Excerpts from My Travel Journal: A Year in Russia II

The Small Yellow Bus

The public transportation in Yekaterinburg is pretty good. There are both large and small buses, trams, vans and the metro. The latter is convenient but nothing compared to the bigger cities like Moscow and St. Petersburg. Everything is easy navigable. The buses, trams and vans all have numbers. The numbers indicate the routes and destinations. You don’t even need to tell the conductor where you’re going because a ride of any distance is 26 rubles. It rose to around 28 by the time I left. The public transportation can also be accessed by an electronic card (which is cheaper than paying cash) that you recharge at metro stations.

I usually commute to and from work in a yellow bus because I find it quicker. There a bit like Kerala private buses not in terms of size but rash driving and the amount of people that are crammed in. It made me oddly nostalgic. However, the most absurd and embarrassing things usually take place in said buses. One time, the bus driver was driving incredibly recklessly: one hand was on the steering wheel, the other was on his mobile phone, which he was animatedly talking into. He hit the brakes suddenly and everyone who was standing crashed into each other. I flew into an older Russian gentleman. I wanted to apologize. I look up at him and in my mind I’m saying sorry, but I know only a few Russian words at this point. I say spasiba because it had a similar ‘s’sound. Now, if you’re well versed in the language, you’ll know that this means thank you.

My Babushka Obsession

Babuskha is a Russian word I knew long before going to Russia. I came across it in an old short story back in primary school, the title of which I can’t remember for the life of me. I like how the word forms in my mouth. It means grandmother. All grandmothers are cute, but there’s something special about Russian babushkas be it how they dress or their general demeanor. One Russian teenager described them as such: “They are like hard boiled eggs. Hard on the outside, soft on the inside.” These are strong women that have been through a lot. They’ve seen wars, deaths, uprisings, suffered long harsh winters and still walk and run with the confidence of a teenager. Once during winter, I saw a babushka run to catch a bus. She slipped on the ice and fell backwards. Before anyone could help her up, she was already up and on the bus.

Age is but a number

In the city, I saw a lot of babushkas and dadushkas (I suppose you should be able to guess what this means now) running about everywhere in the city. There are a number of them working as bus and tram conductors, water fillers and cashiers at supermarkets. Those who have settled into retirement continue to work (maybe they wouldn’t call it that) as babysitters for their children’s children. The babushkas and dabushkas in the city seemed to ooze confidence and independence. They’re quite different from the elderly I had seen so far. In fact, the idea of a retirement home seems to be unheard of here. They often live alone with their families close by to check in on from time to time.

There was a large babushka and dadushka population where I lived. In the afternoons, I would see a bunch of babushkas convening in front of the children’s play area. They were there to of course look after the children, but they took the opportunity to share news or gossip in other words. I deduced that I was often the subject of conversation by the way they quieted when I passed them. It made me smile because some things are so universal. Before winter, I also used to see a frail old dadushka with his walker near my building every day. He could barely walk, but that didn’t stop him. He walked at a snail’s pace, hardly paying mind to the teenagers whizzing past him on skateboards and scooters. The sheer determination, it was pretty amazing to see.

Is Independence is Embedded into their DNA?

Independence isn’t limited to the elderly. I was surprised to see how independent some of the younger generation was as well. I learned from a few teenagers that I befriended that they are conditioned to be independent at a very young age. I listened in shock as one of them described an incident from her childhood. She was dropped off at the metro station at the age of six and she had to navigate how to reach her grandmother’s house. Mind you, she was well-taught beforehand and her grandmother was waiting for her at the other end, but the whole situation was very startling for me. Maybe it’s because I have Indian parents and most of the American parents I know are helicopter parents. I wasn’t sure if that was a stray incident or not, but after that I tended to observe Russian parents and their children.

In Kerala and other parts of India, kids are rarely on the ground. I had seen kids clambering onto their mothers, begging to be picked. If the mother isn’t available, there is a choice of hip from grandparents to neighbors. For the most part, the kids do not want to be put down nor does the holder want to put them down. The scene is starkly different in Russia as far as I’ve seen. Toddlers are usually not carried, but rather walked. Even in public transportation, when the bus or tram stops, they are put on the ground and they are walked off the towering vehicle.

