Amballore House (19 page)

“Look! Look to your front and way ahead. See where you are headed to, my dear,” her guardian angel told her, holding her hand, and pointing to the distant sky. Kareena saw the setting sun just above the horizon. She saw that she was riding to the paradise in the western sky, her fluttering blond hair shining in the bright reddish-orange glow of the setting sun.

She was going to a far, far better place than what she had ever known to seek a better rest than she had ever taken.

Just as Ann predicted.

When she reached the paradise, her destiny was waiting there for her with a garland of salvation, a garland made of many beautiful Kerala sunsets over the Arabian Sea.

10
A GENERATIONAL RECAST

This is Josh.

It has always been a pleasure for me to visit Kerala. This is partly because I was born there; but not wholly because. Even though this is my birthplace, I have only a few pleasant memories of the place. I rejoice when I think of the places I grew up in Kerala, especially the schools and colleges I attended and of many genuine friends that I amassed during my stay there. I do not know how and why it turned out to be the way it turned out to be, but these friendships proved far more valuable than the family kinship.

Not too long ago, I learned not to be bogged down by family entanglements with their many-shaded traps and frivolousness, because there was (and is) more to Kerala than just family relations. I learned that there were far stronger ties that bind me to Kerala, and that Kerala possesses many faces that largely redeem bitter family memories. These many faces have made me look forward to visiting Kerala.

Even though I have been away from Kerala very often and am separated from there by thousands of miles, and even though I have to brave oceans and mountains to reach there, I know I don’t have to go there to experience Kerala, because when I listen to the turbulent skies where thunder roar and rumble like a hundred drums, I know I am in Kerala, since it reminds me of its monstrous monsoon rains; when I hear the soothing sounds of flowing river, I know I am in Kerala, the land of many rivers; when I am engulfed in the mellifluous melody emanating from the palm trees with their sweeping branches swaying in the breeze, I know I am in Kerala, the land named after coconut palm trees. When I see flock of canaries rhythmically reciting a song whose meaning only they know, I know I am in Kerala, the land of many tropical birds; when I see them flawlessly soaring and disappearing into cloud-laden skies, I know I am in Kerala, whose skies are awash with dark clouds.

Even though I do not get to see Kerala daily, in my mind I see it
often as a conglomeration of a million images. They are etched in my memory so vividly that time will not dare erase them. Kerala is heap of fond memories of my childhood; it is the sweet music of birds that fly over meadows and perch on jackfruit trees; it is the long winding roads that snake through the rural countryside; it is the placid waters of many a lagoon and backwater; it is the rolling hills dotting its landscape; it is the beautiful sunset over the Arabian sea; it is the majestic mountain range in the east; it is the cool, moonlit night descending upon the mango groves after a hot summer day; it is the interplay of light and shadow cast by thousands of plantain leaves in the ever-peaceful evenings.

To me, Kerala consists of an unending array of refreshing mornings that bathe the meadows in a shroud of immaculate dewdrops; it consists of many a starlit night when jasmine spreads its otherworldly fragrance; it consists of thousands of moonlit nights when the
paala
tree blooms in the temple courtyard!

Kerala is nothing but an emerald-green meadow extending all the way from the majestic mountains in the east down the middle flatlands to the glittering waters of the Arabian Sea. It is a green carpet between the blue sea and the Blue Mountains. The sea unleashes a cascade of waves that travel to the coast with a single-minded determination to perform an act of martyrdom if only to have a last embrace of the Kerala coast!

I look forward to visiting Kerala because of the promise it holds out for me. The promise is to fortify my bondage to it and renew my heritage of its culture every time I visit. She reminds me how much I own very many aspects that constitute Kerala, not the least being its grand natural beauty. I have a blind faith in the promise she extends.

