Srilanka: An arrack toast to many more!

When amma and appa planned vacations, it was an annual permission to spend the scrupulously saved salary acorns. The date was first carved in stone, factoring in summer vacations and bank holidays. For months before that set date, everyone in the household was to scan newspapers and previously-ignored free mailers for bargain vacations. In those months, few whims of new shoes and Internet connection were entertained. My dad would raise his hands to mimic a moral balancing scale, “(Right hand) You can ‘surf’ after 3 months … (left hand) or we can go again to Ooty, the Darjeeling of the South.” Polite smiles exchanged, obvious decision choked forth. In their itinerary, there was also always a compulsory temple and relative visit, unfortunately never combined.

Despite all this middle-classness, when we actually went on the holiday, no one was to mention money. I always got the horse ride I wanted, my sister could always eat everything she set eyes on, and after we grew taller than 4.5 ft each, we never had to sleep on extra beds. If my parents pooh-poohed posh-type, spa-type and guided-tour-type packages, it was pure superior judgement. Of course, photographs were taken at every waking hour, with a never-compromised 400 ASA Kodak film (blue tint for beaches, green tint for mountains) and various memorable poses from cousins reflecting the dance-step of the season.

To my mother’s inexpressible shame, my holidays since then have failed her. Holiday decisions taken in the middle of an auto-pilot bike ride home, no meticulous saving, no hotel bookings, hardly ever a travel companion. No prior plan whatsoever. And even if there was one, it had a tendency to stray way off the trajectory. Still, every time I actually set off on a trip, I seem to find exactly the essence of experiences that I would’ve, if in tow with amma and appa. Barring the guilt-salve visit to a revered shrine or relative.

When I rattled off on the phone to her about my recent trip to Srilanka, amma listened, laughed, gasped, and in the end, said, “Aiyo Ro, how did you feel like coming back?”

I don’t think I have, entirely. It is still difficult to let even a day go by without smiling to myself about the Lankan accent I caught, and the train and fish I didn’t. Srilanka was so easy to love. I like to believe it’s because somewhere not very deep inside, I’m an islander. In other words, I have slow reflexes.

But I didn’t get to be a bum in Srilanka this time, given I was there on work and all. TV travelogues, I always thought, would be my dream project. I mean, the combination of a job you love and the thing you love outside the job had to be deadly. So as a shameless student of the Ian Wright and Anthony Bourdain school of fabulous nonsense travel, I packed my bag with ideas and gimmicks that my teachers would be proud of. Until they came undone, one by one.

At the Pinnewala Elephant Orphanage, I decided to ride an autorickshaw (Trishaw). For TV, of course. And all was going well, till the sonorous sound of rickshaw metal slamming into expensive Toyota metal ended the joy ride. Guilt, fear and a large group of trishaw drivers gripped me. They threw sharp Sinhala words my way, and our Tourism Board driver decided to do everything short of singing the Lankan national anthem. He began to demand that I pay up the trishaw’s cost. Yes, the entire trishaw’s cost, because “Srilanka is a poor country”.

It’s stupid, but it was only then that I suddenly realized that I was a foreigner. The brownness and coconutness of everything until then had made me forget. By now, the owner of the dented car had arrived—a sweet looking uncle I immediately warmed to and asked in English what I should pay for damages. But the sweet uncle said “I’m calling the police.” Utterly unnecessary, I explained, but his ears were red and receiving only panic signals from the meddling mob. Through a mind clouded with images of my last rites in Colombo, I hazily realized that when a mob gets unruly by the minute, and the word passport is screamed a lot, it’s time to discuss dollar exchange rate. An hour and many wasted calls to the Tourism Board later, I paid up what a friend later told me was a reasonable amount. Later the same evening, in a Buddhist cave, our camera was confiscated by a monk for being a video camera. I’m surprised I still woke up happy the next morning.

I’m glad I did too, because that country is beautiful, dammit. And the previous day, I may have just walked into a meeting of ‘The Community of Only Horribles in Srilanka’, because I didn’t meet a single mean or unhelpful person after that. They readily invited me to private parties, they showed me into their homes for a change of wet clothes, they fed me till I was ready to be their slave.

I travelled through West and South Lanka, the East and North being cut off for tourists now because of LTTE activity. Even in just those two directions, there was so much to do, and so much to film. And it didn’t help that almost everything I wanted to see was plopped dauntingly on a hill or some natural elevation meant to deter the weak spirited. Sigiriya, Dambulla, and Kandalama. All scaled twice over thanks to retakes. The incredible view shut up any whining I was trying to squeeze through the tired wheezing. So quiet, so plundered, and yet giving the impression of being so untouched.