Winter is Coming

I was warned about Russian winter long before I stepped into the country. I had even seen a viral video of a Russian man throwing boiling water out of his window in subzero temperatures. It turned into snow. Although I seriously doubted the authenticity of the video, I was still amazed. Later descriptions by natives started to get to me. I was told that it would get so cold that eyelashes would freeze and phones would stop working. I honestly wasn’t sure if they were exaggerations meant to scare me or simple truths. Whatever the case, I started to fear the Russian winter.

During autumn, I was shown these red berries that were propping up everywhere. Apparently, the berries foreshadow a hard winter according to old wives tales. Seeing the signs, I personally wondered about the probability of getting a snow day in Russia. I remember back in Maryland, we would pray for a snow so we could get a day off. We were always irritated with our local meteorologists if they hinted at a snowstorm and it didn’t come to pass. A little sleet was enough to cause a two hour delay, a little more snow with that would give us a snow day.

When I asked about snow days to several Russian students, they scoffed. A little bit of snow wouldn’t let them off school. Instead it was steady freezing temperature that allowed them a holiday. I think the general rule of thumb was if there was a constant temperature of -35 for more than two days, schools would be shut down. I should have known Russians would be hard core about this as well.

When winter finally struck, it was like nothing I had ever experienced before. I had seen snowstorms of course, but I had never really felt below freezing temperatures. I learned more about my privilege during these days. I started to wear many layers to combat the cold, but it didn’t really help because sometimes you had to wait a few minutes for public transport. The one thing that stood out to me most was the strange sensation that you would feel in your nose as you stepped outside. It’s difficult to describe, but the sound was almost like a crinkling. Someone later explained to me that it was the moisture in my nose freezing.

Trump Horosho?

Horosho is a Russian word which means ‘good’. I lived in Russia during one of the most tumultuous election periods in American history. And Russia seemed to be right in the middle of it. According to a native I talked to, the western press hadn’t been this brutal even during the cold war.  Everywhere I went, people especially taxi drivers wanted to know what I thought as an American. They disliked Clinton because Clinton was tough on Russia. They thought Trump was a funny character and shared memes about his candidacy and later election. They couldn’t believe a country like America had elected someone like him. Despite this, they still thought he was better for Russia.

I honestly wasn’t sure what to say to the strangers who asked for my opinion. I was torn between being honest and a fear of what that honesty might eventually bring me. In the end, I settled on shrugging. Some things are after all better left unsaid.

The Driving Power of Fear

There’s a lot more I could recount about Yekaterinburg and Russia from cuisine and tragic history to the arts, but I wanted to end with this: fear. Growing up, I was scared of a lot of things even the mere possibility of asking a simple question like ‘where can I find the sugar?’ at the local supermarket. My parents especially my father believed the best way to get over a fear was to tackle it head on. So I was nudged into learning dance and I began to do a little bit of amateur theatre for church related programs. My fears didn’t completely evaporate, but they were manageable.

I was always an avid reader who craved adventure and travel just like in the story books. In high school, my horizons were broadened by my French teacher and she deepened that urge in me. I decided I wanted to study abroad in France, but the scaredy cat inside of me wasn’t really sure how I was going to be able do that. After all, I wasn’t that fluent in the language despite my four years not to mention I didn’t know anyone there. Long story short, I didn’t end up going to France.

Instead, ten years ago, I decided to leave my home, my family and everything I knew in the US and move to a small South Indian state called Kerala. Compared to France, it was more familiar: I somewhat knew the language, there was family and I had visited the place many times before during summer vacations. Despite all of this, it was a big decision and I was full of apprehension. The move and the subsequent three years were tough. But you know what? It turned out okay. The good outweighed the bad. I met so many wonderful people and had so many amazing experiences that could span several books. I also managed to successfully finish my graduation and decided to do my post-graduation there as well.

The thought of moving to Russia reminded me of France all over again. I was nervous. I feared all the same things: the language barrier (this time I didn’t even have four years on me) and the prospect of being alone in a foreign country. However, this time, the fears weren’t so overpowering. They were surprisingly controllable. And this is what I would like to leave you with. Fear will always be present in every stage of your life. Some fears will be easily overcome, others not so much. The important thing to remember is not to let fear drive you to despair, rather use it as a tool to power you forward. 