Whenever I watch the pristine waters of the Arabian Sea reddened by a fiery sunset, reflecting on the unique heritage I have been bestowed, I know I inherit a slice of Kerala wherever I am in the world. I know I own that piece of land if only in spirit. I know I inherit a land of blinding beauty, a land sandwiched by the Western Ghats and the Arabian Sea with a canopy of sapphire-blue sky, a land lucky enough to have the Arabian Sea as its playmate from
time immemorial. I know their friendship is renewed day by day, just as my bondage with Kerala is.

I know that when I am in Kerala, I am standing on a land that Parasuraman retrieved from the sea. I then know that I belong to the mythical history of Mahabali, who dreamed and built a land of prosperity for which he sacrificed himself, and then I know that the sacrifice was worth the idea of Kerala.

It is because of the memories I have of Kerala, its images in my mind, the feelings I have for it, and my conviction that Kerala’s incomparable beauty promises redemption and even salvation that I love to visit Kerala.

***

My second Kerala visit from Canada was in the year 2013, thirty-eight years after I left for Canada. The palm-fringed coast of Kerala welcomed me back like a kind family would welcome an apologetic and prodigal son. I was offered green-carpet welcome by the verdant plains of tropical Kerala, consisting of lush paddy fields and coconut groves and rubber plantations.

The Kerala I saw was different from Kerala which I used to know. I felt that I came to a different place entrapped in an unrecognizable time capsule.

There were multiple reasons behind my visit—to attend my class reunion, the class of 1975; to attend a wedding I was invited to by my friend and former classmate in Kerala, Toms. On the heels of these two events came Onam, Kerala’s harvest festival, similar to Oktoberfest in Canada. The trip was eventful, and I enjoy talking to you of my experience. Bear with me, please; you will not regret it.

***

The venue of these three events was Kerala’s famous houseboat. There were altogether five houseboats, each capable of holding some fifty people. The houseboats were moored at the Aleppey backwaters. The trip would take us to Kottayam and back, floating over the peaceful backwaters of Kerala, on multiple round trips, with occasional stops in between, which gave us the opportunity to
visit a number of fishing villages and other attractions along coastal Kerala. The boats were rented for a whole week. The first event on the menu was our class reunion, lasting three days. Next up would be the wedding ceremony, taking up two days. Then last but not the least was Onam festival that included one day of Onam Eve and another day of Onam. The events were organized by Toms. A good number of our classmates were invited to these programs. They came all the way from Canada, the United States, and Europe. Tom’s daughter, Elsie would be getting married in the middle of the eventful week.

The setting for these events could not have been more appropriate. The events were held, as you gathered, in Kerala, a place called God’s Own Country. The naming comes from its supernatural beauty. Just gliding over the tranquil backwaters surrounded by the splendor of verdant growth all around was paradise in itself.

While floating over the pristine backwaters in the houseboat, I could not help thinking about Kerala of the old days, Kerala of 1975, when I left for Canada. Both Kerala and India were quite different in 1975 from what it is today. The cultural landscape has dramatically changed. The economic and political picture of India today is poles apart from what it was back then. India at that time was one of the poorest countries in the world, and Kerala was one of the poorest states in India. I remember the year 1974, when India exploded its first nuclear bomb. There was widespread protest throughout the world against this unexpected development. The swamis of world politics preached that India should address its poverty as the main national goal, instead of channeling its resources to making a nuclear bomb. Canada accused India of diverting the spent fuel from its
Candu
reactor to make the bomb. There was cartoon in the press showing a posh pub called “Nuclear Club” where five affluent members, The United States, Britain, France, the Soviet Union, and China were comfortably seated in a sofa inside, when a beggar was knocking from outside at the door, to be let in, saying “I am also a member; open the door!” The beggar was India, and he wanted to be let in; he wanted to be taken seriously.

Those were the bad old days when India was ridiculed by the world. When I arrived in Canada in 1975, people’s memories were still green with the picture of the nuclear bomb. The Indian community in Canada was despised, because of the feeling there that India violated the nuclear reactor agreement with Canada by misappropriating the spent fuel.

