Amballore House (22 page)

This is why if you come to Kerala on this great day, you can see the great king back in his old kingdom, making sure that his subjects are happy. You can see him even today, and you can see him every Onam Day to the end of the times.

The Onam feast in the boat train was grand. Multiple courses of Kerala cuisine were served on plantain leaves, a traditional custom. The vast crowd in the entire boat train participated in the feast and festivities. There was dance, music, a flower decoration competition, and the coronation of Mahabali, who was one of my classmates acting as the legendary king, with a protruding tummy — a sign of prosperity, mind you — and a crown.

I got drunk with kallu and fell asleep. On occasions like this when I submit to the irresistible charm of kallu and embrace the sleep goddess, my dear departed grandma used to scream at me more often than I care to remember, "Josh, you sleepyhead! Wake up and smell kallu." Of course, she paraphrased the expression “wake up
and smell coffee.”

This time, it was a strange state of mind which I slipped into after my unbridled consumption of the holy liquid, kallu. I found that my conscious mind was still awake at some level, and yet I was dreaming. The coexistence of the conscious and the unconscious minds could be attained through consumption of only one alcoholic beverage, and that is kallu.

***

The wonderland that the sleep goddess escorted me to could easily be the one that Alice (in the wonderland) could have wandered into in her wildest dreams. I started hearing some treasured Malayalam songs.

I remembered the first time I heard those songs in Kerala. It was in a late afternoon, when the fire-clad setting sun cast enormously long shadows of coconut palm trees across my backyard. Those shadows traveled to the brinks of the eastern horizon to carry the supernatural sensation that probably only a Malayalam song could render. The deepest rugs of my memory ladder instantaneously started a sympathetic vibration with the melody of the song. The old memories from the recesses of my heart suddenly woke up and started haunting me like the ghosts of a Halloween night.

The songs carried me in a meandering train of memories. I was like a wandering cloud, visiting many scenes of my adolescent life. With no specific reason, I started thinking of the evanescent nature of life and of the dreams that make up the bulk of it. I also strangely thought that when everything was said and done, the curtain of life dropped with a silent applause from death the indomitable, if there is such a thing as silent applause.

Standing on the mundane plane on our side of the eternity, crouched on the top of our existence, watching the ebbs and flows of life and pondering over the imponderable – life after death – had always been a challenging task to me. I realized the futility of seeking an answer to that riddle, and decided to fall back upon the conventional wisdom. She, the conventional wisdom, proclaimed three distinct possibilities for life after death, such as heaven,
purgatory and hell. The only inhabitant of heaven, by the way, is the celebrated Hunchback of Notre Dam.

God, in his infinite wisdom realized that Malayalees did not fit in the three places reserved for after-life. So, he created a kallushop near heaven. That is where all Malayalees would go after their life on earth.

I suddenly found that I was in the kallushop near heaven.

While listening to the songs that continued to play, I thought of the uncanny capacity of Malayalam songs to convey emotions. Malayalam songs are like glorified poetry, balancing the aesthetics of lyrics and mellifluousness of melody. While thinking about these, I gradually started drifting into deeper layers of sleep.

The bouncer of the bar was stationed just outside. I realized that he was none other than Parasuraman! The originator of Kerala was standing there with his famous ax ready for action if any non-Malayalee entered the kallushop. Naturally, only Malayalees dared to enter the bar.

A song from my childhood movie
yakshi
— nymph — started playing. Long time ago, when I first heard this song, I was bewitched by its eerie overtones, befittingly enough. To me, this song was like a haunting dream having come alive. This song linked transient dreams to the eternal otherworld. No wonder they were playing this near heaven.

I did not know what it was about this song, but if ever a song brought back reminiscences and ocean-full of them, it was this song. If ever a song beckoned heaven to earth and presented it in a green plantain leaf at our footsteps, it was this song. This song carried me down the yellow brick road to the magical world of my long-lost adolescence.

