful – for now. What a lovely surprise to meet up with another hiking friend, Anjana had walked the Camino Invierno with me a couple of years ago.

Here’s what friends do on a hike: they keep you laser-focused.

Not by yelling motivational slogans. Not by posting quotes about “conquering mountains.” Because no one conquers anything but oneself.

They do it simply by being there—one more pair of footsteps, one more shared bottle of water, one more “you okay?” that you can’t shrug off casually.

Writing lesson #2: Accountability doesn’t have to be harsh. Sometimes it’s just friendship with hiking shoes on.

The Railway Line, and the Small Joy That Cracks You Open

Before the trek properly began, there was the railway line. A train slid past—calm, steady, unbothered by our human drama.

And honestly? The delight of it. That clean clack-clack rhythm. That sense of movement going somewhere with purpose. It made the morning feel cinematic in the simplest way. The wild waving to bemused passengers rubbing their sleepy eyes in the hot anticipation of reaching their destination.

Writing lesson #3: Progress doesn’t need to be loud. A train doesn’t announce itself with speeches. It just moves. Just write that story, that page, that sentence today.

The Climb: Rocky, Hard, and Unimpressed by Your Plans

Then the hike. It was hard. Rocky. Hard again. The kind of trail that doesn’t flatter you.

And somewhere along the way I had that moment that every writer recognises—when the body says, “No,” and the mind says, “But you should.”

My asthma and cough caught up with me. Breathless. A bit giddy. Vertigo? Possibly. It wasn’t the Himalayan trek altitude kind of challenge, but my lungs didn’t care about technicalities.

After a while I told Anju, “Leave me.”

Not dramatically. Not as a tragedy. Just practical. I needed to stop without dragging the whole group into my slow-motion struggle. So I sat in the thin, scrappy shade of a thorny bush—the kind of shade that’s more philosophical than effective—and watched the world move past.

Writing lesson #4: Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is pause. Not quit. Pause. Start again. The difference is everything.

The Green Spots: Perfume, Valleys, and Permission to Take Your Time

I climbed again—higher, then higher still—stopping whenever I found green. A patch of mercy. A small pocket of cool.

And then: the perfume of the flowering jalagiri (Weeping jasmine -that scent that makes you believe the world is kinder than your breathing suggests). With its rich drooping bunches of white flowers, it filled the air with a fragrance that speaks of India – Deccan India. In February every pocket of soil and water had one of these trees. the leaves green and rtender, and the flowers dipping in luscious locks all over the tree.

Below me—green valleys, rich with banana and grape vines, glinting lakes like someone scattered mirrors into the landscape.

It pays to stop and take your time.

It’s a hike, not a competition.

Say it again for the part of your brain that treats everything like a scoreboard.

Writing lesson #5: You don’t earn your story by suffering fast. You earn it by noticing.

The Stories on the Trail (and Why Talking Helps You Finish)

I talked to everyone passing me.

That’s my favourite way to climb anything—feet moving, curiosity awake. People shared scraps of their lives: first trek, tenth trek, heartbreak trek, “I’m here because work is eating me alive” trek.

In writing, we call these “character details.”

In life, we call them “human.”

Writing lesson #6: When you’re stuck, talk to people. Stories are everywhere. You don’t have to invent the whole world alone.

☀️ The Heat, the Scramble, and the Gentle Decision to Stop

All the while, the heat climbed like it had its own ambitions.

The path turned into bare rock scramble—hands-and-feet work, the kind that demands attention. And I realised: I could push through, but why?

So I decided to stop.

It was okay. Really.

Not a collapse. Not a defeat. A decision.

I shifted my goal from “reach the top” to “be fully here.” I admired trees and flowers, and watched for birds. And yes—did I tell you I had binoculars?

Apparently, binoculars are a social event. Passersby stopped to borrow them and gasp at tiny winged miracles.

Writing lesson #7: Finishing isn’t always reaching the peak. Sometimes it’s completing the experience you actually came for.

Down Again: Another Train and the Sweet Relief of Descent

Then down.

Another train.

Because the world likes to give you symmetry when you least expect it.

Coconut water appeared like a blessing—cold, sweet, immediate.

And then—a lovely surprise: meeting my old friend Anjana.

She said, “This was not an easy trek.”

I agreed, with the tender satisfaction of someone whose lungs have filed a formal complaint.

Writing lesson #8: Naming difficulty is not negativity. It’s honesty. And honesty is what makes writing land.

The Real Photo, the Real Day, and the Real Point About AI

Now let’s talk about the part that matters to me as a writer, and maybe to you too—especially if you’re trying to finish something and you’re flirting with the idea of letting technology do the heavy lifting.

I’m not anti-tech. I’m fascinated by it. I use AI writing tools and I enjoy the cleverness of it. But here’s what Makalidurga reminded me:

Do the hard yards first.

Walk the mountain.

Build the friendships.

Take the real picture.

Then—then—use technology to shape, organise, polish, and share what you earned.

Because AI can help you write a post.
But it cannot give you the thorny-bush shade.
It cannot give you the breathlessness that makes you humble.
It cannot give you the scent of that flowering jalagiri.
It cannot give you the stranger who borrows your binoculars and lights up like a child.
It cannot give you the train slipping past in the morning dark and making you feel, briefly, like life is a poem.

Writing lesson #9: Tools can refine your work. Only living can supply it.

Finishing vs Failing (and the Secret Third Option)

So what did this hike teach me about writing, finishing, and failing?

• Finishing sometimes means reaching the summit.

• Failing sometimes means stopping before the end.

• But there’s a third option most of us forget:

Choosing.

Choosing to stop without shame.
Choosing to savour without rushing.
Choosing to measure success by presence, not performance.

And oddly enough, that choice makes it more likely you’ll finish the next thing—because you didn’t turn this attempt into a story of personal inadequacy.

You turned it into a story of awareness.

Which is what good writing is, anyway.

Be the first to read my new book on the Portuguese Camino!

Join the launch team of the upcoming book. I would love to share the early drafts, bonuses and general experience of writing the book about our camino. For an author the journey is not over until the book is written.

1) What is the Portuguese Camino?

The Portuguese Camino is a set of signed pilgrimage routes running from Portugal into Spain to finish at Santiago de Compostela. Most people start in Porto (because: flights, cafés, and a very sensible amount of optimism), then walk north via the Central Route, the Coastal/Littoral Route, or mix both.

2) Why walk the Portuguese Camino?

