Of shimmering green expanses and hearty conversations- Part 2

The water channels lead the way and I followed. I was on a quest to discover where the irrigation channels originated from. They were barely ankle deep and didn’t flow either, resembling an extended puddle. I wasn’t expecting to find anything substantial. I thought I was in for a long, futile stroll through sandy, scrubby places bereft of clear paths. As I had nothing else on my agenda it seemed like a good plan.
After walking through coconut plantations for a few minutes, the waterway led into a wide, open field. Here the channel split into two and I casually followed one of the side streams. Up ahead, I saw a mud bank, inclined a few feet above the path. The waterway went around the bank, out of sight. I laboriously climbed up the non-existent slippery path and peered ahead. The expanse of shimmering green bewitched me.
I had found the source; it was a huge pond (termed Kulam in Malayalam); about the size of a swimming pool. For a moment, I thought I had discovered something new that no one had ever lay eyes on before and to say I was excited is an understatement. If it weren’t for the thorny scrubs and my passable swimming skills, I would have definitely leapt into the clear water.

I looked across and at the opposite end there was a platform of sorts that led into the water smoothly from the mud bank. It was a typical structure that I had seen in many such ponds in Kerala that enabled people to step into the water for swimming or bathing. To get there I had to walk along the raised mud bath lined with prickly plants. The narrow lane barely had room for me; but I was elated by the adjoining pond and couldn’t keep my eyes off it. Frantically, I made it to the platform (an inadequate word, but I’m helpless in finding a more befitting word or description). I removed my shoes and slowly stepped into the clear water. It wasn’t chilly but it was still cool. Awkwardly, I managed to seat myself with both feet almost knee deep in the pond. I could clearly see fishes swimming around, dispersing away from my dipped feet. Slowly, they came near my patient, still feet and nibbled at the skin. It felt like hundreds of tiny needles pricking my feet softly.

I looked up, slowly taking in all the tiny details of the scenery. A tree stooped low, the branches almost dipping into the water. The bushy banks protruded inwards awkwardly at different places, making graceful curves. The woods (a.k.a. rubber plantations) stretched behind the pond. The sky was clear, with little patches of white clouds. The still water absorbed the leaves’ gentle fall while blue birds galloped in the air.
The description is perhaps in tune with the drawings of a seven year old, or even the images they give in Sanskrit question papers, asking you to write five whole sentences on.
Yes it was the cliche, but it still was authentic and serene.

These natural places are quiet ubiquitous and also crowded. That’s what made this one special- I was the lone tourist, without the cheap ice cream. Time flew while I was there, but not once did I regret it. I never had the feeling that I wasn’t being productive, never had doing nothing felt so good.

A Misplaced Prologue

You must have noticed that the structure of this “travelogue” isn’t one that chronologically states the events. Besides believing that it is a better style, I have incorporated it to show how days go by when I’m in Kerala. Days flow into another and there is little to separate them out. It’s a beautiful thing really, unlike the past few months that had the same quality; only in a wasteful manner. It was extremely relaxing and lethargic, having had the liberty to skip chores too. I spent a day just reading The Rum Diary from start to finish and the book too was in sync with the mood of aimless days. (But it’s an incredible read, that’s why I could binge it within a day). Taking walks in the neighbouring fields and rubber plantations without any gadgets was a lot more than one could hope for in a break.

Another topic I want to elucidate on is the constant alertness of the “writer in me”. I was always on the lookout for inspiring moments and phrasing the descriptions of things in my mind while events were still taking place. This made me moved by instances that on hindsight aren’t very moving and are quite ordinary. Perhaps I have learnt my lesson on being in the moment and not tapping into my emotional quotient unnecessarily.

Also this write up is less about the place and more about the people, my musings and the events; or rather the absence of events. It would be fairly right to say this is diary entry of sorts, as I wrote a chunk of this in Manarkadd itself. So I’m not very sure if all of this fits together well and my sincere apologies if it wasn’t what you were looking for.

I was binge reading “The India Way” by our External Affairs Minister S. Jaishankar on the veranda. My father was washing the car while my mother was also reading something. My grandmother sat beside me and took interest in what I was doing, perhaps reciprocating for the previous day. “Anu, what are you reading? Story book is it?”
“Umm no ammamma, this is not a story per se. It’s written by our-what do you say…umm a minister.” I did not know how to say External Affairs in Malayalam nor could I explain his role.
“He chiefly deals with other countries and maintains umm…” couldn’t find the phrase for diplomatic ties. I was helpless in my own mother tongue. My father and mother then chipped in to explain. Dad said it was a book on Economics, which wasn’t exactly spot on, but it at least gave my grand mom a vague idea.

I am chastened by my inability to speak and read Malayalam fluently. Some of my friends claim that they think in their mother tongue; and I find that hard to believe. It’s definitely untrue or I am insanely jealous. Thinking in Malayalam is foreign to me and within seconds of attempting, English percolates through. The truth is; I will never be a “proper Mallu” even with my futile attempts at being one. I can wear all the Mundus, be a fan of all the films, try to jam to Kerala music and eat all the sadhyas. However I will perhaps always be that Bengalurean who doesn’t know Kannada either, infusing English while speaking and is heavily influenced by the West (or at least urban India’s take on it).
Clearly, it is a hopeless predicament. My mother had tried adamantly to teach me the Malayalam script when I was young and I cannot begin to understand why I did not pay attention back then. It’s said that exploring various languages is enhancing and what better place to start than your own mother tongue?