The South Coast was an endless stretch of aquamarine that I have only managed to see in an art class palette. I was to stop at Koggala beach, where I was told fishermen use a method not seen in any other part of the world—they get on stilts poked in the middle of crashing waves. And just sit there, waiting for the fish to bite. As we neared the shore, 5 men came towards me, looked at the camera, cheered up and took our patriotic driver aside (he had by then, started to like us, and given up on the tourist milking). The unprofitable stilt fishing, I understood, worked a lot better as bait. To net the awed tourist looking for a perfect sunset shot. The terms were discussed, but they hadn’t accounted for me insisting on getting on one of the stilts. The waves threw me off a few times, and I landed with my head on the rocks, but later, one of the fishermen told me in perfect flirtatious English that I could be his fisherwoman any time I wanted.

Travelogues always end with last lines that read as if the author has a faraway look, a lazy smile, and a nostalgic sigh as the best moments of his before his eyes in slow motion. Mine though, I see in fast mode, because so many people happened-- a schoolgirl I took around on a cycle as she taught me Sinhala, a crackly-skinned old woman who was shocked I spoke Tamil, a boy who took me around in a moped and then carried the heavy equipment, a frenchbearded fellow who noticed my dorky shoes, a curly haired girl who lined up her family and friends and sent them marching to help me.

Actually, right now, I don’t mentally picture the sights I saw there. I still get the schoolgirl’s smses, and the curly haired girl’s online hugs. The Srilanka experience continues... Now more than vacation leftovers, perhaps even entwined with my daily life, its routines and variety. I’m also joyous in the knowledge that my restless feet will shuffle their way to all these people once again. And believe me, this is not the arrack talking.

Click here for online video of the show

travel notes

Two months of rapidly passing clouds, trees, yellow dividers. Thoughts flew, new colours surprised, the blur was welcome. Introspection? In gallons, flowing into every landscape, and entering every relived conversation. Many faces and places merge now; I credit someone’s joke to someone else, too many anecdotes put away for the right audience have now faded.
But some things, not photographed, not talked about, still linger.

The face of the man from Hyderabad who took my window seat without asking

A day slowly begun in Bangalore. Contentment rushing through my blood that cool Sunday morning by Cubbon Park.

The informed knowledge of a night blacked out in Phuket, and the balding guitarist at the bar.

A new country seen with the oldest bestest friends.

The locket worn by the Bangkok taxi driver whose name meant “a good man”. And the story of how he met his wife (she was posh hotel clerk, he was bell boy)

“I’m going to live to 120” in five languages. Said in rapid succession by the 107-year-old woman in Chennai.

The little Sikh boy trying to eat a banana while holding a sword, in a rally before Guru Nanak Jayanthi in Amritsar

The usher at Wagah Border who goaded the Indians to out-scream the Pakistanis

Walking on Valmiki beach, Chennai, hopping to avoid stepping on poo, looking for the turtles that’ll come only in February

Mushraf, photographer at Taj Mahal, who disappeared with my parents’ eternal-love photograph

Realising while talking to a friend I’d mixed up Bay of Bengal and Arabian Sea. Eyes shut tight in embarrassment. Followed by a desperate attempt at memorizing the India map.

The wonderfully half-read novels, abandoned to accommodate occasional staring from the window

The puncture changed in Warangal while convincing sickle-armed men claiming to be Naxalites that we meant no harm.

The search for local food in dim lit streets, and temple premises

The elation of constant motion still tickles my feet. Tired, dusty feet greedily ask for more. More people to ask directions from, more train food to be complained about, more after-mints to nibble on flights. And through cursing and hating packing and unpacking, I jog my brain for even the semblance of clarity it had when on the road.

Journeys are the midwives of thought. Few places are more conducive to internal conversations than moving planes, ships, or trains. There is an almost quaint correlation between what is before our eyes and the thoughts we are able to have in our heads: large thoughts at time requiring large views, and new thoughts, new places. Introspective reflections that might otherwise be liable to stall are helped along by the flow of the landscape.

- Alain de Botton, Art of Travel

Jussst missed the elephants

I decide to have a Kodaikanal holiday that isn’t ditto my dad’s 25 years ago. Since then, I hear, too many honeymooners and rowdy boy gangs have taken over. But surely there must be more to Kodi than just a repetitive line of rocks giving different views of blinding white mist. Surely it isn’t already explored out.

If you’re desperate enough for something new in this old, old place (since 1845), look behind the rocks the guide’s pointing at; demand to turn left when he turns right; look at the little cottages hidden from view by the mammoth holiday home. It takes a gritty kind of tourist to outfox the local travel guide. But when you manage it, you’ll find a door into the Kodi that is only for special guests.

But first, promise you won’t stone the monkeys. Or etch your eternal love or turbulent lust for someone on a tree trunk.

All right now we’re ready.

On the winding drive from Kodaikanal Road Station to Kodi at around 5 a.m., I try not to make a list of things to do. A list means structure and itinerary, which means asking someone for directions, and that means going where everyone’s been and is still hanging around. Instead, I talk to the driver. “So many tourists spoiling your town, no?” By the end of the three-hour drive, I’m armed with ideas and a determination that will keep me away from anything that has an attached shopping street. Or a bellboy.

I drive to Cinnabar, literally my home for three days. The man of the house, Bala, has two rooms and his entire home (always filled with delicious smells) to offer. After Kodi’s first cold wind has frozen my nose, it’s a relief to walk into a room that’s warm, delightfully distant from the overcrowded Kodai Lake area, and only two steps away from the kitchen. Breakfast is wholesome, and reminds me of something that will definitely only happen at home. Being cajoled to eat more because it’s good for you. Bala inducts me into family. I’m to say hello to the canines sprawled on the grass: the three-legged handsome Hero, and the slightly cynical Cookie. Then I’m packed off with a bottle of water to go find my own Kodi.

If you look a little lost around Kodai Lake, you’ll have at least four people walking up to you chanting names of ‘points’, ‘sights’ and ‘treks’. I say I don’t want to see touristy places, only directions to a certain Guna Cave. Shock, awe, disappointment: It’s a place that’s fenced with barbwire ever since 12 boys decided to go too deep into the caves five years ago, and didn’t come back. The crowd disperses, except one man. Selvam is a driver-cum-guide, and once I’m in his Ambassador, he fishes out a little book of 28 must-see sights. Published in 1975.

Guna Caves is the local name for Devil’s Kitchen, a deep bat-infested chamber between three naturally arranged imposing boulders (Pillar Rocks), a sight that is listed in Selvam’s book. It’s now called Guna Caves after it was turned into a romantic kidnapper’s lair for a Tamil movie. Loud teenagers stand just outside the fencing around the cave, screaming angstful “Abiramiiiii!”s (name of kidnapped in said movie). Selvam and I go around the base of the pillar rock. Me, petrified about being the potential thirteenth ghost in the cave, and Selvam, looking for a certain hallucinogenic ‘magic mushroom’ that gets him a good price from “Keralites and foreigners”.

We find an entry, veiled by bramble. “It’s a path only some of us know about,” says Selvam. The rocks are loose and wobbly, the fluorescent green moss making everything slippery. Bats are shrieking from somewhere really south, and we, errr… are heading in the same direction. Someone is haggling for a kilo of carrots somewhere far above and it sounds warm and safe there. Inside Devil’s Kitchen, however, the air’s muggy, the walls smooth, with little shelves that look perfect for a perch. Selvam chucks a pebble that’s instantly swallowed by the darkness. We hear the plonk only after about 10 seconds, and a crash of wing flapping (of bats we jolted awake). We’d discovered fresh country by simply stumbling on it. This is the kind of place that teaches you to how important it is to have a firm footing.

It’s almost four p.m., and Selvam goes off for a trippy omlette garnished with chopped magic mushroom. I grab a muffin and glass of hot chocolate at Pastry Corner, where you can hobnob with the old and famous from Kodi. Prasanna and his sister have run this cosy little bakery for years, dishing out heavenly Chickoo icecream, pizza, and whatever else you see in the store.

The streets near Kodai Lake are unusually deserted. Either it’s naptime, or the punctual afternoon rain has driven everyone indoors. I find The Art Gallery that’s spot on for penniless idlers. A dramatic Lotus theme quilt hangs on one of the walls. Differently sized canvases fill the two small rooms. Adam Khan, Cristina, J. Nath, Richard Pike. Not very local sounding, but the creator of every piece of art in this gallery has a home in Kodi, and each work of art is a sketch of the everyday life of the town’s people.

Back at Cinnabar, Bala introduces me to more family—Vasu, the lady of house, and Vidya, their 17-year-old daughter. We sink into the sofas in the fireplace defrosted living room, and agree with lethargy-softened passion that city life is for slaves. Why doesn’t everyone move to the hills? Defiantly, we proceed to the Middle Eastern dinner, in which every single vegetable, exotic or not, is plucked from the garden. And dessert, an affable cheesecake, too is thanks to a cow milked in Bala’s farm, and cheese made in Cinnabar’s own kitchen. Seriously, it’s like a Ukrainian folk tale.

The next morning, after another solid breakfast, I’m packed off with a bottle of water again. Today’s Kodi is one of the fugitives; people who ran away from the belittling enormity of cities to lend their paintbrushes some colour. People who found a town that gave them enough room to breathe.

J. Nath is a sprightly Punjabi artist who gave up Bombay’s pace 25 years ago for Kodi’s unpaved roads and potato farms. The plot next to his, Senora Garden, is a failed attempt at tempting the city-weary into a cottage on the hills. It has to be done right, like J. Nath’s home. Full of daylight shining in through large glass windows, the ceiling low enough to touch. Brushes and palettes strewn about; canvases at different stages of completion. And two little cushioned chairs. One for the white-bearded storyteller (him) and one for the enamoured (me). Nath tells snaking stories of travel; getting lost in the characters memory throws up. Once in a while, his wife Jaya points out to him that it was in 1983, not 1982 that he lost his graphic printer job at Dubai, and Rs.340, not Rs. 350 was the price of the first painting he sold.

Nath doesn’t waste paint on anything sad. Nothing can make him paint a tear, or the violence of rage. “Why not just brighten our walls and our lives?” His pointillist style and vigorous colour scheme adorns every wall in the famous Carlton Hotel of Kodaikanal. For superb tales about old charming Kodi, changing Kodi, and masala tea, Nath is the man to meet. He won’t care if you don’t even look at his artwork, but you won’t be able to help it.

Just a few minutes away from Nath’s home is Bharat Bakery, the only place in Kodi for incredible ginger biscuits. I munch them on the way to the ‘quilt lady’— Jayshree. The architect of the Lotus motif quilt in The Art Gallery. In a house next to hers, five women work with needle and thread, carefully sewing each puppy, jungle scene, and butterfly into the intricately designed quilts. They came to Jayshree from broken homes, and now they’ve together built their lives around the income and warmth the quilts bring. Jayshree had learnt quilting in London, before she too came away for a quieter life. Many visiting Kodi step into Jayshree’s little factory to learn a little quilting, and to sew personality into an otherwise rug.

The rain’s back again, and so is my excuse to laze. The chai chat with Bala roams around the valleys of Kodi, and stops at Joey. This man’s address could say: A. Joey, No.1, Kodaikanal Shola forest. Joey’s grown up bathing in waterfalls, watching elephants saunter by watering holes, and panthers slumber in his farm. Before the rural road connectivity project half a decade ago, Joey trekked up 20 kms of hill to buy his month’s supply of rice. Today, he’s a family man with a Maruti Omni. And anyone’s welcome to his wild home.

Bala takes me to Joey’s early next morning. The 45-minute drive of anticipation ends in an unbelievable house right in the Uthamapalayam range. Joey waves at us, and immediately wants to show off his backyard: the jungle. Throughout the four-hour intense trek, not once does 51-year-old sit to rest, or glug down water like one of us half his age did. He instructs us to not lose it if we saw an elephant, and do exactly what he does. Scramble up a tree. “You can climb a tree, right?” he asks, and I’m not sure he’s joking.

“Look, rosewood tree”. “You have a wound? This herb is a coagulant”. “A bear’s been at this beehive”. “Smell this. Wild lemon”. Joey enjoys the forest and its details. Things we can only gape at, and try to cram for an article. A fat bison runs noisily across a stream and Joey’s after it in a second. “Come, come! Bison! See it!”

The elephant valley, however, is Joey’s forte. Trees they’ve rubbed up against, the age and contents of the dung, the herd’s mud bath locations. Niceties only love and a long relationship can teach.

When we return (several kilos lower, I’m sure) to his home, there’s a hunter-gatherer lunch. Papaya, beans, drumstick. “Oh, it was just growing in my backyard.”

I did what I set out to do after all. I found the Kodaikanal I wasn’t looking for.