Excerpts from my Travel Journal: A Year in Russia

Part 1

It’s a bit nerve-racking coming to a country which you know nothing about save the few lessons in World Cultures and American History. Although the latter was mainly about the cold war and didn’t necessarily paint a flattering picture. Most people I talked to seemed to have certain ideas and opinions, some of which were ignorant and borderline offensive. Of course it isn’t the first time I’ve heard such statements about places I wanted to go to or things I wanted to do. I tried my best not to let such preconceived notions (including my own) faze me. So with a few encouraging nudges from a favorite French teacher and well-meaning friends, I was off on a new adventure.

It started with a hitch.

I’ve been blessed with wonderful friends wherever I go. And in Russia, I can add strangers to the list. I don’t know how hard my mom was praying, but I swear, whenever I was in a difficult situation, there was always someone to help me, right from the beginning. 

I was faced with a problem as soon as I touched down in Domodedovo airport in Moscow. Despite putting Yekaterinburg down for my final destination and having the luggage tags that said as such, I had to recheck my luggage for my connecting flight. Apparently my initial airline did not have any agreement with the domestic airline I was to take. Without knowing any of this, I coolly walked through passport control, past baggage claim and went straight to one of the official counters for my next flight.

There, to my disbelief, the lady in the counter did not speak English nor did the lady next to her. They finally called in this older Russian male who explained to me in broken English the aforementioned details about luggage. I had to go to some subsection in the airport and retrieve it. None of the people I tried to speak to while searching for this obscure subsection seemed to know English including the information counter. My enquiries were all returned with a shrug. As I walked through the airport, a feeling of ‘what did I get myself into’ started overwhelming me. It was during this helpless state, a familiar looking woman and young girl stopped me. 

“Are you okay? You were on our flight, weren’t you?” she questioned. 

They had sat across from me in the nearly empty plane. 

I hastily explained my dilemma and they said they were facing the same. Fortunately, they were Russian American and they knew the language. So through their help, my first crisis on Russian soil was averted. I spent my remaining time in Domodedovo with this guardian angel and her child, filing away all the advice she had to share. 

There’s only two weeks of summer. #Yekaterinburgjokes 

Or maybe it’s a pan-Russian joke. I’m not sure. Ironically, the summer I arrived in Yekaterinburg turned out to be one of the hottest on record.  Normally, during the summer, skies are cloudy and there’s a high chance of rain like the day I arrived. Accompanying this mood is a brisk wind. To me, the weather had echoes of the UK, especially London. It’s not often the city gets warm weather so the locals savor the little sun they get. And you can see this in their clothing. As soon as there’s a hint of sunshine, short shorts and tang tops come out. However, this liberty in apparel choices often leads to coughing, sneezing, and all-round unwellness. 

The Time I Couldn’t Find my Flat or How I Learned to Pick a Lock

I was a bit wary when I first saw the apartment building and its surroundings. It looked old, rundown and frankly, shady. There was graffiti everywhere. Still, it had its charm.  Almost all the flats in a particular area look the same and you’d be hard pressed to find yours if you accidentally get off at the wrong stop. I say this because it has happened to me… once. When I couldn’t get past the entrance, I realized I had the wrong building. From then on, I kept the little magazine (store) near my building in mind as a landmark as well as the painted tires. They never steered me wrong, well, at least until winter. 

The unique thing about the apartment building (maybe all the buildings) is the security.  There are three separate keys you must use to enter the flat. The first is almost like a button, you have to scan it to enter the building. The second key (perhaps not everybody has this) is longer, it’s for the door before your door. It’s a bit tricky to open and it almost seems as if you are picking the lock. And the third is obviously the key to your door.

When Language is No Barrier 

I got a taste of the language barrier at Domodedovo and that was in the capital of the country. So one can easily imagine what it might be like in a smaller city. The English speaking population is miniscule. Despite this, I was surprised how little I relied on my google translate to help me along. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I kept buying Газированная вода “water with gas” rather than “drinking water” Негазированная вода and “yogurt” Йогурт instead of “milk” Молоко. I only knew a few unnecessary words and basic phrases that would do little to help me in real life scenarios. I mean, the word chuvak which means “dude”. It’s fun to say and a great way to break the ice and get some laughs, but it doesn’t assist in everyday conversation. For some reason, I learned to say “I don’t know Russian” in Russian. I learned to say it so well, I left several Babushkas and a hostel manager in Moscow confused. “But you’re speaking Russian?” Their eyes said.

