Kerala Part II. How it all began.

I'm in Kerala - of course I said so already. Up until this morning I wasn't in any particular mood to share. But then I lost my temper day before and settled into a quiet sulk to think all of yesterday. So today, I feel like I could share some of what this last month has been.

It's not as bad as I make it sound, though I'm reminded daily of Gerald Durrell and his menagerie of people and animals in a strange land. Sometimes I'm amazed at how diverse the subcontinent is. Especially since I'm talking mostly in hand signals and facial expressions. It isn't as difficult as people would imagine it to be. I'm really not that much of a talker. That's probably why I talk so much shit. It's this live and let live and do not interfere with human beings because they're not half as nice about interruptions as animals are policy that I've formed after much consideration. But enough about me. More about the travels.

We reached Kurla station [in Bombay, for our train to Tellicherry] an hour early. The train was still being cleaned. I thought it was pretty fucking handy that we confused the train timing. We get nowhere on time. And almost never with an hour to spare. Movies always get watched with the first fifteen minutes gone, meetings always begin hurriedly with glares shot from the latecomer and the meetinger-in-waiting. I am almost certain I’d be late for my own funeral. Kurla station is the epitome of filth I thought [from past memory, and confirmations of the present]. How wrong I was. There are greater, more prudent epitomes of filth, which I shall get into by and by. We got onto our seats, all our backpacks and one suitcase full of enthusiasm for the journey. I looked forward to twenty hours in a south-bound train, Smit looked forward to the end of it, and Dangles looked forward to sleeping through it. As train journeys go it was pretty uneventful, save our frequent smoking trips to the loo [the smell of grass can drown out even the strongest stench of filth in closed train compartment toilets], Smit’s outburst at hardly getting enough hits and the TTE asking us to not smoke in his watch. We didn’t listen to him.

Arriving at Thalassary was a relief of sorts, and we were rested, filthy and craving some filter coffee. Be advised that the wonderful folk of north Kerala don’t give proper respect to their tea and coffee. It’s weakness makes me feel like WonderWoman with superhuge biceps. However, the Indian Coffee House in Thalassery [with branches all over Kerala] deserves gratitude for the welcoming whiff of filter kaapi that does such wonders for the soul. Arrival at Valsan’s Shilpapaddiam was met with sighs of wonderment. And the absolute pleasure of a shower. Shilpapaddiam is beyond my ability to describe. To put it most simply, it is welcoming, rustic, built in shades of the earth. Laterite and wood serves to keep you cool in the tremendous heat that is Kerala in the summer. I didn’t know at that time the weather was just readying everyone for some ecological drama. With sweat trailing us wherever we walked, we had breakfast, dragged our assortment of luggage up to our attic house [it sometimes feels like living in a treehouse in The Swiss Family Robinsson], and beelined for aforementioned shower in the outhouse. The outhouses are circular, built in laterite and some lovely bath fittings from Crabtree. The roofs are dried palm leaves. The water is cool and fresh. There are bedets for those used to modern convenience. That bit surprised me. We met the six dogs and saw no cats for our first three days here. We dragged up an extra fan from the office. We combated mosquitoes with Kachhva Chhap and Odomos. But the urban warriors were at a loss at what to do with the rusticity and the ants. Dang fretted and fumed over her Mid-Day page which needed writing while Smit and I combated with clay and laterite respectively. This we did for 2 days. On day four, we trooped to Kottayam, only to find there was pretty much nothing there to do. We walked in lanes, smoked to the intrigued stares of various Keralite men and women and ate some smashing chicken biryani and gulped very good sweet and sour veggie soup. It was almost like cheating, having that soup. If you want a decent stay in Kottayam I’d recommend The Homestead. For a ride through the backwaters, I’d say go to Dolphin Tours.

Getting into that little motor boat [we hired it outright for Rs. 2000] to go to Allepey was the best decision. No matter that we realised after getting to Kottayam that none of us really wanted to go to Kottayam, and the only one of us who even knew of it before was Dang, having read of it in The God of Small Things. This is why I never trust writers who write nostalgia. It’s a pointless waste of time to go look for someone else’s memory a couple dozen decades later. The Kottayam we saw was nothing as described. And we bought the last packet of Wills Classic Milds that existed for sale in all of Kottayam. Also bought were utterly cheap mundus, at Rs. 24 a piece, from Seematti. Chainstore, Kerala. Capitalists exist, under the cover of economy division shopping stores, even in communist states.

What strikes me the most is the local intolerance of, or the lack of interest in tolerating difference. That no matter what you do [or don't do], you will get stared at. Size, shape, gender, age, none of it matter. If you're not from there, you're not from there. And that gives those who are from there the permission to stare. Sometimes even touch. It's just seen as a fact of life. Repetition: Shorts, sleeveless shirts, tank tops, dresses that show cleavage or ankle or any such forom of skin, are considered invitations. If you want to traverse this land, get used to it. Also largely not tolerated are female/s travelling any distance without men. I don't think I've met any unattached women here, and it disturbs me just a bit. By unattached I mean, going to the market by themselves. Every other minute, sometimes, is a giant eyeroll. Luckily, the boat people are so used to tourists, they welcome it. For most part, they ignore it.

If you want to take a boat to Allepey and not come back, you’d better make it clear that you want your 6 hours on the boat and then get off at Allepey. It’s also wise to get into the bloody thing on time. At maybe 10.00 AM. It occurred to me that the earlybird behaviour at Kurla Station was total fluke.

[soon: part 3: Backwater Pirates.]

Kerala Part I : The Summary.

have been in kerala [a small village called pattiam near thallassary (telicherry)] since the 31st of march. email sent to some of those that want to know.

hello All.

this is not a personal letter, so don't get stressed if some parts of it have you go wtf.

it's been a lovely ten days so far. kerala sucks. come here only if you want to go in AC gaadis to hill stations and look at green things from the distance. the place is gorgeous. every other minute is meant to take your breath away. the backwaters are so much fun. the weather's been total drama for the last three days. thunder, lightening, rain, other such ecological tantrums. heat also. i've turned black already. which is awesome because no one will ask to get me married at my cousin's wedding next month. i look like i've been dipped in charcoal. the people here, however, deserve a prize. in cuntgiri. no one wants to give ANY info. i'm telling you they just hate you on principal. and women can't talk to men here. they can't travel alone. they can't smile at strangers without extending an invitation to get groped or stared at. and god forbid that you dare to wear shorts. or sleeveless. or tank tops. or anything which does not cover you completely. i think i'm finally figuring out why that weirdo Kamla Das changed to islam - she lives in one of the shittiest parts of the country, especially if you're female.

as i might have mentioned before, the place i am, is awesome. the weathers full drama. my house has only one room, the attic. downstairs is for work. :) so far, i play with laterite. smit and dingles, there is form now. wheee. :) :) there is also some charcoal type drawing things happening hurrah. yesterday, i was made to sit in a chair for 4 something hours while valsan and sukeshan tried to make portraits of me. i'm happy to note none of them look like me. on the other hand, the artists' consensus is, i'm too young and too old for them to get a fix on me. i am also a gypsy. :) not the maruti one. the people you know? they asked me at the synagogue if i was israely, and i thought, desraili better. [see, kerala fucks up one's humour, so please not to feel raa.]

right, so back to that single room house - i caught my resident mouse, only to spend hours trying to save him from a cat. and then to spend an hour following the cat to save it from the six mad dogs that live here. other than that, my house is now inhabited by a snake also. very pretty he is. or she is. hangs around at the higher level, i come in, and it fucks off. good type roommate. :) too bad dang and smit missed that.

other than that, absolutely nothing to report. i don't miss bombay one bit. you guys, sure i miss youuuuuu. so if you get bored, you should call me. i'm at 099470xxxxx. you know, just in case anyone misses me back. mumble mumble.

also, i managed to find awesome coffee. which i finally make, because everyone here drinks such weak tea-coffee. i'm waiting for the lappytoppy, then i will send some picshurs. hokay?

much love,

been a while, and i don't know what to talk about. except i had this feeling that maybe i want to come back. i thought of jazz, because my phone beeped, and i was asked in a text message, 'what is jazz p? i mean, what is it to you?'

i was in the tube-lit kitchen in my house, playing with tea leaves, waiting for the water to boil before i put them in. 2 AM it said, and i thought, hmm. jazz. in the night, everything seems much warmer, when you think of it. the cold white glare of the tube light is not important, except it gives you a headache. i hurry hurry hurry the tea, and i feel like my mind's fractured enough to imagine another person, who is probably me, and who loves me too. i feel that now, a quiet combustion of atoms, as they swirl warmth around me. what are we if not chemical reactions with ourselves?