Because it’s the sweet spot: coastal air, river towns, tiled churches, and enough infrastructure that you’re not reinventing survival every afternoon. It’s also kinder on the body than some hillier routes, while still feeling like a real pilgrimage—mud, meaning, and the occasional “who put this cobblestone here and why does it hate me?”

3) How long does it take to walk the Portuguese Camino?

Depends where you start and how many café stops you count as “cultural research.” Typical ranges:

• Porto → Santiago (Central): ~11–14 days for most walkers

• Porto → Santiago (Coastal/Littoral): ~12–15 days

• Lisbon → Santiago: ~25–30+ days

4) How difficult is the Portuguese Camino?

Overall: moderate. Many stages are flatter than people expect, but don’t be fooled—flat isn’t the same as easy when you do it day after day. The real “difficulty bosses” are:

• Portuguese cobblestones (your feet will have opinions)

• rolling hills into Galicia

• heat if you choose midsummer

• and that classic Camino challenge: pacing your enthusiasm on Day 1.

5) What is the best month (or time of year) to walk in 2026?

For most people: April–May and September–October. You get pleasant temperatures, longer daylight, and fewer “fully booked” surprises.

• Summer (June–Aug): hotter, busier, pricier

• Winter: quieter, wetter, some closures

• Check out this seasonal guide I wrote some time ago.
• Holy Week tends to be a time when school and parish groups walk the camino. So albergues may be full – Holy Week is from the 3rd April Good Friday to 5th April Easter Sunday. Check spring holidays around these dates as well.

Roman bridge crossing the Rio Lima in Ponte de Lima; Camino de Santiago; Portugal

6) Is the Portuguese Camino well marked?

Yes—generally very well marked with yellow arrows and Camino symbols. The only places you may second-guess your life choices are: city exits, busy roundabouts, and moments when two arrows disagree like siblings.

Practical tip: download an offline map app and treat it as your quiet, dependable friend.

Metal symbol on a street, indicating the Camino de Santiago, on its Portuguese route.

7) Where do you sleep on the Portuguese Camino?

You’ve got options, and you can mix them:

• municipal albergues (basic, social, budget-friendly)

• private albergues / hostels (often easier to book)

• pensions / guesthouses / small hotels (more privacy, more sleep, more money)

In 2026, if you want a specific place on a specific night—book ahead, especially on popular stages.

Just snoozing

8) How much does it cost to walk the Camino Portuguese?

Ballpark per day (excluding flights):

• Budget pilgrim: ~€35–€60/day (albergue + simple meals)

• Comfort pilgrim: ~€80–€150/day (private room more often, nicer dinners)

Your biggest “mystery costs” are usually coffees, snacks, and the innocent phrase: “Shall we just stop for a quick pastel de nata?”

9) Where do people go to the bathroom on the Portuguese Camino?

In the glamorous locations you’d expect: cafés, bars, restaurants, municipal toilets, petrol stations… and occasionally nature (handled thoughtfully and discreetly). The practical rhythm is simple: go when you see a chance, not when you hit crisis levels. Carry tissues, a little hand sanitiser, and a small zip bag for rubbish—because “leave no trace” is not just a slogan, it’s basic pilgrim manners.

A small reality check: some public toilets are immaculate, some are… philosophical exercises. And yes, sometimes you’ll need a key/token, often attached to something the size of a canoe paddle. This is not a mistake. This is Iberian toilet security.

10) Why is 2027 a holy year—and does it matter if I’m walking in 2026?

Santiago has Holy Years when 25 July (St James’ Day) falls on a Sunday—2027 is one of them. Expect more pilgrims, more buzz, and more pressure on beds.

So if you’re eyeing 2026, congratulations: you may be walking in the sweet calm before the Jubilee-style surge. You’ll still want to plan sensibly, but you won’t be competing with quite as many “once-in-a-lifetime” crowds.

Be the first to read my new book on the Portuguese Camino!

Join the launch team of the upcoming book. I would love to share the early drafts, bonuses and general experience of writing the book about our camino. For an author the journey is not over until the book is written.

I’ve always loved historical fiction – but most of it was set in Europe or England. The I did read a couple of take set in Mughal era – but what about my own heritage? Where were the historical fiction set in the heart of India?
As a storyteller, I have always been fascinated by ruins – the silence of collapsed roofs, the stories etched in stone. My long‑stalled historical fiction novel set in Vijayanagara has haunted me for years. Visiting Hampi and immersing myself in research has rekindled the passion to complete it. In this reflective blog, I share the reasons behind my project and how the feel of this “lost city” empowers my fiction journey.

Why Vijayanagara captured me

Reading about Hampi’s grandeur – its 1,600 monuments sprawled over 4,100 hectares, its Dravidian architecture and its mythic association with goddess Pampa – sparked my imagination years ago. The idea that a city once rivalled Rome and Constantinople yet was completely abandoned after 1565 presents rich dramatic tension. I wanted to explore not just palaces and battles but the lives of ordinary people caught between devotion and destruction.

Research as foundation and inspiration

Returning to the novel meant that I has to ground fiction on fact. That’s just me, as a technical author, I need to have the facts right before I can write. I pored over reports describing the urban layout and studied various verions of histories of the empire’s fall. Visiting Hampi, I watched sunlight glaze the stone chariot at Vittala Temple and heard the cries of eagles mounting up from the granite boulders. I rode and twirled in the coracle ride across the Tungabhadra River, imagining a character fleeing as invaders approached. The fear of the whirlpool was real – you can see my face grimacing in fear! Running my hands over the stone tablets etched with details in ancient Kannada and Telugu I could almost feel the stories entering my being,

Facing the “vanished empire”

One of the challenges in writing about Vijayanagara is conveying both its splendour and its transience. The Battle of Talikota may end my timeline, but the empire’s decline continued as regional powers asserted independence. In the novel, protagonists witness the city’s transformation from bustling capital to ghostly ruin. Understanding the complex causes – misrule, betrayal and economic shifts – allows me to craft believable motivations for characters and to avoid simplistic good‑versus‑evil tropes.

Personal motivations and creative hurdles

Life and work slowed my progress on the manuscript, but the pandemic and the rise of generative AI made me question the role of human creativity. Returning to Hampi reminded me why I began: there is an intimacy in reconstructing a forgotten world. Fiction allows me to explore what historians cannot – the inner lives, emotions and struggles of those who might have lived and moved and vanished in the fabulous city. This is not the imagination of cities of LOTR. These are real.

Renewed commitment

Armed with new research and sensory memories, I am ready to breathe life back into my story. I plan to balance factual detail with narrative flow, using the two‑day Hampi itinerary as a structural device in one chapter and weaving in cultural elements like Hampi Utsav. Driving the dusty road to Hampi reminded me of the isolation that must have protected and isolated the city in equal measure. My blog series will act as both research notebook and creative manifesto.