How not to do Pondicherry part 2

If you haven't read part one, click here.

Swapnakoodu gave me unrealistic expectations about Pondicherry 

So maybe I lied. It wasn’t just an urge for knowledge or to get closure for an old French project that had me crave a visit to Puducherry. It had a little more to do with the 2003 fan favorite Swapnakoodu. The beautiful scenic bicycle rides, the colorful houses, the cute Malayali hotel management students, the locals and the foreigners who parle Français? Hell, yeah!

I should’ve known the big screen tends to glamorize. Pondicherry wasn’t as big or as great as I imagined it to be. And now that I think about it, Ponmudi wasn’t either. It was the journey or adventure to and during that made it fun. It was the people who I was with and who I met that made it interesting. Whoah. Did I just uncover a huge travel secret? Did I just get enlightened? Eh, probably not.  

The story continues aka Suite Rooms and Pick-me-uppers

We found a pretty decent hotel called Corbelli (pronunciation still questionable) about two months before the trip. It didn’t have like an awesome view or anything, but the staff was super friendly and almost everything we wanted to see was in walking distance. I know everyone’s all digital with their bookings nowadays, but there’s something about actual human interaction that really pays off. One of my best friends, Jyo, helped us with this booking. She even talked us a discount because it was off season. Score.  One day I’ll learn to sweet talk in Tamil just as well as her. ;)    

Which brings us to this money saving side point: If you’re travelling with friends or if you’re an all-female crew like us, check out the prices of the suite rooms. With suite rooms, you can enjoy the luxury and stay together like a slumber party your parents never let you attend (shout out to all the brown kids, am I right?). One would think it would be more expensive, but sometimes it’s the price of two standard rooms. Rates vary depending on the hotel, the suite and the season you are travelling in of course.

Our suite room turned out to be pretty okay. Despite it seeming more like a deluxe double room than a suite room. There were two rooms- a living room with a couch that converted as a bed and a proper bedroom. The amenities included two flat screen televisions, one mini-fridge, a small dining table, one toilet and one bathroom. The latter had a faulty door so we had to be careful not to accidentally lock it from the outside.

The air-conditioning was a godsend since we were all sweaty from the torturous bus ride. We took some time to freshen up before we headed out to scavenge some food. Two of us still hadn’t had a proper meal yet. Our hotel had an Italian restaurant on the top floor (which we’ll talk about later) and there was another restaurant slash bar sort of thing outside, er underneath the hotel? In the end, we opted for a little café nearby called Mission Café though. The interior design was pretty cool with cute illustrations of coffee and tea making. We snacked on brownies and chocolate croissants to get the adrenaline going.

We later found out that it was one of the few places that were still open. Most of the cool cafes that we had read about in those fancy travel magazines were closed because of the French Summer (that’s what they call off season). This turned out to be another disadvantage of travelling during our month of choice. You win some, you lose some. Thankfully, we hadn’t come to Pondicherry to sit at some cafes. We came to explore!

We hoped to at least.

Aller faire une Promenade? 

From the cute little cafe, we set off to the Promenade beach or Pondicherry beach. Whatever you prefer. On the way, we  noticed that most of the street signs are written in Tamil and French. It was so cool. My inner French student started squealing. After a few photo sessions, we finally made it to the beachfront. 

The Promenade is beautiful. Seriously, Pondicherry tourism, nice job. I almost want to say it doesn’t seem like India…. No. Why do we do that? Why do we put ourselves down by referring to places and people in comparison with the West. How insane is that? I mean, she’s Aishwarya Rai, a talented Indian actress, not India’s Angelina Jolie. And it’s Alappuzha, not the Venice of the East. Okay, to be fair, that phrase was coined by some British Lord. The question should be why do we still use it? And end rant.

With the sun setting and the cool breezes encouraging us forward, the feeling that settled over us was almost euphoric. I have to say the Promenade is even more amazing with the street lamps on. We bought some street side snacks and decided to simply stroll. It was nice, peaceful. I do believe that evening was probably the best part of the trip. After that, everything went sour. No, I’m kidding. Sort of. 

Bear with me, there’s a part 3. 

Aparna, please don't kill me. 