with jazz, everything seems so much more. much darker, much warmer, much moodier, it's an in-between moment. i can't listen to it in the morning. in the morning it makes me restless, and in the night it makes me wish for company that can never be.

but in the space between evening and night, what some people call late evening [just the way they say 5 pm is late afternoon]. it's when the evening light is fading, shadows lurk between orange-gold sunlight, and lamps are being lit by the beaches, and the roadside cafes are readying to tap into a more enthusiastic service routine, jazz could live inside me, and my feet will fall on the wooden floor in exact time. laughter will be heard floating over it, and again, floating over the laughter will be the the music. not like grand mountain ranges rising in crescendo, but an ebb and flow of waves around rocks. sometimes it changes, and crashes into the rocks with a ferocity you were not expecting, and then it murmurs and soothes your nerves by stroking your skin with its warmth.

it's the moment in your affair when it occurs to you that something is just right, and enveloping you in a warmth that is all chemical reaction, but you just created it out of nothing but some jazz. some throw-your-head-back-and-laugh laughter. some touch me and we'll combust moments. smiles slanted in the afternoons that lead to them. glasses clink around you, quiet laughter floats up over the smell of whiskey.

that's jazz. it's whats in between evening gold and night black. it's twilight. it makes sense.

hmmm.
i'm also messed up because he's gone.
to barcelona. for 11 days. no big deal. right?
RIGHT. WRONG. MOPE.
the bastard. walking in and out of my existence like that.
i'm going to be very stoic.
to hell with him. with men.
someone asked me out last weekend, and then insisted that i
go with him to his fucking farmhouse in fucking alibag.
and then gill says cos i seem like someone who doesn't care
about the rules. or anything. like i can do whatever. mostly.
but not with some rich fuck at his effing farmhouse in alibag.
i have standards.
and i like being asked.

so he said barcelona on sunday. and i thought
you're leaving me.
of course, of course he said before he told me he did
that he'll go on the 9th, so why did i gasp and think
you're leaving me.
he's not with me to be leaving him.
shitshitshit.
i'm moping. MOPING. in capitals.
why does he have to mess with me?

i'm going to be stoic.
very much so.
and i'll try not to talk about him to
random strangers.
which i did today. oh what a fool i am.

if you're in bangalore, you must go to Koshys.
if i were in barcelona i'd be with him.

que sera.
sera.

shitfuckpiss.

2:59 on the clock. computers are good and easy because you can always tell the time - even if it is the wrong time. if it's the wrong time, it can be philosophically argued if it even matters - because, think about it, you don't know which of the thousands of alternate realities you're living in, at any given moment.

of course, all that's bullshit when you're late for somewhere or something. of course you stop believing in that when you run into the same people in all the realities. shouldn't there be hippies and aliens and elvis at some point? because, in an alternate universe, elvis should be alive, we should all wear tie-and-die and be spreading love and Moulder and Scully should be busy making little alien babies.

The question of Are We Alone should be answered, no? it should be pretty obvious that we are.

the little child running around, playing in the sand. the little child sitting squalling, being buried in a bit of sand. the little kid grinning for the camera, sitting on the horse on the merry-go-round.

looking at the old pictures, i cannot let go. i try to replicate.

but the child is all grown up, and struggling to replicate. the child grins madly, now grown up, with a mind of her own. doing as she pleases. staring strangers in the eye. trying to capture their moments, because they didn't. grinning at thanks offered casually by parents of other strangers, sitting on mini ferris wheels, half scared, half overjoyed.

the grown up child wonders if she wouldn't mind a ferris-wheel ride.

memory

Ronny wakes up to realise it’s a dream.

Flames rose from the ground, consumed everything that he could see. He’s Bengali, and so he thinks, Gelusil. He thinks it’s acidity. There’s nothing in the night to suggest that it could be acidity. Except the acrid taste of smoke that’s set in the back of his throat. He wonders if this is hallucination, but he hasn’t smoked in over twenty four hours, so it could well be a craving. He gets up, and his fingers look behind the books on his shelf. Nothing.