Conclusion

Writing historical fiction is both challenging and rewarding. It requires respecting facts while letting imagination fill gaps. Hampi’s ruins, myths and documented history offer a rich canvas. By sharing my journey and research, I hope to inspire fellow writers and to remind myself that stories, like empires, can be revived with dedication and curiosity.

As I guide writers in my retreats, I often remind them that every book has its lost city — a place waiting to be rediscovered. Returning to Hampi reminded me of my own.

The Vijayanagara Empire (1336–1646) was one of South India’s most powerful states, known for its military prowess, wealth from trade and monumental architecture centred at Hampi. Much of what we know about the empire is via written accounts by Portuguese and Spanish horse traders. As well as later accounts by Islamic triumpalist writers.

Yet by the early 17th century its splendour had faded, and its capital lay in ruins. This post explores the complex factors – both internal and external – that led to the empire’s decline and eventual disappearance. There are civilisational lessons here for all of us.

Golden age and early cracks

Under rulers like Krishnadeva Raya (r. 1509–1529) the empire reached its apogee, extending from the Arabian Sea to the Bay of Bengal and enjoying prosperity from cotton, spices and horse trade. Krishnadeva Raya maintained effective administration and military discipline, but his death exposed weaknesses. His successors were less capable, and the empire became increasingly reliant on the regent Aliya Rama Raya.

Misrule of Aliya Rama Raya

Rama Raya consolidated power by sidelining the legitimate heir Sadasiva Raya and replacing established nobles with relatives and incompetent favourites. He hired Muslim mercenaries and attempted to model Vijayanagara’s administration on neighbouring sultanates. Contemporary critics accused him of playing the Deccan sultanates against one another while engaging in heavy taxation and cruelty towards conquered people. His arrogance and manipulation alienated both his own nobles and his Muslim rivals.

Battle of Talikota (1565)

Fearing Vijayanagara’s growing power, four of the five Deccan sultanates (Ahmadnagar, Bijapur, Golconda and Bidar) formed a coalition. On 26 January 1565 the armies met at the Battle of Talikota. According to historians, the Sultanate forces, though smaller, had superior artillery and cavalry; their Turkish gunmen and long Persian lances outmatched Vijayanagara’s slower elephants and outdated artillery.

Two Muslim generals in Rama Raya’s army defected mid‑battle, sowing chaos. Rama Raya was captured and beheaded, and the victorious alliance sacked Hampi, burning markets. homes, temples and palaces. This single defeat crippled the empire’s military and economic base. The ruling class also fled south, abandoning the city and the citizenry.

Fragmentation and decentralisation

After the sack, Rama Raya’s brother Tirumala fled south with the royal family and treasury. He abandoned the city of Hampi to lawless elements and the invading forces. The sack, slaughter and burning continued for 6 months. In Hindu medieval rule, the civilians and peasants were mostly left alone, so they did not flee – after all one tyrant was like another. But not in this case. The invading force desecrated, looted, raped and destroyed en masse and with no consideration for humanity. 

He moved the capital to Penukonda and later to Chandragiri, establishing the Aravidu dynasty. Much of the south and east broke away as regional governors (Nayakas) asserted independence.

The empire’s remaining territories were divided among Tirumala’s sons, further weakening central authority.

Continuous wars and external pressure

Successive rulers like Shriranga I (r. 1572–1585) and Venkata II (r. 1585–1614) struggled to reclaim lost territory but faced constant invasions from Bijapur, Golconda and other sultanates. They also had to suppress rebellions by Nayakas in Madurai, Tanjore and other regions. The relentless warfare drained resources and undermined internal cohesion. By 1646, continued conflict with Bijapur and the rise of Maratha and Nayaka states ended the Aravidu dynasty.

Economic and technological factors

While military defeat was decisive, long‑term economic and technological trends contributed to decline. Vijayanagara’s prosperity depended on control of horse trade and access to coastal commerce. The Portuguese monopoly on Arabian horses and maritime trade diverted revenue and reduced the empire’s military competitiveness. Historians like Richard Eaton argue that Krishnadevaraya’s earlier victories led Vijayanagara to underestimate new military technology; the empire failed to invest in modern artillery and cavalry, leaving it vulnerable to the sultanates’ firearms and tactics.

Conclusion

The fall of the Vijayanagara Empire was not a sudden collapse but a confluence of misrule, internal dissent, shifting alliances and external aggression. The Battle of Talikota crippled its core, but decentralisation, continuous wars and economic challenges prevented recovery. By the 17th century, successor states like the Nayakas of Madurai and Tanjore and the Mysore Kingdom filled the vacuum. Understanding these factors is essential for appreciating the tragedy and legacy of Hampi’s vanished empire.

Hampi is in Karnataka, on the Tungabhadra River, near the border of the modern state of Andhra Pradesh. Among golden granite boulders along the Tungabhadra River in Karnataka, India, is the site of Hampi  – in a landscape once dominated by the wonders of the vanished Vijayanagara Empire (now a UNESCO World Heritage Site). Over 4,000 hectares of desecrated and destroyed temples, markets and palaces bake under the burning Deccan sun. I had a lot of questions about how to access the site, its history and what to see. I had to discover a lot for myself, so – in between the plethora of touristy content – I hope these posts of my actual visit there helps you. As a travel author, I can’t help myself – I’m addicted to helping people get the real facts about a place.

1. Where is Hampi located

Hampi sits on the southern banks of the Tungabhadra River in Karnataka, near the Andhra Pradesh border in southern India. It is roughly 140 km southeast of Badami and Aihole. The surrounding terrain of granite hills and riverine plains gave Vijayanagara natural defences. The nearest town with rail connections is Hospet, about 13 km away. Bangalore is just over 300 kms away, we found it best to drive to Hampi on an excellent national highway, NH 48 and NH 50.

2. Hampi temple history

The Virupaksha Temple, the oldest shrine at the site, was established in the 7th century by the Chalukyas and greatly expanded by Vijayanagara rulers in the 14th century. It remains an active place of worship dedicated to Lord Shiva and his consort Pampa. Beyond Virupaksha, Hampi boasts more than 1,600 monuments, including the Krishna, Achyutaraya and Vitthala temple complexes, all showcasing classical Dravidian architecture

3. What is Hampi famous for

Hampi was the last capital of the Vijayanagara Empire and at its height was among the world’s richest cities. All that remains is a vast array of temples, palaces, markets and civic structures set amid thousands of acres of spectacular boulder-strewn hills. Visitors flock to see icons like the stone chariot of Vitthala Temple, the monolithic Narasimha statue and the delicately carved Lotus Mahal. I went to see how such a magnificent city could disappear from history. 

