Moments before we embarked on our Kerala trip this July, our first, my best friend announced: “I am on a Keto diet”.Not a problem for a state known for — or infamous for — its meat-eating habits, right? But here is the catch: My friend is practically a vegan.AdvertisementThat leaves her with almost no choices, you would say, especially with even legumes being off-limits in Keto. I thought the same.But here is what my friend chomped down during the trip: A variety of starters fashioned out of our humble phool gobhi (cauliflower), multiple preparations of mushroom, a few helpings of tofu and paneer dishes (whenever the “almost” in “almost vegan” kicked in), and an assortment of vegetable preparations (avial, thoran) accompanied by rasam and moru (spiced buttermilk) mashed into the almond rotis she had packed.Halfway through the trip, she gleefully declared Kerala — wait for it — a “keto-friendly state”. Not the honour Kerala may have been looking for but one that, I am sure, it would gladly accept. Because that is how Kerala is, all accepting and encompassing, and I am not saying it without evidence or personal experience.AdvertisementOf all the places that I have been to, Kerala was supposed to be one that I, as a UP-wallah, was supposed to connect with the least, logically.There is more in common I have with a Kashmiri; at least we are both from up north.The differences became even more stark soon after we landed in Kochi.Also Read | Lula’s narrow victory shows the resilience of the right in BrazilAs we navigated the unfamiliar streets late in the night, in some places without a soul in sight, I instinctively told my friend, “Don’t worry. It is Kerala.” I don’t remember the last time I had said those words to her in 25 years of knowing each other.As our trip progressed, our ease with the state, whose language or culture or landscape we were unfamiliar with, only grew.People gladly helped us find our way, not correcting us when we called a “chetta” (older brother) an “aniyan” (younger brother), only smiling and indulging us because we were at least trying.From shops to cafes to the water metro, wherever we tried to strike a conversation in English or the smattering of Malayalam we had picked up, people would immediately switch to Hindi. As if to reassure us that “it is alright. You don’t need to try so hard. Enjoy your trip. We’ve got this.”I was blown away by how secure everyone was in their own skin, with their mundus, and their plaits, and their nicely oiled hair, not trying to be anyone else, not telling us to be like them. Quietly sending out the message that we could all peacefully coexist. That no one needs to impose their language, or culture, or habits on each other. That there is enough sun for everyone.I have travelled extensively over the last decade and I’ve rarely been to a place that I would not want to visit again. But with Kerala, I felt a sense of belonging that I have felt nowhere else. The feeling that I could actually live here, that I would blend in, assimilate, without changing one thing about me — a north Indian through and through.And this feeling did not come from any extravagant effort on anyone’s part to get me to like the place. It just happened on its own: With a shop declaring Jamal and Anand (or some such) on its display board with no one raising an eyebrow; with a synagogue occupying pride of place amid temples and mosques and churches at Fort Kochi; with an array of lipsmacking vegetarian food options being dished out in a state where most of the population eats meat; with women out and about as much as the men; with the cities actually being spotlessly clean without needing to announce that they are the cleanest.And remember, it is also the state where my almost-vegan-friend-on-a-keto-diet was left spoiled for choice. Anyone would be. Provided one approaches it after setting aside hate and prejudice.Recently, I came across a reel of a vlogger in Kerala, visibly and pleasantly surprised by a Muslim man participating in Dussehra celebrations, instinctively taking the aarti, running a palm over his head, like it is something he has been doing all his life. When asked to comment on this, a shopkeeper simply said, “Kerala alag hai (Kerala is different)”. I can confirm that it indeed is.The writer is assistant editor, The Indian Express. deepika.singh@expressindia.com