Wonders, he does, whether he finished it all. Suddenly, his throat wonders what the Classic Mild tastes like. He looks again behind the books. He can’t fine the little Goldflake packets. God bless Indian cigarette sellers. He rations cigarettes, our Ronny does. Pulling one out of a little box every time he can’t fight that feeling. Running into the toilet, standing on the commode, his face inches away from the exhaust fan. God forbid they find out. But maybe they did. He can’t find the little box anywhere.

Ronny tries and tries to remember what box it was. If it were the Goldflake box, it’d be small. And if that were the case, maybe he’d look through the bookshelf again. Slipping his bony fingers as far as they could reach behind the volumes of Kafka and Camus. Not that he’s read much of either. He read Metamorphosis, and considered himself the guru on Kafka. He read the Cahiers, and wondered if he was Albert Camus, living on the colonial French sea shore, wondering about the weather and life. It’s summer, and nearly 5 AM. The dogs on the streets are getting restless, and rickshaws and cars pass, puncturing the silence of the night.

Ronny’s bony little fingers, they grope into the depths of his bookshelf. And grope at nothing but air. A little sliver of doubt passes his mind – he passed out drunk. Did his mum get to the books before he did? Mother,when she sets her face with a disapproving frown. Her brother, Prakash, is a drunk. When Ronny visited them three summers ago, him and his cousin emptied the bottle of whiskey halfway, and filled it with water. His uncle, the psychological drunk, got drunker than ever, and laughed at Ronny’s attempts to be invisible the whole time. When Ronny left their house a few days later, it was the end of all cousinly summer vacations.

Wondering if 5 AM panic is justified, Ronny tries to think of something else to ease his mind. He thinks of his cousin Shreya, the one who’s wanking his elder brother. He wonders if he should feel sick, but ends up feeling nothing. He remembers a tented sheet over his brother’s waist, and small, almost inaudible gasps that his cousin makes as his brothers hands do god-knows-what to her. Incest is necessary, Ronny thinks, and laments that he has no younger cousin to help him pass through adolescence or teenage. Then, as if remembering why he woke up at nearly 5 AM, he rummages around one last time behind the bookshelf. Nothing.

He looks under his pillow, inside the pillow cases, under and in-between the mattresses, and through his drawer. And there’s nothing. He tries his best to remember what packet he was smoking out of. He wonders if it’s a pack of Classic Milds or if it’s Classic Milds pretending to be anything from Goldflakes to Davidoff to Marlboro. He can’t remember. All he remembers is his cousin passing him the smallest bottle of Old Monk. 180 litres. Rupees fifty three. And the sound of breaking glass as he threw it out after he finished it. And stumbling into his bed, trying to fall asleep to soft but ecstatic sounds his cousin makes as his brother’s hand does things to her. He looks over at them, but they’re sleeping now. He doubts his brother knows he has been drinking. He’d been talking to his betrothed while Ronny was getting drunk. Ronny blushes a little thinking of the word betrothed. But that’s better than fiancé. He hates fiancé.

He looks around, trying to plot a route over the sleeping bodies of his cousins and his brother. He needs to find his cigarette packet before the 6 AM alarm on his mother’s annoying UFO looking alarmclock rings. The route he plots is circuitous, though he knows he can as good as walk over them, and they won’t budge. Summer vacations are excruciating. He does his little balancing act and reaches his drawers. His hand gropes once again, blind in the darkness. He finds a matchbook. He wonders if he should light a match to help him look, but just then, his other cousin mumbles in his sleep. Something about being James Bond and wanting a strong tea, and he nearly drops the matchbook. The Bond cousin mutters just once more in his sleep and turns to his other side, facing Ronny. And continues muttering. A courier service van passes outside, and Ronny curses the fates under his breath. And matchbook held tightly in his left fist, continues to make his way to the bed, and peers into the darkness under it. He stretches out his right hand, and paws at the floor, as if the accursed cigarette packet will show up if he paws hard enough. Sure as the earth is round, it doesn’t, and Ronny takes it in his stride.

Gingerly, he uprights his body, and shoves his fingers through his slightly overgrown hair. God bless summer vacations – his mother hasn’t mentioned a haircut yet. He retraces his steps to the feet of his sleeping cousins. By now his eyes are accustomed to the dark and they’re looking wildly for the elusive little pack, and now that his brain is awake, he remembers vaguely that his cousin hands him a big-ish box, Classic Milds. Filled with five Classic Milds. And a copy of illegal music downloads. He smoked it at the window. Three out of the five sticks of Milds.