4. 10 Sentences about Hampi (FAQ)

1. Hampi is a UNESCO World Heritage Site located along the Tungabhadra River.
2. It served as the capital of the Vijayanagara Empire from 1336 to 1565 and became one of the world’s wealthiest cities.
3. The ruins cover about 4,100 ha and include more than 1,600 monuments.
4. The Virupaksha Temple dates back to the 7th century and is still in use.
5. Hampi’s architecture exemplifies the Dravidian style with towering gopuras and elaborately carved pillars.
6. The site is named after Pampa, a form of Parvati, who, according to myth, performed penance here.
7. The city was sacked in 1565 at the Battle of Talikota and abandoned.
8. European archaeologists revived interest in Hampi in the 19th century leading to conservation efforts.
9. Highlights include the Vittala Temple’s musical pillars and the Queen’s Bath.
10. Today, Hampi attracts pilgrims, historians and tourists from around the world who explore the ruins on foot, by bicycle or by coracle ride.

5. Which is the best time to visit Hampi

The ideal season is October to February, when temperatures range from 15–25 °C and post‑monsoon greenery enhances the ruins. Winter also hosts the Hampi Utsav, a cultural festival celebrating music and dance. Summer months (March–June) can exceed 40 °C, making exploration uncomfortable, unless you are a statue carved in stone.

6. Can Hampi be covered in 2 days

Yes. A two‑day itinerary allows you to see major highlights. On Day 1, start at the Vittala Temple, walk along the river to the Krishna Temple, and visit the Narasimha monolith, Lotus Mahal and Elephant Stables Day 2 can include the Queen’s Bath, Mahanavami Dibba (royal platform), Ramachandra Temple, and sunset on Hemakuta Hill.

Yes, two days are enough to see the highlights, provided you resist the urge to photograph every boulder. Good luck with that.

7. Why is Hampi called Lost City

After the Battle of Talikota in 1565, invading sultanates destroyed and plundered Vijayanagara. The capital was abandoned, and its ruins lay forgotten until British archaeologists renewed interest in the 19th century. This period of oblivion led to the nickname “Lost City.”

8. Hampi Karnataka nearest airport

Hampi has no airport; travellers fly into nearby domestic terminals. Vidyanagar Airport (VDY) in Toranagallu is about 30–35 km away and has intermittent flights from Bengaluru on regional airlines, Alliance Air and Star.

Hubli Airport (HBX) lies 160–180 km away and has direct flights from Bengaluru, Mumbai, Delhi and Hyderabad. 

9. Hampi Karnataka nearest airport distance

Road distances from Hampi are:

Vidyanagar Airport – 30 km,

Hubli Airport – 180 km,

Kempegowda International Airport (Bengaluru) – 368 km, and

Belgaum Airport – 270 km.

Vidyanagar is a 45‑minute drive, Hubli about three hours and Bengaluru around 5–6 hours by road.

10. Nearest international airport to Hampi

The nearest international gateway is Kempegowda International Airport (BLR) in Bengaluru, roughly 350–368 km from Hampi. Visitors can connect to domestic flights to Vidyanagar or Hubli or hire a car for the 5‑hour journey. 

Conclusion

Hampi’s combination of mythic landscapes, monumental architecture and rich history make it an epic destination for travellers and scholars alike. For further exploration of why the Vijaynagar Empire fell, read on.

Getting There: The Journey Matters

Kanha lies deep within the Mandla and Balaghat districts of Madhya Pradesh, nestled among the Maikal range of the Satpura Hills.
It’s one of those rare journeys where the drive itself becomes part of the adventure.

• By Air: The nearest airports are Jabalpur (160 km), Raipur (250 km), and Nagpur (300 km).
  Jabalpur and Raipur works best for most travellers — good roads, scenic forest stretches, and excellent connections.
• By Train: The closest stations are Gondia (145 km) and Jabalpur (160 km).
• By Road: Expect 4–6 hours from any major city. The route weaves through villages, fields, and glimpses of forest that hint at what’s waiting ahead. Check on which gate you need to arrive at. Mistakes here can cost you in time and expense.

🛣️ Author’s note: I always stop for chai in Mandla — that’s where the journey shifts from ordinary to wild.

Each season in Kanha has its own story — and its own colours.

• October–November: The park reopens fresh from the monsoon, green and alive. Perfect for photographers and first-timers.
• December–February: Crisp mornings, misty meadows, and migratory birds. Pack warmly for early drives.
• April–June: The height of tiger season. The forest thins, waterholes shrink, and life gathers around them. Expect heat, dust, and unforgettable moments.

The park closes every year from 1 July to 15 October — a vital rest for the land and its inhabitants.

☕ If you enjoy quieter travel, aim for November or March. You’ll meet fewer people and hear more of the forest’s true voice.

Understanding the Permit System at Kanha

Planning a Kanha safari is easier once you understand how it works. Between permits, guides and safari jeeps it can get confusing.

While your accommodation may be able to help you with the jeep hire, you can also hire jeeps (and drivers) from the National Park Gate. There is also a “Bus” that accommodates travellers from the MP State lodge, and others. But you have to line up quick for anything that you haven’t booked earlier.

You may or may not get a permit for the day as quantities are very restricted. For a reason.

Safaris must be booked online via the MPOnline portal.

• Booking opens 120 days in advance at 11 AM each day.
• You’ll pay first for the permit, and then separately for your vehicle and guide at the gate.

💰 Approximate costs:

• Shared Jeep Safari: ₹600–₹800 per person
• Private Jeep (6 people): ₹6,500–₹8,000 total
• Each permit covers one jeep (up to 6 people).
• The permit fee is paid online, but the guide and jeep fees (₹6,500–₹8,000 total) are paid at the gate.
• If you’re solo or a couple, shared safaris cost around ₹600–₹800 per person and are often more sociable.

Always carry your ID, and arrive early—gate formalities take time.

Note: Safari charges are higher for those with a foreign passport.

Choosing Your Zone

Kanha is divided into four core zones:

1. Kanha Zone: Classic grasslands and prime tiger country.
2. Kisli Zone: Lush forest drives, also strong for sightings.
3. Mukki Zone: Peaceful and scenic, with great herbivore action.
4. Sarhi Zone: Lesser-known, rewarding for birders and solitude seekers.

If it’s your first time — start with Kanha or Kisli.

Avoid Wednesday afternoons, the park is closed to visitors.

Where to Stay: Lodges and Local Charm

The park’s magic doesn’t end at the gate — your stay is part of the experience.
Here are three styles to choose from:

• Eco-lodges: Thoughtful design, sustainability, and silence.
  Examples: Banjaar Tola (Taj Safari), Kanha Earth Lodge, Shergarh (we stayed here)
• Comfort Resorts: Reliable, comfortable, family-friendly.
  Examples: Mogli Resort, MPT Resort.
• Homestays: Around Khatia and Mukki — authentic, simple, often run by families who know the forest as home.

✨ Author’s Tip: Choose a lodge where you can step outside and see stars. In Kanha, darkness is still real — and the night sky feels ancient.

What to Pack: Keep It Simple, Keep It Quiet

Your suitcase should whisper, not shout.

• Colours: Neutral — khaki, brown, olive, beige.
• Winter: Jacket, gloves, muffler, cap.
• Summer: Light cotton, hat, sunscreen, scarf.
• Essentials: Binoculars, camera, water bottle, insect repellent, and a small torch.
• Nice-to-have: Notebook, shawl, patience.

Leave behind anything that smells strong, shines brightly, or plays music.
The forest prefers modest company.

In the Jeep: How to See More by Doing Less

Safaris reward those who watch and wait.
Your guide will know the calls — the bark of the langur, the alarm cry of the spotted deer, the whisper of movement in the grass.

• Stay seated and silent. Movement breaks the moment.
• Look and listen. Don’t just chase the tiger — watch the small life that thrives around you.
• Be ready. A glimpse lasts seconds, but the memory can stay for years.

If you don’t see a tiger, remember: it saw you.
And it chose to remain unseen.

Beyond the Safari: The Slow Kanha

Leave one afternoon unscheduled.
Sit outside your lodge, listen to birds, write a page.
Visit a local village — many artisans carve wooden deer or paint forest scenes, part of Kanha’s community tourism program.

Meet the naturalists. They carry stories of Barasingha rescues, legendary tigers like Umarpani, and their own quiet triumphs.

​

What Kanha Teaches

By your second dawn, you start to feel it — the rhythm.
Alarm calls fade with sunrise, birds settle, the forest exhales.
Kanha doesn’t rush. It asks you to slow down enough to belong.

“The forest was very still, for the beasts knew that something was abroad,” Kipling wrote.
In Kanha, that stillness still exists — ancient, patient, watchful.

You go looking for tigers. But you leave remembering the living stillness.

Quick Reference

• Best time: October–June (closed July–mid-October).
• Gates: Khatia (main), Mukki (quiet), Sarhi (remote).
• Zones: Kanha, Kisli, Mukki, Sarhi.
• Safari times: Early morning & afternoon.
• Bookings: forest.mponline.gov.in
• Airports: Jabalpur, Raipur, Nagpur.
• Cost: ₹6,500–₹8,000 per private vehicle

For Writers Who Need to Disappear (and write)

I’m planning a writing retreat here. Limited spots. No workshops, no forced sharing circles, no mandatory “creative exercises.” Just protected time, this space, and the permission to finally do the deep work you’ve been postponing. Or maybe a workshop or two. Or Art.

What you get:

• A tented luxury room
• Mornings of productive creativity
• The kind of quiet that lets you hear yourself think , or ink
• Optional evening discussions about craft—only if you want them
• A location I’m not posting publicly (you’ll get exact details when you commit)
• The accountability of other creators doing the same work

What you don’t get:

• WiFi strong enough to doomscroll (it’s there, it’s just weak enough to keep you honest)
• Distractions disguised as networking
• Excuses for why you didn’t finish that project

Who this is for:

• Writers finishing manuscripts, essays, or content series
• Creators who need to batch content without the usual interruptions
• Anyone who’s tired of “writing retreats” that are actually just expensive vacations with laptops
• People who understand that sometimes the best thing you can do for your work is get out of your own environment

Interested? The lane doesn’t appear on most maps. And I’m keeping it that way.

Contact me directly for retreat dates, pricing, and the exact location. Limited to 8 writers per session.

Because the question isn’t whether you need this kind of space. The question is: are you willing to look the tiger in the eye?

Kanha National Park: 10 Questions Readers Ask

If you’ve ever typed “Best time to visit Kanha National Park?” or “How do I book a tiger safari in Madhya Pradesh?”—welcome, my friend. You’ve just wandered into the right patch of jungle.
I’m Susan Jagannath—writer, trekker, and occasional chai-spiller on dashboards—and this is your real-world guide to Kanha, one of India’s most spectacular tiger reserves and the beating green heart of the Satpura Hills.

This post answers the ten questions everyone eventually Googles (or asks ChatGPT at midnight) before heading to Kanha National Park:
how to get there, when to go, which gate to enter, how much it costs, and—let’s be honest—will I see a tiger?

Expect solid facts, a few seasoned traveller hacks, and the occasional grin.
Because the jungle, like good writing, thrives on patience, curiosity, and the ability to laugh when your camera hand shakes just as the tiger appears.

So brew a cup of chai, pull up your socks, and let’s start planning your trip to Kanha National Park (Madhya Pradesh, India)—where the Barasingha still graze in gold-lit meadows, the Royal Bengal Tiger still rules, and the echoes of Kipling’s Jungle Book still whisper through the Sal trees.

Where exactly is Kanha National Park?

India. Of course.

Well, India is a big place, and it lies deep in the heart of rural India, Madhya Pradesh. To be more specific, Kanha lies in the Mandla and Balaghat districts of Madhya Pradesh, deep within the Maikal range of the Satpura Hills.
It’s part of India’s central highlands—lush, forested, and often described as the “real jungle heart” of the subcontinent.

The two main entry gates are Khatia (western side) and Mukki (southern side).

Nearest airports: Jabalpur (160 km), Raipur (250 km), Nagpur (300 km)
Nearest railway stations: Gondia (145 km) and Jabalpur (160 km)

Note: If you are accessing from Mukki Gate, Raipur is your airport.

It is a four to four and a half drive to Kanha (Mukki Gate vicinity) from Raipur. It’s advised that you arrive at Raipur by midday.

What is Kanha best known for?

Kanha is renowned for three things:

• The Royal Bengal Tiger, one of the most visible and well-protected tiger populations in India.
• The Barasingha, or Hard-Ground Swamp Deer—once nearly extinct, now thriving thanks to Kanha’s pioneering conservation programme.
• Its status as a model for park management and wildlife conservation in Asia.

It’s also famous for its Sal forests, rolling meadows, and peaceful atmosphere—less crowded than some other reserves.

What wildlife can I expect to see apart from tigers?

Kanha is not a one-species park. Look out for:

• Leopard, sloth bear, Indian gaur, jackal, barking deer, sambar, chital, and the rare chousingha (four-horned antelope).
• Over 300 bird species, including the Black Ibis, Bee-eaters, Paradise Flycatcher, and Crested Serpent Eagle.
• Reptiles like the Python, Russell’s Viper, and Monitor Lizard.

The real charm lies in observing these species in their natural rhythm—quietly and patiently.

When is the best time to visit Kanha?

Kanha is open from 15 October to 30 June.

• Peak season (April–June): Best for tiger sightings as animals gather near waterholes.
• Cool season (Nov–Feb): Ideal for birdwatching and photography, though early mornings can be very cold.
• The park is closed from 1 July to 15 October for the monsoon.
  Remember: No afternoon safaris on Wednesdays—the park rests then.

What wildlife can I expect to see apart from tigers?

Kanha is not a one-species park. It is rich in flora and fauna. Look out for:

• Leopard, sloth bear, Indian gaur, jackal, barking deer, sambar, chital, and the rare chousingha (four-horned antelope).
• Over 300 bird species, including the Black Ibis, Bee-eaters, Paradise Flycatcher, and Crested Serpent Eagle.
• Reptiles like the Python, Russell’s Viper, and Monitor Lizard.

The real charm lies in observing these species in their natural rhythm—quietly and patiently.

How do I book a safari and what does it cost?

Safaris must be booked online via the MPOnline portal.

• Booking opens 120 days in advance at 11 AM each day.
• You’ll pay first for the permit, and then separately for your vehicle and guide at the gate.

💰 Approximate costs:

• Shared Jeep Safari: ₹600–₹800 per person
• Private Jeep (6 people): ₹6,500–₹8,000 total

Always carry your ID, and arrive early—gate formalities take time.

Note: Safari charges are higher for those with a foreign passport.

Which safari zone should I choose?

Kanha has four zones:

• Kanha (premium, high tiger density)
• Kisli (excellent sightings, scenic)
• Mukki (good for both tigers and herbivores)
• Sarhi (less crowded, rich birdlife)

If it’s your first visit, I recommend Kanha or Kisli—well-balanced between sightings and beauty.

What kind of accommodation is available?

You’ll find everything from budget lodges to luxury jungle retreats:

• Banjaar Tola (Taj Safari) – premium eco-luxury
• Shergarh – Luxury Tented. We stayed here.
• Mogli Resort, MPT Resort – mid-range, family-friendly
• Community homestays near Khatia – simple, authentic, and sustainable

Book early for peak months (March–May). Most places offer guided nature walks and local village visits too.

What should I pack for a Kanha safari?

Keep it practical:

• Clothing: Earth tones (olive, beige, khaki). Avoid bright colours.
• Winter: Jacket, gloves, muffler, and cap—mornings can drop below 10°C.
• Summer: Light cottons, hat, sunscreen, and plenty of water.
• Gear: Binoculars, camera, extra batteries, insect repellent, and a small torch.

Tip: carry a light blanket for early-morning drives—it can be surprisingly chilly.

Is Kanha safe for solo travellers or families?

Absolutely. Kanha is one of the best-managed reserves in India with clear safety protocols.

• Safaris are always accompanied by a licensed guide and driver.
• The park authorities maintain strict visitor rules to protect both animals and people.
  Families with children often prefer morning drives—cooler, calmer, and more predictable.

Why do people say Kanha inspired The Jungle Book?

While Pench National Park is often cited as Kipling’s direct inspiration, Kanha shares the same ecosystem and atmosphere—the same dense Sal forests, same dappled light and mystery.
It’s easy to imagine Baloo and Bagheera here. Although there have been no black leopard sightings for a long time.
And like Kipling’s world, Kanha still reminds us that the jungle is not chaos—it’s a beautifully balanced society, if you know how to watch.

An Author’s Reflection

Kanha isn’t just a place to tick off a tiger sighting—it’s a living classroom in how nature endures when given respect and space.
Go not just to see, but to learn, to listen, and to remember what the wild once meant.

As a writer, I found Kanha riveting in a different kind of way. Its stillness resets something inside you—the way the jungle breathes, the rhythm of bird calls fading into mist.
There’s a story in every track, a metaphor in every fallen leaf. Kipling might have woven his tales from Pench, but Kanha keeps the echo alive—a reminder that the wild isn’t a place we visit; it’s a truth we remember.

For Writers Who Need to Disappear (and write)

I’m planning a writing retreat here. Limited spots. No workshops, no forced sharing circles, no mandatory “creative exercises.” Just protected time, this space, and the permission to finally do the deep work you’ve been postponing. Or maybe a workshop or two. Or Art.

What you get:

• A tented luxury room
• Mornings of productive creativity
• The kind of quiet that lets you hear yourself think , or ink
• Optional evening discussions about craft—only if you want them
• A location I’m not posting publicly (you’ll get exact details when you commit)
• The accountability of other creators doing the same work

What you don’t get:

• WiFi strong enough to doomscroll (it’s there, it’s just weak enough to keep you honest)
• Distractions disguised as networking
• Excuses for why you didn’t finish that project

Who this is for:

• Writers finishing manuscripts, essays, or content series
• Creators who need to batch content without the usual interruptions
• Anyone who’s tired of “writing retreats” that are actually just expensive vacations with laptops
• People who understand that sometimes the best thing you can do for your work is get out of your own environment

Interested? The lane doesn’t appear on most maps. And I’m keeping it that way.

Contact me directly for retreat dates, pricing, and the exact location. Limited to 8 writers per session.

Because the question isn’t whether you need this kind of space. The question is: are you willing to look the tiger in the eye?

A Whisper from Kipling’s World

There’s a moment when you enter Kanha and the forest closes around you—the light dims, the cicadas stir, and you half expect Bagheera to slip through golden grasses of the meadows and the clumps of bamboo that creak creak in the tender breezes. Kanha is perfect for a writer. 

And everyone’s here to try to see tigers in the wild. Kanha is contiguous with Pench and the Seoni Hills, all names that Kipling’s The Jungle Book would be familiar with. And its soul still hums with the same wild music. Here, in the shining gold and emerald heart of Madhya Pradesh, you begin to understand how Kipling was immersed in stories and seemed perfectly at home despite his colonial heritage. Listen carefully to Kipling, and the Hindustani cadences are unmissable to those with the discerning ear.