Many a time did this song silently creep into the young minds across Kerala to sow velvet-coated dreams; many a time did it permeate our minds to launch a thousand hopes, to shape a thousand thoughts and to enliven a thousand dreams. Since long did we resign to its imbuing presence in our thoughts, and since long did we welcome its echoes endlessly reverberating in our
subconscious mind. Since long have we been captivated by its mesmerizing sense of the immortality.

Onam feast was in progress in the kallushop. All the prominent Malayalees dead and gone were there.

I ordered a pint of kallu from the bartender and made my way to a remote corner of the bar. In that dimly lit corner I could make out that a certain figure was moving towards me. It was a she. She joined me uninvited at my table; she was my grandmother!

"Josh, when are you going to give up this habit of getting drunk? Is there not enough kallu in Kerala? Does not all the kallu in Kerala quench your thirst?" she asked. I was reminded of Lady Macbeth's lament: "Do not all the perfumes in Arabia wash this little hand of its sin."

I knew too well how to pacify my grandmother. I helped her with a generous serving of kallu. She was pleased and started narrating the romantic interludes of her youth back on earth; how my grandfather met her and fell for her charm; how badly drunk my grandfather used to get every Friday; how I resembled him every inch of the way; how that habit made me her favorite grandson, and so on. I filled her glass with more kallu.

The background song opened up the misty world of memories. Once more, the song carried me to the nostalgic days of my boyhood. Those lines paid homage to the romantic mind-set of the Kerala youth of my times. They were melodious tribute to the highest aspirations of Malayalee romanticism. They had made our hearts take up wings and soar high in a supernatural sky that led to heaven's corridors. They had made our thoughts of love transcend an abstract concept to a world indistinguishable from dreams and yet replete with unabating bitter-sweet reality.

My grandma shook me up from the preoccupation with the song and activated her chatter-box engine once more.

The bartender came and filled our glasses with more kallu; delivered an order of fried tuna chammanthy and popadam. “Kallu is not kallu without these,” he reminded us.

Once more I was drawn to the magic of the song. These lines had been sung and re-sung, hummed and re-hummed thousands of times by Malayalees, and they might still be echoing across the college campuses in Kerala. The perpetual spell cast by this song on us was like a spell cast by a nymph, appropriately enough.

Suddenly, I found myself wandering aimlessly like a cloud, in the famous pooraparambu of the historic town of Trichur in central Kerala, blissfully oblivious to the problems of the world. That is when I suddenly spotted you-know-who, none other than His Highness, Mahabali, who was on his routine annual pilgrimage of Kerala.

Needless to say, I was taken aback to see His Eminence. Here was the beloved king of Kerala, the idol of tens of thousands of generations, standing in person right in front of my very own eyes! I could not believe my eyes. Was I dreaming? Could this be true? By what streak of golden luck was it that I was chosen to meet this immortal king? What path of destiny showed itself to me to partake in this historic meeting?

This was a dream come true for any Keralite, and naturally, I was nervous and trembling like Jerry in front of Tom. Here I was, standing helplessly, lost for words.

However, I quickly composed myself. I fetched some coconut drink from a nearby sidewalk merchant as an offering to the king. I was prepared, in my own humble way, to welcome the long-lost emperor. He accepted my offering and drank it with relish. He was thirsty after a long walk from the underworld. I was eager to ask him questions—and a lot of them at that. I was curious to know if he would be allowed to come back to earth to resume his golden era. I was curious to know what he thought of the present-day Kerala. I was exploding with curiosity. I invited him to the nearby park bench in the pooraparambu.

“It is a nice day,” I blurted out.

Mahabali said, “There were better days, my son.”

I replied, “I beg your pardon?”

“I am referring to the days when I was ruling over this beautiful land. There was peace, happiness, contentment, and goodwill.” He looked sad. There was disappointment written on his face. “What happened to the smile?” Mahabali asked.

“Huh? What smile, Your Majesty?”

Mahabali said, “The smile that was plentiful during my reign. During my walk today from the underworld, I saw millions of Keralites. They have forgotten how to smile.”

A cool breeze caressing the flowers passed by us, as if to alleviate the pain the king was experiencing. I wanted to cheer him up as much as I possibly could.