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For Outlook Traveller, September 2006.

the incident called monsoon

I've seen how easy it is to just copy-paste, so here is another Outlook Traveller piece I wrote. The place: Beautiful, beautiful, Gokarna.
Next time, blog, I promise I will write exclusively for you.
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Rain is a big event only for those who don't see much of it. Those who see it in plenty scoff at any wide-eyedness about full rivers and rumbling clouds. People in Gokarna talk of a thunderstorm as if it were a tiresome old aunt who coughs too loud when everyone's asleep. For them, monsoon's just a time to wash clothes in smaller batches and make the umbrella the arm-extension of the season. A time when conversations with tourists go beyond giving them directions to the beach.

The conversations begin at Mangalore, where I take the local bus: the only sensible way to get to Gokarna, apparently. If you ask for a taxi (as I did), there will be no mistaking the utter disbelief on the driver's face. "Why spend so much money? Take the government bus." There is just one direct bus to the town, and if you miss that (as I did), then just let the wind and state transport take its winding course. The view from the shut window pane lashed with rain is worth the detours and retours. Don't let all the localites nodding off in the bus trick you into believing there's nothing to see on the way. They seriously have no clue they're living in a world of watercolour.

When I get to Gokarna, I ask for Swaswara, where I'll stay. It's just a month old, so the local name for this beach resort is simply, "aa hosa jaaga" (that new place). An autorickshaw man volunteers; his vehicle has curtains, big stereos, and a detachable door to keep out the rain. But no meter. I postpone the annoyance of having to haggle, and decide to enjoy the ride. As the autorickshaw the leaves the main town behind, it's as if someone switched off all the ambience. Except for the auto's putt-putt, and an occasional rumble from the skies that seems to shush any chitchat.

After a lot of quiet travelling, the road abruptly climbs onto the rain cloud we've been following. As the autorickshaw man switches off the engine and lets momentum play driver, I let my jaw drop. I can't believe I've seen white froth recede from sand. "Kudla beach, to your right," I'm told. Walled in by towering umber rocks that seem to relish every tourist's shock at suddenly discovering waves crashing underneath them. "There are three more beaches like this. Your hotel is on the next one," he points left, "Om beach."

When we're there, the autorickshaw driver seems almost shy to ask for money (though when he does, he's talking dollar conversion). He insists I figure out what he deserves, but manages a look of deep hurt and resignation when I give him what I think is a generous amount. "Foreigners never argue," he says. Guiltily, I slip him some more money, not realizing that I have now established a non-negotiable fee that he will forever hold me by. Still, I store his mobile number as "Only transport", and walk into Swaswara.

Their website had asked me to "be watchful, for here, spaces expand and time slows down." They've taken their warning seriously. My "room" door opens to a miniature Konkan villa, complete with cool red-oxide floors and tiled roofs. And, of course, the open-roofed bathrooms: initially unsettling, but gradually inviting more and more indulgent baths. The yoga room upstairs soon became my regular spot for tea and staring.

Five minutes from here is Om Beach, whose sands are footprint-free. Not because the sea does an impeccable clean-up job, but because monsoon is a time Gokarna goes from being a tourist spot to a town going about its business. People live on off-season mode, believing that tourists don't want their hair and feet wet. So although Gokarna's an almost round-the-year destination, most places that let out beach-shacks and cottages close down almost as soon as the first dark cloud makes its appearance. But those that are open are glad to have you, and serve up well-meaning chai and fried rice.



Even when Gokarna is introvert, it manages to make the endless expanse of the Arabian Sea seem like my own little holiday space; like all I have to do is clamber up another bump in the Western Ghats to conquer another bit of sea. From Om Beach, I walk a marked route up a mountain, stopping once in a while to get a top-view of the beach's Om shape. I stomp through a forest clearing for 15 minutes, simply following the sound of the waves.



Kudla Beach shines many shades of orange through the forest darkening after sunset. Palm trees line the beach, as if it's perfectly normal to stand there right next to big masses of sea-eroded boulders. A few fishermen venture out with torches, searching for fish that might get thrown up when the waves mess about in mountain crevices. When I'm done being stunned, I notice a board that says "Dangerous route. Do not use before sunrise or after sunset. Beware of robbers and thieves. -- Gokarna Police". A fisherwoman offers to let me stay in their house for the night, but I risk the walk (ok, ok, petrified dash) back to Swaswara. Thank you, good diligent man, whoever you are, for painting a white arrow every five steps up to Om Beach.

At Swaswara, I prescribe myself a Bollywood style shower dance in the open-roofed bath. At dinner, I look at the fish on my plate. Don't I know this fellow? "Just caught from Kudla Beach by local fishermen, madam," says Manjunath, 24-year-old proud wearer of F&B manager badge. There are vegetables too, in case it hurts to eat someone you've just met. The menu is flexible, and you'll get almost whatever you want. Even conversation. The staff will you tell you unbelievable season-time stories. Of when beaches are full of foreign tourists and backpackers from Goa who stay so long they have tabs in the town market. Of Gokarna (cow's ear) being named for the ear-shaped confluence of two rivers. Of how the man who runs 'The Spanish place' in Kudla fell in love with a Spanish traveller.



I sleep well, until it gets slightly colder and some fat clouds explode on top of the place. It rains with a vengeance here. Unbroken, noisy sheets of water. Till sunrise. Then the sky tells you to go on with your holiday. So I do. An auto takes me to town at the earlier standardised rate.

Gokarna is a little town, too high up in the Western Ghats to be bustling. October to February is the time most tourists land there, so a rare monsoon traveller is a delight, and is quickly assumed a pilgrim. Shopkeepers, temple priests, local tribes selling flowers... everyone is ready to break into a story. The temple town of Gokarna has about 18 temples i.e. more than two temples per street. When the shrines tend to get quite repetitive, someone suggests visiting only the town's main lord: Mahabaleshwar. It's the one temple stop to holiness.
There, a board says "Foreigners are prohibited inside the temple". A tad unfriendly for this century, what? Many agitated priests justify that god doesn't like unbathed people and they're not sure if foreigners bathe. Those they think are tidy are advised to spend a bomb for a Shiva linga puja. After a total flop of embarrassed bargaining, I try to get my money's worth by getting the priests to explain all the legends of the temple town. With illustrations.

Only a little wiser, I walk to the nearby Gokarna beach, the only one accessible inside the town. If it wasn't monsoon, and I wasn't a woman, priests would've persuaded me to appease my departed ancestors. A puja for the dead (tharpanam) performed at the seacoast is one of the reasons Gokarna's a sacred destination. But it's raining, and all I see is some snoozing Brahmins and white cows chewing on the discarded puja flowers.



The town covered in half a day, I head to the two beaches I've been warned to only touch by road: the Half moon and Paradise beaches, which can be reached by auto or trek. The adventurous spirit wins, and takes the forbidden path. This time, there are no white arrows to show the way. Just an often-taken muddy track that's now running off the cliff because of the non-stop drizzle. Some dependable rocks are held on to, and the photographer Kedar and I look down at the Half Moon beach. More peril, less sand, this beach. But any peril will seem worth it if dolphins suddenly slice through the sea surface. Four of them, like synchronised swimmers. We watch and breathe the sight in. The drizzle slowly turns impolite, urging us to turn back. Paradise is far, far, away and may be conquered in a safer summer.

The sand is shrugged and shaken off and one hand grabs the chai, while the other snatches the buttered toast. We await twilight for Kedar's "perfect blue sky". Whoever said rain would play spoilsport doesn't know how fair it plays the game in Gokarna.

By the horn

It's surprising how easily my eyes get used to flying dust. How soon I forget the unsteadiness of the wobbly wooden gallery (goda) that is supposed to keep me 'safe' 30 odd feet up in the air. How stupidly I actually think I can leave half way through this.
The first thing I'm told at Alanganallur is that once I'm there for the jallikattu, there's no leaving. I look in horror at a chap sharpening his bull's horn with obvious relish. Seeing my face, Hari (local reporter who can find his way out of vast fields and bridges suddenly breaking halfway on rivers) reassures me that all the exit restrictions are so a clueless stroller doesn't get in the way of a bull running wild in the village. "There are no rules in this game, you see. The bull can be anywhere, and it can think anyone is the bull-tamer."
So that's what it is about: A thousand mad bulls; more than 10000 people packed in the backyard of a small village temple; and no rules. One by one, the bulls are let loose into an arena full of unarmed bullfighters who go right for the horn.
The lady-with-the-stick who let us on the third floor of her goda says it used to be a one-man-to-one-bull game. Even now, the loudspeaker announcer keeps yelling that only one man can tame each animal, and the others are to please peel off the bull and let it go. The crackly voice keeps saying, in earsplitting volume, that the prize (could be anything: pressure cooker, non-stick pan, pot, pan, ladle, goat, hen, cot, almirah, dish antenna (really), TV, steel plates) is only for the guy who hangs on to the hump for 50 metres in the crowd as the bull bucks and twists to throw him off.

But no one's listening.

