Silent Wally

It was a rare event – Wally was quiet. And Wally was never quiet, as his friends vouched, unless he was sleeping nor still if he wasn’t staring you down enquiring after the ‘angle of the dangle.’ Then at the Tree Top Bar which he runs with his son Mathews close to the Labuan Bajo harbour there is always some reason to be raucous. Like when I walked in Mathews had just announced that he had got a new dog and everyone raised a toast to Mathews’ happiness. ‘May it bring you the joy none of your bitches could,’ Wally did his fatherly bit barely lifting his own bottle of Bintang.

We were now sitting on the terrace of the bar, smoking. He reminisced his diving days, squinting at the spangled waters, how his love for the deep sea led to his collaboration for the definitive guidebook ‘Diving Bali – The Underwater Jewel of Southeast Asia.’ We – Wally, rather – were making more noise than the entire Australian family who sat next to us.

“See this?” He asked pointing to an inscription on his Zippo lighter, a gift from a former lover. DDTB, it read. I didn’t have to ask him, nobody has to ask Wally anything.

“Diving, drinking, talking bullshit, in that order.”

Labuan Bajo: Fast growing

More raspy laughter. I saw a kid in the group put away her Kindle while another rummaged his rucksack for headphone.

Wally had moved here in the 80s when Bajo, as locals call it, was not even a blip on the tourism map. He had begun his career as a diving instructor in 1976 and came here when his clients began to demand a change of scene from ever-bustling Bali.

“You know the harbour then was a small, quaint one with some trees, beneath which were a few benches for passengers and a small harbour master’s office.” He said. Difficult to believe as earlier that day I had ojek-ed my way around it and found a melee of ferries and freight carriers and fishing boats. I didn’t see a single tree either.

“The entrepreneurs pumping in the money have no respect for the environment – just filling up more and more of the sea with earth levelled out of mountains in the name of development.”

“Maybe that’s how Bajo is poised to be the next Bali?” I asked what I had seen gloated about in tourism manuals and trade journals.

Wally stared at me long and hard.

And quiet.

Bali

Candi bentar: Perfect symmetry

No camera can capture the real beauty of Balinese women, wrote travel writer SK Pottekkatt in Bali Island. The reason for the enamoured proscribing was because ‘their real beauty lay not in their bodies or countenance, but in their mellifluous movements.’ To view a woman from behind, he further lamented, would be not to know whether she was young or old – such is the grace. So moved he was, he even went on to find the makings of this stately posture: ‘From an early age, the girls are made to walk with heavy loads on their heads forcing them to walk steady and not dawdle, head held high. The total effect, he gushes literally, is like each limb playing its own little symphony – together making up the marvellous orchestra that is a Balinese woman in motion. Nearly six decades after he wrote these I can tell you nothing has changed. The women of Bali are still captivating.

Once in Ubud, upland Bali, I was waiting for a friend outside her house when I espied an old lady in the neighbourhood offering puja to a Ganesha idol. The grace with which she went about her ritual brought to mind the famed Legong dance of Ubud I caught the previous evening.  She turned to me and smiled. It was then I realised that a smitten me was way inside her boundary gate. Instead of a gesture that conveyed immediate defenestration of my unsolicited presence she smiled. Even asked me whether I didn’t want pictures. One of life’s most memorable pleasures are such little, unexpected goodness of total strangers. And Bali bamboozles you with oodles of it.

“The people of Bali are good from here,” said Agung Rai, thumping his heart. Rai ran a travel business in Kuta, the famous beach area of Bali. We were on our way to the Monkey Forest and I had pointed out to the general absence of honking on the roads. Coming from India my eardrums were pining for cacophony.

Movement mellifluous: A Balinese lady

“We drive with our hearts and not as per rules.” Rai said. “In fact, we do everything with our hearts,” he reiterated the charm of the island which had for centuries enchanted many of those passing by enough to settle down for good. One notable example is artist Antonio Blanco. Born to Spanish American parents in the Philippines, Blanco worked in Florida for a while before turning to the Pacific islands for inspiration. He found plenty in Bali and stayed on till his death in 1999. In the meantime, he married a famous Balinese dancer, sired several children, friended many notables including Michael Jackson, won many awards and opened a museum. The Renaissance Museum in Ubud is an abiding testimony to the charms of Bali, though most of them are portraits of nubile, young bare-breasted women, which made Blanco flower as an artist. When I visited, an elegant looking lady placed a frangipani flower behind my ear and welcomed me with a comely smile. Made me consider strongly settling in Bali.

Then, Bali will never change because it never has. It has traditionally remained rooted in and loyal to its beliefs and culture. Hinduism, which was brought in during the seventh century by scholars travelling with Indian merchants continues to thrive here. While a hop skip across the waters, over many islands in the archipelago, Islam brought in by Chinese traders a few centuries later became the dominant religion. Like the dear old lady with the Ganesha, every house in Bali has its own temple or pura. Most house constructions in Bali begin with that of the pura, usually next to the entrance gate itself, and the installation of an elaborately carved deity. Equally important as places of worship, the puras are also where ancestors are revered. These, Rai told me, was a non-negotiable regardless of economic status. I rode most the way to the Monkey Forest staring wondrously at these little shrines of private devotion abounding in variance accorded not just by social (caste system is prevalent in Bali) and financial statures but the person’s spiritual realm and geographical locations. Sheer aesthetics even. So much for Suharto’s attempts at enforcing dull uniformity across the land.

Kuta Beach, Bali

A later journey to villages beyond Ubud to see some of the locations of ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ I passed through some ‘split gates’ common in Bali. These are intricate, arch-shaped gates with a mirror symmetry and are locally known as candi bentar.

“Well, this gate is candi bentar,” she said about the one we were passing through. “Then there is the kori agung with roofed tops found within a pura complex.”

I was enthralled. I should really move here.

Bajo

Bajo ubiquitous

Tragedies have a way of redemption through rediscoveries. Talks of an alternate to Bali began in right earnest after a suicide bomber killed over 200 in a packed nightclub in Kuta in 2002. It didn’t take long for many to make a beeline to Labuan Bajo in Flores island, a shanty beachside town slogging its way up the respectability and popularity ladder. Fish wholesale was the economy’s backbone; the local fish market is still an eye-opener to the astounding diversity and generosity of the sea. I strolled around gawping at the largest varieties of fish I had ever seen under one roof, the dried ones grinned back at me. The pace of development has picked up in the last few years with most of it restricted to the area around the promenade and the flanking street Soekarno Hatta. ‘Bajo Dive’ is one of the oldest establishments where I met Patris, a diving instructor. The rising prospects of Bajo impelled his move from Bali a few years ago.

“But, I don’t want Bajo to be the next Bali,” he said. “I moved here because Bajo was not Bali.” I wanted Patris to tell me more about the ‘not Bali’ bit of Labuan Bajo but by then the group he was taking diving to the Pink Islands arrived. Donnie Pramaffandi took me a bit forward with that. The spiffy Donnie who works with Kalstar Aviation said he hoped Bajo remained the quiet and rusty town it was always. But from the ground it was pretty clear that the chances of Labuan Bajo remaining so was thin.

Sunset at Labuan Bajo

“There are large investments happening here by Italians and Australians mostly fronted by locals,” revealed Kasim Mambut, proprietor of the Ayo Mandiri Foundation where the blind are trained to be masseurs. “And these investors are in a hurry to make their monies that they don’t care about the locals or the environment.” Tourist arrivals in 2013 was 54,147 – a number projected to grow ten times by 2019. Readying the necessary infrastructure will take USD 1.2 billion of which private investments are expected to form a large chunk. One fallout of this, besides the ever-expanding land fill are the haphazard constructions that are coming up around the bay area adhering to no safety and environment norms. Putting on his ‘professor’ avatar (the others are ‘popular’ or ‘profane’ depending on how you look at it) Wally warns that if it was a bomb in Bali, it will be a natural calamity in Bajo.

I had to point out that despite what his friends said he was silent for a long while.

“See, in Bali we even have the Nyepi festival where we celebrate a day of silence,” he said standing up to go downstairs. We had run out beer.

“So are you silent on Nyepi?” I asked.

“The angle of the dangle, my friend, is Bajo can never be Bali.”

Wrecking idol

Trading and religion have always gone hand in hand – the unpredictability of one unfailingly appealed to the vagary of the other. Pala, flanking the fertile banks of the Meenachil River, attracted farmer settlers from millennia ago. Recorded history shows they were mostly Christians or Nasrani – as the Syrian Christians of Kerala are known as – due to the evangelisation efforts of St Thomas who came ashore the sub-continent in the first century. Achayan, as the Nasrani menfolk are called, ably assisted by their chatta-clad wives toiled diligently, grew a lot of crops and children and made a lot of money. In time, they became comfortable enough in their everyday lives to focus on the afterlife. The church at Aruvithura some kilometres away was deemed too dangerous for the good folk of Pala – there were wild animals and dacoits en route. Pala needed its own church. The cornerstone of the first and the most imposing one to date, the Cathedral Church, was laid in 1002. This was followed by the two Lalam churches in 1611 and 1821. Accommodating an expanding flock was incidental – these churches were largely outcomes of gratuitous trade and bounding economic growth – which in turn led to the rise of big moneyed, egoistic and feuding families.

One wedding and a funeral

Two wheeled fantasy #Pulimurugan

Prominent local Cherian Kurian’s dealings with the Armenians in port Kochi extended beyond profit-making business and into the scriptural realm. One of them gave Kurian the wherewithal to found a church dedicated to Mother Mary. It didn’t matter to either that a whole day stood between the Armenian and the Roman catholic churches commemorating the immaculate conception; Mary was the guiding star for seafarers whose safety was inextricably twined with local trader fortunes. The new church – Lalam Old – met with stiff resistance from worthies who were regulars at the Cathedral that stood just across the Meenachil. As differences intensified it took more than half a century to complete. Later, a tiff with Kurian’s descendants led to one faction moving away to set up their own Lalam, New, half a kilometre away. To seal the solemnisation, a baptism, a wedding and a funeral were all held the same day the foundation stone was laid. One of them, I am guessing, must have been a forced occasion. I just hope it wasn’t the last rite.

Churches continue to be built. And families, feud. But they are not the stuff of lore anymore. Religion is waning as a steadfast preoccupation as many settle abroad, the old wither and take refuge in ‘it’s all gone’ and the migrants are busy eking out a living. The frontispiece of Pala, Kurisupally (from ‘kurisu’ meaning ‘cross’ and ‘pally’ which is ‘church’), was set up in 1837 bang in the middle of town. But it was not until 1951 plans were drawn for the way it is today – seven storeys of sheer poetry in granite. And another quarter of a century for its construction. The spires visible from most parts of town, admittedly evocative of unbridled pride if you only cared enough to look at, the Kurisupally has become sort of iconic over the years. And this is despite several cooked efforts to make it more so – like the recorded rendition of the Big Ben chime that plays out through PA systems every quarter hour. I remember praying for the wires to short – a prayer that went on to be answered with frequent alacrity.

Mary and her lambs

Kurisupally celebrated the first Jubilee Festival commemorating the immaculate conception of Jesus by Mary 112 years ago – when it was dedicated to the event on December 8, 1904. Probably due to its centric location or Spartan sacerdotal provisions or just an overwhelming urge of the factitious families to come together for once, the Jubilee was always celebrated with much aplomb. Bickering buried and dissension overlooked for this one occasion. The three churches historically put forth a unified face on Jubilee day. It became synonymous with Pala and soon enough her prestige. All the traders in town, in a remarkably pantheistic gesture, adopted it as their own. They not only contributed generously to its running and sponsorship coffers but also decked up their frontages with multi-hued lights and fresh coats of paint. It was bigger than Christmas.

The whole Lot

Vroom Shankar

One heartening thing that struck me during this year’s edition was that the milling attendance was not borne out of condescension. The re-enacted Biblical scenes for the tableau competition were ones I had seen done to death when I used to attend every year without fail till about two decades ago. The faithful thronged with the same ardour as the curious immigrant or the passing itinerant. Then Lot’s wife always turned into salt and the idol over which Moses brought down his tablet was always of gold. The two-wheeler fancy dress competition though accords room for experimentation with participants exploring contemporary themes like blockbuster movies to social commentary. The religious fabric of Pala, harmonious till far, is also brought out by some in Hindu mythological avatars.

Celebrations begin early morning when batches of school students take to the main drag swishing ribbons and flags. I am not sure about this year but that’s how it used to be. Well, I don’t see why it shouldn’t be anymore – mobile telephony and internet couldn’t have annihilated that wonderfully amorous breed of eager swains. Jubilee used to be a sure-shot occasion to spend a few precious minutes with your love – you could always claim you bumped into each other. The tableau began as always with the sun peaking, the scorching heat cut rivulets through my sunscreened face and plastered my shirt to my back. However, the rest of me was comfy thanks to my mundu. I was a drape of excitement juddering about like the stalwart Communist VS Achuthanandan in the wake of a Congress scandal.

Festival specials

A lot of thought had gone into the floats and the fancy dress parade. For a prize booty of some thousands, participants had spent lakhs of rupees building their entries. Artisans and wood workers were employed for several weeks, veteran make-up artists were pressed into service. I asked Aladdin’s genie if he could help reopen the bars. I traipsed the length of the town – a little over a kilometre, anyway – thrice. It wasn’t any nostalgic walk down memory lane but the effort on display was impressive and the spectator himself was spectacle. Memory walks, if at all, happened that evening when I took my folks out for the traditional offering and pious welcoming of the ceremonial procession that was returning after a full day drumming its way through all the sub roads and bylanes of Pala. Mary was carried in a glass casket from house to house.

One float comes to roost

“Each member of every family was expected to put money in the alms box carried along with the procession,” my mom reminisced. “For those few moments from when you exited the house, walked down the steps and placed money in the box, you were the cynosure of all eyes. We kids used to get new clothes just for the occasion.” My mom had the additional advantage of having lived her childhood and youth years at the biggest house in town then – right next to the Kurisupally itself. The crowd used to be the max at this starting point of the processional journey. I looked around and some seemed to be sporting new dresses alright – fashionable hosiery tops and pappad-pleated saris. Not one was in a long skirt and blouse, what my mom wore, which remains my favourite.

Kurisupally – all lights on

Even in my own younger days we were all soigne and Sapeurs: we brushed our hair, wore shoes and trousers, shirts tucked in. Sartorial sensibilities befitted the occasion. Today mushroom coiffeur, tee shirts with a clever line or a solitary meep, low, low waist jeans and casual sandals templated fashion epitomes. No one seemed to look or care. I scouted searing eyes for a familiar pair. Earlier it was a rarity spotting a totally strange face, everyone being a passing acquaintance. Today there seemed to be none; most of my coevals were abroad hitched to nurses. From amidst toppled columns and cairns, cloaked with smoke from a hidden flue, from the scene of a bolting Lot someone called out my name. I was taking the close shot of a victim of the wrath in a bloodied habit decapitated by a spear cleaving through the neck. It looked up at me and winked. All the trailing crimson across the face, I barely managed to discern an old friend. He motioned me to follow.

We are today – with Appachan

Later that noon after the tableau drew to an end, Appachan and I caught up recounting old days. A forever yacker and reliable handyman to anyone who could pay, he was my procurer of alcohol when I was in school. An affable guy, I liked him for a characteristic ennui which made us do a lot of crazy things.

“I don’t believe you lay still for three hours,” I told him.

“Well, that’s the only way to stay out of trouble on Jubilee day,” he replied.

Thank Mary for some unchanged things.

(Some church related information in the post are based on an article written by Fr Sebastian Kollamparampil, vicar of Cathedral Church, in the Jubilee Festival supplement of Malayala Manorama, December 8, 2016.) 

As far as office rides go this one takes the cup. The fibre boat crested every wave at somersault angles and landed with emphatic thuds, each a sledgehammer blow from below deck. I sat close to the helm – it is smoother toward the aft, where the rest of the crew were – where I was installed prior to the launch. If I attempted to move back now from fore I might have to swim ashore – a skill which required some ardent brushing up. Some months ago, failing to free-float in a medium-size pool dressed in trunks and water goggles, the trainer had blamed my age for all-round stiffness. I remarked dourly it was the weight training.

Heave ho…to the sea we go

The waves abated once we reached the open sea. However, the undercurrents were still strong which made following fish difficult. LED lights were lit on the smaller boats that were tugged along by the bigger ones – the ones we were on – to lure catch. Now it was time to wait. Multi-tiered steel canisters carrying dinner were opened. Despite earnest offers from everyone on board for a share of their rice, raw banana curry, curd, and pickle and of course flaming-red fish curry, I stuck with my pack of Good Day biscuits. I didn’t want heavy food to prompt puking which many said I’d – as a city slicker – succumb to out here. Throwing up per se was alright but it was the dehydration that followed which was dangerous – even death being a possibility.