How not to do Pondicherry Part One

The Unfinished French Project

Unlike Ponmudi, this trip was actually planned, somewhat. I've wanted to visit Pondicherry ever since I chose it for my tenth grade project on French speaking territories. I did a pretty decent presentation and my French teacher was tres impressed especially since she didn't know there were French speaking territories in India. Still, in the back of my mind, I knew I could've had a cooler presentation if I had actually been there, experienced it and all. So you could say this was a trip ten years in the making. I was just looking for the right people to experience it with.

Travel Safety and the Rani Padminis of Tomorrow

And when the time came, what a cool distinguished lot I got. There were four of us- two of whom are college lecturers in the subjects of literature and photography and the other, an editor in a prominent newspaper (er, I think that’s her designation), all respectable jobs of course. Then, there’s me, the wannabe vagabond. We were Rani Padmini before Rani Padmini became a thing if that makes sense? Or maybe I’m making a huge deal of nothing.

But it was a huge deal though. Many of you who live in the West or metropolitan cities may not understand the significance of a short weekend getaway like this one. Many of you who travel frequently and alone might not understand it either. Many of you who are male will definitely not understand it. Although if you could go back a little in time to the point before you started travelling, when you were wary about things like money, job security, safety etc… you could probably empathize a little.

See, some of us come from orthodox families where the concept of women travelling alone is unfathomable. Some of us probably hadn’t travelled without a chaperone ever. Some of us had parents who were afraid for our safety and perhaps of what society would say. And some of us were probably more scared than our parents. I mean, you could hardly blame them or us especially with all the violent rapes happening around the country. In fact, said parents were more comfortable with us going to Europe than traipsing around India. Clearly, they haven’t seen Taken.      

It’s all about confidence or false confidence as I relayed to one of my tumblr sisters. I mean, if foreigners can navigate the maze that is the Indian Railways, just how hard could it be, right? 

Are we there yet? 

Sweltering heat, warm winds and an unforgiving sun are what greeted us at Karaikal (pronounced car-reck-l) station in the morning. It was a sharp contrast from the cool, air-conditioned bogey we had travelled in from Ernakulam. We weren’t deterred though. Although this little district falls under the Union Territory, we were still around 130 kms away from proper Pondicherry. Meaning there were still three more hours to go. We had to get ourselves to the bus station quickly and hope there were buses every fifteen minutes to our destination like the internet claimed.

As we walked out of the railway station, we were swarmed with super persuasive auto drivers who would love to take us to the bus station for Rs. 100. No thanks, bro. Rs. 90. Really, not interested. Rs. 80. We’ll walk, thanks. Rs. 60, last price. And we walked, following the locals out to the road. We asked our friendly local vegetable vendor about how far the bus station was. She promptly said it was nearby. She then proceeded to tell us that if we walked a little bit more we could get a tempo and it would only cost us five rupees. Nice. And this is why you should always talk to the locals. We offered our gratitude and headed forward in search of this tempo.          

The tempo turned out to be a bus and not the lorry I had imagined in my mind. (Of course, those things only happen in movies.) The bus station was really close like she said and there were actually buses to Puducherry like the internet said. Everything seemed to be working out.

Forty minutes into the journey, we were dying. It was so hot. That’s what happens when you decide to travel during one of the hottest months of the year. Sure, there are a lot of advantages to travelling off season, but then there are the disadvantages like this. I’m pretty sure I was delirious because of the heat and because we hadn’t stopped for lunch. We had immediately boarded, not wanting to waste time waiting for another bus and besides, the bus driver said they’d stop along the way.     

He did, two hours in. We halted near this humble roadside eatery, the dust clearly settling on the food. Maybe that’s secret ingredient? Only two of us braved the food. Those daredevils. The other two settled for fruits. 

Another half an hour in and nous sommes arrives at our hotel... after haggling with the auto drivers at the bus station that is. It's like they can tell you're an outsider.

How not to do Ponmudi...

And the word of the day is spontaneity. 

It was spontaneous- the trip. 

Around eight in the morning, seven people (one of whom we had to kidnap from her house) crammed into a white innova and headed to Trivandrum’s famed hill station: Ponmudi. The twisty turns, sharp bends and harrowing hairpins were not a good combination if you hadn’t had breakfast. Some of us were starting to feel woozy so we stopped at a local restaurant. Who knew you could get porotta so early in the morning?