In all that boozed blind bravery, the bulls don't have it easy. Their tails are bitten, eyes poked, their stomachs prodded with sticks. But after watching for a while, I realize that the bulls are the ones that are managing tons better than the hundreds that lie in the hospital for weeks after this day.

I've heard of dark tourism, but can't put my finger on what it is about jallikattu that locks people into a spell... I caught myself watching wide-eyed, my hand in my mouth, my feet ice-cold. I found myself pointing frantically to whoever was nearby. Look, just look at that bleeding man. We talk of numbers immediately... how many injured last year, this year, today. How many already dying of blood loss. Then another bull comes charging into the crowd, and my hand goes to my mouth again. Our behaviour is only short of cheering.
A toothless old man with a thigh full of proud scars tells me it all started when small pox affected Alanganallur (Madurai district) ages ago. People prayed for a cure, and decided on this "blood sacrifice". So if even a year goes by without a drop of blood smearing the village earth, he says the local goddess will make sure an epidemic hits the village. "Of course, these days, there's no small pox," he adds, "So maybe cholera will come."
They can believe anything they want, and have any sort of game. But what happens on the back of the arena can't be called belief. Pouring arrack down the bull's throat, stuffing gaanja in their fodder, tying heavy stones to their balls... These bulls are trained all their lives for jallikattu, kept in isolation in a dark shed, seeing just the tender. Then once a year, it is let out into a ground full of mad men clawing at it. The animal loses it in a second. A wild game is one thing, but do they really have to mete out planned torture?

Hari tells me it's all in the business of bull trading. If a bull is tamed, it's sold cheap. If it escapes untamed, it goes for a super price. But the highest bidding is for bulls that steal the show (I'm told usually Trichy bulls)... ones that give the audience something to watch... some poking, butting, stamping, bleeding.
When I feel sick about a man getting gored, I am angry at the freakin bull because it isn't as defenseless as the men. The next moment, I see 20 guys poking the bull, pulling at its legs, and sticking needles up its hooves. I'm immediately on the animal's side. Till it waves its horns at a man in its way, and his white shirt is suddenly soaked red. On, and on, my mind played games.
For the audience, that's probably what jallikattu is. A 24-hour test of conscience.

town criers

Slow to react, we all are. In all our worries about passing exams, getting home on time, not burning the milk, paying the phone bill on the last day, filling petrol before the bike breaks down, finding a home, finding peers, asking boss for leave, not getting fleeced by the automen, watching soaps to see if the vamp gets her way, and oh so many mini-paranoias, we are only taken aback by a tsunami.
Not shocked, terrified, or anxious. Just taken aback. Dazed.

I was going to blog of how I ran from the huge wave in Mahabalipuram rushing to swallow the town, but I heard too many people say, "I almost died, you know… I'm ok now. And I'm all ready to party on New Year's".
I'll desist from telling my tale. I don't want to be another tourist with a digital camera, capturing a capsized boat with the naked orphan bawling next to it. I'll let the ones who know speak.
*****

This morning…

Me: Did the tsunami affect some more slums last night?
Automan Raja: There are no slums left, ma… See how everyone's on the streets…
Me: Is your house ok?
R: Mine was a brick house. One full wall crashed down on Sunday morning. I'm wearing my brother's shirt. I'm left with nothing but my life.
Me: Oh. Your family…
R: Thank god, ma. They're all alive. We are living in this school here (points to it as we pass by).
Me: The government is giving some compensation, no?
R: Yes, yes… Rs.2000, rice, and clothes. Oh, to get that stupid Rs.2000, the kind of nonsense I had to go through… No queue, nothing. They'll throw it and we have to catch. Everyone was stamping on each other, grabbing whatever they could. It was like they were feeding wolves.
Me: Umm… Rs.2000? For how long?
R (Laughs): Till another tsunami strikes!
Me: …
R: That's all, kannu. That's all they'll give us. But Jayalalithaa has asked for more funds. I hear so many people are donating money and medicines. But where? I haven't got anything… I don't know where it all goes. We can't say politicians take rice away! They might sit there on their asses doing nothing, but I think we poor people are the ones really stealing away from each other.
Me: How can you say that?!
R: Because everyone's afraid they're going to die now. If I sit dry and safe in a big house far away from the sea, I might feel sympathy. But right now, I want my family to be alive. I don't care if the guy in Nagapattinam dies.
<<>>
Me: Do you get food regularly?
R: They bring food to us everyday. Some sambar rice in packets. They bring it in the kuppathotti lorry (garbage lorry). The food stinks, but we have to eat, no? All the kids have been vomiting since 4 days.
<<>>
Me: I'll get off at Santhome church.
R: Santhome? It's near Marina, I hope you know. Be careful, ma… Don't go near the beach. If something happens to you, your parents will not be able to bear it.
Me: I thought you didn't care…
R (grins): What to do? Stupid human feelings…
*****

