IV - OFF THE RAILS
After a string of ‘rather uninspired’ work written for the Times, my services have been placed on temporary hold, to ‘reinvigorate the senses,’ or (more likely) so I can quietly disappear. It’s terrible really, how often I find myself in these situations. Just last month I looked so proudly at my exploits: dodging bullets in Qatar, protesting in Venezuela, being nominated for countless awards courtesy some writing association dictating journalistic standards as if they could grasp excellence… I’m bitter. I sit sweltering in South Indian heat approaching forty degrees celsius. The Kerala Express violently jerks in reaction to what looks like rusted rails and… air. My mother sits beside me, gazing through barred windows as childhood ghosts streak the passing fields. We are on our way to visit perhaps our fifth set of relatives, custom dictates a meeting with each one, ‘especially after so many years, this one held you when you were just a baby!’ The trip was her idea. Watching me waste away through journalistic failure sparked her idea of a cure: The motherlands. Kerala, God’s Own Country1.
ROAD TO ADOOR
We spew from train to train platform through noise you’ve never seen. Coolies balancing massive suitcases on their heads, weaving through crowds. Patterned shawls sweeping the platform with the speed of instinct. The clamors of commerce, the smells of fried foods. We pass by vendors selling all kinds of wares, from water bottles to purses to peacock feathers, careful not to look too long in one direction as we head toward the exit.
We find our driver, Santosh, just outside the station. He’s a stoutly built man about fifty dressed cleanly in an off-white dress-shirt and gold-lined lungi2. His grey hair seems doused with a lifetime supply of coconut oil. We awkwardly exchange greetings and I help him with the luggage. Santosh is the talkative type and begins chatting with my mother in Malayalam about their family histories. Apparently, my mother knows his wife’s second cousin’s dog’s best friend’s previous owner’s nephew. They bond on this. They continue chatting as I peer through a one-way glass. I am there but not there. I understand most of what is being said but I cannot really speak the language. Growing up in Canada, my parents thought it best to not teach me so as to not impede my English (??). Hence very little of the language is now my own, and I have even less to pass on. Santosh’s car, a white Hindustan Ambassador Grand3, finally stutters to start and we pull away from the station. I am too tired to complain about the lack of air-conditioning.
Driving on these roads requires obscene levels of apathy and assertiveness. Every crack of space between the piled cars is quickly filled with scooters and motorcycles, some of which hold three people. Motor horns are used constantly, not out of anger or frustration, but as a subtle warning before the driver bursts onto their desired route, forcibly merging. Stuck behind a truck going too slow, Santosh begins weaving behind it, taking note of oncoming traffic before quickly overtaking and only slightly avoiding a collision. My mother’s high blood pressure and hypochondria have gotten the best of her. She reproaches Santosh about his ‘crazy driving’; he is courteous enough to listen and agree (with a few wobbles of his head4), but the drive has remained more or less the same, and my mother has been forced into silence, into staring at anything but oncoming traffic: at billboards of fair-skinned beauties in glittering bridal wear and jewelry, at countless 5G wireless ads and vivid almost cartoon-like political posters. Scattered patches of huts face the road with their storefronts, several of them with branches of nendran bananas (delicious) hanging right above their entrances and commercial refrigerators with Pepsi signs seen easily from the road. Small clusters of population gather variably near the huts, immersed in the inescapable vibrations of 1.3 billion souls packed in space less than one-third the size of Canada. I’ve seen the same man several times. He is an old and lean and veiny figure. His skin is sun-stained and dark and deeply wrinkled, especially around the eyes. He watches the passing noise with a blind and almost vulgar sort of distaste, his head slowly oscillating and his hands clasped behind his back and his eyebrows furrowed and his face prickly and unshaved. He watches. He is condemned to watch the noise with a blind and almost vulgar sort of distaste…
We park at the side of a junction. My mother spotted a chaya kada (tea shop) and felt wistful for a cup. Tea, or chaya, is somewhat of a national pastime. India is the world’s largest consumer of tea (consuming thirty percent of the world’s output) and its second-largest producer (after China). But Kerala chaya is different. Frothy, creamy, and delicious, it is locally called Adicha Chaya, meaning “One Meter Tea.” Served in a small glass, the shop owner prepares it by boiling water, adding smashed cardamom and smashed peppercorn, and then adding loose black tea leaves. After letting it boil, he adds milk and stirs often, straining the leaves and—finally, pouring the tea from one mug to another, again and again, one meter apart. The motion serves many purposes: it mixes the tea, cools its down, spreads the aroma, and creates the frothy texture—all while producing a rhythmically calming sound and spectacle. We sit and sip our chaya in front of the hut and take in the mixtures of flavor, heat, and bustle. Santosh tells us a story of his childhood, of a man called Half-tea. Every morning he would purchase a glass of tea (ten rupees), but instruct the shop owner to give him only half. Returning from work at the end of the day, he would request the other half, earning his moniker. Santosh cannot remember his real name; nicknames, or house names, are a large part of Keralite culture. Usually given by parents, it is quite common to have a formal name on your birth certificate but be called something completely different. My mother’s formal name is Sara, but her house name is Beena. Ninety percent of our community would likely not know her real name, and it would not be a stretch to say that she feels more Beena than Sara.