With satisfied stomachs, a bag full of oranges and a lemon to pass around, we started again. Out of the seven, two of us were Ponmudi virgins and were appropriately schooled on everything that was and wasn’t Ponmudi.

The no. 1 question on everybody’s mind as we made our way to the top was: whose bright idea was to come at noon when the sun was so obviously not on our side? Ponmudi experts. Pfft. Yea, right.  

We were stopped near the "Welcome to Ponmudi" sign and vehicle-searched to make sure we weren't bringing in unsavory items. Eyeing the sun warily, we decided to waste some time at the little brook situated nearby. There, we stumbled upon a shoot of sorts. A very romantic shoot. Ignoring it, we ventured further. We climbed tree branches, tried to swing from vines and generally played Tarzan. As some rested on boulders, two casually slipped away toward the shoot. One made friends with the make up artist and the other shyly watched from the distance.

Da, Nammale Cinemayil Eduthu or The day we became backup dancers for what appeared to be a questionable movie.

"If you didn't take a picture, it didn't happen" or so said the old proverb. We found the perfect place for a picture- an unstable wooden log propped up by nature on two big rocks. As six of us slowly eased ourselves onto the log, we were spotted by the director. 

"Wow... Super. Fantastic. Beautiful. Excellent." 

And suddenly, we were the hero and heroine's classmates. The scenario: we're on a college outing. Camera rolling. Music. Actioooooooooon! Wait, we have to dance? While sitting on this unstable wooden log? Where the hell was our agent? Spotted next to the dance master, our makeshift agent was smirking like anything.

Feets dangling, we rocked back and forth, moving our arms in sync with the beat. Giggling overtook us. We weren't sure if it was because of the incredulous situation we were in or fear for our lives. Trying to suppress that was even more hilarious. After two perfect takes, the hero and heroine were positioned next to us, on a rock. 

And then, we saw first hand what it is like to be a heroine from a different state. We heard her being verbally abused in a tongue which was foreign to her. Quickly, the mood dampened. We didn't want to play anymore. It wasn't fun. Each whispered their dissent to the person next to them yet did nothing. Two more takes and it was finished.

We all dragged our feet as we made our way back to the innova, ranting about the horrible director. Our makeshift agent questioned why we didn't speak up then. We looked down at our sneakers in shame. He then proceeded to explain that this was normal. They often bring actors from different regions and later on set, they make a big fuss of how horrible she acts in efforts to bring production cost down.

Retaining the good and shaking off the bad, we decided to take a picture at the Welcome to Ponmudi sign.

Note: You are allowed to pose next to it and not on it as we quickly learned. 

Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.

Why do Indian filmmakers go to foreign locales to shoot song sequences when there are so many beautiful backdrops right at home? Ponmudi is one of them. Brisk winds. Golden-green rolling hills for miles. It was like we stepped into some fantastical story.

Our experts fear the sun. "Karathu pokum". Ah, the legacy of imperialism. We trudged a little down to a tea shop nestled between the hills. The air there was a pleasureful mixture of warm and cold. Sipping tea, gulping down sprite (certain parishkaaris of the group) and munching on nuts coated with masala, we could have stayed there forever.

However, if we wanted to see Ponmudi, we had to start off asap. We ran a few feet to get our hearts racing and in the process scared a few tourists. Squinting at the the big hill in front of us, we began to rethink our strategy. The sun was merciless, and to us, right then, the hill could have easily been Mount Kilanmanjaro. We diverted our track to a little oasis to the side- a small hideaway which most would not even notice. 

Da, ithu puli vanna sthalama or how many people lied about watching Rathinirvedham (you liars!)

And in the sweltering heat, we found relief yet again: a fully air-conditioned hangout courtesy of Mother Nature herself. Surrounded by trees with big rocks to perch on and a little pool of water, this was something we would have overlooked if we had come in the morning or evening. Of course, some of the experts were none too thrilled at the prospect of going in further. Tales of tigers inhabiting these parts were told every five seconds.

In the end, we each settled on a rock, forming an ill-shaped circle. Dipping our feet into the cool water, we blasted classics from a mobile speaker, passed pop rocks like guys would weed and simply talked. Conversation kept on switching from life, work and the future to movies and back again. Our voices and laughter filled the entire area... This was something we clearly needed and we hoped the creatures of the woods would forgive us this once. 

Life's a climb, literally

Since we took a detour to the oasis, we had to go up the round about way. It felt like we were warriors at the border of the country. Armed with only our mobile cameras, we started the climb to the top, slowly, painstakingly, with the sun burning into our skins. It was tough. We pretended we weren't thirsty since we had finished our last bottle of water down at the bottom. The dirt was slippery and we were struggling. Still, our instagrammers managed to take some awesome pictures along the way.

Midway, we stopped partly from exhaustion and partly because of the view. It was definitely a showstopper. So of course, a photo session had to be held. And very quickly, we found out who all had a fear of heights.

When we finally reached the summit, it took a while for our eyes to adjust to the sheer magnificence of Ponmudi. The place was something else. We stepped onto a small platform and slumped against the pillars in exhaustion. There were steps which would take you even higher, but it was locked with barbed wire. We could have probably jumped it, but dehydration and the security guard put us off. 

Our dry throats cried when we saw a little boy drinking Fanta. We tried calling him over secretly (we were that thirsty) but he ignored us. It was then one of us found a lemon from before. The poor lemon was desecrated in under five seconds. To us, that was the sweetest bitter taste in the world.

Why this Kolaveri di or hunger pangs

With growling stomachs, we took the last few pictures and headed back down. We bought a few bottles of water and quenched our thirst. And then started the typical road trip singalong. The poor driver. Realizing the dilemma before him, he quickly started scouting restaurants. None of the places the experts suggested had food. It was long after lunchtime. Finally, we found one when our hunger pangs had somewhat died. Meals with fish was the lunch of the day and we happily agreed. I bet we would've agreed to anything at that point. Stuffed,we spent rest of the ride asleep. Like babies. 

And that's how friends can turn a poorly put together trip into a memorable one. 

The Trials and Tribulations of Translation

Samskara, by U.R. Ananthamoorthy, is a novel that all first year Literature students remember. Set in a Brahmin agrahara in Karnataka, the story takes a critical look at the orthodox beliefs and rigid rules of the community. It was, I believe, my first foray into Indian English writing, or translation for that matter. For a girl who mostly read YA fantasy books, it was definitely an interesting change. The lecturer, who took Samskara, allowed us an in-depth look at the culture and lives of the community.   

The story in brief from memory: There’s a death in the small agrahara of Devasapura. The deceased is Naranappa, a wayward fellow who does all that a Brahmin should not be doing. He drinks, eats meat, catches fish from the sacred pond, and has relations with a prostitute named Chandri. His death sparks a debate of whether he can be considered a Brahmin which later turns into a row of who will do the cremation. No one wants to do it because they are afraid they will be polluted.

Praneshacharya is the exact opposite of Naranappa, a devout Brahmin and leader of this small community. He is so set on his goal of attaining moksha that he has even married someone who is invalid. It is he who is given the task of figuring out a resolution for this problem. As he sets forward on his quest for answers, he is pulled away from his goal by an unexpected encounter with Chandri. The rest of the story follows his journey of whether or not he should tell the villagers of what had transpired.

So imagine my surprise when I saw Samskara on our syllabus for a general literature subject during post graduation. This time, I didn’t spend much time on the novel. I touched it once in the beginning of the semester and once at the end. Once everyone realised I had already studied the novel, I suddenly became the official translator for my roommate and friends. Let me reiterate, during the week before exams and late night cram sessions, I was orally translating an original Kannada novel translated into English by A.K. Ramanujan, into Malayalam. It did help me remember the story. However, when I reached the exam hall the following day, I realised just how problematic it was...

As I was writing my essay, I came to realise I was thinking in Malayalam and translating to English. This was a first for me. Did that mean I had become so proficient in the language? I was pleased for a good while until I reached a stand still mid-exam.

Praneshacharya Chandrine kandapol Pranescharyude niyanthranam vittu poi.

I translated it on to paper. When Praneshacharya saw Chandri, he lost his-

And for the love of God, I couldn’t remember the English equivalent of niyanthranam. I sat there for fifteen minutes trying to figure out the word. I didn’t. In the end, I rewrote the sentence.

When I exited the exam hall, I immediately went up my classmates and asked them. They burst out laughing. One of them managed to wheeze out, “control” before toppling over.

I was later advised by my classmates to take English remedial lessons.   