This morning at home…

Me: Your daughter didn't come with you today?
Maid Chellamma: No, she's gone to my old house near Besant Nagar beach. It's all broken.
Me: Who stays there now? Is it your own house?
C: What you are asking me such idiotic questions? As if I'll have my own house! I'm a maid!
Me: So? My maid in Bangalore has a house…
C: Are her children earning?
Me: Yes.
C: So there. Mine is still in school.
Me: Ok, anyway… did the people living in your old house get money from the government?
C: Yes. They got Rs.100, 3 kg rice, one sari and one lungi.
Me: Rs.100?! Per head?
C: Oho. If it's per head, will you be happy?
Me: No, even that is not enough. Unless it's per head per day till you find a new place to stay in.
C: Aaaha. Sure. The government will give like that. It's actually Rs.2000 per family. But the real house owner comes after the government officers have gone, and take the money away. They give us Rs.100.
Me: It makes some sense. I mean, he only has to rebuild the house no?
C: Ok fine then. Shouldn't they have some provision for the tenants also? Does it mean that just because I stay on rent, I can die?
Me: Come on, Chellamma, don't be dramatic…
C: Tell me… how many people like you--students and young working people--live on rent? If some earthquake happened and your house crashed with all your possessions inside, will you say "Paavam, the owner will have to reconstruct"? You might find a new place to rent, but what about your belongings?
Me: They should have separate compensation for the tenants...
C: Are you even listening? I said those people got just Rs.100 to wipe their ass with.
Me: What about private people helping?
C: Yes, thank god for that. So many are surviving only because of that. But I think much of the contributions are not reaching us. Ok one help I want... Will you ask people to give their help to credible organisations? Or they can come and help us directly. We won't bite and eat them up.

railway trackback

One-stop station of moments waiting to happen....

Mission: Get to Counter-9 and book train tickets
Obstacle in path: Rickety ladder with bamboo extensions, from which hang paint buckets. Painters already on top of the ladder, so moving ladder out of the way is, well, out of question.
Gnawing thought (as a result of repeatedly justified fears about cosmic conspiracies regarding ticket availability): Dammit! Does walking under a ladder HAVE to bring bad luck? And is bad luck = not getting tickets? Is just forgetting about the tickets and going back to work an option?
Steely resolve: Will get tickets. Will walk under ladder.
Just then, I see an old man in a navy blue safari suit clutching a fat bunch of ticket forms. His hand is placed strategically on pant pocket, where (hopefully) an unstolen, but well-noticed-by-all wallet sits. He mutters a silent prayer, sighs deeply, and zips to Counter-9 under the ladder. On the way, he dramatically ducks, as if all the buckets of paint are standing poised to splash and thud right on his head. But he gets tickets!!
Emboldened, I too travel under cursed ladder. Waiting list 260. "No chance, madam." Proof 57 of cosmic conspiracy.
….

What’s with the urge to always drink coffee at the railway station and mix the sugar with the clever straw+stirrer? Everyone who passes by the coffee vendor visibly debates the purchase of a beverage. A lot of feet shuffling, hand crossing & uncrossing later, 9 out of 10 people eventually buy the coffee/tea/instant soup. It's wonderful to lose to your mind (as opposed to losing your mind, of course)
….

Madness at the railway ticket reservation counter. A distinct smell of limestone. Grey figures bustle about in paint-splashed shorts, their dull brown skin hidden under layers of whitewash. For me, they smell of the nostril-tickling freshness of walking into a newly painted house, of glistening things, clean things, of moving in.
But when they breathe in their own enamel smell, it must be no more than a reminder of another patch to be painted over.

....
Autorickshaw-wallahs and policemen sharing a lewd joke outside the station. Damsel in distress (read non-kannada speaking girl alighted from First Class Two tier AC compartment of train, who can’t find an auto to take her home) arrives at the scene. Cop's face hardens, he straightens up and orders the auto-guy to take her home. The girl is all gratitude.
The cop winks at auto-man in the brief moment before the auto takes off. Knowing nods exchanged. Ah, jobs well carried out.