“But they are happy today! They are happy to see you and welcome you. We all have been waiting for one year to meet you. We live every year just for this day—to see you, to be with you, and to commemorate your golden era. Today is Onam, and we could not be happier!”

A butterfly came fluttering its wings and settled down on a chrysanthemum nearby. Butterflies are part and parcel of Onam Day, symbolizing the liveliness and the rejoicing which accompanied this great day. The clouds in the sky flying around like cotton wool gathered around the park. They could not help coming closer to watch the emperor and listen to his message. Mother Nature had stopped the business of the day to witness this supernatural visit.

In came a song from a nearby mango grove, breaking the silence around us. It approached sailing effortlessly through the tranquil air that enveloped us. The song was taken up by a flock of mynahs who sang beautifully. Not to be outdone, crows showed up on the scene to sing in their encompassing dissonance.

Mahabali said, “It breaks my heart to see my subjects abandoning the kingdom in search of gold. My kingdom is a blessed promised land, abundantly furnished by Mother Nature, and yet you abandon the land of gold in search of greener pastures.”

He was referring to Malayalees deserting Kerala to go to greener
pastures like Middle East, Europe etc. He was disheartened. Birds nearby were overwhelmed. They came flapping their wings to console him. Their soothing music alleviated his pain. I knew I had to take some blame for his accusation, since I myself had left Kerala once upon a time.

I enlightened the king of the history of Kerala, the history of India, the British rule, principles of the parliamentary democracy, and so on. I explained to him that even though the old days had ministers who were subservient to the king, the present-day minister is a full-fledged ruler of the State. I explained that Kerala was no more a self-contained independent kingdom, but a unit of a larger entity called India.

“India?” Mahabali said. “You even let my kingdom be taken over and ruled by an outsider? Kerala is a land insulated by natural landmarks from the outside world. How could anybody take over Kerala?”

I stated that Kerala was not really ruled over by an outsider. I explained how Kerala got representatives in the national parliament and how the democracy was in action in this state-nation relationship.

“Our political system looks perfect and ideal. India is lauded by the entire world as the biggest living democracy, and yet something is missing. Couldn’t you talk to Mahavishnu and ask him to retrace those three fatal steps? Please do come back. We miss you dearly.”

I was begging. I was shamelessly, vehemently, and desperately begging like there was no tomorrow. I was dreaming against dreams that my wish would come true. I was hoping that utopia would be resurrected. I was hoping that time would fly backward to unearth the golden days of Mahabali’s rule.

It was nightfall now, and jasmine started spreading its sweet, otherworldly fragrance. The coconut palm tree, the state tree of Kerala, swayed and danced in the wind. The golden rays of the setting sun illuminated the park with a heavenly brilliance. The elephants of the nearby temple started wandering carelessly in the pooraparambu.

The king replied, “I wish I could do that. Nothing would please me more. But I cannot. What is done is done. I am doomed to spend an eternity in the underworld. The paradise that I established in Kerala brought about my own downfall. But I promise that I will never stop paying this annual visit. I look forward to this annual visit.”

He continued, “My heart still lives here in this lovely land. I will always think about Kerala, I will always worry about Kerala, and I will always dream about Kerala. This land is my very religion!”

His proclamation of love for Kerala moved Mother Nature. She responded with a clamor of thunder and lightning that carried in a tumultuous rainstorm resembling her tears.

“It is time to go, Mr. Bali,” shouted a voice from behind.

We turned around, and there he was standing behind us— Mahavishnu himself. He descended to earth from heaven amid thunder and lightning. He addressed Mahabali. “The day is wearing thin, and it is time you got back to the underworld. I gave you visitation rights only for a day, remember? Let us get going.”

They left. The great king waved his hands and showered his blessings upon Kerala. He promised that he would come back next year and every year after that. The god escorted Mahabali out of Trichur, out of Kerala, out of this world, and into the eternal darkness of the underworld

I stood there with a heavy heart. I felt very lonely. During that long-lasting moment of utter desolation, a prayer erupted from the innermost recess of my heart and spiraled out of me. I prayed desperately: