The air was cool this afternoon as I looked out of my small window, a little rectangle rounded on its four corners that framed a day listless outside scorched by the unforgiving sun. As lunch rolled out the smells of coconut gravy, pungent garlic mixed with the sourish chilli relish, I looked down at my sad chutney, the briyani stared back at a face that flashed the sight of everything sinking in. Finally.
Smells of bodily flesh intermingled with the sweet caresses of jasmine and hair oil. A chaotic yet smooth blend of local Bharat Tamil tongues lashed out the yet to be finished village gossip while I spied on the many shaven heads of the pilgrims that had paid their vows amongst the temples, the hundred steps, the offerings and the chants, the bells and the statues. I read the headlines, Tendulkar scored the highest ever in an ODI, first to reach 200. The president and the prime minister took up front corners to congratulate him. He dedicated his win to the Indian people.
Every so often a child grunted unhappily, only to be settled by its mother. After all we were squashed in ceaseless rows of black lines, cushioned and smelling of a new aircraft. Here I sat, in seat 26A on board AK238 to KLIA. The captain had just announced that it's a beautiful day out there and the crew would like to wish us a pleasant flight. We were cruising at 700km/h. I was getting two and a half hours away further from India. Some bumpy weather forecast was predicted but in the meanwhile, he told us to just "sit back and relax".
I would had been playing with a fantasy of writing from a tight little room, lit only by a melting candle. But here I was in reality, making my way back into Malaysia. I never thought I would be feeling this way but I did - miss Malaysia, home and heck, I suspected perhaps a dash nostalgic about India too. It's been a mad ride that began with many doubting if I would "last" for two weeks in India, and here I stood, after leaving my mark from as North as Kashmir to the Southern tip of Kanyakumari. I had learned about an epic 4-day train trip that will take you exactly on that sort of North-to-South excursion, and I had also been told that the Tamil Nadu part of the 4-6 laned highway had been completed, to join the rest of India's continuance in building the linking arteries of railway tracks and tarmac tunnels. Small villages may be ran over, lands breathed with life rained by the stone pellets, tar and pressure, all hammered down by the raw force of machines and back-bending labourers. In a way, it felt truly an honour to have been a small part of the witness community in seeing a great nation transitioning Herself.
Our days from the comfortable cottage of Dale Thorpe at Kodaikanal, we carried ourselves, gusto and weariness in both to the two cities dotting the pilgrim route - Tiruchirapalli (Trichy) and Tanjavur, seats of the finest Dravidian temples that were protected from invasion by the Ghats and time. Kodai was a small town up in the cool hill stations, a home built in the 1930s. A town that stretched down one road where cows, furry dogs and children pattered up and down the whole day, with an array of birds and trees that coloured the skyline as we laid ourselves down on the warm grassy carpet - throwing the days away in making rhymes, trivia and love. The manager of the place, Shaheed took care of the smallest details and it was truly a wonderful getaway to ferret away your woes and take walks in a sweater, gaping at homes built in the likes of a granny's cottage with a fireplace. The week folded out with many lazy walks to the chai shops and roadside stir-fry dinners. The home's cook whipped up really great Southern Indian meals but in what looked like a sleepy town that held funny corners, it was nice to venture out as we made a friend in a dog, fed another while also rescued a trapped finch. The flowers, were a joy to photograph. I remembered the morning I waited outside on the garden for our ride to Trichy to arrive, my eyes looked up at the acorn tree - brown little things sitting perched on the branches like faithful sparrows attending morning mass, with the early sun preaching the promise of a peaceful day that was all that common to the residents of Kodai.
Before we realised, our car flew down 2km above sea-level, passing the shrine of St. Paul the watcher of travellers, pine trees and little mosques and temples, cemeteries that buried the various brothers of different faiths, all the same when they were put to rest on the ground next to each other. Painted messages on the rocky walls shouting "Free Tibet" looked completely out of place in a location that villages cared for little except for the farms' upkeep and their children's attendance at school by the clock. Posters of the CM's son, Stalin (you read right) blasted his lion face, much to my amusement that many politicians had an affinity to portray themselves with the very same animal that symbolised power and leadership. Case in point, Munnar saw one that did a snarling facial pose next to a jaguar doing the same. I thought the latter would have been better at getting people to fall in line? Hence, Kodai was your lion. Our chatters with the cab driver yarned about the state's socialist policies, unpaid government loans and the government's corruption. Damn if you do, damn if you don't.
The heat hit you like a thousand slaps. Coconuts, sugarcanes, palms and dusty box-shaped homes ran an unsettling combination of fertile canvas smeared with the poverty reflected by the homeless, children without education, and dirty water.Yet, even the displaced craved for order. Rows of knitted palm houses planted themselves underneath free lands, next to power towers and a black, tepid pond. Not too far away, I saw a man bucketed some water to wash himself. As quickly as the film rolled past, my left was washed over with mustard yellow fields while looked at my right that was nothing but parched mahogany. A tired old man got down to push his rusty, creaky bicycle loading his day's ware - fifty over coconuts that would had weighed ten times his meagre body weight. He panted, his eyes lit the determination that aroused the feelings of empathy that came over me. This would come over me many times again. I saw lean, tightly wound muscles, blackened into rare ebony by the harsh sun in their daily struggle to wring a living out of their sweat and toil. These men would rein in cattles, dig the land, chop the wood, risk their lives on the coconut trees high above. No job was too hard. The women would match each exertion similarly. Children were to blossom through their smiles into these adults, continuing a long line of supply to ensure Tamil Nadu's core of provision for hard labour, factory productions and agriculture.
Then we were in Trichy. It felt hot and stuffy. I could barely breathe and I wasn't sure if it was the heat. My mind became really restless and I wasn't having as much fun as I thought I would, especially on my last few days on this India leg. The situation reminded me a bit of my high school graduation - all things too confusing and murky because I was too nervous and happy at the same time. I wanted to fastforward time, I didn't want to recognise the conclusion of what had been truly a journey that changed my perspective on a lot of things, discovered my strengths and weaknesses, of looking at the Devil in the eye and not run away, of one that I had to tell my hubby that as much as it wasn't easy on many fronts, I was so immensely glad that we did it together.
Beyond the ride to Tanjavur, the markets and comparing how two towns such as Trichy and Tanjavur could throw up probably the most heniously arranged township planning, one must had reminded one's self that where else you will be amongst such real living, such honesty and rawness? It was so undressed that the nakedness almost shamed the shy and the meek. India was almost challenging me. Look, at my curves, the dust on my face, smell the heady perfume, lust after my spirit. You knew that playing safe would have you going home all dry and clean but it was really such a cop out.
I got back, rained the shower on my head and allowed my emotions ran over me. I succumbed to Her frightening lure. India had a way to seriosly piss you off with how frank She could be yet like a wonderful person that you felt that you had travelled so many miles but had yet to meet only now for the first time, you fell into this absolute ridiculous infatuation that got you blushing when you saw yourself in the mirror. I hated how She made me went all uncomfortable because my ego prohibited me to show any feelings. I hated how She saw right through me. I just hated how skillful She snaked into my conscience.
I hated how I could not get Her out of my mind. If this was neither obsession nor a heartfelt touch by an angel, then I didn't know anything else.
Here I sat, still probably another two hours away to home although I already felt that I was walking away from a home that I had came to call new. One that fought through my own resistance, got into my soul and ripped my defence apart. Thank you India for showing me that to be brave to face myself was in all my weaknesses, an awareness, which I had come to find my own.
In my strongest and anew. For that, how could I ever be grateful enough?
