March 22, 2012
Took a slightly long trip to Adoor in Pathanamthitta district around 90 km from Thiruvananthapuram this hot and humid afternoon with Saiju and Vidhu. We halted at a construction site near Vattappara where 22 villas and a few apartments are being planned. At a depression towards a side of the huge plot, a small disorderly pile forms the cemetery of the coconut tree roots that have lost their ground as part of the plan. The panoramic view from the villas will feature the green tops of coconut groves and rubber estates. Since the location is hardly 4km from Technopark, half of the villas have already been sold though they exist at this point only in the blue ink of the architect's imagination and anticipated numbers of engineering and economic precision.
There is something nostalgic about car journeys with friends swapping stories and jokes from the past. Malayalam language has the endearing capacity of providing unexpected, unintentional double meaning possibilities with machine gun rapidity. The currently well maintained highway goes over numerous small streams and rivers. The speed breakers are obnoxious in their placement and hernia-inducing in their structure.
Our destination at Adoor was a hotel that reportedly rakes in the second highest daily revenue among hotels in Kerala. A typical small town movie theater is in business right behind the hotel. Arjun starer "Maasi" was running there. Judging from the posters, it is a typical Arjun movie. Formulaic story in which the good cop/detective/collector eradicates some goons in two hours interspersed by a couple of songs.
Standing on the second floor landing of the outer staircase of the hotel, "Maasi" soundtrack defusing from the theater with the closed door providing a deep bass effect took me back to my childhood. Our ancestral home in Thiruvananthapuram stands right behind the twin theaters, Dhanya & Ramya. In my primary school days, I have stood several afternoons in the narrow lane of the this house listening to the movie sound coming from the theaters. It was fun separating the unclear soundtracks of two movies in real time. These were the 80s when Prem Nazir and Jayan were still fighting, Mohanlal was still raping and getting beaten up and Mammootty was perpetually crying about his wife's death that has left him a single dad. As enjoyable as listening to these sounds was the cold spray from the grand old two-storeys tall air-conditioning units of the theater and surprised unsuspecting passers-by every few minutes.
I spent around 15 minutes on the stairwell watching a crow that was ignoring me from a branch right next to its nest at the top of a beautiful 'badaam' tree outside the theater and listented to the action packed climax of Maasi with music bits generously borrowed from Hollywood blockbusters. All the while, a wiry man, probably in his 40s but whom hard labor had aged at least an extra decade, was carrying hollow concrete bricks one by one from the stack on the ground to the second floor of the building. It has been several decades since mankind has invented machines to do this job. Yet in India, perhaps man still remains cheaper than those machines. At one point,when I had moved up a flight of stairs to the higher landing to get more of the Maasi soundtrack, this laborer unnecessarily climbed that extra flight of stairs for he had placed my position as a marker for the point of turn to deliver the bricks.
20-25 men, mostly in the 20-40 age ground came out of the theater, once the show ended abruptly as soon as the final credits rolled in with a heroic song in the background. This audience was a sample of the still strong Tamilian presence in Kerala. It is especially strong in Pathanamthitta district, home of the Sabarimala temple.
But there was enough evidence of the growing north Indian immigrant presence inside the building where reconstruction was in progress. A handwritten notice stuck on a wall requested its readers in Malayalam not to urinate there. Above the Malayalam part of the poster, written in red sketch pen was: "Yahan peshaab karna mana hai. Agar kiya to pachaas ru dena ho ga - Aji annan". A certain Aji 'annan', probably the construction site caretaker, had put a price of Rs. 50 for any untoward fluid expulsion by Hindi speaking immigrant laborers in that location.
If it was the Tamilians who populated the movie theater, the ground floor bar of the hotel itself was religiously packed by Malayalees, invariably men from the lower economic strata. It was hardly 5pm. Since the mugginess of the weather had intensified, we sought refugee in a nearby fruit juice stall. After having ordered the famous "Sharjah" shake, we realized that we didn't know what the ingredients of the shake were. A moment of shame! There was general consensus that this milk shake had banana. But wasn't there a hint of custard apple? Back home later in the night, I learnt that it has banana, cardamom, frozen milk and chocolate powder though innumerable improvisations are allowed.
The heat and the dark skies of the afternoon culminated in a massive, half an hour long thunderstorm soon after 5pm. Drenched in the rain, Adoor suddenly resembled a high-range small town of north Kerala. The drenched drunkards who had just walked out of bars cursed the downpour for ruining their high.
Intermittent heavy rains throughout the route slowed the return journey considerably. On our way to Adoor, we had stopped at a missionary run central school that had a strikingly large number of stray dog and one dog chained to a pillar near the main office. I guess that dog is supposed to feel privileged. On the way back, the stop was at a nunnery and its associated working women's hostel. From the secrecy of the tinted windows of the car, it was interesting to observe the swiftly changing expressions of the senior nun. While she flashed a quick and lasting smile while talking to someone, as soon as they turned away a deep brooding consumed her face. I won't call it sinister. But heaven apparently isn't all that it is made out to be, I suppose! I wonder how many 'hail mary's would amend having noticed that a nun possessed exquisite calves as she gathered up her habit to cross the mud pools the rain had left behind.
My first coffee at the Indian Coffee House after coming back to India. Compared to the 50 rupee coffees of Cafe Coffee Day, the 8 rupee coffee of ICH is most welcome. The 'masala' of the masala dosas of ICH uses beetroot and tomatoes, so it is more red and tastier compared to the yellow mush that usually comes hidden inside the dosas everyplace else.
Once night fell, negotiating the competing curves of the slick road that was frequently made invisible by the utterly imbecile drivers who had never heard of dimming their headlights, became quite arduous. On top of that was the worry about the fuel indicator needle stuck at its breaking point past empty. There is a disturbingly long stretch between Kottarakkara and Valakom where there are no gas stations.
Refueling past Valakom. In the relief, discussion turned to the heroines currently hot in the Malayalam film market. Rain was lashing the car and the squeaky windscreen wipers kept reminding me of the incredible trailer of Jean-Pierre Jeunet's Delicatessen! As the name Ramya Nambeesan was mentioned in the list of actresses, I noticed something come crashing down on the highway around 25 meters ahead of us. "Thengu...thengu" I shouted warning about the collapsed coconut tree. Quick negotiating around the heavy tree trunk. The tree that stood tall a few seconds ago now formed a barrier across half of the highway. Had it fallen a few seconds later, it would have crushed the car. Names of movie actresses would have made a really sad set of infamous last words! Nitya Menen, Shweta Menon, Ramya Nambeesan....death by coconut tree!
Back inside Thiruvananthapuram city, quick stop to buy fresh fish. Three women sell fish late into the night in the road that leads to Nalanda from Plamoodu. Of the three, only one attracts all the fishophiles who are on the prowl at that late hour. She deftly cuts up two small tuna for us. Reasonable pricing. We take a couple of snaps of the fishy arrangement flanked by thick flamed smoking oil lamps. "Naale pathrathil koduthittu chaakara aanenu paranjekkane" (Put the photograph on newspaper tomorrow and write that it is 'chaakara'), she tells us. Chaakara is the phenomenon of huge swarms of fish and shrimp coming to the coast of Kerala due to mudbank formation during monsoons.
The heavy rain relieving the mounting heat wave of the past days was great. But it certainly wasn't the monsoons. Chaakara will have to wait!
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