Last Updated: February 11, 2026

The first sound I remember is water. Not the crash of a wave, but the soft, persistent lap against the laterite stone of our jetty. Before the roosters, before the prayer call from the village, that’s what I’d hear from my bed. It’s a sound that says you’re held, you’re floating. It’s the sound I still wake up to, and it’s the first thing I want our guests to notice when they step off the boat onto our island.

People search for a “Kerala green homestay” and see pictures of coconut trees and rice fields. That’s part of it, of course. But the green I know is deeper. It’s the moss on the boat dock, the vivid green of the banana leaf holding your breakfast, the dark jade of the canal water under the noon sun. It’s a living, breathing green you become part of.

What a Homestay Here Really Means

I see many places using the word ‘homestay’ now. Sometimes it means a separate cottage with a kitchenette. That’s nice, but it’s not what we do.

Here, a homestay means you are in our home. You share our space. My father might be mending a fishing net on the veranda. My mother is in the kitchen, the air thick with the scent of roasting coconut and curry leaves. The rhythm isn’t set by a tour itinerary, but by the sun, the tide, and when the fish vendor’s boat comes by with the morning’s catch. The “green” isn’t just a colour scheme; it’s a way of life that’s inherently sustainable because we’ve lived this way for generations.

The Magic of Being Island-Bound

Our location isn’t an accident. Evaan’s Casa is a six-minute boat ride from the mainland. That short journey changes everything.

It separates you from the noise of the roads. It makes your arrival and departure a small, mindful event. You can’t just hop in a rickshaw. You have to take a boat. This forces the slow pace that is the entire point of coming here. The island is a world. From our porch, you watch the village life on the water—the ‘vallam’ boats carrying schoolchildren, the canoes piled with coconuts, the silent kayaks at dusk. You’re not observing it from a bus window. You’re in the middle of the painting. To truly feel this, you have to visit us at Evaan’s Casa and let the water set your tempo.

The Heart of It All: My Family’s Kitchen

If the water is our heartbeat, the kitchen is our soul. The smell of woodsmoke from the hearth mixes with the morning mist. Coffee is brewed fresh, with jaggery. This is where “green” becomes taste.

We don’t have a restaurant menu. We have what the day gives us. Maybe it’s ‘Karimeen Pollichathu’—pearl spot fish marinated in a paste of spices, wrapped in a banana leaf, and cooked over coals. The banana leaf blackens, and when you open it, the steam carries a smell that is pure Kerala. You eat it with your hands, the way food tastes best. Maybe it’s a simple ‘olan’ with pumpkin and black-eyed beans from our garden, cooked in thin coconut milk. The food is honest, direct, and grown or caught from these waters. You’ll eat at our family table, and that shared meal is where stories are traded.

Jackson’s Tips for Your Backwater Stay

Pack light clothes that dry fast. A hat is good. Leave your fancy shoes; barefoot or sandals are the code here.

Don’t just do a one-hour houseboat tour. They stick to the big canals. Ask us for a small canoe ride in the evening. That’s when the herons fly home and the water turns to glass. You’ll see kingfishers and maybe an otter.

Learn three words: ‘Nanni’ (Thank you), ‘Vellam’ (Water), and ‘Sukham’ (Happy/Comfortable). It makes a difference.

The best photographs aren’t at noon. Wake up for the sunrise over the water. The light is soft and golden, and the fishermen are just starting out.

Be curious. Ask us how to pluck a coconut. Ask my mother about the spices. This is how you learn.

Running Evaan’s Casa isn’t a business project for me. It’s an invitation into my childhood, into the quiet moments that shaped me. It’s the chance to share the Kerala I know—not the one on a postcard, but the one felt in the cool floor under your feet, the taste of a mango picked that morning, and the profound quiet of a backwater night, broken only by the splash of a fish.

This is what we offer. Not a checklist of sights, but a feeling. A deep, green, calming reset. We’re here, on our island, waiting to welcome you home. Come and see for yourself. Visit us at Evaan’s Casa, and let’s share a cup of coffee on the jetty.