“There is an overpowering stench out there – of rotting offal and living fish. All this compounded by the saltiness of the sea breeze.” Robert Pushparajan apprised me on potential barf-inducers the previous evening which was New Year eve. I was with a local contact seeking a quiet corner to imbibe some revelry. Robert held a master degree and a prominent post with the local wing of the ruling dispensation. Though his father lost a crucial finger in a sea-faring incident Robert had decided long ago that he’d resist the sea, come what may. He’d still been out there ‘four or five times’ which was more than me.

I didn’t smell any rot. Or maybe I did but didn’t notice. I was enamoured by all the men around me – their agility and dexterity, their dignity and courage, their humour in the face of odds. I decided for the umpteenth time that night: fishing must be the most unremarkable profession involving the most spectacular skills. And no, I didn’t puke – something which Robert and Anto, Roy and Sister Sheena and the lovable harridan who told me about the legend of the toppling statue in the local church didn’t believe. Heck, by morning I was even standing in the moving boat – a matter I am rightfully proud of.

Old men and the sea

Not just the guys on board my own craft but those passing by too enquired after my well-being and proffered more food. I remembered what a priest from a nearby parish told me earlier that day: “These guys are very rough on the outside, where you can see them. But go a little deep they are calm and caring. Just like the sea.” That night as I lay down with the rest on the boards between removable thwarts, someone explained the constellations and navigation in the absence of expensive GPS which the fishermen of the neighbouring, more prosperous Thoothoor in Tamil Nadu had access to. Global warming was still unheard of, but its consequences were everywhere – had been there forever. Dwindling marine life, rising ocean levels, water current anomalies – had all made sporadic forays into their lives, at times with cataclysmic results too, ever since they can remember.

“It is excessive trawling that has primarily affected fishing,” said Robert, son of Michel Pillai, who owned the array of boats which I was on. “Some of the so-called modern methods kill the larvae before they can even hatch. These should be banned by law.”

A mobile phone placed inside a transparent plastic box shone an incoming call: one light-carrying boat had spotted fish. Sheets were tossed away and betel nuts lobbed into stained mouths. The choicest profanities were bandied about how those on the ‘maram’ (the small boats) just wanted to ensure those on the boats didn’t sleep. Lungis were ripped off and tucked into a lidded box next to the gunwale by the stern. Most stood in their underwear, hands folded behind their backs, legs swaying like muscle pistons as the boat swung against the choppy sea.

Time for work.

Dog in the water

After resting the next day I resumed my walk through the coastal Karumkulam panchayat – among the most densely populated in Trivandrum.

Gay…abandon

“Be careful about dogs. These are man-eating ones.” The nuns in the convent warned where I had stayed the night. I had heard about the national headline grabbing stray dog menace of Kerala but canines with cannibalistic inclinations were dismissed as slightly overwrought. Guess inflamed cautions were a universal mother thing. My own included. Passing through Karumkulam area you’d wonder ‘where is the space?’ – every available yard landward of the coastal lane cum seawall was inhabited. Steady encroachments were undertaken seaside as well ostensibly to dry fish and by panchayat-built sangham offices where wholesale trading of fish took place. But the nuns were right – the dogs had just a few months earlier mauled to death a 65-year-old lady right on the beach.

Karumkulam, home to some 2000 families, was declared a ‘problem panchayat’ in 2012 by the then rural development minister Jairam Ramesh. The loose sand made toilets with septic tanks difficult. Contracts to build bio toilets were awarded but most obviously still resort to open defecation – partly by habit and mostly due to lack of access. Definitely Silu amma, the dead woman, didn’t have access to one. Prime Minister Modi lamented about the dismal state of affairs where women had to defecate in the open in his maiden Independence Day address. How long for his pet Swachh Bharat Mission to take note?

An explosive ecological situation

Further making the beach a haven for stray dogs was the practice of dumping waste into the sea – which the sea merrily deposited back. The panchayat committee met the chief minister Pinarayi Vijayan for state government aid in setting up garbage treatment and biogas plants and allocated funds. But any action on the ground is yet to. I met Wilson, an eight or ten-year-old, who pulled a spliced jerrycan with all the abandon of a play cart and deposited waste from his father’s shop into the sea. A budding ecological disaster. Cannot blame them – they don’t have an option. The only stretches of clean beach were those fronting swank resorts – from Adimalathura onward. Rocky promontories stretched from Chowara Hill till the underway harbour in Vizhinjam.

Passing through a deserted stretch connecting Karumkulam and Adimalathura, two men, Wilfred and Peter, accosted me. I primed myself for ‘stuff’ and sundry other offers. But they only wanted to warn me about the stray dog menace telling me about the unfortunate Silu amma.

“Once they taste human flesh, they are hooked,” said one of them. “Since the death, there have been not less than 300 instances of stray dog attacks in this area alone.”

I showed them my hiking pole: would it be of any use to ward a pack off?

They shook their head.

“The only way to escape would be by jumping into the sea.”

Well, yelp.

One of the funniest stories my dad told me from his younger days was about Sosamma who ran a roadside eatery. One day Sosamma made 10 puttu, hoping to sell each for one rupee. For whatever reason, she was particularly hungry that day and began polishing off the puttu one by one. By evening there was only one puttu left and in order to meet her sales target she priced it at 10 rupees. The fate of that sole remaining puttu is anybody’s guess. (Those were the days puttu was one rupee. And this whole episode was LOL-material.) For the sheer desperation that surrounded me in Kovalam I thought of Sosamma: she was everywhere. She was the hotel waiter who said I could drink only bottled water (the bottle water company gave a 50 per cent margin, I found out later), she was the lady who sold that thong-slice of a mango for ‘only 50 rupees,’ the knick-knack shopkeeper who refused to replace the bracelet that tore the same evening, the cabbie who announced ‘taxi’ as if startled by a bad dream when you pass by.

Having the benefit of local language doesn’t accomplish much when desperation has walled up all sense of fairness and justifiable prices; revelation of my Kerala roots invariably led to a near-brutal dismissal in a ‘then this is not for you’ way. More than exchange of pleasantries or gratitude, many of my transactions along the promenade concluded with an exchange of choice profanities in the vernacular. Those who didn’t gun for the obvious fast buck vied surreptitiously for the slow buck. Right from the hustle on the pavement to clicking on of fans and grins, offer of tea and best prices, all topped with the unconcealable frown – it was a vaudeville act that spiralled out of control. The whole sea front was lined with shopkeepers who sized you up with unbridled lust for lucre. As far as vibes went I felt like an ATM refill van during early days of demonetisation.

I have been coming to Kovalam for several semesters – including the ones I was suspended – during my master days at Kerala university in Trivandrum outskirts. But then being preoccupied with impressing my date I’d just go with it – the price named was paid. Now, 15 years later, wise and wizened, date-less and thereby focussed, I spent a full two weeks in Kovalam. Over the course of the fortnight, I befriended at least 30 locals including cops and substance sellers, catty renters and prudent backpackers, omniscient tour guides and future-less fishermen. I changed rooms thrice; each time it got cheaper and bigger. But the final change was the best – there was a pool (what if the water was brackish!) and trimmed lawn. And Russians wearing fishing net-inspired dresses. So I can rightfully say I have figured my way around the Sosammas of Kovalam.

Finding cheap rooms

There is always that bigger, cheaper room, yes. But in every likelihood, you will know of it only after you have checked into a smaller, pricier one. Murphy at work. Take heart. They normally ask for a couple of days’ advance, blame demonetisation and pay for just one. Whoever you meet, wherever you eat, you will be asked the question ‘where are you staying?’ You can be truthful and state the actual rate or chisel it by a hundred or few. Chances are that there is a room you can have for a lesser cost. Undercutting is standard practice here as tourism is hugely disorganised. The guy across the road where I stayed told me he’d give me a room for half of whatever I was paying. Well, here I was aided by a history of family feuds as well.

Finding good food

In ‘Following Fish’ Samanth Subramanian gives a thumb rule for good, cheap food: auto rickshaw drivers and wealthy businessmen set aside their differences and sit at the same table. No such luck in Kovalam. Here rickshaw drivers cart around their own home-cooked lunches and the rich stick to food room-delivered in their climate-controlled, sea-fronting abodes. Even if you ask for recommendations, do not ask auto rickshaw drivers – they invariably have a cut from wherever they plant you – which comes out of your bill. In Fort Kochi, an auto rickshaw guy asked me and a friend to ‘just walk in, look around and come out’ of a swanky shop which earned him a tee shirt. In Kovalam you don’t have many options for cheap food but almost all of them whip up passable fare. One joint even put together a fajita – with all the right accoutrements including blue cheese shavings. I don’t know if blue cheese should be there at all but I liked the touch. By the end of my stay I had given a cumulative average of three out of five for the beach hotels and was trying out hotels from nearby areas.

A general tourist complaint though is the pricey fare that seems to be the suicidal flavour of the season. “The tourist season has been trimmed from seven to three months while our overheads have gone  up,” explained one hotelier. But if you look a little beyond the beach, there is good food – at budget prices. “We too go on family tours – and our budgets are not very high,” said Shobhana Prasannan who runs Sivas No. 1 Punjabi Dhaba across the road from Kovalam Mall, almost a kilometre from the sea. “Since that’s how most families travel, we consciously keep our menu prices low.” This, says Shobhana, has resulted in them barely breaking even every month. “Both me and my son chip in with kitchen work and table waiting.” There are more such little shacks near the bus stand as well. 

Finding your stories

This one is easy: Just get hold of that guy watching sullenly with obvious envy from the sidelines as his more gregarious and charming English-speaking colleague dazzles the guests with local lore. But many a story loses its verve and punch when rendered in English – this showman version is usually loaded with dollops of innuendo and imagination for effect and desired results. The real challenge for me was to coax them into delivering it in Malayalam – an ability which buckled further when you ply your respondents with alcohol. It is like a one-night stand: you try hard to pick up the rhythm and if you fail you cover it with a lot of unintelligible gab.

Finding other stuff

The entry to the underbelly is seldom dark and dingy these days. It is well-lit, suave and warm and smiles a lot. But the cool clique is still elusive and breaking in takes not money but a lot of the correct aura. You may flaunt all your tattoos and it need not work. You can check into any place with loud music and lots of Bob Marley posters and still tough luck. Yes, some opportunities do come to you but the transaction is not before a long, winding walk along dark alleyways – can be unsettling for those with a history of mugging. Those with matted hair and XL-size crosses are christened ‘junkies’ and are under constant watch by the law enforcers – so it doesn’t help to hang around with them either. Confidence winning measures include: long stays, sizeable tips, penchant for unreasonable joy, preference for hugs over handshake and a proclivity veering toward the outlandish when it comes to sartorial choices.

Now, if fail-proof they wouldn’t be called ‘hacks,’ yes?

*Kovalam has three beaches – a demarcation which doesn’t make any difference to tourists. Anyway, these are – Lighthouse beach, Hawa (or Eve’s) beach and the Samudra beach. While Hawa is the prettiest, I have used it in the title just to rhyme with ‘hack’ – which holds good for the whole of Kovalam. 

Dangerous steps

It reminds you of a Grimm tale illustration – red and white striped delectable candy on the outside, lurking peril inside. When a ‘revamped’ Kovalam lighthouse – officially Vizhinjam lighthouse, was opened to the public on December 4 last year, I was among the few enthusiastic ones who flocked to applaud the rise of a new genre in tourism – lighthouse tourism. As a global phenomenon, it had been around for some time and had now reached my shores. The whole thing is conceptually heartening and probably the only way forward for these beacons of maritime heritage that are becoming increasingly redundant with improvements in navigational technology.

But the changes made to this lighthouse was more depressing than rebarbative – the glass cage elevator filled up the entire central area totally blocking the view of the iconic 144 steps that spiralled up the 36-metre-high tower. Many moons earlier me and friends have raced up and down these stairs giddy with exertion and other potent ingestibles; we were on photography assignment from our campus nearby. The views from the top would give rise to many verses or picturise those already penned. Still we photographed mostly each other shirtless looking chuffed at our trim bodies. I guess the idea was to use them to get into movie auditions; my mom has kept mine which she employs even today if I refuse my 35^th appam. Once you get off the lift now, the final assault to the top still requires you to clamber up a narrow ladder and laboriously emerge from an iron trapdoor. This bit was just like earlier. A short but vertiginous climb where you hauled yourself up rung after rung, clinging to the steel side rails. Understandably the landing was teeming with elderly ones in various stages of terrified rictus, mandibles tracing horrified motions, giving up all hopes of fabulous views affright.

Candy trap

“The lighthouse itself is on a cliff. So, the views from below too will be splendid. Let’s go down.” Said one old man who was shuffling around arthritically.

“Why didn’t you notice that before we bought the ticket?” His wife asked standing squarely by the door blocking others emerging from the busy lift. She, like all wives in long-lasting marriages, was more perturbed by the husband’s lack of fiscal finesse than anything else including daunting plights that lay squarely ahead. Later I saw the husband shuffling around the circular balcony overlooking the magnificent coastline; the wife stayed put below complaining to whoever who asked her to move from the lift how short-sighted her husband was for spending sums without guarantees. I guess the guy, more than enjoying the view up there, was wondering whether to go down at all.

Vantage scenery – Lighthouse beach

Lighthouses, by dint of their scenic locations, are potential tourism magnets. However, unlike the Tower of Hercules in Spain or the Hook Head in Ireland, Kovalam lighthouse lacks antiquity as it was built in 1972. But it’s flanked by some of the most scenic coastline panoramas in the south of India. On one side are secluded private beaches and rocky promontories that stretch all the way to Vizhinjam where the controversial new port is underway. On the other side you are accorded a bird’s view of the Lighthouse beach itself – the pristine water and the strip of fine sand, dotted by sunbathers in hired decks. Brand Kovalam. People move along the promenade like bees and the stacked hotels like a multi-coloured honeycomb. I stood there for a long time soaking in the view interrupted only by scores of couples who wanted to be clicked together. I obliged happily as a selfie would have limited the endless expanse of an indigo sea spangled by an ochre setting sun.

I met Deepak Kodarkar, the lighthouse in-charge and a grade two navigational assistant. A pleasant Goan, Deepak was teaching the newly appointed ticket collector some basic Hindi words. Chappal utharo. Remove your footwear. ‘Ooth…aaro,’ she said gesticulating with her fingers and giggling. I told Deepak about the peril his charge housed. A mishap is just round the corner, I warned him. A rain will render the ladder slippery and grievous falls cannot be ruled out. Parents watched with their hearts in their mouths as their children gingerly scaled up and scrambled down the cylindrical rungs. An uncle coaxed his thick-glassed nerdy ward without result from above; my own words of encouragement (‘Are you a girl or what?’) were summarily shrugged off.

To go up, or not

“It’s good for tourism,” was all Deepak would say. More such fabulous plans were on the way, he told me. The whole area was going to be tiled, landscaped with a garden, play area and a tea stall even. The ticket counter would be shifted to the entry gate – you’d have to pay twenty rupees just to enter the hallowed ground. Deepak seemed visibly pumped up about the whole facelift. He had been the in-charge for seven years now; I could see he was going to be around for another seventy.

India has 189 lighthouses along its 7517 km coastline. The Kovalam lighthouse was just one of the 78 lighthouses earmarked by the Directorate General of Lighthouses and Lightships and the Ministry of Shipping to be developed into tourism destinations in the first phase. Lighthouse tourism breathes new life into structures that would otherwise just corrode under the sea wind and water. But the way it’s underway is shoddy, dangerous, actually. A few days later I managed an appointment with Mrs Mercykutty Amma, state Minister for Fisheries, Harbour Engineering, Cashew Industry and Fisheries University, researching for my #KeralaCoastalWalk I began on January 1 this year.

Only if you use the steps

“Madam, can you stop this abuse of heritage and potential hazard to human life that’s happening in the name of tourism?” I asked her point blank; she struck me as an intelligent woman with warm, compassionate eyes and a blunt, no-frills approach. Being a minister her time was at a premium too – engineers from the harbour engineering department waited patiently for me to finish my run of questions before presenting the blueprint for a mega project, a gamechanger in coastal area transport.

The lighthouse tourism project is a classic case of too many cooks – built by the shipping ministry and the DGLL for tourism purpose on harbour grounds coming under the purview of the ministry for all these and fisheries. Nothing could beat this if inter-departmentality was a contest. Getting answers wouldn’t be so easy however capable the minister was. Besides, there was another minor hiccup:

“I can give you my opinion only after I visit it,” she said.

East don’t meet west

In most tourism hubs the underbelly comes cleverly right beneath the nose. It is rarely that removed from the ordered façade – that ever-smiling and well-groomed veneer which makes the cover of travel brochures and magazine stories and envy-inducing backgrounds to likeable selfies – but tucked safely away from casual glances. I loped through this netherland, the ‘warren-side’, of Kovalam, a mishmash of shops and restaurants, beauty boutiques and Ayurveda parlours, with Mani, a tourism police constable, in his off-duty hours. Mani (name changed) was showing me the area which was combed by the cops on November 26 morning last year to nab Teja a shop owner cum long-term resident of the touristy town. Some hours earlier on that fateful morning, a Japanese tourist, a nurse travelling alone from Kobe, had been admitted to the ICU following near-fatal bleeding in her vagina.

Add code – 0471

Knocking back beers standing in the backwash or sprawled over foamy crags during wee hours is a prime Kovalam past time. This is when the cops are not looking – and they are, most of the time. But Teja managed to hoodwink the beat constable and sat on a secluded corner with the Kobe nurse till around 3 AM that morning. According to eye witnesses, they were drinking and later repaired to Teja’s residence within the maze of by-lanes and alleyways. Soon enough the nurse was taken to the hospital. Teja, when caught, first told the police that he thought she was menstruating and left in a huff. But upon interrogation confessed he knew it was potentially fatal bleeding – outcome of his sadomasochistic actions.

“We can’t protect you inside your bedrooms”

While it will not be proper to reveal the details of how Teja was netted, let me say it was an exceptionally clever piece of policework: the brute who was on the run and dodged cops for the better part of the day turned up at the police station all by himself.

“True, the beat constable did miss the duo sitting by the beach on that morning but he was spared a harsh punishment as the crime happened inside a bedroom – where the woman went on her own volition.” Mani said, and added, “See, we cannot protect you inside your house or somebody’s bedroom. For that you have to be careful about whom you are getting in with.” Teja, Mani says, is a known charmer in the sea-side township. The cops aren’t ruling out a drug angle too besides alcohol. “He drove his fist up her vagina,” Mani explained rather clinically. “Such depravity is generally from a stoned-out mind.”

Beat it

Mani straddles the border when it comes to traits. He was as effusive as only a Tamilian and not moody like a Keralite, proud and chivalrous like a chettan and not stoic and shrug-happy like an annai. He had that danger-cheer of someone happy to take it on the chin as he knew he could sock back the life out. “We get news the moment a junkie hits town. It doesn’t matter he is black or white, man or woman, we have our eyes on them all the time. But the most offensive predators are suave and well-spoken. Some like Teja are polyglots even – handling several foreign languages with ease.” Mani explained why policing sex crimes is becoming increasingly difficult – and why there is nothing like keeping an eye out yourself. “They come in many deceptive avatars – the friendly waiter, the helpful cabbie and the discount-doling shopkeeper. Let me give you a piece of advice from my many years manning a busy tourist area: Do not take your interaction with anybody you meet on the road beyond what is absolutely necessary.”

“You behave like a victim, you become one”

Christiane S. is a true Indophile. Currently on her seventh trip to the subcontinent, she loves just about everything Indian – people, festivals, yoga, Ayurveda and even the spicy food. “My husband Wolfgang suffers from Delhi belly from day two but I miss the curry the day I am back in Germany.” She has also completed her teachers’ training and advanced training in yoga from different training centres across South India.

“The only thing my friends and colleagues told me when I informed them I was going to India the first time around was ‘don’t get raped,’” she told me as we sat in an al fresco restaurant with the cantata of waves playing not very far away. “God forbid, I have never come even close to being molested during any of my trips to India.” Working with an insurance firm in Bonn, Christiane puts in just enough months of work to save sufficient money to travel India for the larger part of the year. A self-confessed ‘India addict.’

Christiane S.

Christiane had a certain devouring quality about her – the way she described something was most consummate – a yoga posture, a massage move, a food reaction, a place, memory, Wolfgang. Sort of like watching a multi-dimensional movie with an added quality of life. To notice her basic English was to let go of some of that zest – an unworthy loss. “I am quite friendly and all that but that’s about it. If I see anybody, however friendly he is, checking me out lustfully, I just leave.” Not for her late nights or hanging out with strangers in alien quarters. Even if she has to be brusque, she avoids such situations. Christiane reminisced an incident in Nepal where a honeymooning couple insisted she spend the night with them in their cottage. “For all you know they might’ve just been kinky,” she guffaws. Keeping away from people and situations with potentially untoward outcomes is a must. “These are thumb rules of safety especially if you are a lone female traveller.” And lie – by all means – rather than forsake your safety if you must. “In India the guys almost always want to know if you are married five minutes into introductions. Even when I wasn’t married, I would say I was.” This, she has felt, puts off many from trying too hard. “The Indian man is like men everywhere else – they all try. And here being married draws around you a Lakshman Rekha.”

When it comes to foreign travellers who got into trouble by asking for it – like the incident in 2013 where an American tourist in Manali who hailed a truck to ask for a lift in the middle of the night and got raped by three men – Christiane minces no words. “Really? Truck drivers have a reputation all over the world, especially in America. Whatever made her think she would be safer with truck drivers in India?”

Admit none

Whether we are culturally – or commercially – inclined to liberalism, she vaunts the innate Indian patience when it comes to nudity on display in the touristy areas. “I mean, look at these people around us,” she waved her hands at the shirtless guys and women in singlets in the restaurant. “In Europe, none of them would have even been admitted inside. See, I do not have a problem with nudity per se, but it augurs well for your own safety to respect the culture of the land and dress accordingly.” Christiane has been to nude beaches but when in India she swears by cotton kurtas and leggings. “It covers you up and is comfortable too.” She recommends the dress code to all her friends coming over.

“I know different people come her for different purposes. Even if you are looking to feel wanted or loved, make sure you know well the guy who is making your dreams come true.” To be circumspect, to shun naïveté, to keep your eyes and senses open – goes a long way in ensuring you don’t have to pick up pieces of yourself when you head back. “Always tell somebody where you are going and whom you are with. And remember – you will become a victim if you behave like one.”

(The views expressed are personal, of course. But if the only ways to avoid rape are either being cautious or ‘educating menfolk to respect women and her wishes’ as Christiane says, the practical, immediate one is anybody’s guess. Wanderink.com stands by whatever that keeps you safe, now.) 

When the rest of the country celebrates saving a life with gallantry awards, honours and cash tributes, there is a bunch for whom saving lives is everyday. Other lives are their living; on any given day during peak tourist season they save at least one. That they are paid for doing this doesn’t diminish the heroism involved, the willingness to imperil their own lives for that of another, a perfect stranger, and sometimes even knuckling under shattered joints and dislocated limbs.

Men of men: Prasad

Just two days before I met Sajith, lifeguard at a Varkala beach, he had rescued a Russian from sure-shot death by drowning. “The undercurrents were pretty strong and he was sucked nearly a kilometre into the sea,” he said keeping an alert eye on the welling weekend crowd gambolling about the beach and somersaulting into the lurching waters. “You should keep in mind that the very same forces that yanked the tourist away are at play when we are trying to bring him back ashore.” Being impavid is just one quality but what matters most is that these guys also know the sea like their own backyard. It is their backyard. The lifeguards are mostly drawn from fishermen who still go out to the sea on the alternate days they are off from beach duty.

“Sometime in early 2000 there was a flood and the administration called in the army for rescue ops,” remembers Prasad stationed at Veli beach in Trivandrum outskirts. “But soon it dawned on them that we, the local lifeguards, were doing a better job as we knew every node on the landscape and abyss in the sea.” Had anybody with appropriate authority been watching the unfolding events he and his colleagues would have been highly decorated, even monetarily rewarded, he rues with a kind of agathism you can find only in those entrusted with saving lives. I met Prasad sometime early February this year as part of my #KeralaCoastalWalk; a few days before he and his colleagues had rescued eight children who had come from a school in Kollam for a science exhibition in the capital. “Rescue operations in Kovalam and Varkala hog media limelight as they are more touristy. Nobody is interested in Veli as it is not very popular with foreigners.” But the numbers are faithfully entered into the log book maintained at each station which shows an average of two lives fished out from the sea most days during season.

Many brunts – duty time

Not recorded for posterity but fated for oblivion and mentioned occasionally out of pity than pride is the destiny of the lifeguard who paid the price. Eugin Robin, another guard from Varkala, told me about his colleague, Zakeer, who suffered a grievous spinal injury while saving two lives in January this year. Zakeer is still in hospital worried not just about recovery but mounting medical bills too. What about his family? Uncomfortable questions are best left unasked. Sajith told me about an injury which dogged him till recent: he was swimming toward land with a woman he rescued and as he reached the rocks jutting out into the sea from the north cliff side, he saw a huge wave crashing toward them out of nowhere. (An anomaly, such waves are found to occur with an alarming frequency along coasts marked by deep pits in the sea bed which are sometimes caused by dredging or sea walls in the vicinity.) Sajith immediately pushed the woman out of harm and positioned himself between her and the rock and took the full blow of the impact. He had to undergo treatment for some days before he could report back for duty. In another episode in Kovalam, a lifeguard emerged from the sea holding aloft a saved tourist and slumped down cracking his knee cap under the weight. He has been out of action since. Heartrending as they are, such stories are countless.

Apart from such calamitous misfortunes, the rescuer is also subjected to panicky thrashing about and throttling by the drowning person which drains out their energy. While they are trained and amply experienced to tackle such exertions in extremis, the lifeguards felt that a lot of untoward consequences are avoidable if some basic knowhow was imparted to the tourists – in the event of a drowning. “When you begin to drown, you bob in the water,” informs Prasad. “This is when you should be waving your hands and not thrashing about which looks like furious swimming to us from a distance. And when we reach you, just lie limp and unmoving instead of trying to hold on to us. Remember, we are there and we are not going back without you.” Reassuring, most certainly. But a tall order in a situation when even a sylph transforms into Samson.

Since the beginning – press buttons

Many contingencies are avoidable only if the tourists listened – to the guards and to the shrill of their whistles. “The sea is a heaving, sighing creature. It behaves differently different times of the day. If we ask you not to go somewhere, please don’t – for nobody is with the sea like us. Nobody knows the sea like we do.” Said one of the lifeguards. Topping the list of unruly tourists are south Indians. “Keralites and Tamilians don’t listen at all,” he said. “They behave as if nobody should stop them from going anywhere they please as this is their part of the country.” Following closely are the Russians. I was fine with Keralites cresting the mutinous as I was one. But over the past few days I had come to know some beautiful Russians quite well and I didn’t want to concede easily they were uncouth. “Maybe, it is because they do not understand English?” I volunteered, a tad meekly. In reply I received a knowing hmph.

The profession is grossly undermanned for the apathy and the meagre pay at 450 rupees per day plus an extra 200 rupees for food and uniform (work is available only on alternate days). “The Zakeer incident has taken its toll and many are thinking twice before becoming life guards,” I was told. “We are not recognised as an organised sector, our job is contractual, there is no pension or benefits. Even the sunglasses some of us wear come out of our own pockets – or are donated by some compassionate tourist.” The rescue surfboard was a recent addition – it is mandatory that while the first guard responds to a distress call swimming, the second one goes out on the board. For the entire stretch of the beach along the cliff in Varkala, the lifeguards shared one pair of binoculars.

Try stopping here. Do.

Despite all the odds stacked against them, they stride over swathes of sand, attentive and fearless. Their gaze is not just physical but intuitive as well – after all the sea has been their backyard ever since they can remember. Probably the sea itself with its unending wisdom has lent them the fortitude to tackle their career vagaries with compelling wit.

“One thing we are fully equipped with since our inception in 1986 are the press buttons on our uniforms – handy when we have to doff in a jiffy and jump into the sea.”

The reception

Extreme travel situations have sometimes forced hunger on me. While I don’t know about tasting blood as an outcome of absolute, continued hunger as some say, what I do know is that it makes one angry at first and then desperate. Desperation can be dangerous – it even snaps the will to live in some. So, in a way, I knew why Rama Rajesh was flooring it one late February morning around Varkala town. He zipped from the railway station to the government hospital, from the bus stand to a beehive flock of footpath vendors under a tree. He stopped in many places in between – not haphazard or hasty last moment calls but fixed designated stops as I learnt later.

Rama Rajesh with volunteers

In all these places, groups of people, frail and falling, limbless and sightless, in torn or patchworked clothes waited. His car which I pursued, a white Wagon R, with smooth, broad yellow strokes around the corners, could be picked out from a distance. Even before the car came to a complete stop, they would mill around, hands reaching out for the parcelled comestibles. Sometimes necks would crane through the open window to smile at Rama Rajesh and the occasional volunteer who accompanied him. Some would snatch their quotas and walk away in a huff to their unmanned cobbler or begging stations. Still some would walk over to the driver side and berate Rama Rajesh for being late. That morning there was a block on the road following a violent spat between the drivers of a car and a private bus which veered in too close while overtaking nicking the fender.

“Traffic,” Rama Rajesh deferentially averred and the old man walked away giving one last, hard stare. Commuting to the next stop, my tiny rented Yamaha Cygnus Ray Z, hit a juddering 80 kmph.

For the past 14 years Rama Rajesh, through his one-man charitable organisation Anna Kshetra (‘Anna’ means ‘food’ and ‘Kshetra’ is ‘place’), has been feeding between 70 – 80 people on an average every day. The money for this comes from the income of the guesthouse he runs near the Papanasam beach in Varkala.

The white-and-yellow car

“There have been many occasions when the money wasn’t enough. Somebody would turn up just like that and say they would like to sponsor food that day because it was a birthday or some anniversary.”

Then, miracles being premium, he runs mostly on the credit extended by around eight kitchens he employs depending on finances and numbers. The kitchen we went to that morning, the one he uses mostly, was the vegetarian refreshment stall at the railway station. Collecting 30 packets readied for the platform run, he and some volunteers strode briskly about distributing it among the destitute gammers, beggars and other homeless regulars. It is not just a ‘give and go’ but warm enquiries are made after health and safety issues too. Whereabouts of missing regulars are made: a long silence means death. That morning some six people were missing from the railway platform. “Sometimes families trace their Alzheimer-affected members and take them back home. Or there are occasional governmental drives where the unsound of mind are bundled into a van every few months and taken away to be tranquilised the rest of their lives.”

“But what most of them are really curious to know is the menu for the morning,” Rama Rajesh says with a toothy chuckle. “It is usually upma, puri or appam and curry. If its puri, some ask for a second helping which lands me in a spot.” When he laughs, Rama Rajesh’s eyes sparkle, you can see it. This is an outcome of malice-free mirth, I have noticed it before in some very good ones.

Not a ‘give and go’ operation

“My goal is to be able to feed 200 people every day,” he had told me a few days earlier while we chatted sitting at the ‘reception’ of his guesthouse. The ‘reception’ being a mat spread over the veranda of the ground floor with newspaper and other publications stacked up at one end. The check-in ledger lay about with entries made on monies received. As he is out at least half the day, Rama Rajesh loses out on a lot of walk-in business. Not everyone bothers to – or has a mobile phone – to call the number given there.

“Some of my long-term guests fill in as receptionists sometimes,” he said. “Any help is good as I don’t have a spare hand.”

“Sometimes some guests have even very surreptitiously shown themselves out in my absence.” Sparkle-eye guffaw.

The integrity and benevolence of the have-nots, eulogised by Steinbeck, is a recurring theme in my conversation with Rama Rajesh. The handicapped who make more money do not take the food Rama Rajesh brings them. Instead, they ask him to give it to the aged, fully-appendaged ones in their midst.

“In Kerala we say ‘god gave you hands and legs, use them,’ without bothering to find whether they are inflicted by some terminal illness.”

Anna Kshetra – the guesthouse

“In another instance a very old man, quite fair and dressed in crisp dhotis and shirts all the time, used to take food from me. Somebody told me he was the friend of yesteryear actor Prem Nazir and used to own many fishing vessels. So I requested him to desist from taking the parcel as there were many in dire straits. The old man did as he was told and I didn’t see him for several days. A week or so later a maulavi of the local mosque told me that if anyone deserves to be fed in the area it was this old man – he had lost everything he had, lived in a shanty, with nobody to take care of him and the only thing going for him were the pressed clothes.”

In Kerala deceiving through appearance is a sub culture in itself; Rama Rajesh’s eyes welled up when he narrated this.

“I stopped judging people, whoever extends their hands I give now.”

From the railway station, we went to another of his kitchens. More parcels were collected and volunteers Sabiena and Franz Schuman, mother and son from Germany, handed over each of these packets to patients at the local government hospital. The ‘namaste’ that followed stunned many at first before waving a benediction their way with gnarled arms. Joy lit up faces otherwise tainted by a sickly pallor. In typical Kerala style, some traced semi arcs with their heads and responded with two ‘namastes’ and almost immediately pried open the paper wrapping.

Feeding hands – at the hospital

That day the funds were limited to 80 packets. Afterwards, we all sat around having chai as the sun peaked. Franz explained to me what he did as an educator. Rama Rajesh told me about his deceased parents who would have been very dejected to see their son unmarried and childless even at such an advanced age.

“They were always worried about my charitable inclinations which they hoped a wife would cure me of.” Laughter. Having realised that he will not be able to spare any time for family, he has now centred his atma on fulfilling what he calls a ‘persistent, inner voice, almost physical in nature’ which has been bothering him these days. The voice prods him awake at night and makes him relapse into long silences in the midst of conversations.

“It tells me that I should feed one thousand people over the course of a single day,” he said. “I will have to start from Varkala, go all the way to Kanyakumari, and feed one thousand hungry people in a morning to evening drive.” The homeless and penniless pilgrims congregate in Kanyakumari who too will be fed. Hotels and other private homes along the way – people he know – will function as kitchens. The meals will comprise of breakfast, lunch and an early dinner.

What the atma asks – Rama Rajesh

“1,000 meals in one day,” I said. “Sounds like a record feat.”

“1,000 happy people in one day,” he replied. “And it’s an inner feat. Record or not.”

I smiled and looked at Rama Rajesh. He didn’t smile but sat very still, lost.

Must be the voice.

Support Anna Kshetra

You can sponsor 70 – 80 breakfast packets for Rs 2000; Rs 3000 for a similar number of lunch packets. Call Rama Rajesh at +91 9895334516 

“Hello! I am THE guide here. The writer was just trying to be more smart than what he really is by giving you some big ‘Lonely Plant-like’ impression with the headline. Like he knows everything there is to Kerala – top five, bottom three, middle one, things to do, food to eat, etc. Even god doesn’t know what next in His own country. Just you are walking on the road and the only people you see are policemen and you know it’s a lightning strike. You are minding your own business and you see stones and slippers flying your way is when you understand that to be the principal of a law academy you need to be loved by students of all other academies in town. The only certainty of Kerala is its unpredictability. And we change our decisions faster than we fold up our lungi.

Now with the introductions in place, I will move on. Just the other day I ate my lunch at the Hilton behind the Trivandrum Secretariat, hosted by some very rich people. And dinner the same day was with some not-so rich people at a small hotel. The hotel was small not because of anything else but I was paying. It was not exactly a hole in a wall but more like a wall caved in and they fitted lights and placed furniture inside. My dinner experience was very different from my lunch experience and not just with regards to the fatness of the people who served me. From the moment I entered, finding a place to sit to placing my order and paying the bill – it was all very different. So being tourist season and all I decided to tell you all. You will not need this vast pool of information if you eat only in five star hotels. And you will say ‘what rubbish!’ if you always simply jump into the hotel playing the loudest music closest to the bus stop. But you will find all my information really useful if you like to eat in many places.

Like I do.

The vada pause

The vada – which is our own curry-version of the doughnut – is usually made early in the morning on an industry-scale which will remind you of French fries at McDonald’s. Through the rest of the day whatever is left over will find their way into plates of anything and everything you order – be it poori or dosa, upma or chapathi, that lone vada will be there trembling like a pioneering ranger who stumbled into alien territory. It is trembling because anything can strike him out here: the temperamental Keralite incensed at everything imposed on him could just flick it off the plate like toe jam, the ever-curious one could just poke it to see if it’s hot or maybe whether it moves, the incredulous one might just look at it and shake his head in a ‘nice try’ way. Usually it’s just a growl ‘Waiter!’ followed by a glance at the offending belly-button snack.

Waiters, after serving you that vada-embellished food, will hover around for an imperceptible second, imperceptible because on the outside he looks like he is suddenly worried about leaving the tap open in the kitchen or the ungainly chewing habits of the person on the table next to yours. He is actually waiting for you to return that vada. Later than a second and the window is shut leaving you alone with what some have come to anoint the desi appetiser. Well then, go on, take a bite, you might just like it. You shall definitely break an age-old cycle by doing that: fulfilling the vada’s birth purpose.

In Indonesia they send Pengamen to show appreciation.

The tear-throat chai order

That big machine you saw as you entered the hotel is not an upturned miniature steam engine, it’s the chai machine. It also makes coffee. And boils milk. It never runs out. But this is more than a magical canister. You can find the freshness of a hotel’s food by checking the amount of steam spewed from this one. If there is no steam it means old food inside. Ok, I am getting a bit carried away here. But I love to get into hotels where this one’s chugging steam like an angry Thomas. My sentiment is appreciated by most hoteliers considering many use it as a frontispiece too. Now therein lies the problem.

Orders for chai are placed mostly through nods or eyes widened and other unspoken methods as most of the time it is taken halfway through eating. And then it hits you. Right from where he is standing – usually bang next to your more powerful right eardrum – the waiter will scream out ‘CHAI’ to the steamroller driver out at the front. It will be too late for you to duck but you may choke heartily. I have seen some scramble beneath the table because they were going to order chai.

Those who learnt their lessons and broke a drum today place their chai orders on their way in.

Where to sit, how to pay the bill, etc.

These hotel dining halls are generally small and we have no qualms in diminishing them further by making separate sitting rooms for ladies and families. Even to avail facilities of the latter too ladies are a must. Gays please excuse, eh. We have found that the gents in the general-seating area will take forever to eat if there is a lady in their midst. This is bad for our business. The bills are usually delivered without consulting you, the payer, even as to whether you will be indulging your girth any more. Have a second coffee and you will muck up the pre-drawn bill. No tips are expected which is why we give you the bill while your hands are busy. Besides if you start tipping the waiters here, the manager will insist on becoming a waiter. Blame the pay scales. When you go for washing, you will find it immensely useful if you haven’t shaved for a couple of days – there usually is no soap.

And lastly, those newspaper cuttings on the counter are not important highlights of the day – pointless as Kerala is always ahead with the unexpected.

They are tissues to dry your hands.”

The earth may be cruel but the sea is heartless. Henry Miller, The Colossus of Maroussi.

Heartless

Filming the artisanal thattumadi way of fishing was secondary, the foremost task was to not come in the way.

A maali…aisa maali…

Some of the crew swayed precariously over the gunwale in underwear, ferrying bucketful of fresh water and passing a missing sparkplug.

A maali…aisa maali…

They hollered expletive-laden instructions at each other while pulling up the madi, or the net, by the thattu, which was the rope, in step with the chant.

A maali…aisa maali…

I am thinking the anxious hopefulness of the catch is making them swear more. The sound of the trapped fish in the madi coming up is like tambourine. But with less clang. It is a memorable sound, I can hear it even today.

A maali…

The madi is finally above water-level as the boats nearly bump into each other. Curiosity gets the better of me and I peer from the stern where I am tucked into over the starboard side where the action is. I have been on fishing expeditions before and I know that a good catch would be met by a sudden spurt of obscenities, hurled at everybody in general. This enhanced the bonhomie of the brotherhood, which would continue late into the afternoon once they got back over potent army quota rum. Afterward, everybody would stagger to their respective houses and eat fish and rice and sleep on mats before heading out again to the sea as dusk fell. Now there was silence.

Jasadima

Those who have passed 60 years of age get a pension of one thousand rupees – enough for a chai and a snack which might keep them alive. I still go out to the sea, on my kattamaram, by myself. The sea has become hotter and more violent from earlier days. And the fish is considerably less. I don’t want my son to do what I do for a living. The kids today are not able to handle the sea, they have lost touch. Even to go somewhere on land they use computers – tik, tak, and you are there. I still use the stars to navigate myself back home sometimes when I go far out into the open sea. Most days I go really far out as there is no fish near the coast or even five or six kilometres from the coast. David Jasadima, fisherman from Puthiyathura, Trivandrum.

Barf. Bugaboo.

Despite my city swagger – or maybe because of it – they were initially hesitant to take me out to sea with them. Though I assured them that I had been there before I still needed the good sisters at the convent where I was staying to put in a word of commendation. The second generation non-fishermen were the biggest naysayers. ‘There’s a stench out there,’ one told me, a master degree holder in Malayalam literature. ‘It will make you puke your guts out.’ He himself had been out in the sea only once before the stench got to him making him stick to the shores and write PSC exams. Anyway, it had been a while since I was out there so I did what I could – packed biscuits for dinner. So, while the rest of the crew gorged on rice and curried and fried fish, I pecked on Britannia 50-50. Several light boats – the single-crewed kattamaram which ferried the LED lights used to lure the fish – passed us. And none did without enquiring after my well-being. ‘Is he holding up alright?’ went the general refrain. Maybe all the biscuits I was looking a little pale. Offers of chapathi and other food proper came my way which I stoically refused.

“So, what if you throw up?” Asked one old chap almost anthropophagous in his chomping on tobacco and spewing red betel streams. This fluttered against the wind before splattering against him and those who sat next to him. There was a nonchalant disregard, not even a murmur of a gripe, for this splay.

“You just have to eat more!” He said squinting at me like a punter. Maybe it was a gyp remark. But nobody laughed. Maybe it was real concern. I showed him my tumbling stack of Nice and Good Day biscuits.

These guys are like the sea only – rough and destructive on the outside. But go a little deep and you will find the gentlest, most pacific souls. Father Pradeep Puthenveettil, parish priest, Pozhiyoor.

Like the sea

Cletus (name changed) straddled the border, literally. His father was from Tamil Nadu and mother from Kerala. His modest home in Neerodi, TN, next to South Kollemcode, Kerala’s coastal border with TN. (Kalayikkavila is the road border.) Most mornings when he is home he can be found at the football ground between Neerodi and South Kollemcode. He used to play football but these days he just sits there, gazing at the open area. More than booted nostalgia, this is a consequence of the many months he is away at sea – he finds concrete and walls claustral. A resident of Dwarka, New Delhi, I understood this very well; the cycle park next door used to be my succour. Cletus went with trawler boats from next door Thoothoor in TN. Thoothoor is a comparatively better-off neighbourhood looked up by fishing communities all over Kerala. The prudence and diligence of fishermen here was the gist of the Joneses. When I went there, I found all the houses brightly daubed and gated with at least one car in the portico. The kids were well-fed, the boys nattily turned out and the girls pretty. Probably making all the difference was a college in the vicinity. Something which Kerala lacked.

“When we go, we are away for at least a month. In our last run, we went all the way to New Zealand passing through Andamans, Dubai, Iraq and Muscat. We reached in nine days flat.”

I know the issue of international maritime border laws was quite touchy these days but I don’t know whether he had broken any in his NZ outing. The thing is, he doesn’t either. But he does know of the repercussion though.

“It has happened to many of my friends – their boat and fish were confiscated and they were put in jail. But no, it has never happened to me.” I detected a faint cockiness here. Probably due. Even the name itself is famously redneck after all. But more than any thoughts on breaking laws or fear of imprisonment what really gets his goat is being circumscribed in his own country.

“Twice in Kochi we had just returned with our fish but we weren’t allowed to leave the boat as Modi was in the general area.”

Rehman

Sri Lankan jails are full of boys from the south of India – from Kerala and from Tamil Nadu. Most of them break maritime border laws unwittingly. Many are in small boats which are not fitted with GPS; even those in trawlers, which are supposedly hi-tech, just chase fish wherever they can find it. Besides, we are talking about water here. How do you draw a line on water? How can anybody know where the line falls? How far do these lines go? We are all humans eking out a living, after all. Our government has done nothing to get these boys released. Abdur Rehman, fisherman from Edava.

(This week, a total of 77 Indian fishermen who were in Sri Lankan prisons were released; eight more are still to be freed.) 

I undertook #KeralaCoastalWalk with the intent to document a fast-disappearing livelihood and landscape. ‘Before the MacDonaldization of the coast…’ as I mentioned in a talk to students somewhere. This was going to be a drawn-out exercise – by end of February I had only completed Trivandrum (78 of the total 590 km, or first of the total nine coastal districts). Besides, there was a supporting job I had to handle out of Delhi, I also had to see the coast in different seasons and phenomenon – like the famous mud banks or chakara – formed during the rainy July month in Alleppey. While learning about the impact of the new port coming up in Vizhinjam in the lives of local mussel fishermen, I stayed at Kovalam – a stay which got extended as I bumped into an old German friend. More human reasons delayed me at Varkala as did the awe-inspiring layout – I decided to film it. #WorkLoveVarkala. Kappil, the district border with Kollam, is just seven kilometres along the shore from Varkala. I stayed at Varkala for nearly a month before walking to Kappil. The film is currently under post production.

My sense of intrigue and enthrallment were met with sympathetically, even returned at times. This inspired me vastly. The warmth and wonderment of many of the people I met stuck with me through most part of the walk; while some plied me with genuine queries many masqueraded Ripley-doses of information as casual posers. Living on the edge, probably a bit of drama had encroached into their own lives. There is a lot more to walk, I know. Even further up north through a village where ISIS recruitments allegedly take place. Whatever, from my journey so far, I know these are good folk, folk I can trust. Folk happy to swap tales over a cuppa.

Folks whose splendiferous curiosities met me midway.

Asma Biwi

You must give it to them engineers – each of their heads must contain two brains! All through the four years the bridge was under construction, every single day I used to marvel at the capability God has endowed on us humans. And the huge technological strides we have made on our own. The engines made a loud rattling noise and chucked a lot of smoke, yes, but I still couldn’t take my eyes off them which worked throughout emptying out the water so the foundation could be laid. The engineers themselves rarely came to my shop but the Bengali labourers who worked on the site did. And I would make them tell me about the work and progress. See, I was in Dubai and used to converse a lot with Pakistanis and Afghans in Hindi, so talking to these lads was easy. Maybe even easier than talking to all those big-brained engineers. Asma Biwi, cool drink shop owner, near Perumathura Bridge.

Nothing moves like the road. From where I sat, staring ahead, I felt like I was hurled bodily into a wide-angled void. Into that bluish-green miasmic space between heaven and earth. Trees and houses, shops and hotels, people, ponds, fields and animals, lamp posts and electric wires blurred past as if some celestial puppetry. Between small townships were vast open fields which accorded unhindered views of rocky outcrops with the mandatory shrine on top. I felt like the eye of a storm, infinite powers at my disposal. In the distance ahead dips and curves rose wavily upward, marvellous mirages. The afternoon sun blistered the plains with a ferocity akin to magnificence.

At Andipatty I watched an aged mendicant scrounging outside a tea shop. Her bag of tricks included a pet monkey which stood on two legs and clapped. The monkey then grimaced at the lack of amusement – or charity – it evoked and scrambled back to the woman’s shoulders before sauntering over to the next in line, a puncture mechanic. It started at the loud clanging from straightening a metallic rim and immediately jumped back to its sanctum shoulders. It then peered from behind the woman’s hair. She just moved on.

Next to me sat two youngsters – both in standard issue cigarette-shaped jeans which clung somewhere between their waist and knees by a glossy plastic belt. One had ‘Dabanng’ printed across it. Both wore caps at jaunty angles and fiddled with cheap smartphones. A couple boarded the bus and sat down in front of me. They perspired from the heat outside but chattered happily. The guy placed his laptop bag gingerly on the rack above. An airbag went up next without so much attention. The woman glanced upwards at their luggage once and then at me. I thought she looked familiar.

Following the recent Supreme Court ruling, liquor vends by the highway remained shut. The women selling boiled eggs outside the taverns were gone. Protecting some lives meant denying some others their rights. Some numbers were too inconsequential that they didn’t even become statistics. A truck which had stopped by the roadside clambered back on to the highway without any signal forcing us to swerve sharply and then again to avoid colliding with an incoming autorickshaw. This near-miss was followed by an expletive-laden exchange between the two drivers. I raised my fist at the erring trucker, ala Haddock.

The Western Ghats rose not very far, serenading us, in a shimmery dance within a sultry haze. From dry plains to verdant vineyards and misty teagarden slopes the kaleidoscopic landscape rendered me incapable of continuous thought and I liked it. I sought it. Kids with dried snot ignored us when we slowed at busy, dusty carrefours. The sinewy backs of dark-skinned women glistened with sweat and covetously framed the strings of jasmine braided into lustrous long hair. Men proffered up plastic basins decked with spliced cucumber smattered with rock salt. How much for the flower?

We stopped by a small pasture where the smell of ordure accosted the occasional simoom. Regular travellers daubed their faces with handy wet towels. The couple had disembarked from the bus leaving the airbag on their seat. I could see the guy waiting outside a tin shack with a woman’s painting on the door, the laptop bag hung over his shoulder. I remained inside unmoving, barely thinking. More than the lack of thoughts, the heat rendered me still. It was that kind of heat, the sort which made you think twice before batting an eyelid for fear of steaming up the sunglasses. The boys on the adjacent seat would have thought I was asleep for one reached out and began to fumble with the couple’s airbag zipper. I turned and stared at him with all the intensity of Al Pacino in ‘Scent of a Woman.’ He smiled at me but I sat stationary, staring stoically. Before the couple returned, he got off the bus and left. The other ciggie pants just sat there bent over his device with a burning concentration.

Real travel is for nothing else. It doesn’t matter where you began your journey from. Or where you are headed to. Or why you are going. The great affair, as Robert Louis Stevenson said, is to move. The aimlessness and anarchy inherent here makes it thoroughly appealing. An antidote to our miseries. We begin to covet the trip purely for what it takes us through and not where. The road ahead ceases to be merely that and instead becomes a conduit which makes us sear through unhappiness, maladies, setbacks, failures, blames, unrequited loves, unmet responsibilities, shattered dreams, self-doubts, jealousy, unwarranted desires, unworthy rewards, momentary possessions, shackles, prejudices, unrealistic ambitions and the ephemerality of relationships. The translucent haze crystallised into a clear elegance. Bearing towards the border, the dry powdery sward concatenated to serried coconut trees and then whole groves of them. The girding verdure energised and exalted me. Suddenly I felt intoxicated by a strange buoyancy. From where I sat I could see it all. And I could begin to understand.

Jayalalithaa’s anti-English language posturing was all around me: spotting an English signboard was like finding MGR without his fur cap. More than any cricketer or movie actor, APJ Kalam seemed to be a distinct favourite in these parts. I wanted to know what he was plugging. There were some English hoardings in Chinnammur. At Uthamapalayam I saw many more and the first Malayalam post ‘Singapore Mess.’ Entering this cantonment area I beheld another sight for summer-sore eyes – a beautiful cataract merely looking at which cooled you. An open market bustled by the roadside. Guys rode bicycles into the ‘mandi’ with roosters tied to their carriers, just like what I had seen in Bastar. But unlike Bastar I was told there were no cockfights in these parts. The information was supplied by a political type who boarded the bus with an oleaginous starveling of a sidekick who nodded violently to everything his boss said. And beamed at every English word uttered. The bus station at Cumbum reminded me of the one at Kalpa in Himachal – both nestling by foothills. The name also triggered some fond memories from the trip.

Vineyards stretched to both sides of the road as we neared Gudalur. The bus stopped here while some passengers stepped out to buy boxes of grapes. By now I had gathered that the couple were married and were visiting the guy’s parents in Kottayam, Kerala. As we left Gudalur I also learnt that they decided not to buy grapes as it was priced very high. The sheer purring of the engine became a deep growl – the climb to Kumily in the Kerala – Tamil Nadu border had begun. Abysses rose alternately on both sides of the road as we climbed quickly through the winding road horn blaring.

At Kumily bus station I stepped out for my caffeine fix. A lottery ticket seller began to importunately convince the couple to buy as the money would be useful to send their kid abroad. ‘Youngsters have no future in this country anymore,’ he said with conviction. ‘For ten or for twenty?’ The man conferred with his wife before buying peanuts from a vendor who approached outside their window. If marriages were announced in Tamil Nadu with photographs of the bride, groom and well-wishers splayed all over gargantuan hoardings, in this side of the border it was shifting political affiliations of a bunch of individuals. The song and dance in the first instance I could understand but not of the latter.

It was still sunny when the drizzle began. Wildlife sanctuary Thekkady lay a few kilometres away from our route. I had been there many times – the last one was as a homely mortal with conventional apprehensions. As we wound our way through the teagardens of Vandiperiyar, it came down by the bucketful. Like a voyage into the light, we charged ahead, undeterred, unwavering. An arrow in water. Between the thrumming of the rain above and the humming of the engine below, I tranced into a netherworld. I was led with purple sparkles, along a velvet alley; on a distant wall different coloured lights segued into each other. It was the hall of understanding. I understood sorrow and pain, agony and triumph, worries and security, love and indifference, action and consequence, revolt and obeisance, worship and spite, betrayal, embrace.

The state treasury had no money. The headline screamed. The man was adequately worried. His wife pushed up the window shutter but the clamp was stuck. She looked at him but he was lost in the news, frowned brows and all. I reached out and fisted the clamp into place holding the shutter up. She turned around and smiled at me.

The good earth wafted in through the open window.

(This is a post on some people and events that led to my eponymous travel short. If it is the sights that interests you, just click on here here: Here.)

Let’s wrassle

The view from my embowered window threw up whole lives. The podgy old lady in the heavily mirror-worked Rajasthani gypsy attire left her home each morning at eight for a north cliff shop to clean up and hawk the rest of the day. She returned at 10 in the night, a wearied, rotund silhouette in the lightless alley. The matronly neighbour from across the wall swept her courtyard every morning and burn dried leaves and smile sweetly at me when I egressed exasperated from my room with singeing eyes.

“How are you today, sir?” She would ask me with immense affection as her grown up son came and stood next to her brushing his teeth and hoicking away his mom’s pleasantries.

Reflections

Claus tripped up and down the stairway that led to the beach careening in every direction at least half a dozen times each day. He was drunk or stoned or both and my neighbour. Erica walked by a few times, looking up at the window where I sat. I liked to think she was looking for me as she had mentioned earlier that her partner was leaving for Goa; he thought Varkala to be ‘an OAP paradise.’ I ducked or dove every time as my loyalties had changed. David, who had taken upon himself the name Parinay (“Pahr-eey-nai”) was chatting up Priya. Parinay was a walking Iskcon outlet who sang aloud Krishna songs on the beach and handed out pamphlets which basically said nothing could beat love. Priya was a Kannadiga girl from the Adiga tribe famed for their arresting lineaments who sold seersucker frocks and tee shirts specifically for bumming. But it was not about the love-god’s love David spoke to her but his own.

Looming wonder – Varkala cliff

Events are a subset of time. Things will happen, people you meet, play cupid and peacemaker, get in and out of trouble, write about involvement, profess emotions, promise to help, experiment, dissect sex and religion, put up facades, pull them down, read books, exchange addresses, take selfies, groan over dying baby sharks, fight over dogs, part, only if you give time. I had been staying in Varkala for a month, maybe more. I reached here tracing my ambitious #KeralaCoastalWalk, ambling up the Trivandrum coast. And, as I like to put it, I got waylaid in Varkala. Well. The short documentary I made on the beach town was not the mere outcome of an afflatus – though the stunning landscape is capable of just that – but more an ode to the people, both foreigners and locals, who welcomed me warmly, made me a part of their daily living, entrusted me with meaningful work, shared their fears and traumas, smiled plenty, laughed at the beach caca on my feet and told me the about the secret spring.

Vibe, vibe. Ashan Memorial.

A hearty quest can be good automotrice. I went to Sivagiri nearby and spoke to a learned man in starched, ochre robes. He corroborated what I believed could be a reason for the vibrant cosmopolitanism – when you are born in the same land as Sankaracharya, you are possibly swayed by the famous guru’s teachings. Like tolerance, harmony and peaceful coexistence. Barring an occasional stray incident – which I am told largely involves frustrated or inebriated outsiders – Varkala is hassle-free and safe for the lone female traveller. There is a parallel system to handle such sabre-rattlers, I found out. Suffice to say the bellicose sailor will be left wishing notness was more practical than philosophy.

Love Varkala

The Mahakavi Kumaran Ashan Memorial a few kilometres away – built in the memory of the famous poet, a contemporary and disciple of Sankaracharya, whom some believe to be behind the guru’s rise to spiritual stardom – is an overlooked sight but worth at least one visit for its meditative air and quite tangible positivity. I literally stumbled on it looking for a safe haven chased by feral dogs – a real-life bugaboo for seaside dwellers in Kerala – while walking from Varkala to Anjengo. I sat there collecting my breath next to a local devouring a newspaper.

“Dogs?” He looked up at me briefly.

I nodded vehemently.

He nodded back at me and returned to his daily gorge.

***

Mahesh was a terrible businessman though he did brisk business. His little shack had risen above from being a meagre vendor to a carrefour of humanities. The tender coconut-based shakes he served was just a healthy excuse to meet and share backpacking lore. One late afternoon as I sat reading, Bob came in carrying a sack over his shoulder. Like Puss in Boots. Tall, blonde and muscular, Bob had the corybantic eyes of a party creature. While waiting for Mahesh he told me about his surfing accident and how he had to whip up a seven grand for the fractured surfboard.

Hocus focus

“The money was not part of my travel budget,” he said. “So, I am now making these in my spare time.”

Bob opened the sack to reveal sun hats made of straw. Splendiferous works of a creative mind. I did what I could – bought one and wrote about it on my FB page and tagged newfound friends from the beach. I also helped Mahesh zero in on a good place to display the wares. Many days later most of the hats stayed put on the shelf, the grassy gleam dimmed by the summer sun. Mahesh had been away in Trivandrum trying to bail out his buddies who were jailed for beating up some rogue authority figures who had made a habit of consuming alcohol inside the sanctum of a historic temple nearby. It was a watertight remand as the vigilantes had filmed their handiwork and shared on WhatsApp. The clip was topping the viral charts those days.

“I will have a tender coconut shake,” I told him after the updates.

“There is no milk,” Mahesh replied. “I don’t have the money to buy milk.”

***

“The first love must have been a sour one because it’s been ‘falling in love’ ever since,” Shiva whispered into my ear. “But for me, I fly every time,” he added before nibbling some. “Like now.”

Flying, we both were. Little doubt.

Work, Love, Varkala

“Meet me on the beach tonight,” he had told me that morning as I sat at a sea-facing table in the restaurant where he waited. I used to sit there with pot coffee, cigarettes and the Miller I was reading. Shiva knew about Natasha and me but he was too graceful to be affected.

“Just you,” he said as I left.

He stood up on the soft, wet sand and began gyrating to music that seemed to float down with the waves. One by one the lights on the cliffside shops went out before we were blanketed by a silvery sheen like the sublime drape of a living dream. His puckered lips dispensed random affectionate kisses to the universe of which I was also part of. His hips thrusted and grinded in an invisible act. The moon rose like a diadem over his curly mop.

It was Shivaratri.

(The names of most people have been changed; incidents are real.) 

You see things vacationing on a motorcycle in a way that is completely different from any other. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert M. Pirsig

Riding out

The mangy mutt watched me pack my gear with unblinking eyes teary under the neon street light. Gauging for threat it observed me limp around the motorcycle – from a gout flare-up the previous day – before limping away itself. It was 4 AM and I had the whole neighbourhood to myself. A new one, I had moved in to two days before. It took a while for me to figure an alternate access to the main drag right on the other side of a ‘Stop for check’ police barricade; tony colonies in Delhi thrive on the idea of security propped up by such flimsy obstructions. I rode through an alley flanked by whirring air conditioners generating their own little simooms and an ATM with the watchman nodding away inside the cool booth. The fourth estate edifices along Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg slunk away into darkness as if trying to escape from witch hunts the government has been unleashing on media houses that didn’t fall in line.

Do horn

Daryaganj was bustling. Sweaty men shouted instructions to each other on how to unload vegetables from trucks partially swathed in baizes. Sounded like an affray but it was just a friendly fratch following the hearty community meal consumed in the wee hours of Ramadan fast. Near the inter-state bus terminal at Kashmere Gate autorickshaw drivers roused themselves from passenger seats where they were curled up for the night, stretched, washed their faces with potable water from bottles, hurled abuses at no one in particular and readied for the day. Heading to the arterial GT Karnal Road, aka the National Highway 1, the Bhalswa trash mountain could be seen smouldering from a distance. It fumed and presided over the pollution of the capital city. Like it did most days during summer. A 40-acre landfill, this receives around 3,000 tons of garbage every day and the intense daytime heat sets ablaze the waste in many places. The sickening stench is everyday here; my eyes stung from the putrid air. An ambulance tried to weave its way unsuccessfully through the clutter that was Mukarba Chowk; patients have a brighter chance of survival once the 12-lane underway from the chowk to Panipat becomes functional early next year. Now trucks and taxis, buses and tankers stood unmoving, obstinate clogs. The bugle echoed like a helpless plea.

Everybody loves a Bullet #Std500

Near magical transformations mark daybreak on the highway. Literally as well. Looming silhouettes dissolve into rust and ochre cages transporting cargo and livestock. Dark, wavy ribbons of road perk up to a soft and shimmery ashen sheen. You begin to notice faces of people pressed against the glass panes of buses and transport cabs. There is wonderment writ large despite groggy countenances – about the new place that will be home soon, the new job they are going to take up, or seek, the new husband they are to join, puzzlement at the turn of life events, hopeful of what is in store, a tremulous joy at exiting a space where they were taken for granted. A beatific smile of forgiveness given or fate accepted. Sometimes what you see is your own face and imagine are your own thoughts. The reflection is powerful enough to shape destinies. I am particularly enamoured by chassis drivers who sit in the barest of cabins draped like Lawrence of Arabia. Driving through the night, these guys are a picture of fortitude and focus. How they hunch, lunging their skeletal whales forward continues to be my idea of a dream job.

Tap-tap

Every time I opened the throttle a bit, the ‘tap-tap’ becomes audible. It is the tappet slapping. The engine had seized once on my way for a pre-production meeting to Wazirabad in Delhi suburbs. I was stuck in the infamous jam of the old bridge across the Yamuna River which the upcoming Signature Bridge would replace. Too much revving and first gear, the pistons expanded from the excess heat, melted into the cylinder and locked the engine. Riders call this a ‘seizure.’ If you are unlucky, it can lock the rear wheel and cause grievous skidding at high speeds. This was my first ride after I changed the tappets and overhauled the cylinder. Once you do this, you have to ride at low speeds to wear it in. This was the ‘wearing in’ ride and I wasn’t doing over 60 kmph. I wished my tappets and piston a long life. Especially after what I paid.

An unhindered view

“It’s a mota bike, your bill also will be mota,” said my mechanic. Mota in Hindi is fat.

I once saw a friend off in the morning Shatabdi from Chandigarh and waited in Connaught Place till the train reached New Delhi Railway station next door. And this was after resting my air-cooled Bullet Standard 500 in midway Karnal for 15 minutes. I ride hard but this time it was payback.

Some ‘Indo-Canadian’ uber-luxury buses plying the Chandigarh-Delhi route overtook me. I imagined their cocky jackeroos grinning triumphantly at my plight. ‘Ride with the star’ read the legend printed on the side. The only Indo-Canadian star I knew was Sunny Leone. Altogether it was a pleasant imagery I conjured in the rising heat. I forgave them while I dawdled on in my own little thought-harem. Another was a chap on a Classic 350, in full Iron Man gear. I saw him some time later, doffed of his fancy pads, dousing himself with water pumped through his Chitty Chitty Bang Bang supply system.

Mere sapnon ki rani…

Sonepat looked like when a bunch of truck drivers decided to settle down and call it home. It must have been just that for all I know. On the Panipat flyover I witnessed an accident: a motorcycle rammed into the back of a car which braked suddenly. Why the car braked so hard remains a mystery and it scrammed from the scene as I parked my motorcycle and ran across the road. Both riders wore helmets which I am sure saved their lives. But their joints and limbs were bloodied, possibly broken. Other motorcyclists too stopped soon. I offered to take one of them to the nearest hospital but they seemed to be in a hurry to leave.

“Do you want me to call 1073?” I asked. The highway aid number. They just shook their heads and gathered their scattered possessions. A mobile phone had been flung over the side of the flyover during the collision and somebody waved it from below.

“It’s broken,” he hollered. “But the battery is intact.”

“Chuck it,” muttered one of the victims. “Let’s go.”

I helped them lift the motorcycle the front fork of which was twisted into an Algerian love knot. I didn’t see the point in his hurry.

Tap-tap

The 456 km-long NH 1 is among the oldest and historical of highways in India and links Delhi to Pakistan border. Though correct only in parts, the stretch is still more popular as ‘Grand Trunk Road’ which was built by the Pashtun ruler Sher Shah Suri. It starts from New Delhi and ends in the border town of Atari in Punjab after passing through Sonepat, Panipat, Karnal, Kurukshetra, Ambala, Rajpura, Ludhiana, Jalandhar and Amritsar. On both sides used to be vast tracts of agriculture lands which are now taken over for industrial development. The Dutch barns have been empty for ages and the kos minars are replaced by brick kiln chimneys. Dhabas or roadside eateries are big business. There must be at least a dozen ‘Havelis’ – each claiming to be the original. As with Gulshan. And Multan. And Thommen. I opted to stay out of the fracas and rode into one in Kurukshetra (‘The land of Mahabharata’ as my GPS wonderfully qualified it.) with a comfortable shade with charpoys beneath – my humble non-negotiables for a dhaba. I had the most delectable paneer parathas with the thickest curd and legendary pachranga pickle. The succulent paneer reaffirmed my need to stay on in the north of India despite many of the things that brought me here had come to an end.

I still cannot suppress my urge to sing, that too with jerky head movements ‘Mere sapnon ki rani…’ when I serenade a train from the road. Nearing Ambala where the railway track runs parallel to the highway, I was overcome with this jejune and embarrassing aberration yet again.

‘Tap-tap.’

The tappet rose to the occasion.

The balmy gale that was lashing at me, trying to throw me, became a full-blown storm now. Motorcycling toward Delhi along the NH1, I was the only one on the road. Everyone else seemed to have scuttled to the safety of dhabas, parked beneath juddering awnings, huddled inside maybe over chole bhatura and lassi waiting it out. 

Kos Minars make my day. And night.

There was no way I could have seen it coming. Nor heard. There was nary a whistle nor a rustle. There was no dry duff flying around. But for that you need some vegetation. Like pine trees which make wind howl. There was hardly a spindly shrub along this terrain I was traversing – being the peak of summer the fields had become swathes of pewter-fine soil which now rose, wan blankets over the horizon like a billowy ghost tarp. Because of the hanging, pervading opaque-ness, switching on my headlamps didn’t add to visibility; I just hoped to be visible to incoming traffic. (Many come the wrong way having missed an eatery or a petrol pump; I barely missed one who was coming in reverse.)