And that’s the story of how Praneshacharya lost his control and I lost my command over the English language.

Sister to call my own

She was not what I was expecting. From our phone conversations, I imagined an older woman, plump, with tired, black circles under her eyes. But P, she was young, slender. She wore an orange kurta over blue jeans. She didn’t look the part of mother to two teenagers. A boy stood a few steps back of her, immersed in the shadows of the alley, looking at us curiously. His eyes were a striking brown-green, cat eyes they call it. That must be the son, I thought. He edged away as he caught my eyes on him. She led us deeper into the alley. This was the first time I was moving into a place without actually seeing it beforehand. With bated breath, we lugged my luggage down a small slope to their home.

It was a modest one, one storey. There was a small parlour, two bedrooms (one of them had a bathroom attached), a dining room and a kitchen. There was a bathroom in the back, outside, but it didn’t work. If I chose the room with the bathroom, I wouldn’t be able to lock the door in the night since it was a common one. So I chose the other room. There’s one other girl, she told us. I didn’t mind honestly. After rooming with an average of four to five roommates for the past five years, one girl wasn’t going to be a problem. Or so I thought.

She turned out to be a huge problem though, and not in the conventional way. She didn’t have any weird, annoying habits. She didn’t go through my things. She didn’t mess up the room. Yet after just one night, I became emotionally invested her. I called her my sister. And not in the superficial way we call our seniors, store keepers or people you just meet. I actually meant it when I called her chechi.

“My father died a few weeks ago.” She told me quietly once we were alone.

I didn’t know what to say. My mouth was dry. Back home, I’d offer the common condolence, “I’m sorry.” 

Here, I couldn’t say that. It felt wrong.

I guess I didn’t need to say anything because she continued. She told me how her mother died from cancer three months before her father’s passing. How she became an orphan in less than a year. How she was engaged but her wedding kept getting delayed because of the disease and subsequent deaths. She explained how she racked up a hefty debt for cancer treatments. How this was the first time she was staying away from home. It was heart breaking to listen...

I learned a lot that night. I finally understood my mom’s feelings. Why she kept bringing up marriage lately. Her pestering was because she was afraid. She was afraid if something unexpected like this happened, I, an only child, wouldn’t have anybody to call my own. It was a scary thought.

Later on, chechi would tell me, “It’s as if someone sent you to me that night.”

Apparently, her sister had stayed with her for two weeks to ease her into this home-away-from-home. However, her sister had to go back home the previous night. As chechi wondered what she would do all by herself in this lonely room, I came.

And we became close, quickly. She introduced me to Thiruvanthapuram. I, in turn, listened to all her amazing memories of her childhood, her parents, her siblings... I understood it was her release, but she was a brilliant story teller. I could get lost in her stories.

Our sudden closeness seemed to irritate our landlady for some reason. And she took it out on chechi.

P started saying insensitive things like “death is natural” and how we should come to terms with it. I saw how it was affecting chechi. When chechi walked away distraught, P scoffed, “she needs to accept this.”

I was like, “death is natural, but when you have two parents die recently, you don’t want to consider the mechanics of it, you just want to mourn.”

P didn’t appreciate my support of chechi. I feel as if that only increased the animosity.

P continued to do and say things that would hurt chechi. I was struggling to understand why though. P’s situation couldn’t be called similar, but it was traumatic just the same: an abusive husband who split when he saw a younger woman. You would think she would be more sympathetic to chechi’s suffering... When I discussed this with my friend J, she told me about this article she read in Vanitha, a Malayalam lifestyle magazine. It was entitled “Why are Women so Cruel?” Although I couldn’t read it, she gave me the gist.

With P’s cruelty and a neighbour who echoed Shobana from Manichithrathazhu, it got to a point where chechi couldn’t take it anymore. She left.

P was embarrassed. She thought chechi may have talked bad about her to me. So she talked bad about chechi. She didn’t realize that she was digging her own hole. Once she said, “Hum. She didn’t like my food. If she liked her mom’s food so much, she should’ve gone with her.” I realized I couldn’t stay in this environment anymore.  I also left, following chechi to another accommodation.

It’s crazy how bonds form, isn’t it? Sometimes it takes years, and sometimes it just takes a few sentences. I came to this city not knowing anybody save a few internet friends. And now, I have an older sister to call my own.