We finish up our chaya and my mother spots a snack store. We are about to purchase in-bulk snacks for back home but not before Santosh warns us about their somewhat shady practices. Entering the busy store there are many workers, a common thread of bold fast-talking boys in jeans and dress shirts and flip flops. Their voices ring above the bustle and in between large vats of snacks: fresh plantain and casava chips mixed with every spice under the sun, endless flavors and textures and colors of halwa, fresh cashews… with no prices to be seen. We take note of each and give a list for Santosh to buy later. Though my mother and I are of local descent, our foreignness is painfully obvious; the way we walk, talk, and navigate space speaks more for who we are and where we come from. Santosh will return later and purchase snacks on our behalf (with a tip of course) at a more reasonable price. We enter the Ambassador Grand and pull away from the junction and continue on our journey.
It’s different being in Kerala than anywhere else. Perhaps it’s because here I can’t be completely foreign, so my sense of identity starts to merge instead of reaffirm. Something stirs at these sights and sounds. I can’t place it. In the heavy heat, speed, sweat, the red dust spewing clouds through car tires. It emanates from Santosh and now my mother, something much bigger than them… I fall asleep to the sound of cars honking.
ARRIVAL
We arrive at the house around dusk. It sits at the bottom of a hill surrounded by tall trees and the road leading to it paved by gravel and tall weeds. The house is white and one-story with a flat roof and wooden sheds at the back. A woman in a saree, a helper, sweeps the porch with a broom made of dry wild grass. Inland India. Old Kerala. Much different than the brochure: Cochin airport powered by solar panels, Lulu mall, Sree Padmanabhaswamy Temple, drifting through Alleppy backwaters in a houseboat surrounded by coconut trees5 and wiry fisherman casting their nets in the foreground of a sun just about to set. God's own Country. I think of the places I believe I have seen. Perhaps they too were just the brochure.
We are greeted on the porch by our relatives. It is only an hour until dinner so we exchange pleasantries and then quickly unpack. The house is noticeably old, cracks and other signs of decay line the pale-blue cement walls. There are no hallways, the rooms simply link to one another like a mash of mismatched cubes. But I sense a unique warmness that comes with this old worldliness and desolation. The warm yellow light, the cricket quietness, the faded flower-patterned bed sheets, the smell of mosquito coils. All my passions and restlessness—overwhelming back home, seem now like a restless dream.
Dinner is served. Rice, avial, chicken curry, papadum, and lemon pickle. We eat using our fingers, the practice based on the premise that eating is a sensual activity, and touch is part of the experience along with taste, aroma, and presentation. The meal is delicious. My cousin sits next to me at the table. She is around the same age and is a history major. Her English is excellent (much better than my Malayalam anyway) and she educates me on the various spices used for our meal. Did you know that black pepper6 originates from Malabar, Kerala? Black pepper! An utterly essential ingredient for so many cuisines—all indebted to the Malabar Spice trade.
We wash our hands and sit together in the living room and continue our discussion of history. She ends the night by declaring that she cannot possibly go through it all. I laugh and head to bed.
UNSCRAMBLING NIGHTMARES
I’ve been having trouble falling asleep. It’s very odd. I usually like rooms that aren’t my own. When the weight of my decisions aren’t draped around me… I’m a sailor at sea. I’m a wreck without eight hours. Maybe it’s because the bed’s next to this wall—messes with the feng-shui. Writing helps I guess. Thinking too. Pacing. Thinking. Thinking things. Mosquitos hovering. A lizard just fell through the fan blades, its tail detached—it’s still moving!—mind of its own, or nerves I think. Don’t look at the time it’ll make it worse. Exhausted. Right on the edge of sleep. Excruciating. Morning already. Strange feeling, dawn when you haven’t slept… like the world moved on without you. How many days have I lived like this? Jet-lagged and weary, going through the motions, just trying to get home. Home. So much to do. Santosh awake and ready. Mom awake and cheerful. Quiet breakfast. Idli and sambar. Waiting on the porch and peering at wild dogs with testicles. Strange how strange it is to see dogs with testicles. Car horns. Melting through noise and heat. Crippled beggars. Skin-whitening cream ads. Malls—air conditioning (!). Piles of sarees and lehngas and salwar kameez bought and rarely—if ever—to be worn. So cheap! Carelessly crossing streets and hoping to make it. Faintly. Beginning to feel delirious. Crowds and heat. Pulse and breath just pounding through my core. I don’t like knowing there are this many people in the world. In their own worlds. Made of voices and fears and dreams as real as mine. Back at the house again. Finally. Sleeeeeeep.