My night riding goggles fought a losing battle and soon enough I was bleary-eyed with sand. I pumped some out through squeeze-shut tears and rode on. I felt like a hero, you know, one of those valiant knights who ride through hell and highwater because a lot depended on them reaching the other side of hell and highwater. The only thing that depended on I reaching was, well, nothing I could think of then. Nothing I can think of now either. I rode on because I didn’t want to stop. I guess it was that simple.

Ranjan Tiwary. Give it up for him.

The ‘tap-tap’ of a newly installed tappet that crept up from the cylinder of my motorcycle now and then had become faintly insistent now. I knew it wasn’t good. Then sometimes you want to cover max ground when the going is not good; you build up anticipation of the eventual collapse because you are really miffed at yourself for missing something which was obviously cooping in from all around you. It was ominous and on your face, still you chose to turn a blind eye toward it. Now you want to pay the price. So, hoick it so up that you don’t forget you fucked up. Or maybe you hope the self-punishment will make all the shit go away. Shit seldom goes away on its own.

Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

My motorcycle lost throttle and the engine idled to a stop. I sat impassive letting the cycle roll as much as it would go on its own. It was not the thought of pushing all the dead kerb weight that made me coast on the clutch any more than relishing what lay in store. Pushing my big, fat, Royal Enfield Bullet, a Standard 500, along the dark highway, in the midst of a raging sandstorm. I even decided by then – as the free ride came to a stop – that I would keep the helmet on because:

1. It held my goggles in place.
2. That way I would prevent the sand from getting into my hair and soiling the helmet.
3. Being on a dark highway, I could be sitting duck for someone who didn’t want to stop. Somebody like me.

Daybreak. At Mannat.

I might have pushed for a kilometre, maybe two, I don’t know as my mind was blank. All I could see shit. Strangely I felt calm, at peace with myself. It wasn’t because I felt like I was squaring the circle but could have been the self-punishment thing I spoke of earlier. Even then I wasn’t sure – there was no sense of achievement. Nor victory. Impassion, I realised, is the face when one is shorn of options and there is no dearth of difficulties. My hair became drenched in sweat and trickled into my eyes fogging up my goggles. Just like fortunes change as you are about to give up, three guys came on a motorcycle. Under the circumstances from an earlier lifetime – when I blazed across highways in a two-litre Chevy Optra – these guys would be drunken thugs out to mischief and I would watch them from the corner of my eyes till I passed them:

1. Will they swerve to make me veer out of control?
2. Will they scatter nails so I will pull over ahead?
3. Was one of them whipping out a country-made pistol?

This fear was borne out of an experience when I was driving through Bihar where I was accosted by two armed guys on a motorcycle asking me to stop the car. My then wife slept peacefully next to me, seat low and music and air conditioning jacked up.

They were still drunk but thugs they weren’t. After the primary curiosity-settling questions like where I was coming from and headed to and what happened – at least my version of it – they began their own set of inquisition.

Is there petrol? Yes? Enough petrol? Are you sure? Do you want to open the tank and see? Do you need money to buy some petrol? No? Don’t be embarrassed to ask for money, alright? We all land in trouble and tomorrow it might be you helping me out, right?

New day. I still love her.

One guy sat on my pillion seat while the other two pushed my motorcycle from behind – all the way to Mannat, a well-lit dhaba in Samalkha. Delhi was still far – by about 50 km. They bid their goodbyes and the one who sat behind me even tried to slip a rupee note into my pocket asking me to ‘eat something.’ I used to believe that those who didn’t drink weren’t good people. It turns out that I was right about some things. I did not park on the main lot but along an unpaved interstice between the dhaba and an open field. I knew I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. 

The goodness continued with Ranjan, a waiter at Mannat, who talked a good game about motorcycles. Though I told him it was the tappet, he came with a pair of pliers and loosened the spark plug whose head was crumbling soot. Aha! Things are going to be alright. These little interludes of relief and hope, however hopeless, are important, especially when you know they are short-lived and the main issue shall continue. Three kids in pinafores were brought from the kitchen who pushed the motorcycle to start it on gear. They retired only after I announced that I was staying put the night and would arrange for a mechanic tomorrow.

‘Who’ll stay in Mannat – or anywhere in Samalkha, for that matter – when, as Chandra Bose said, Dilli noor nahin? (Delhi is not far?)’ Ranjan chuckled when I queried about room availability. I remember being too tired even to express surprise but just gawking at him in groggy admiration. Did he know that it wasn’t Bose who said it first? The next morning I remember waking up deciding to ask where he picked his history from. That night I was shown into a backroom of sorts with a much-needed swirling fan that sounded like ricocheting gunfire, stacked up with DVDs, spare furniture and some hookahs. There was a bed on which two others were already sleeping.

Ranjan moved one pair of legs and made just about enough space for me. He bade me ‘good night’ and went out back to work. Mannat was open 24 hours and he was on night watch this week.

“Have a chai with me if you wake up before I go,” he called out before shutting the door behind him.

There was only one pillow which was taken by the guy on the other side. I entertained half a mind to slide it from under him – after all, he must have had his share of comfortable sleep. As if sensing my evil design, he opened his eyes and peered closely at me. What would have been eerie under any other circumstance didn’t strike me as such as I was too exhausted and ready to drop. I looked around and saw a pair of pyjamas lying on the floor. The chap snoring loudly next to me was under a fleece blanket, I didn’t know if there was a connection. Anyway I bunched it up and used it for pillow for what must have been the soundest sleep I had in a long time. 

There’s a bed. Somewhere.

Next morning was Sunday and I woke to the roar of superbikes from Delhi making their weekly Panipat run. (These machines are largely owned by doctors and other highly paid people who plod hard the rest of the week. Maybe why I have mine.) Vehicles trickled in – those who started early from Chandigarh or Shimla late last night. Families sat around tables watching gleefully as the toddler son threw cutlery around after licking them. Ranjan patiently picked each one up as he took some impossibly torturous orders.

I forgot to ask him where he read history, instead made the following note:

1. Smile when they repeat the order, don’t sit morose and motionless – after all nothing said it wouldn’t be you taking the order.
2. Slip a tip. Trust me, these kids need every extra rupee they get.
3. For god sake take that kid off the table – and not just because it’s bad table manners. 

The young sand sculptor was visibly chuffed as he stepped back to enjoy his creation – a mermaid. Recognisable as one from all angles. It was his first ever work, he claimed, beaming. I expressed a sincere appreciation and asked all the right questions – his name, place, where he stayed and even what he studied. Just as we were about to leave, the boys stepped in with their own questions. I braced myself.

Beauty in the water**

“Do you believe in mermaids?” Asked the eldest. The sculptor actually answered with something about human potential to conjure the wildest fantasies as well as to translate them to cold world realities. This left the boy agape. The rest of us were merely dumbfounded.

“What if your mermaid came to life?” This one’s sister had devoured Harry Potter and filled him up with clips from Fantastic Beasts during bedtime.

“How will you make mermaids when there are no more beaches?” It was the youngest who was silent for the longest. The query flummoxed the otherwise bright sculptor who looked at me askance, one brow raised. Guilty. I had, the previous afternoon as we neared Varkala, told the boys about global warming and that during my walk along the coast* I was apprised by old locals how large swathes of beach from 30 years ago were missing today. The sea is a dangerous creature was the gist of what I meant, they were to listen to me even when I sneezed.

Instead of answering, the young sculptor chose to add an extra fin to the mermaid’s tail.

Retirement plans of shipwrecked captains

We walked till the sun went down

The beach area flanking Hansita had become an agora of sorts – soda shops and little shacks selling tourist baubles, families and courting couples, a smattering of tourists and some drunken revellers lying in the waves next to the recumbent dredger. Hansita was brought in for repair but the bill turned out too hefty prompting the skipper to leave her in the lurch. Though some activists and fishermen raised shackles over environmental concerns the rusty gorgon posed to the local fishing community of Iravipuram in Kollam suburbs, the voices soon drowned out – it turned out to be a rising tourist attraction. An unpaid bill was accomplishing what most district tourism promotion councils in Kerala couldn’t. But for us, it was Robinson Crusoe time. And I let it be that way as the real story was too drudge.

“Do you think the captain died when the ship got wrecked?” It was an internal question, among themselves. They concluded that the coastguard would have rescued him and he would be living on a pension like their grandfather. 

Angel on the beach

“What do you think the ship would be carrying for it to sink?” Looted gold and silver, of course. And perhaps some ivory too as one had seen photographs of ‘hundreds of elephants’ at the Trichur Pooram. Elephants, he noted, without tusk.

“What do you think will happen if there is a tsunami?” This one was for me. “Won’t the waves carry the ship and throw it over some house?”

I knew that Kollam beach was affected by the tsunami though not hit hard. My knowledge wasn’t enough to answer the question though.

Showmanship – in 3D

Travelling with three boys and a grey beard I became a much-envied father. The missing mother made me a curiosity as well and probably the butt of ‘don’t-give-up-yet’ sympathies. While having milkshakes at the Coffee Temple on North Cliff, one European tourist said that I had a bunch of well-behaved boys. I half-thought of inviting her to our hotel room – just to show her the nightlamp that was left dangling from the wall by a flying pillow the previous night. There was also a broken bulb and an unhinged door lock. The threat of their mothers – my sisters – with dire consequences if they didn’t listen to me lasted till the first rain on the road. It was the monsoon season, let me point out. Tom mama was to have the last word or else, they repeated. The last word was always mine which the boys unerringly, without fail, almost magically, managed to transform into the first word of the next bout.

They don’t have a handle on you

The proud ‘papa’ in me came to the fore when we watched ‘Ocean 3D’ at the newly operational cinema hall within the aquarium. My ‘kids’ announced sea anemones and starfishes, sharks and squids and other more complicated ones even before the voice over. The heartrending beauty of the ocean floor, the realisation of how we are killing it all and a powerful commentary that spoke of ‘interlinked destinies’ all rendered me teary-eyed once the show was over. Other fathers nodded at me while the wives gazed at me doe-eyed.

“Your kids know a lot,” one of them even ventured as we trooped out. But my kids had already moved on – the squabble was now whether Palifico was inspired by sea anemone or urchin.

I stayed clear this time – I hadn’t even heard of this one.

Let’s bribe the lifeguard

After a late breakfast on our first day, we went to the seaside shanty of my friend Mahesh (aka Krishna as he introduced himself to foreign tourists) where he churned out tender coconut-based milkshakes in different flavours. My favourite was the plain one with cuscus. But it was closed. Somebody said the only joints open were those who didn’t have branches in Shimla or Manali. Forget hill stations in the north, Mahesh struggled to keep his shop open even during peak tourist season when I reached Varkala for the first time during my #KeralaCoastalWalk. He was a political activist who was seriously engaged in reforms of a revolutionary order. During my earlier stay, he was missing for many days as he was trying to bail out his friends who were lodged in Trivandrum jail for bashing up temple staff who habitually consumed liquor inside the sanctum sanctorum. 

Thank goodness love can float

Milkshake could wait, the boys informed. Right next to Mahesh’s shop was the sea. The sea was the highlight, the big purpose of our visit. But red flags circumscribed access; searing, incessant whistles admonished trespasses. Being the monsoon season the waves were generally temperamental and the coastline was on permanent alert. Lifeguards were edgy as domestic tourists – weekends brimmed with them – casually flouted all warnings. Hindu priests who administered puja ceremonies for ancestral benevolence along the Papanasam Beach sat restive, one eye on the water. Other on the milling crowd.

We walked to a quiet stretch some distance away fronting a ‘secret spring’ (whose water tasted ‘just like it flowed from the Blue Mountain,’ a little one assured me) where I tried to fly my drone to take some aerial photographs. The boys sat in the water close to shore. Seeing the kids were supervised we were left alone which emboldened the monkeys to venture further out. Or maybe it was the water coming in.

From a distance, we heard whistles and shouts.

“Let’s go, go, go, before he reaches us,” one said wading further into the water.

The smallest just leapt into in answer to the exhortation.

“Tom mama, can you bribe him to go away?” asked another.

The boys were already knee-deep in water. From the corner of my eyes I could see a guard hurrying our way. My drone was struggling against gusts of wind trying to home in.

There was some serious work on hand. 

*I began my grandiose plans to cover the entire length of Kerala coast by foot and started off on January 1 this year. More than the dogs which were killing people in the poor fishing hamlets, what came in my way was my gout. Though there is no cure as yet for this uric acid condition, I hope to resume once I have the levels under control. 

**The photography captions are all lines from the Train song, ‘Mermaid.’ 

The only woman passenger in the entire coach was furious and scared. Maybe she was furious because she was scared. As she huffed her way to the next, more inhabited, coach on the Patna Rajdhani, she kept taking photographs and venting.

Spooky stories

“I am going to send it to Prabhu right away. He should see the scam for himself.” She said clicking.

One of the photographs, I think, has me in it. I am looking part dejected – she was an okay-looking sort and I was going to miss her – and part taken aback – had she given me some kind of notification I could have struck the part she wanted what with my headscarf, metal kada, and all. Instead I am looking like how I would have when my first girlfriend in school in Nigeria told me she was leaving me – because she knew that I was all ‘heart-eyed’ for another – for my best friend Humphrey. Emojis appeared some four decades later; I think she grew up to be Calypso.

“You know, till yesterday, I was number 15 on the waiting list. So, I made a call to Prabhu and his office allotted me a seat from the minister quota.” She said while taking photographs of folded blankets above my head. I was staring at her nonplussed.

“You know Prabhu? Suresh Prabhu, our railway minister.” She explained without pausing her proof collection of malpractice. “Now look at this coach, its empty. Something is going on. I hope Prabhu will find out.”

“Prabhu* sees everything,” I quipped, taking after a pre-budget remark by the jocular minister which made him a media favourite some time ago.

It was lost on her. The catering staff who stood behind her, helping her with her luggage, scoffed.

Money Raj

Empty trains

Maniraj had been with railway catering for nine years now, most of it on the Patna Rajdhani 12310. He told me later that he had seen many passengers palpitate prior to this trip – leaving Delhi in the evening and reaching Bihar capital Patna early next morning, after cutting through some of the remotest, baddest areas of traversable India in the thick of night.

Only three months ago, in April this year, the train was looted by armed robbers who decamped with lakhs of rupee worth in watches, mobile phones, and laptops. I knew about the incident and shrewdly wore my cheapest watch and left my laptop at home; my mobile phone, if stolen, had to go with my right index finger to be any good. (I hoped so. At least for the sake of all the amateur videos on it.) I pointed out to Maniraj that newspapers reported some from the railway staff could be complicit in the incident, specifically catering.

We were having a post-prandial conversation. I was on to my second ice-cream after stuffing myself with paneer – two portions – and chapatis. My rice and the chalk-like dahi kadhi were left untouched. They had to earn their tips, I was keen. Since the train reached its destination during the wee hours, they were making the baksheesh rounds at night. A female voice announced over the PA that, besides not using the loo at stations, the passengers were also to refrain from tipping the staff. She also gave out a telephone number to call up and report, in case. Maniraj nodded to the voice coming from above.

A long way

“This is the only law-breaking we do and that too to supplement our meagre incomes.” After putting in close to a decade, the highest Maniraj and his ilk drew was six thousand rupees.

The train would also travel up to a maximum speed of 140 kmph, the voice informed. Speed was a deterrent to attack, I knew. And went to sleep on that happy thought.

Sometime during the middle of the night I woke up in a stationary train. Which station, I asked somebody who passed by. I didn’t get any reply. I looked out the window, it was dark outside. I reached beneath my pillow for the comforting contours of my pocket Swiss knife.

Lathi, knife and chilli powder

Note the CC camera

Exactly a decade ago, in 2007, when I shifted my base to the north, following love and opportunity, one of my earliest films were shot in Bihar. After reaching Patna by air from Delhi, the rest of our journey was by road: to Purnia (300 km from Patna) and on to Nalanda (270 km from Purnia). Each leg of the journey took a whole day and including work we were on the road for more than a week. I took turns on the Mahindra Bolero with the driver.

I remember vividly the first time he handed me the wheel, the introductions: a lathi was hooked to the roof and in order to pull it out, I had to yank it towards me. But I had to make sure my own head – or that of anyone else inside the vehicle – didn’t come in the way. There was a knife beneath the seat; the rusted blade was fine. And if none of these worked or probably if the dacoits were too many in number, it was the chilli powder in a pouch kept in the door accessory pocket. Well, if they didn’t insist on seeing my hands in the air as I exited, I could grab that pouch on my way out. No biggie. But it was good to be surrounded by all these, these fortifications. Like the Smiths would have felt each time they broke into an argument.

Badland, really?

2007 meant two years since Nitish Kumar officially slayed the jungle king Lalu Yadav and ended his jungle raj. But peace and beginning of prosperity were limited to Patna and surrounds. The road to Purnia was an endless succession of craters stitched together by tar; you could drive through the potholes, even change gears while at it. We drove through an overflowing Kosi River with additional people standing on the footboard of the vehicle so it didn’t drift away as I drove through the powerful currents.

(A bridge over this temperamental river was opened only in 2013, after an engineer with the project was kidnapped and killed 10 years earlier.)

