Partial Truths

I know you hate me because I’ve been such a spectacular failure at posting pictures as I go along; I’m not particularly impressed with myself either. I swear I am about to remedy this.

But in the meantime, my lovely and much more efficient friend Linda has posted her Kerala photos and they include our backwaters day and the trip to Munnar (including the food) – you can even spot me in one or two if you look carefully. Thank you for these, Linda!

And here I am again, cocooned in an air conditioned bubble within this hot, heaving city, threatening to burst open at its permanently strained seams.

It’s disorientating in a way, being back in Bombay after six weeks in such a mixture of places. It’s lovely – I’m taken wonderful care of, I have friends here, and it’s the perfect spot to stop for a few days, to sleep and to recharge ready for my journey north. And at the same time it’s yet another baffling facet of a country that sometimes seems to exist purely to confound. Any attempt at getting to grips with the multitude and diversity of existences that carry on simultaneously within this giant landmass is futile really – as is any ambition to “understand” India. India is an ever evolving process, not an entity to be pinned to a page and classified like a butterfly. It’s a country that happens to you, and the second it senses any complacency in your “knowledge” of it, it will stick out an enormous foot to trip you up, leaving you sitting on your arse in the dust.

But that’s what makes it fun. There’s no room for arrogance when travelling in India – there’s plenty of it amongst tourists, but their desperate assurance that they “know India” just makes them look a bit silly and above all lends them an earnestness that seems to preclude all enjoyment of the journey, so intent are they on defining every aspect of their experience according to their self-constructed parameters of what is India. Much more fun, in my humble opinion, to acknowledge that you haven’t got much of a clue, probably never will have, but that the journey itself is just fantastic.

On Friday I’m flying to Delhi, on Saturday taking the train to DehraDun and then the bus to Mussoorie.

Main school ja rehi hoon! I’m going to school!

From Varkala to Trivandrum on the train, swimming across the road to the bus in what would later prove to herald a week of rain and arriving four hours later across the Tamil border in Tirunelveli, to be met by a breathless and bright-eyed Immanuel asking, “Excuse me! Are you Kathy’s friend?”

With two friends of Kathy’s daughter who had already been there for a couple of days, we went first to meet Dr Chelliah, founder and overseer of SCHT Boys’ Home, one of two projects supported by The Neem Tree Trust, before heading to the home itself. There are currently 80 boys living there, ranging in age from about six to 19 or thereabouts. Many of the older ones have polio-related disabilities, but as progress is made towards its eradication the home provides care for younger children with a range of needs: orphaned or semi-orphaned boys and those with physical (cerebral palsy, club feet) or learning disabilities whose families don’t have the resources, the time, or the support to raise children with such complex needs and uncertain futures. While at the home, the boys go to school and some of them undertake additional voctional training – in tailoring, or computers for example.

The home comprises a large plot of rural land and aside from the central living quarters it includes a gymnasium, a small dairy, a vegetable garden, a miniature dhobi ghat for laundry, a pets corner, study rooms and workshops, a music room, a playground and a very healthy amount of space in which the kids are left to roam with a freedom few Western kids grow up knowing these days. It’s basic, all of it – the kids sleep on mats on the floor, have few clothes and very little “stuff”. Many of the rooms are gloomy and as with childrens’ homes the world over, SCHT suffers from the perennial problem of too few staff to allow for the degree of individual emotional nurture that all kids deserve.

The ethic of the project, though, as pasionately explained by Dr Chelliah, is to ensure that the boys achieve independence – “that they are able to stand on their own two feet”. There are those for whom this is an obviously inappropriate metaphor, but there are also those for whom it assumes an additional potency, when corrective surgery, or the fitting of calipers allows boys a previously unknown, and unexpected, mobility.

The “poor/deprived/unfortunate/underprivileged but happy” affirmation can be a dangerous cliche when bandied around too liberally by Westerners in reference to developing countries. Too often it thinly disguises a desire to justify the status quo, the global inequality that privileges the few over the many. It’s a comfort for us to say how admirable and inspiring we find such attitudes and how much we can learn from “those people”, albeit not quite enough to make a change in the lifestyle we enjoy and which perpetuates the very inequality we claim to find repellent. But when it comes to kids, whose life experience is untainted by any notion of comparison, it’s a cliche that is really hard to avoid. Joyous, joyous smiles and laughter and fun. So much intelligence and so much wit that shines through the eyes, easily transcending the language barrier.

The vocabulary of smiles becomes so much more intricate in the absence of words. A grinning face from amongst the leaves as a new friend scaled a palm tree, chucking down coconuts just so we could drink the water (and all my colonial complexes come surging forth); the knowing glint in the eye of little Mouse as he comes barrelling across the concrete on two club feet, muscling his way to the front of every photo; the giggles of the five wardens as we sat with them in the evening, fully aware of the stir we three young white women were creating, watching them teasing each other for our benefit and making the most of the chance to have fun. And “Pulli” (“Tiger”, which I nicknamed him because it was the first Tamil word he taught me, and because it’s fun to say), who has little English and explained through Immanuel his frustration at not being able to communicate with me (although he hopefully understood when I suggested in reply that my slightly less then stellar Tamil might also have been part of the problem), but whose smile-shining eyes and statement as we said goodbye: “I very practise English” told me all I needed to know.

And the food was fabulous. It’s almost a given that homecooked South Indian food is going to be wonderful, but let not me become so complacent that I don’t deign to mention it. We went to the kitchen to say thank you – nantri – to Grandma the cook, one of only two women working at the home, but whose gender is negated by her age.

A happy time and lovely to feel that it wasn’t just a one-off photo opportunity, that I will get news of the boys through Kathy’s visits and I will hopefully return myself. I am invested now – I want to watch these children grow. I would love to spend time doing some art projects like in Thiruvalla, brightening up some of the rooms and giving the boys a chance to be creative. And how I would love to be there for Christmas!

My friend Jina is a gifted and courageous journalist whose commitment to post-genocide healing and reconciliation efforts currently finds her spending five months in Kigali, from where she writes her blog. Which you should read.

In a recent post, Jina mentioned her growing awareness of the absence of female voices on Kigali’s streets. It struck an immediate chord with me given that the same is largely true of India. While travelling, the vast majority of my meaningful interactions with Indians have been with men – many of them kind, intelligent and thoughtful men, and at least one of whom I consider a genuine friend. But to have a similar exchange with an Indian woman is rare, largely because in so many situations they are absent. The tourist-orientated service sector is virtually entirely populated by men and it tends to be young men, with some English and experience of foreign visitors, who have the confidence to strike up conversation. The chances I have had to spend time with women have been very special as a result – more than anywhere with the women and girls at Sevika Sanghom in Thiruvalla.

There are so many strictures governing behaviour (and I can only speak for Kerala at this point, though I know it to be true elsewhere) – particularly that of women. Watch girls sitting together on the bus and you will see them smothering any giggles and covering their mouths with their hands to disguise any laughter. Because God forbid they should be so uncouth as to indulge outright anything so undignified as spontaneous joy.

There’s a huge degree of pride, and often a tangible self-righteousness, amongst Keralans in the achievements of their state – the most “developed” in the nation, as they won’t hesitate to tell you. And there are certainly achievements to be proud of. But when Keralan men begin to crow about the emancipation of their women, it gets a bit much. What they mean is that most Keralan women have paid work outside the home on top of the unpaid work within it.

If women were as empowered as Keralan men like to suggest, would their status still be largely expressed through the male voice? Would I not see women strolling by the water together in the evenings whose very presence could tell me more than any amount of politically correct hyperbole? And wouldn’t my short journey home at 8.30pm last night have felt less like negotiating a gauntlet of a thousand staring eyes, because at least some of those men would have been at home helping their emancipated wives to put their children to bed?

In a funny spot. Relieved to be back in Kochi after a pretty miserable time in cold and damp Kumily. My recovery was thwarted somewhat by a questionable decision to go on a 7am jungle trek in the rain. Leeches galore, but wild bison and monkeys too as well as plentiful signs that the elephants were on the move just out of sight. Nevertheless, I was more than happy to accept the offer of a lift to Kochi from some new friends; it’s good to be back, but my stomach still isn’t right and it’s wearing me out too much to be able to relax and enjoy the city as much as I’d like.

But perhaps it was to be expected – I envisaged needing a few days to recharge in Bombay halfway through my trip (I’m halfway through!?) and my stamina thus far has been remarkable so I should perhaps appreciate that and be grateful that this has happened at a point when I had planned to slow down for a while anyway. Kochi is the perfect place to catch up with writing (an ongoing process) too – I spent a few hours with my diary yesterday afternoon-evening, sitting at Fort House with ginger tea, looking across the water to Vypeen Island while fish eagles circled overhead in blanket-warm air.

Having seen the truncated tourist-orientated kathakali show in Cochin, which was very well put together and more fulfilling than I had expected, I was harbouring a desire to see the “real” temple-based thing. It strikes initially as something of an esoteric world (which it isn’t really – if you don’t have the linguistic barrier you can find out about performances in the Malayali press); I had no idea how to go about finding a performance and I didn’t feel inclined to make too much of an effort – it felt like something that would come to me rather than vice versa. Which, of course, it did.

I had planned to leave Thiruvalla for Varkala on the Saturday, but then Katy and I were told there was kathakali on that evening at a local temple. Given all the restrictions and hang-ups of bizarre Thiruvalla there’s no way Katy could have gone alone – as it was we had to be dropped off and picked up at a set time by a pre-arranged rickshaw.

But it was utterly magical. It took place on a low stage in a small stone courtyard, covered but open-sided, extending out from the tiny temple at one end into what was essentially a three road junction at the other. We had no idea what to expect or how we would be received, but it was as unintimidating an atmosphere as you could imagine. Leaving our shoes on the threshold, we were urged in with a smile and we joined maybe a dozen or twenty people sitting, lolling, lying on the low wall that ran along the edge of the shelter. The whole experience was mesmerising: the drumming, the singing, the candles, the exquisiteness of every movement, the little boy brought along by his grandparents for a bit of culture and the woman giving him sweets to help him stay awake, the family with the newborn baby who slept through the din of the percussion, the people wandering past and stopping to share in the atmosphere for a while before carrying on home – including the family with three young girls decked out in white and gold and laden with jasmine. The gentle smiles and namaste from the musicians as we dragged ourselves away when our escort arrived at midnight, even though we would have loved to sit through until 5am; I felt part of a collective hypnotic journey.

The Varkala version was an interesting contrast. Six of us, (spanning the UK, US, Sweden, Norway and India) went for dinner at our favourite spot, then to the temple. This performance was a much bigger, more organised affair (read: more lights, more amplifiers, lots of plastic chairs, but free chai) as part of a ten-day festival. The temple itself looked beautiful, with strands of lights hanging from the trees. The initial music lasted a long time, and then we were sat on the floor quite far back with an obscured view of the stage, so it was nothing like as intimate as Thiruvalla. But it was a different dynamic; it was fun to be there with friends, behaving a bit like a bunch of kids on a school trip.

Lasting image from Thiruvalla: sitting on the wall and looking across to my left, seeing a man watching the performance from the doorstep of a building. Dressed in a lungi, with slim but strong bare chest and arms. And a green and red painted face, kohl-rimmed bloodshot eyes, and a white paper ruff framing his jaw.

I asked for rain and if the downpours continue for another three consecutive days it apparently officially counts as an early monsoon (though immediately having written this, I ask the internet cafe owner who says that’s rubbish – such is India. Although he did say that in 28 years he has never seen this much rain in March). I asked for some time out and after a ten hour two-bus journey I arrived in Kumily in the dark and the rain, found a room, heaved my guts into a bucket and dropped out of the human race for 32 hours.

But now I have reemerged- the “24 hour thing” adage is so true – and am enjoying the mild euphoria that accompanies recovery. Knowing that my body has healed itself (thank you!) and the excitement of being hungry again.

The rain was exhilarating at first, but its persistence and the knowledge of how unseasonal it is makes it a bit unnerving. It’s interesting to notice how the prospect of climate change (if that’s what is fuelling the rain – more than one person has told me that the weather has changed since the tsunami) is much more immediately impressive (in the literal sense) and unsettling to me here than at home. Which I imagine is because having grown up in a frequently unpredictable climate and living a life that continues fairly independently of it, changes in the British weather have less of an impact upon me, whereas here, where every Keralan will tell you that the monsoon begins on June 1st every year, and where livelihoods are affected quite catastrophically by a week of unseasonal rain, weather patterns are relied upon for their regularity and dramatic shifts appear much more alarming.

More flippantly, the low cloud and persistent rain isn’t doing much for our animal-spotting chances. Leeches seem to be our best bet, and they’re not exactly top of my list. But at least I’m feeling better; even if from underneath an umbrella with no animal life in sight, it’s still pretty special to be within a stone’s throw of the space where tigers roam.

Everything’s moving so fast; in a wonderful, exhilarating, overwhelming way. But I have so much to say and no time to say it in.

I ended up staying in Varkala for an extra day, mainly to spend some more time with Shiva and Azam and to go to kathakali with a bunch of friends on Thursday night. Then on Friday I went to Tirunelveli and spent the weekend between the boys’ home and the leprosarium, about which I have so much to say but I need the time to do it justice. Then yesterday I took a prehistoric, leaking, bunny-hopping bus to meet Andy in happening Madurai, where I am now, and we’re about to head off somewhere else in his car today (luxury), before doubling back to meet Katy in Periyar tomorrow evening.

I have so much to write about and in a much less perfunctory manner than the above. I’m planning an online day very soon – until then, rest assured that I am well and happy and that my heart is full; I promise to be in more eloquent touch very soon.

After a week of being one of only two white faces in town and working with women who might otherwise be destitute, I spent the first evening in Varkala wandering around in a bit of a daze, slightly shell-shocked by the half-mile strip of shops, restaurants, hostels and tourists jostling for space on the edge of the striking red cliff. It’s a strange place – an unreal feeling bubble that bears no relation to anything within even a 15 minute walking of this one spot. It’s both an easy and mildly unsettling place to spend a few days.

My experience has been enhanced, as always, through the people I’ve met. Particularly Azam, a young Jaipuri guy who spends the season here with his brother running a jewellery shop and revelling in communication with people from all over the world. He’s a special soul who looks for the lesson in everything, with a very philosophical, optimistic approach to life that lends him a wisdom beyond his years. Plus, he’s helping me with my Hindi and teaching me beautiful sayings that he guarantees will earn me, “One thousand kisses and five thousand hugs” from Abhinav. And he took me to a great local thali place away from the crowds yesterday – a new friendship sealed through the stomach; par for the course with me.

Ooh, and last night I had sublime fish tikka – the best fish I’ve had in India, if not anywhere.

Tomorrow I’m heading to Tamil Nadu, to visit the boys.