VII - UNSCRAMBLING NIGHTMARES II
Travel Diarrhea medication is a lie. It’s false confidence. Sure! I’ll try that, even though it looks like it’s still alive… I’ll try them all! Why not?—I’ve had nothing but bananas, plain yogurt, black tea, and rice for the last two days. I am drinking my mother’s fifth concoction of Indian remedy—they’ve all had shifting ingredients except for some form of ginger and turmeric. She is presently out buying highly-recommended Ayurvedic7 medications. I dream of bland cuisine. I never thought I’d miss fries and burgers this much.
I guess it’s a good time as any to address the toilet situation. Many say the ideal position for defecation is the squat: ‘in this way, the capacity of the abdominal cavity is greatly diminished and intra-abdominal pressure increased, thus encouraging expulsion of fecal mass.’ I can attest to the greatly increased force of expulsion. The act itself feels incredibly natural, but it’s the surroundings that throw me off. A wooden outhouse located approximately ten frantic strides from the house. You hear birds chirping, leaves rustling, nature’s call takes on a whole new meaning. I’m exaggerating the strangeness of course—although—in my current situation it’s a bit peculiar. I must admit, ashamedly, that I forgot to bring enough tissue on one trip and was forced to use a page out of my notebook. That page—by my luck—was the exact page detailing the intricacies of my ailment in relation to the outhouse. I currently lack the energy needed to recreate what I believe was a divine homage. But fragments linger… something about sensations akin to a soul leaving one’s body. But I digress.
Sleep comes easy now. But I fear it as much as I crave it. I close my eyes and am almost instantly dragged through hot tunnels of thought. Puzzles with no purpose. I leech onto flickers of solution and ride them only to find that there is no end. That I might never escape. Condemned to face these unsolvable problems with the only constant of heat. Jesus Christ the heat. My body temperature rises to battle the virus but the heat of this land refuses to wane for even a moment. Impotent fan blades! I wake up drenched in sweat, chanting fragments of Elliot’s Wasteland8, partially relieved to have escaped my mind but mostly enraged at this land and its people. I sense a hostility from them. And I fear it’s not just my condition that makes me feel so. It’s as if my weakness is an exaggeration of a first-world sort, a performance. They seem unwilling to understand the alienation of my condition: in a foreign land, no connection to home (quite literally: I have no internet connection). And sick. I’ve been having depressing and excessively dramatic (allow me please) meditations on my existence. Am I more than a sack of bones? Will I ever make it back home? All those relationships I’ve made, where are they, do they still exist, do they mean anything? Seriously. Malnourished9. I’ve lost ten pounds already. I haunt this house, wearing only a lungi so I can survive the heat. Jesus Christ the heat.
X - RECOVERY
A stone’s throw (small stone—powerful throw) from the house is an Orthodox church. I gaze at the white cruciform architecture through the windows of my cousin’s bedroom. Self-imposed quarantine. I slowly recover, reading books from her bookshelf and rarely if ever leaving the room.
It may be surprising to learn that twenty percent of Kerala’s population is Christian (this includes my family) vs. two percent of India as a whole. Formally known as Saint Thomas Christians, it is believed that Thomas the Apostle (doubting Thomas) reached the shores of Kerala in 52 AD and spread the gospel. Aesthetically, Saint Thomas Christians look no different than the rest of the local population, but are likely to have Christian surnames like John, Matthew, and Thomas.
Kerala is also very much appreciative of the arts. This came as a naive shock. From epic poetry to astonishingly expressive dance forms. A mature but lively cultural force overflows here with undeniable identity. Of course, with colonization and modernization, external influences play their part in its history and future, but they do not and cannot submerge the core—for better or for worse—and are forced to blend with a culture thousands of years old.
I read and read and read and wonder why I assumed differently. In comparison with other Indian communities in Canada, it always seemed as if Keralites were not just willing but excited to assimilate. To accept being called Sandy for Santosh or to easily disparage our cuisine in favor of something European. I was raised with dreams of becoming the vice president of a top company (seriously). My childhood reeked of individuals with solely executive or technical aspirations. And I understand the pragmatism—the starving artist is more than just a cliche. But I look back in wonder at how just the possibility of being a writer didn’t even graze me as a child, despite voraciously consuming art.