Pakadua shaadis, pasmanda votes and peace

Hinterland novelties – on a Rajdoot

Over the years, Lalu turned out regularly in pinafores, cuddling cattle and protesting vehemently charges that his brothers-in-law held the appalto to the kidnapping and ransom business in the state. A kidnapped surgeon was killed which prompted an exodus of sorts of those with a thriving professional practice. Grooms were forcibly kidnapped from ceremonies and forced to marry other brides, a regular nightmare of urban weddings which came to be called ‘pakadua shaadi’ or ‘snatch and marry’. The pasmandas, who were Dalits converted to Islam, who formed a big chunk of the vote bank, were given a free run. Those who bought new cars would be lucky if they lived to tell the tale of their carjack. When his state fortunes sagged, Lalu was made the minister of railways by the UPA, a portfolio he held from 2004 to 2009.

Like that one century after an unending spell of run-drought catapults a batsman back to the top rung of media-love, the rail wheel factory that opened in 2008 absolved Lalu of all his sins. Or so it seemed on my recent trip. I was heading to Gopalganj where a close friend and associate’s father had passed away. A fairly well-maintained road cuts through a picturesque landscape of open fields and water bodies to the factory at Bela, 70 km from Patna. While not much sign of activity could be spotted, the driver of the Bolero I was now driving assured me that it was a boon to the locals.

Chaiya chaiya…to work

“Hundreds of locals are working here all because of Lalu ji,” he told me while his little finger went on a ventromedial pursuit. My grip on the wheel loosened.

After Bela in Chapra, it was a bumpy ride till Mohammadpur, reminiscent of my earlier drive. But from Mohammadpur all the way to Gopalganj, it was a new four-lane highway.

“There is progress as well as peace under Nitish,” I commented as I floored the Bolero.

“That reminds me,” he said, “you have to give the wheel back before Gopalganj.”

Stranger? Who?

Less than a week ago, a BJP leader had been killed in Gopalganj, despite being secured by four armed guards round the clock. The situation on the ground was a little touchy, there was no need to attract unwanted attention to a stranger driving into town.

Now. Now we were talking. 

*Suresh Prabhu, Indian Railways minister, began his railway budget presentation in 2015 with ‘Hey Prabhu, how to increase the capacity in high-density section.’ Prabhu means god. 

On the ‘wrong’ bus

My favourite pastime while riding public transport in Kerala is listening to conversations of co-passengers especially when they are talking into their mobile phones. Then, this is like saying the bomber decides to die as his ticking torso goes off – there is not much choice here as they practically declaim into their devices. And this isn’t due to the engine din or network issues: my fellow folks love to be heard and to display publicly that somebody is actually listening to them.

“I’m on my way to Angamaly,” went the guy sitting behind me. “Didn’t you know that so-and-so chettan has cataract and the surgery is scheduled for today?”

He had me worried: we were on a bus heading the other way to Alleppey. I turned and looked at him. He winked at me and smiled, assured me that he knew he was on the ‘wrong’ bus.

“I am going for the boat race,” he said to me. “But what do they know!”

I too was on my way to the to the Punnamada Lake in Alleppey where the Nehru Trophy Boat Race is held each year. But I continued to be worried for him: before hanging up he promised the they on the other end that he would return after the race with grocery and proceed to clean up the clogged bathroom drain followed by digging a new hole to dispose trash.

Men in blue, women too

The women of Vembanad

Vallamkali, vallamkali, vallamkaliye

Punnamada kayalile olamthulliye

Vallamkali pattumayi muthukkudayayi

Kayal maaril niranallo chundan vallangal

(Behold the wonderful boats

Breaking tide, setting pace,

With songs and embellishments

Along the Punnamada Lake for the race.)

Vanchippattu, or boat songs, a regular staple of waterfront celebrations, toddy shops and boat races filled the venue, echoed over the water between the starting and finishing points. This particular one, a personal favourite, was a hit number belted out by a noted comedian of Malayalam cinema, Kalabhavan Mani, who died under mysterious circumstances not very long ago. The immensely gifted actor loved to hang out with fisherfolk, on their boats, fishing, and drinking, er, like a fish. The mellifluous rendering by Mani transported the ripples from the water to the air. Trying hard to rend it – and succeeding through tympanum cracks – were the vuvuzela blares. Free newspapers distributed at the venue (‘Take it, it’s quite sunny out there,’ one vendor said shoving a leading daily into my hand.) were shredded and tossed into the air. Hundreds of empty plastic water bottles bongo-beat in unison breaking only for the occasional lead call:

‘Aaarppoo…’ followed by the chorus: ‘Hirro….Hirro…Hirro.’

Theme blue: No longer a sideshow

Unlike the previous editions I attended, this time around there was a theme even – blue. The idea was to create awareness of the ecological damage inflicted upon the lake and its surrounding areas – the famed Vembanad backwaters – by the very houseboats that take tourists to revel in the scenic glory. Besides regular tourism aftermaths like mounting plastic and other waste, there were illegal constructions blatantly flouting coastal regulations reifying the threat perception. A bunch of kids from the NSS unit of a local college tried to drive home the point by making passers-by jot their vision to #SaveVembanad to be hung on a wish tree. My two cents were to ban bottled water from houseboats and supply guaranteed RO water instead. A suggestion repeatedly shot down by houseboat operators each time I have been on one. ‘The tourists themselves insist on bottled water,’ they countered.

Sometime ago at a Kovalam hotel I was nearly thrown out for insisting on non-bottled water. It was my right, I maintained. But not really, was the gist of the lesson I learnt then, when the margins to be earned on a litre was five to seven rupees.

Gabriel – the dashing angel  

Adrenaline on the shores too

Bibin stood in the scorching sun shaded by an oversized umbrella carefully noting heats timings. At the end of every run he would report it to somebody over the phone. ‘Punter,’ I decided before approaching him. It was time to recoup some money I lost on cockfighting in Chhattisgarh. (It happened a few years ago but I still hadn’t told my mom about it. And I could only if I got some of it back.) My hopes were dashed when it turned out that he was only helping his boss keep a tab on competition. The boss, Blesson, owned Gabriel, a snakeboat which made its competitive debut just the previous year with an astounding second place. They had, of course, set their sights on improving their lot this year. There was a fracas in the heats Gabriel had drawn lots to enter causing an inordinate delay. Reports from the starting point – I, along with thousands of others in the pavilion and one in the water (‘The fourth umpire’ – see photo) preferred to be at the finishing point to record photo finishes – pointed to umpires huffing and puffing trying to sort the melee.

The world’s largest teamsport

Panting problems are nothing new in the world of boat racing in Kerala. Rules continue to be written to address issues and rewritten once modes of circumvention are discovered. One club which sort of approached an unbeatable reputation was found to be employing the services of ex-servicemen; up to 80 per cent of their oarsmen – which meant around 80 members – were ex-Army. The sturdy physique, and above all, the discipline, helped. Once the strategy came to light, competing clubs jumped in upping the ante – enlisting armed forces personnel who were on leave. (And there were plenty this time of the year which was annual vacation in the Gulf countries: they came to visit their relatively better-off brethren or friends.) Instead of allowing each team to become little battalions, the governing body stepped in and limited the services participation to not more than 20 per cent.

Moving on

The issue was sorted and Gabriel was back in the fray. While traditionally the final never went beyond four or five PM, this time it neared seven PM before the final whistle blew. Blesson’s father, the dashing Achankunju, who was the chief oarsman, was a picture of furious focus. The rhythm drums beat to a mechanical timing rendering clockwork unison to a couple of hundred of limbs which thrashed the water to nary a froth. Dreaded for professionalism and precision, the United Boat Club of Kainakary, was the one to fear. Galleries lit up with mobile phone camera flashlights, aerial cameras hovered close to the water, a few onlookers jumped into the water to view the finish with their own eyes, the commentator became incomprehensible, and all the helmsmen leaned forward as they crossed the finishing line.

Bibin leapt up with a guttural shriek.

League-style racing – up next year?

Things to come?

Unlike some of the new-fangled fishing vessels even some houseboats, the snakeboats can never be of fibre. Made of wood, by traditional craftsmen, it takes at least a year to construct one, and anywhere up to one crore – ten million – rupees. Its annual maintenance itself, involving fish oil, for example, costs in millions. Then comes the practice for the racing season. An owner pays each rower fair wages for each day of practice which goes on for a month. This is besides the food and in-between nourishments. For every day – three weeks in case of Gabriel – Blesson spent close to a lakh, or hundred thousand rupees!

The fourth umpire

Coupled with the escalating costs as well as the mounting popularity of the event especially among youngsters, plans have been drawn to conduct boat races along the lines of football and cricket championship leagues. The proposed KBL – Kerala boat race league – will be held over two months spanning venues in four districts beginning with the Nehru trophy race on the second Saturday of August. The organisers hold that this can be a reality from next year itself – if all goes well.

Everything going well in Kerala means politicking taking a backseat.

Or drowned by calls of ‘Aarppoo.’

Followed by ‘Hirro’ chorus.

(Repeat.) 

We are on the Kumily – Munnar route, one of the most scenic drives in Kerala. I am being introduced to a large canvas – from where smaller ones originate. There are two via options – Kattappana and Udumbanchola – the latter, along which we are now, is simply breath-taking. Our eyes are alternately soaking up the lush rain-washed valley and peeled for the rare and endangered of the region – laughing thrush, wood pigeon, pipit and grassbird. We followed one to the overhanging ledge of a lay-by and another to a woody neck with a jutting waterfall. A trying pursuit as each time an airhorn mangles the stillness followed by a bus, leaning with overload, tears around the corner in a haze of mist and tyre-hiss. We have to wait for several minutes before all is quiet and wonderland stirs into life again. 

‘Memories of Malabar’ Meenakshi’s newest

A brisk wind keeps pushing the drippy clouds around at whim and the weather skips between heavy grey downpours and crystallised sunlight. This is the gist of monsoon in Kerala. The valley basks a golden green speckled with silver millponds. Sometimes when we slow down we are accosted by little birds and butterflies with whole landscapes on their wings. Juxtaposing the flora and the avian life against the backdrop of the verdant mise en scene, it is evident that I am staring at one of Meena’s own works. Returning the gaze is the lush lyricism of the region that prompted her to move here over a decade ago. She had by then developed an idiom, a recurrent motif for her palette, attuned with the pressing need of the hour – conservation.

“Through my works I intend to amplify the fading conversation. The one revolving around wildlife and conservation art.” She said the previous evening as we sat and stared at the canvas she was giving final touches to.

Colour and light

Peer closely and you can see the eyes blink, hear the leaves rustle. Lean a little forward and you can even hear the waterfalls somewhere. I tell her stubbing out the smoke. She keeps the fantasia in check – or alive – through very realistic renditions of the plants, birds and butterflies.

Her private jungle – Villa Prakriti

“I am always on the lookout for new discoveries of flora and avifauna from the Western Ghats and the Himalayas,” she says with a wave of her hand at the well-stacked library adjoining her studio. “I am obsessed with a need to understand different lives, their evolution. And once I find something interesting or intriguing, I have to compose a work around it.” This interplay between passion and obsession is what defines Meena’s art which pivots around the primacy of landscape – and the life that goes with it. Or should. Meens, as she is known in conservation art circles, had never been a hostage of what is trending nor fallen prey to cupidity. This integrity doesn’t stem from commissions galore but as she gratefully acknowledges, to a growing set of patrons who love nature and wildlife and are moved by her own hymns to conservation.

“I trek for days documenting the rarer species for my work. Even though I have used in abundance, mushrooms, ferns, wood fungi and orchids in my paintings, seeing them in their natural habitats never fail to spur a creative surge in me. More than the star species like big cats and elephants which people are obsessed with, I am driven to portray the lesser known flora and fauna – mind you, which are key in the system.” And Kumily, where she lives, with its proximity to the Periyar Wildlife Sanctuary and her beloved Western Ghats, doesn’t let her down. Allowing a seamless contiguity into canvas that spark from her wild forays is her house ‘Villa Prakriti’ festooned with untrimmed vines and leafy creepers, an overgrown garden, cats by day and bats by night. (“You know they don’t bang into you, right?”)

Strokes of conservation

Besides the endangered creatures and plants, another trademark Meens is an effulgence approaching divine. A festive impressionism in light along with the colour – a technique she perfected over the four decades she is been at it.

“The light is key in creating depth as well as highlighting my fragile subject,” she says, tracing for my benefit with her brush handle a path of luminescence in her latest canvas. This, instead of breaking through the leafy canopy, lent the surroundings a shimmery surrealism. Each leaf in the path didn’t merely reflect the light but glowed in its warmth.

Life strokes

The drive is spectacular – we stopped the car at least half a dozen times just to look out the window and sigh. Along some stretches we got rain in buckets, like when one drove through a waterfall. The stretch itself is around 100 km and Udumbanchola about midway. But way before, the thick jungles begin thinning out gradually giving way to tea and cardamom estates. Plantation workers can be spotted as conical mounds of blue plastic, unmoving from a distance. Winding our way along snaking roads that clung to the sides of trimmed hillsides, a civet sprang across the road once. A rare sighting which had Meena grinning the rest of the journey. 

A tricky ecosystem

“Animals and plants were always a big part of my growing up years,” Meena told me about her early influences as we breakfasted that morning at the Villa Prakriti. “Every weekend my mom used to take me to wildlife and bird sanctuaries and would read out the names of trees and animals. I don’t think many families do this anymore.” Both her folks held regular jobs but made time to bring her close to the natural habitat. This probably kindled a sense of responsibility towards the life around very early on.

“Knowing our ecology is really important today as we are losing many of the chief components of the ecosystem. Dismissing them as ‘endangered’ has become a convenient way of overlooking our own inadequacies in protecting them. We should realise that only by reasserting their importance in our lives can life itself be sustained on the planet.”

The issues she addressed while profoundly reflected in her canvases, not very long ago also re-entered in a more dramatic avatar – into her life as well. Understandably she doesn’t want much to be written on her environmental work (“There are clatterfarts even in the woodwork!”) except that she is a member of the monitoring committee constituted by the Supreme Court to handle mercury dumping in Kodaikanal – her previous domicile. Here was one artist whose strokes were not just painterly but evocative of a life purpose.

Meens – a legacy

“Like any artist, my art too is my legacy,” she says. “Our subcontinent is brimming with biodiversity – a treasure which may not be around for long. I want my art to faithfully document and promote this.”

Homestay and other signs announced we were approaching Munnar. Built structures peppered the serried-hedge landscape of tea gardens. Meena, having long lost interest in the scenery outside, was on the phone.  A regular patron wanted another canvas, this time a bigger one.

“I love large canvases,” she said turning to me. “I can include as many species as I want.” 

(Buoyed by the inclusion of my short ‘Highway 666’ in ‘Have a safe journey – The world’s first collection of short stories on road safety‘ I thought I’d do another zany one. While the first one takes place in a world I am yet to accustom – the underworld (of the Gehenna-order), this one I am closer to – the blogging world. Inspired by some wily ones, similarity of any character to somebody you know can be negotiated.) 

‘Like a gecko on Boomerang,’ Murali thought watching her flick her tongue out and in. Out, in. The curved tip touched the embedded chocolate chips briefly. The mouth was poised half open over the cookie itself, lips dry, quivering some in anticipation over its impending stumble down a throbbing gullet.

The rest of it was disdain: brows bunched over a whirlpool of wrinkles, eyes glazed with boredom and struggled to stay focussed on his face or in any other one place. It wandered frequently to the table where the high tea was laid out – where there were more chocolate chip-embedded cookies. Her free left hand worked a pen in a frenzied semi-circular rotation, like a miniature turbine on short circuit. He knew he had reached a dead end as far as the event went. But it was not the first time. He would take things into his own hands now and find a way in. Probably hang around undetected for some time, strike up with a participant who stepped outside for a smoke, offer his lighter or ask for one, and enter the hall with him. He had done it before, it was not very difficult. Though it did come with a set of challenges, mostly congenital.

The cookie finally went in, began its delectable journey down, through the whole 28 feet, spreading the magic of chocolate. Her eyes softened and stayed longer on his face. Murali, who had given up all hope of scoring even a press kit, now looked a bit more favourably at his fortunes. She held out his card to return it. Duh. ‘Animator and SFX Expert’ it said. Time to act. He looked around trying hard not to give away his intent. The one hurdle in his entry operandi was his looks: the smoker most of the time dithered mistaking him for catering service staff taking an unnoticed break. Then his seamless communicative English took over. Most of southern India spoke printed English, the Tamilians with a panache seldom found anywhere else. A Jayalalithaa legacy now ended.

As Murali reached out for his card, her eyes strayed on to a familiar design embossed on it. She pulled it back and peered at it closer: the logo had been moulded from an image of Murali himself. It showed him ready to spring from a raised elephant trunk, about to dislodge a sketch pen from a taut bowstring.

“Baahubali fan?” She asked, eyes quite woolly now. And wide. Discovery of mutual interests have this effect. Or maybe it was the chocolate. She took the card back and peered at it closely, positioning it close to where the cookie was earlier. As if on cue she stood up from her seat and made for the high tea table. Murali followed trying hard to rein in his eyes from improper focuses. He knew he was in but for propriety sake had to feign some anxiety. 

