There’s something uniquely calming about the rain when you’re on a bus journey, especially when you’re travelling through the green stretches of Coastal Andhra.
Unlike a flight that whisks you above the clouds or a train that speeds by with indifference, a bus in the rainy season keeps you grounded. You feel every curve of the road, hear every patter on the roof, and see every drop race down your fogged-up window. My recent journey from Vijayawada to Kakinada, in the thick of the monsoon, reminded me why I still prefer buses for these soul-soaking routes.
This wasn’t my first time doing this stretch by bus, but it was the first time I did it in June, right as the southwest monsoon touched down. I had packed light, as usual: one backpack, a rain jacket, a small towel, and my trust in APSRTC (Andhra Pradesh State Road Transport Corporation).
The Humble Beginnings
I boarded my bus from the Pandit Nehru Bus Station in Vijayawada—a place that buzzes with life regardless of the weather. The smell of filter coffee mixed with the earthy scent of rain-drenched concrete as I waited for my 3:45 p.m. bus to Kakinada. Thanks to bus ticket booking apps, I had secured a window seat well in advance, sparing me the hassle of last-minute rush. As the rain intensified, the already humid air turned slightly chilly. Locals rushed with plastic covers over their heads, chai vendors huddled closer to their carts, and the blue APSRTC buses slowly pulled in, each announcing its destination in a mix of Telugu and English.
My bus arrived right on time—a semi-sleeper with cushioned seats, large windows, and a thin stream of Telugu movie music playing faintly from the front. I got a window seat, second row from the front, and made myself comfortable.
Into the Heart of Monsoon
As we rolled out of the city, I noticed how quickly the urban clamour faded into quiet stretches of countryside. The monsoon had transformed everything into different shades of green. Rice paddies spread out like wet silk sheets, and coconut trees stood proud against a grey sky. Water-logged fields reflected the clouds above, making the sky and land blur into each other.
Raindrops hit the windows with rhythmic consistency, almost meditative. Now and then, the windshield wipers would sweep across, revealing an ever-changing canvas of rural Andhra temples half-covered in moss, farmers working with lungis hitched above their knees, and kids playing barefoot in muddy alleys.
Pit Stops and People
About two hours in, the bus made a short stop at a roadside eatery just outside Eluru. The rain had subsided by then, leaving behind the fresh scent of wet soil—that unmistakable smell that no perfume has ever captured quite right.
I stepped out for a stretch and a quick bite. The place had hot mirchi bajjis, boiled peanuts, and chai that steamed harder than the rainfall. I chatted with a fellow traveller—a student from Rajahmundry—who was heading back home after exams. We talked about rain, roads, and how bus travel feels different in every season. The monsoon, he said, always reminded him of school days when they’d watch the water rise on the roads and pray for a holiday.
There’s a strange comfort in meeting strangers during travel. You know you’ll never see each other again, and that makes the connection all the more honest.
The Romance of the Window Seat
Back on the bus, I returned to my favourite part of bus travel: staring out of the window with absolutely nothing to do. No deadlines. No phone calls. Just thoughts flowing like the rivers we crossed.
One unforgettable stretch was near Amalapuram. The Godavari’s distributaries had swelled with monsoon water and overflowed into nearby fields, turning them into shimmering lakes. It felt like we were driving through a dream, with water on both sides and a grey sky hanging low like a blanket.
Sometimes I wonder if we romanticize the rain too much. After all, it causes delays, floods, and makes travel messy. But on that road, surrounded by rain-fed landscapes, I didn’t care. I’d trade a dry, fast flight for this slow, damp ride any day.
Arrival in Kakinada
By the time we reached Kakinada, it was well past 8 p.m. The city was quiet except for the occasional splash of tyres on water-logged streets and the flicker of yellow streetlights reflected on puddles.
Kakinada smells different after rain. It’s a mix of salt air from the Bay of Bengal and the earthy scent that lingers long after the last raindrop has fallen. I took an auto to my hotel and rolled down the window just to breathe it in. The sea was only a few kilometres away, and the breeze carried whispers of waves and wet sand.
Looking Back
What makes rainy season bus travel in Coastal Andhra special is that it forces you to slow down. Every stretch of road tells a story. The delays, the wet bags, the soaked shoes, all of it becomes part of the memory.
In a world obsessed with speed and convenience, bus travel, especially in the rain, brings back something essential: presence. You feel the journey. You remember the faces, the smells, the colours. The bus doesn’t just take you to your destination; it lets you live the way there.
Next time the rains come knocking and you’re wondering whether to take a flight or hop on a bus along Andhra’s coast, I hope you choose the latter. You might reach a little late, but you’ll arrive with stories soaked in rain and moments you’ll never forget.
Photo by Lucas van Oort on Unsplash (Free for commercial use)
Image published on April 14, 2022