The asymmetry of Kerala’s clear exaltation of the arts and its dismissal by expatriates is somewhat explained by the immigration points system. Those with more technical qualifications were more likely to be given citizenship, and then in turn more likely to have technically minded offspring. Thankfully (perhaps)—there is an element of randomness. An artist could be born to an accountant, or a physics major. I wonder though, with heaps of ungrateful privilege, how it may have turned out if I lived here. But… maybe not. Perhaps what I truly wonder, or hope, is that the song behind my song, my echo, my words, all come from a place inescapably intertwined with this soil.
XII - TELEMACHUSxPARSHURAMA
I have been feeling a lot better, or perhaps more acclimated to my lack of energy and mental sharpness. I decide it’s finally (finally!) time to leave the house and walk to the church. I gather my fortitude and start to march up the hill. Each step a battle. The church is much further than I thought. Faint spells of dizziness and fatigue have built up enough to inhibit my stride. I take a small break atop the hill and gaze at the endless paddy fields and clusters of coconut trees and large sweeps of rubber trees. The wind is kind and the sun is forgiving, sitting right above the plain and commanding just the right amount of attention. Picturesque. Boys too young to be driving scooters blur by, missing me by an inch, I hear echoes of their laughter. Children in school uniforms run by, boys with loosened ties and girls with ribboned hair. They all look at me eerily, like I don’t fit the puzzle. I walk by men roofing a house nearby and see the dust mire their glazed and calloused forms. They laugh and joke amongst themselves and nod towards me as I pass on. Men of the country. Men of the plains.
I am almost at the church. I can smell the incense. An old man walks toward me from the other side. He seems to be staring but I cannot really tell. His face is expressionless and his posture strikingly erect, as if death would even disappoint him. In his hand is a long black umbrella with a silver tip. Impaled leaves stack at the end and crack and drag with every stride. I notice I am near the entrance and start to turn back. “Young man.” Powerful, stern, absolute. Voice of a weathered teacher. “Who is your Father?”
GETTING OUT OF TOWN
Been years since I drove stick. Ambassador Grand blowing through traffic on the expressway. Fifty to sixty miles an hour through dark streets. Surprisingly nimble. Santosh probably awake and in shock. I finally realized what that feeling was. It’s these people, this place… all living like the world doesn’t die when they do. Narrow roads. Full throttle. Ninety to a hundred miles an hour—anything—anything at all to keep the speed, to keep this pace from settling in my bones.
The extremely successful slogan was coined in 1989 by the Kerala Tourism Department.
A linear sheet of cloth (measuring 115cm x 200cm) worn around the waist in India. Formal lungi’s are white or off-white with small accents of color lining the border, while informal lungi’s come in various patterns and colors. I have tried many times to wear one and enjoy its free-flowing benefits but cannot get over my need for pockets or walk more than five steps before it gets loose. Every boy grown up watching Malayalam films has imagined wearing a lungi and fighting gangs of thugs with punches and kicks that send them flying through the air in glorious sound effect. We did not have Superman. We had Mammootty and Mohanlal (film stars so beloved that they are known simply by their first names!).
Along with the auto-rickshaw, the Hindustan Ambassador is the most iconic and recognizable vehicle in India. It was once a status symbol and the sole preference of many politicians, but India seems to have moved on and more modern competitors like Suzuki, Toyota, and Honda have gained significant market share. The car was discontinued in 2014.
Oh the great Indian head wobble. Depending on subtle variations of velocity, vigor, and amplitude, translations of the wobble can range from furious agreement and/or understanding to subtle agreement and/or understanding with sprinkles of confusion and/or indecision. The movement is extremely contagious.
“Kerala” translates to “Land of Coconuts.” Kera = Coconut. La = Land.
Black gold it was called by the Ancient World; Alaric’s siege of Rome was lifted only by payment that consisted of three thousand pounds of black pepper.
A system of alternative medicine with historical roots in India (4th century BCE), usually composed of complex herbal compounds, minerals, and metal substances. The word itself is Sanskrit, meaning “life-knowledge.”
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter.
I have fought very hard to not eat, wrestling plates back from aunties who consider it a failure of their maternal duties if I am not beyond stuffed (exemptions are not made in cases of stomach bugs).
I loved this, I will reread this again and again, and savor again the details down to the dust, the humor and nostalgia, and hear again all the sounds, including the rhythmic pouring of meter tea, the murmurs of many family reunions, alternations between the crowds and quiet places. This was great.
This was a truly unique experience, wonderfully written. Thanks!