“For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.” — Rudyard Kipling

Animals of Kanha – Quick Look

Kanha is India’s great conservation epic. Spread across the Mandla and Balaghat districts, its meadows roll like green and golden seas under the watch of the ancient Satpura hills.
It is here that the Barasingha, the Hard Ground Swamp Deer, made its final stand. Once near extinction, it was saved by quiet, tireless human effort to conserve the land that brought us all to life. Today, Bhoorsingh the Barasingha stands proud as the park’s mascot—a symbol of redemption.

Around him, life thrums in the 900+ square km sanctuary:

• Tigers pad silently through Sal forests, startling langurs to shriek out their danger call.

• Leopards, gaur, and sloth bears move like forgotten myths.Are they watching us silently and invisibly. Maybe having a quiet chuckle at the gawking humans?

• Over 300 species of birds turn the air into a living orchestra—bee-eaters flashing emerald and gold, hornbills croaking from the treetops, serpent eagles tracing lazy spirals, and everywhere the peacocks preening and strutting through the grasses, flashing their green and peacock blue like signals in the midday heat.

When to Go: Feel The Pulse of the Jungle

Kanha is open from mid-October to June, resting during the monsoon.

• April to June is the watcher’s season—heat draws tigers and deer to shrinking waterholes.

• Winter mornings bring ghostly mists rising from meadows, perfect for photographers and poets alike.
  Avoid Wednesdays if you can—the forest takes a half-day to breathe.

How to get to Kanha

Kanha is in the heart of India. If you’re coming in from outside India, you will need to land in any New Delhi, Mumbai or even Bangalore, and then fly to Jabalpur, Raipur, or Nagpur, then journey by road to the forest gates of Khatia or Mukki. Ask your accommodation to arrange a taxi for you.
The drive itself feels like a slow shedding of civilization—the roads narrow, the trees lean closer, and the air begins to smell faintly of Sal resin and wild lemongrass. Stay anywhere from a forest-fringed homestay at Shergarh to the plush Banjaar Tola. In Kanha, even luxury tends to whisper rather than shout, hiding at the edges of the forest. Do ensure you book ahead.

The Safari: Learning to be Still

Safaris in Kanha aren’t just about seeing a tiger—they’re about learning to wait. And learning to see more than tigers. Tigers may be burning bright in the hills and meadows, but there are also other animals and birds to see in their natural habitat. Here’s what you must do:

You book your jeep through the MPOnline portal, weeks in advance. You rise before dawn, when the stars still tremble above the Sal canopy. You line up at the Mukki gate in a short line of permitted jeeps with your permit and and you wait for your guide to jump into the jeep and you set off into the darkness of the tree covered forest. the driver and the guide chat about where the last sighting was, and they text to and fro with their mates in other jeeps.

And then, you wait—for a pugmark, a call, a shadow moving through tall grass.

If you’re lucky, you’ll glimpse a tiger—perhaps Umarpani, the great male of legend—emerging like a thought from the forest. But even without him, the jungle teaches patience, humility, and a kind of reverent quiet that no city ever can. The call of the langur shatters the quiet, and the jeep negotiates muddy tracks and narrow bridges at great speed to get to the place the tiger may be seen. And if you’re lucky, you see her, or him. I learn that every tiger, some 155 of them, have identities, they are catalogued, their unique stripes noted, and named by temperament or location – Sharmilee, the shy one, or the usurping daughter who pushed her old mother out. Or the one-eyed tiger who hid and waited.

Travel Writer’s Style Tips

Ok, maybe you didn’t come to read this for style tips. This is not for your fashionista – but you must dress right. I had to abandon my pinks and bright colours for a while. For a writer, black and white should be enough? or camouflage?

• Wear earth tones—the forest prefers discretion.

• In winter, layer warmly; in summer, travel light.

• Always bring binoculars and a notebook—not every treasure can be photographed.

• And above all, bring time. Kanha reveals itself only to the unhurried.

• Wear a hat.

An Author’s Reflection

As a writer, I found Kanha riveting in a different kind of way. Its stillness resets something inside you—the way the jungle breathes, the rhythm of bird calls fading into mist.
There’s a story in every track, a metaphor in every fallen leaf. Kipling might have woven his tales from Pench, but Kanha keeps the echo alive—a reminder that the wild isn’t a place we visit; it’s a truth we remember.

We all long for Eden, and we are constantly glimpsing it: our whole nature at its best and least corrupted, its gentlest and most human, is still soaked with the sense of exile.J.R.R. Tolkien.

For Writers Who Need to Disappear (and write)

I’m planning a writing retreat here. Limited spots. No workshops, no forced sharing circles, no mandatory “creative exercises.” Just protected time, this space, and the permission to finally do the deep work you’ve been postponing. Or maybe a workshop or two. Or Art.

What you get:

• A tented luxury room
• Mornings of productive creativity
• The kind of quiet that lets you hear yourself think , or ink
• Optional evening discussions about craft—only if you want them
• A location I’m not posting publicly (you’ll get exact details when you commit)
• The accountability of other creators doing the same work

What you don’t get:

• WiFi strong enough to doomscroll (it’s there, it’s just weak enough to keep you honest)
• Distractions disguised as networking
• Excuses for why you didn’t finish that project

Who this is for:

• Writers finishing manuscripts, essays, or content series
• Creators who need to batch content without the usual interruptions
• Anyone who’s tired of “writing retreats” that are actually just expensive vacations with laptops
• People who understand that sometimes the best thing you can do for your work is get out of your own environment

Interested? The lane doesn’t appear on most maps. And I’m keeping it that way.

Contact me directly for retreat dates, pricing, and the exact location. Limited to 8 writers per session.

Because the question isn’t whether you need this kind of space. The question is: are you willing to look the tiger in the eye?

You turn one corner off the beach road and everything changes.

Behind you: honking scooters, sunset-chasing crowds, the whole carnival of tourist Goa packed onto asphalt. The pilgrimage to the perfect Instagram sunset, bodies pressed together in that peculiar beach-town desperation for magic hour. Heat rising from the road despite the sudden unseasonal rain. The smell of exhaust mixed with frying fish. Not exactly what a Goa holiday is meant to be.

One lane over: mossy walls quieten the din, dim lights strung between old stone glow up the twilight, rain turning the packed earth to something close to silence. Squish and splash replaces tooting horns and drunken laughter.

This is the Goa nobody tells you about. The one that exists in the negative space between Google Maps pins. The one I won’t tell you about either! oops….

I’m not telling you exactly where this is. Not yet. Some places need to be saved from deliberate searches, not stumbled upon by accident or revealed by a careless writer. Ahem.