Murali was actually more than a fan – he’d assisted one of the many assistants on some ‘bit work’ – as it was called in the industry – for the superhit movie. But most of the time he didn’t know particularly the person who had assigned him; there were hundreds like him who did bit works for faceless paymasters. It might even have been somebody attached to a studio who decided to just sit back and skim. Assignments usually came through one of the numerous WhatsApp groups of animators and money was transferred electronically. His own contribution to the mega flick was the creation of style frames where attacking bulls stampeded with horns on fire. ‘The colour has to be right and the flames alive. The audience should feel the heat,’ was the brief. When the movie came out, he had trouble finding his own bull – the given scene was an ocean of bulls. Murali maintained that the ones he created were the ones on which the hero rode, standing. The perfect bull.

Lights dimmed as soon as he took his place inside the hall. The compere announced the purpose of the stellar gathering that evening: recognising spectacular achievers from the blogosphere. While the death of the long-form narrative was yet to be confirmed, it made sense to indulge the new stars in the galaxy as well – the Instagrammer. So, the evening was to laud successful bloggers and star Instagrammers and to recognise the most impactful one from across platforms – the most sought prize. The algorithm, oft questioned, held by way of its incomprehensible complexity. Somebody had to do the job anyway. Marketers and PR agencies awaited with lucrative plugs for these new-age messiahs of propaganda. Rarely was remuneration in cash – mostly it was by way of free logistics, conveyance and boarding, and some freebies at the venue. Since in India blogging hadn’t yet made the mark as a full-time profession capable of paying bills or getting good marriage proposals, it didn’t matter either. The blogger here was essentially between jobs, universities, or marriages, bestowed upon himself the tag mostly to befuddle his family into thinking he is lucratively employed, impress paramours into bedding intellect and deceive marketers to take care of some holidays. There was enough to go around and one could afford to be comfortable in their platform, one organiser reminded. A middle-aged blogger with a reasonably good repute recently made a disastrous foray into Instagram wearing hot pants and other skimpy attires. She was trolled heavily. Some claimed she revelled in the reclame – which was the whole point.

‘We breathe therefore we blog’

It was a nice tag to the event – lent the whole exercise an existential relevance. But far from binding everyone on a subliminal level, it brought out simmering rifts. As most taglines went this one too had nothing to do with ground realities. Copy lines only serve to instil a fading sense of purpose. The chief grouse of the evening, like the elephant in the room which goes un-mentioned, was that Instagrammers bought their followers and had no right to be in the same room as the old-fashioned blogger who grew their followership organically, over many years. A sedulous undertaking. The star Instagrammer present had followers numbering the population of a small nation. Rubbing salt to the wound was that she also reputedly had the longest legs among those present. The corner of every eye was on her while she sat coy, with a practised oblivion.

Ever since Instagram came to the scene, Anita and Meena didn’t even introduce themselves as ‘pioneer bloggers’ anymore. Instead, they went around as the ‘earliest adaptors of new media in India.’ They hated each other privately – as eaters of a shrinking pie are wont to – but professionally they watched each other’s backs – because they both ate from the shrinking pie. They dissed the whole Instagrammer tribe who were steadily, successfully taking over the marketer fantasy; who acquired Instagram success through ‘booby-full’ photographs or by treading the ‘thigh-way’ were jokes they shared with everyone after making them promise not to tell anyone. The Instagrammers themselves indulged them as one would a homeless mutt – an object of distant affection and much cooing till it got run over by a speeding vehicle. And when it did, lying on the road a mangled mess, nobody even minded it was once a walking, living agglomeration.

Both of them were regular fixtures since the evening gala was first organised by the blog aggregator some years ago. They continued to be invited more out of the inconvenience that would stem from their spewing venom at ‘the poor choice of awardees’ than anything and flown down from their respective stations in the south and north of the country. Each year they still posted photographs taken from inside the flight with ‘Having the most delicious meal on board en route to the biggest blogger gala on planet’ captions, hashtag the airline and tag each other. Their duplicity was outed and fate sealed when one put ‘SpiceJet’ and ‘leg space’ in the same tweet.

It was understood that they would ask each other questions whose answer would include pride at being a rare talent. However, they didn’t post ‘Can’t hold excitement for this year’s announcement’ and ‘#breathless’ from within the venue anymore as they no longer made even the long list. This year they were going to be awarded a special ‘lifetime of blogging’ award instituted just for them. It was yet to dawn on the two that the organisers were trying to cut down on the cost of flying them down – ever again – through this #momentous gesture.

SMS – Social Media Superstars – Gala Nite

Credibility and reach most of the time sparred with each other till clever marketers clubbed them together. It was a bold move. By marketers, for marketers. And you didn’t question the marketer because they were the ones who put food on the table. The father bee. They decided who went on fams and who didn’t. Everybody had to please them. The Timurs of new media. This was essentially the gist of what the MC was saying. But she expressed it with more finesse:

“Even if you have 23.6k followers, you still lack the visibility and hence credibility of somebody with 23.7k followers. This gap can be essentially tackled with the right endorsement.”

The endorsement of course was where the aggregator, the hosts of the evening, came in. Some pioneer bloggers in the audience felt this portended the introduction of a model where the blogger would have to pay a premium for access to that miniscule tribe of paying sponsors. It didn’t matter whether you wrote 800 words or passed off captioned photographs or a diary entry as a post. You were noted as long as you were a premium-paying member. But nobody dared voice the suspicion for fear of jeopardising a collaboration, future invitation or maybe even winning an SMS Award.

The SMS Award for the star Instagrammer had 23.7k followers and associated with ‘brands across the spectrum – from ballpoint pens to hospitality.

“Cutesyleggybabe,” the MC announced the winner. There was a flurry of checking IG accounts.

The results threw up a pair of legs, of moderate length and sallow complexion, stretching from the camera toward the hashtagged object, the one who essentially spent money to bring the pair over. The bare legs extended to a thermos flask (‘Where hot meats heat’), a biro (‘Goes on and on’), disposable instant camera (‘Who doesn’t like a good flash?’), a resort (‘Memories are made here’). Her gusset framed some of the resort posts. It was a thoughtful touch. The applause was enthusiastic. The leggy babe herself outdid her cutesy self by lifting her skirt on stage and displaying her prized marketing tools. She was to gain another 4K followers before the evening ended. And some marketing gigs notably a male virility pill (‘Goes on and on and on’).

SMS Award for the star blogger was Mr K who participated in every contest held by the aggregator, went on every fam trip and spent every waking hour talking about his hectic life as a happening blogger. Though Mr K couldn’t write a line longer than a road sign, he made up for this shortcoming with ample charm. Besides wooing a rich wife through this quality, he also employed the services of language grads who were aspiring writers and wrote for him. Most importantly, who wrote in his name. In the pipeline was a media school whose curriculum covered the whole gamut of blogging. He also ran an online publication called Kutumsar on ‘accommodation, activity and eatery recommended just for you’ Every topic under the sun fitted perfectly within their radar of ‘expertise.’ Ads were sought from property owners not to publish damaging reviews like ‘The myth of the tiger at ABC resort’ or ‘Check in with dysentery at Hotel XYZ.’ A successful revenue stream as more and more resorts came up in forest buffer zones and protected coastal areas.

The star blogger of the previous year was a girl who ran a similar operation singlehandedly for a few years. Albeit it was a tad crude compared to what Mr K had going: she and one or two of her girlfriends would check into a property, flirt outrageously with the male host and if he responded later blackmail him for impropriety. Once she even tweeted a photo of herself holding an old man by the scruff of his collar whom she caught ‘peeping through my bedroom window.’ Fam bloggers who had been to the property before knew that the old man was the gardener and was afflicted by advanced cataract. She got her pound, literally, for not naming the property. The little nasty was now married and settled in Kuwait. Anita and Meena like to say that she took up an offer from the Dubai-based don Dawood Ibrahim to bring down his hospitality competition in the Gulf. They even have on the ready a photo she posted holding aloft a pair of Louboutin as proof.

‘Show us one blogger who can afford a pair,’ they dared, not without reason.

Bitch

The biggest announcement of the evening was saved for the last – SMS Award for the most promising, the most impactful blogger. Even though it was usually ‘across spectrums’ the last few years it had been Instagram-specific. One podium finish at the gala nite and they were in the league of commanding followers numbering in the millions.

Before that, the lifetime achievement awards.

“After meeting the Instagram celebrity Jackson on a fam to Indonesia last year, she wanted to open an account herself that too with an adventurous picture. So, she stood on one leg and leaned forward. The sudden tilt with the weight toppled her over.” Anita told someone who sat next to her as Meena went to receive her award, one hand in cast.

“Her fast dwindling followers on Facebook, she dipped into her retired husband’s PF to start a YouTube channel. Which I personally feel is mediocre because it has her face all over, all the time.” Meena returned the favour when Anita went to receive hers.

They hugged each other warmly after each announcement.

The green ogre

The PR girl who was in charge of media kits outside the venue was one of the extras in the ‘Dandaalayya’ song in Baahubali. She shared with Murali how she wore a sari for the first time in her life for the shoot, that too brandishing a sword. Thus, bound by Baahubali, they got on like a house on fire which had found Murali a seat on the third row – right behind Anita and Meena and the charming Mr K and other winners. The first row was reserved for benevolent luminaries from local politics and police as well as chief sponsors of the night. All Murali had to do was lean forward to hear the bitching. Hush-hushed bitching is most of the time the inside story. 

The winner of the SMS Award for the up and coming blogger was not present. Instead, the organisers played a clip from her latest Instagram post from two days ago. It showed her coming out of an igloo holding a steaming mug and waving at the camera. After introducing herself as Jyoti, she went on to thank the wonderful people who gave her the award and the thousands who voted her way up. She was quite fidgety on screen and one could hear yelping sounds of, as she said, her host’s dogs snapping at her boots. It was, she informed the camera with abundant joy, a daily ritual as soon as breakfast was ready. ‘Beluga whale on most days but walrus on Sundays.’ Yay! She missed her steaming idlis. Aw! But given a chance she would happily continue the Inuit way of life if only she didn’t have to head to the Amazon in the coming week. There wasn’t a single person in the audience who wasn’t consumed by jealousy for Jyoti. They tried to douse the flames by clapping harder.

The gala was drawing to an end, Murali set to work.

He had to choose between Anita and Meena – the ones losing relevance always tried the hardest, he knew. Of the two, Anita seemed better off and more willing to spend money to stay afloat as was evident from her YouTube foray. He waited till the buffet dinner started to catch hold of Anita unencumbered by Meena. Murali introduced himself with his card. Somebody enamoured by her acceptance speech where she graciously compared herself to the banyan tree giving shade to smaller plants, she decided with a nod and tucked his card away inside her kimono pocket. Standing his ground Murali took out his mobile phone and played a clip holding it close so only Anita could see.

It replayed the igloo scene shown earlier at the event. But now it showed Jyoti walking towards the camera, arms tucked deep into her jacket and instead of the igloo behind her, it was a green screen.

Anita knew enough of special effects – thanks to her YouTube foray – to understand what she saw was green screen photography which allowed one to change the green background with the background of choice. Today Jyoti was an Eskimo. Tomorrow a Navajo.

“Your card looks like you worked in ‘Baahubali’”? Anita asked, pulling it out of her pocket.

***

(The images are Googled results of ‘green screen shooting’ with the ‘non-licensed, reusable with modifications’ filter applied.)  

Butterfly, butterfly

Fly in the sky

Butterfly, butterfly

Flies so high

Butterfly, butterfly

Lands on my thigh

Butterfly, butterfly

Motionlessly lies

Butterfly, butterfly

Gracefully dies

(Full transcript of poem ‘Butterfly, butterfly’ by Adryan Bates.)

Peter Smetacek

For a life that rarely goes beyond a couple of weeks the amount of cloak and dagger was overwhelming. I, for one, stood agape, eyes wide with incredulity and misted over with marvel. Lepidopterist extraordinaire Peter Smetacek held forth on the survival tactics of butterflies. Camouflage – trying to look like leaves and twigs – I had learnt in school. Probably because I didn’t learn biology any further, his account of (Batesian) ‘mimicry’ jolted me. This was knavery of the highest order from something that rarely makes it out of our childhoods. And maybe pages of old, mouldy notebooks and files. Embellishing his florid detailing – Peter was more storyteller than dry professor – were the hundreds of specimens pinned to full-span glory inside glass cases lining the walls of the Butterfly Research Centre – a legacy, museum, and residence.

Butterflies for me were at best a passing interest – interesting me only when they were passing by. When I travel or trek and somebody would point out a pretty one I would be enamoured enough to track it to the next flower or bush. Not further. But after spending a few hours with Peter I emerged from the Centre certain that butterflies will henceforth be more than, as Wordsworth put it, ‘historians of my infancy.’ Or inspiration for conservation artist friends.

Chilasa Cyltia

“The mimicry is a form of survival where a harmless species – invariably tastier too – has evolved to mirror the warning traits of a harmful one aimed at warding off predators,” Peter explained. It is named after the 19^th century English naturalist Henry Walter Bates who, after extensive research in the Amazonian rainforests, discovered the phenomenon. There are many forms of mimicry of which the most intriguing one is aposematic colouration. At least the newbie naturalist – me – thought so.

“Just like us humans, birds have different colour associations. While blue and green are considered safe, orange, red and yellow are signs of danger. Thus, birds associate colours with delectable or unpleasant experiences.” (And we say ‘bird brain!’) To show us an example, Peter shone his LED torch on the swallowtail butterfly (Chilasa Cyltia, photograph) known as the ‘common mime’ found in abundance in the hilly regions during monsoon.

“This one mimics the common crow.”

Diematic patterns are another form of defence mechanism using mimicry. The most common technique here is the use of ocellus or false eye designs. Peter calls it the ‘eyespot mimicry.’ (In fact, not once did Peter use the term ‘lepidopterology’ the whole afternoon we were there but ‘study of butterflies.’ Only later did I find it was called thus.)

The lush Kumaon – the Sattal Lake

“These ‘spots’ resemble the eyes of lizards, snakes, raptors and monkeys which keep predators at bay.” An experiment conducted by Stockholm University with 20 peacock butterflies and blue tits is interesting in this regard: when the butterflies were exposed to the tits with their eyespots coloured over, a majority of them were eaten up in no time. But when 34 butterflies were exposed with the eyespots intact, only one got the beak. That is 97 per cent safe, statistically. Then there is ‘snake mimicry’ which is good enough to startle a human on a groggy morning. Very tenderly Peter took out a species of moth from a case and held it out for us to see. The crest of the forewing was lobed and bore markings resembling the mouth and eyes of a snake. Give it some flutter, forget birds, it was good enough to bring out the Bolt in most of us.

The diematic patterns sometimes doesn’t ruffle feathers for very long and the bird resumes attack with an aha! That is when the ocelli becomes handy – the second level of defence. These ‘eyes’ distract the bird’s focus by acting as bullseyes – giving them pecking points away from the body. Thus, the attack hopefully ends with the butterfly losing a little bit of the wing and enough time to escape. Yes, that butterfly with part of the wing missing? It’s a survivor. Then, not all go around with ghoulish eyes and gory colours painted on them; some are of a manor born. The Queen of Spain fritillary has what looks like diamonds attached to her wings while all she wants is to look like dew drops. And there is the Dusky Diadem which could inspire a throne design.

“They are a common sight in these areas,” Peter said referring to the Kumaon, the mountainous region of Uttarakhand bound by Nepal to the east, Tibet to the north, Uttar Pradesh in the south and the rest of the state, known as Garhwal, in the west. The gift of lushness has granted the state many exotic flora and fauna. It is a naturalist paradise. Why Senior Smetacek decided to call it home.

Butterfly Research Centre, Bhimtal

Peter Smetacek’s grandfather hailed from the forested regions of Silesia, a region in central Europe which is today spread over Germany, Poland and the Czech Republic. He fought in the Imperial Austrian army during the first World War. When the second World War broke out, his son, Smetacek Sr, Peter’s dad, fled Hitler’s wrath to Calcutta. His love for butterflies, which he got from his own father, eventually brought Smetacek Sr to Uttarakhand which reportedly teemed with more species than many European countries. Smetacek Sr married a local woman and settled down in Bhimtal which the world today recognises as a lepidopteran haven. Peter trapped his first butterfly under his dad’s watch.

“My love for butterflies of course comes from my father.”

But there is more to it than genetic love.

“One of the reasons I dropped out of school was that in 1980 I was forced to read Euclid which had been disproved by Bertrand Russell in 1918. When it comes to butterflies, our learnings are based on what we see and observe. What we study and put down are never assumed.” 

Peter Smetacek has talked about butterflies from local Kumaoni schools to the Oxford in the UK. In fact, sharing his ken is what he is fondest about. Something he does with contagious passion, in a language not weighted down with unwanted scientific jargon. If you want to book a talk or ask if the museum is open, call Peter: 0091 8938896403. Email: petersmetacek@gmail.com