Right now, the geopolitical situation has turned around from what it used to be. India is vying for one of the top positions in the world in economy, technological prowess, and military might. She is self-reliant in many sectors of industry and finance. As for Kerala, it is now a land of affluence, its economy having been fortified by the steady flow of Malayalees that flocked to the Middle East in search of fortune. Its tourism industry is bringing in foreign currency in hoards to its shores.

***

The whole three events and an assortment of other parallel events would take place in what is called a boat train, so called because five houseboats were connected together to accommodate the large crowd of attendees, some 250 altogether. The interconnected assembly of boats was long enough to be called a water train. While floating, watching the water lilies and Chinese fishing nets by the side, I was transformed to a transfixed Alice stranded in a tropical wonderland.

There were three generations present in the train. Our generation, our children’s generation, and their children’s generation who were mostly toddlers and adolescents, filled the houseboats. The generation of our parents was represented by only few people, who were mostly in their eighties. All in all, the boat train resembled a mini floating Kerala.

Our children’s generation in Kerala belongs to high census in spite of the diminished number of our children—two to three children, compared to family size of ten or more siblings in our generation. This high number contributed to large population of our children’s generation. As for the generation of my parents, the sky was the limit for the family size, partly because they did not own TVs and
partly because there were no midnight trains to wake up sleeping couples at night. I myself come from a family of ten children.

Even though population growth rate has diminished, population growth by itself has not diminished. Maybe my great-grandchildren’s generation will have an altered census, possibly coming close to zero population growth. Still subsequent generations might encounter negative growth, a cause for alarm.

I noticed the difference between the generations as soon as I was introduced to the crowd. The youngsters from our descendant’s generation were more sophisticated than us, with pleasant forbearance. They were intelligent looking and very superficial. A quick shake of hands accompanied by “how do you do,” and they were suddenly gone, before I could utter a single word. I looked at the introducing parents, and they shed sympathetic smiles at me, but then they were also gone in the wink of an eye, walking behind their children obediently like children would walk behind their parents. The girls looked prettier, with heavy makeup and in Western clothing. Some of them were blondes; not the original variety that I saw in Canada, but of the dyeing kind. I suddenly felt I was back in the Canadian soil. Almost all of them had cell phones; some had iPads. Most of them were alone, bewitched by their cell phones and probably chatting with friends all over the world. This was the Facebook generation, preferring to chat with invisible people than mingling with real humans. Social media has taken over. This was in sharp contrast to our generation, who did not know anything but tangible friends and tangible friendships. We did not know that there was something like virtual friendships, virtual realities, or virtual anything except abstract entities.

I thought of my generation in a similar setting, maybe some forty years ago. Most of us would be wearing mundu with a cotton shirt, most probably not ironed. Some of us could have been walking in bare feet, in sharp contrast to the polished shoes of the current generation. We would be speaking grammatically correct Malayalm with violent shaking of our heads to give emphasis to what we were saying. We would be smiling profusely, we would be saying
Namaste
with closed palms, and we would be unimaginably polite.
We would not have heard about technology named “information.” For us, technology meant something to do with instruments and physical objects, not an abstract thing like information. Most of our hands would be sore when we came to the wedding reception, because we would have helped the village’s main cook to prepare the wedding feast, to which everyone in the village would have been invited. The wedding used to be an affair where the entire village participated. It was a melting pot of everything to do with us as human beings.

***

A renaissance in the practice of religion was evident. The futility of the affluence and its incapability to address the questions of life were noticeable. Once upon a time, just surviving poverty could have been the ultimate goal in life in Kerala. But today, poverty was largely gone, giving room to other priorities in life. But then a clearly defined target was badly missing in life, driving the common man to religion. There were many religious institutions where people flocked to get peace of mind. I was invited to one of the prayer meetings attended by some fifteen people, prior to my departure from Kerala. My classmate John invited me to the meeting held in one of his cousin’s homes.