But if you’re a writer, a creator, someone who needs silence to think—keep reading.

Sharp Angles, Soft Paths

The lanes twist at sharp angles here. No grid, no logic—just centuries of people walking the paths that made sense. Paths carved by monsoons and market days, by Portuguese administrators and fishing families, by feet that knew where they were going long before anyone thought to pave it all.

My shoes collect wet mud with every step. The mist thickens around corners and rooflines, erasing the edges of things. The rain here doesn’t just fall—it transforms. It softens stone, darkens wood, turns the present tense into something that could be any century at all.

The walls grow moss in patterns that look intentional heritage style. Ferns sprout from cracks in the plaster, brushing your bare arms as you walk by. The lights barely work, strung up like a random afterthought, like electricity is still a novelty here, not quite welcome, not quite home.

The Villa Materializes

Then it appears.

A traditional Goan Portuguese villa rises out of the rain like a memory surfacing. Like it’s been waiting.

Crenellated rooftop first—those castle-wall notches cutting into grey sky, miniature battlements that speak to some old Portuguese dream of fortification. Then the courtyard, blue tiles slick with water, each square glazed in that particular cobalt that Portugal brought across oceans and left behind in doorways and churches and courtyards like this one.

Then the lap pool, long and dark, reflecting nothing but the evening coming down.

This is what Goa hides one lane off the beach road.

I’ve wandered in this ‘vaddo‘ a lot, but never in the midst of a thunderstorm. Lightning flashes overhead, and the thunder sounds like a feral snarl in the lane.

The Architecture of Forgetting

The old building looks like it grew here. Organic, inevitable. The kind of building that makes you forget about construction and think instead about emergence, about things that simply are rather than things that were built. The architecture colonial Portugal left behind, still standing, still quiet, still indifferent to the chaos fifty meters away.

Thick walls designed for heat that hasn’t arrived yet. High ceilings that swallow sound. Windows positioned to catch breezes that blow in from the ocean you can no longer see but can still smell—salt and fish and possibility.

The courtyard tiles glitter with rainwater in the grout lines, turning the geometry into a series of small lakes. The blue deepens as the light fails. The crenellations above look like gaps in the sky itself.

This is the kind of space that doesn’t just accommodate creative work—it demands it.

Fifty Meters Might As Well Be Fifty Years

I stand in the courtyard, rain on blue tiles, and think: this is where I write next. This is the place. A flash of lighting outlines the old cruceiro in the courtyard. No hiding in corners, here the shrine is front and center. A candle flickers in the smoke darkened alcove beneath the glass enclosed statue above.

The beach road is fifty meters away. It might as well be a different country. Different century. Different intention entirely.

Out there: the constant crush with crowds, with noise, with the relentless now-ness of tourism. The performance of beach life, the Instagram carousel of sunset and shacks and “living my best life” captions.

In here: just rain. Just old stone. Just the sound of water finding its level.

This is what you need when you’re trying to finish that manuscript. That essay collection. That content series you’ve been putting off because your usual environment won’t let you think.

The Mornings Writers Dream About

I’m already imagining cool calm mornings here.

Writing at a table in that blue-tiled courtyard, the dew dripping slowly down those old walls, the quiet broken only by water moving through the pool filter. The particular quality of light that filters through monsoon clouds—soft, diffuse, the kind that doesn’t create shadows so much as suggestions.

Coffee going cold in a clay cup. Pages filling with words that don’t have to compete with scooter horns. The luxury of sentences that can unfold at their own pace, without rush, without the anxiety of interruption.

The villa as collaborator. As co-conspirator in the act of paying attention. It was a convent once, and then a hostel for students – I can almost feel it breathe out the words of contentment.

Imagine a week here. No distractions. No “quick coffees” that steal your morning. No notifications. Just you, your work, and the sound of rain on turquoise blue tiles.

What Gets Lost, What Remains

Ten minutes ago I was trapped in traffic, sunset pilgrims and honking mopeds, the whole sun-seeking crowd packed shoulder to shoulder on hot asphalt. Then I turned. Just once. Down a lane that bent at an angle no city planner would approve.

This is what travel is supposed to be, isn’t it? Not the curated itinerary, not the top-ten list, not the places everyone already knows. But the turn. The wrong turn that becomes right. The moment when the map fails and something else takes over—curiosity, instinct, the willingness to get a little lost.

The villa appeared through rain and mud like a memory surfacing. Like something I’ve been looking for without knowing I was looking.

This is where I’m writing next.

And if you’re a writer, creator, or deep thinker who needs this kind of space—this could be where you write next too.

The Permission to Disappear

Because here’s what that the hidden villa offers: permission to disappear. Permission to be fifty meters away from the crowd and feel like you’ve traveled decades into the past or slipped sideways into a version of Goa that refuses to perform for visitors.

The moss on the walls doesn’t care if you see it. The blue tiles don’t need validation. The crenellated rooftop isn’t trying to be picturesque—it just is, because someone a century ago thought battlements belonged on a convent, and who are we to argue with that kind of audacity?

This is the Goa that still knows how to be quiet. How to let rain be rain and stone be stone. How to exist without needing to announce itself every five minutes.

One turn off the beach road, and everything changed.

For Writers Who Need to Disappear (In the Best Way)

I’m planning a writing retreat here. Limited spots. No workshops, no forced sharing circles, no mandatory “creative exercises.” Just protected time, this space, and the permission to finally do the deep work you’ve been postponing. Or maybe a workshop. 

What you get:

• A room in this heritage villa (yes, the one with the blue tiles and the crenellated roof)
• Mornings of productive creativity
• The kind of quiet that lets you hear yourself think , or ink
• Optional evening discussions about craft—only if you want them
• A location I’m not posting publicly (you’ll get exact details when you commit)
• The accountability of other creators doing the same work

What you don’t get:

• WiFi strong enough to doomscroll (it’s there, it’s just weak enough to keep you honest)
• Distractions disguised as networking
• The anxiety of tourist Goa pressing in on you
• Excuses for why you didn’t finish that project

Who this is for:

• Writers finishing manuscripts, essays, or content series
• Creators who need to batch content without the usual interruptions
• Anyone who’s tired of “writing retreats” that are actually just expensive vacations with laptops
• People who understand that sometimes the best thing you can do for your work is get out of your own environment

Interested? The villa doesn’t advertise. The lane doesn’t appear on most maps. And I’m keeping it that way.

Contact me directly for retreat dates, pricing, and the exact location. Limited to 6 writers per session.

Because the question isn’t whether you need this kind of space. The question is: are you willing to make that turn?