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 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.  

Paging Dr. Sunny

There were many things wrong with the place I moved into in Thiruvanthapuram. There was no fridge, no gas stove, and the flush didn’t work properly. Still, I could overlook most of this because the people renting it to us were friendly: a sweet young mother and her two kids. Then, there was my hilarious, laugh inducing roommate with a tragic present, in whom I saw an older sister. I’m in the mindset if the environment is good, then you can overlook all the little stuff. Some of my friends would beg to differ though.

So when I was asked by my friend G, “How’s the new place?”

I said, “it’s awesome” right off the bat.

She was like, “Girl, even if you lived in the gutter, you’d say it was awesome.”

I laughed along with her because it was true. I didn’t mind roughing it. 

It was around this time something strange begin to happen.

That night, long after everyone had fallen asleep, I awoke, startled. I had heard something. Something strange, horrible... Yet I wasn’t completely sure if I imagined it or not. As I pondered in the dark, the possibility of the sound being real or not, I heard it again. It was a strangled scream which echoed the style of theyam performers. I gulped and nudged awake my sleeping roommate. She leapt up, fearing the worst. When I described what I heard, I would assume she looked at my figure in disbelief and irritation. But then, the sound came again, and this time, we both jumped.

“Wha-what was that?”

We pinpointed the direction of the sound. It was coming from the neighbouring house. Their lights were on too. When we went to our landlady, P, she drowsily told us there was nothing wrong and to go back to sleep. By that time, the sounds had gone and the lights were off.  We grudgingly made our way to bed, thoughts focused on the screams next door.

The next morning we were told that it was a religious thing. Apparently, the next door patriarch has screaming matches and randomly starts spouting samskritam. It’s called anugraham (blessing). Since my roommate and I both were not Hindu, we couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Later, when I asked my co-worker A, he started laughing.

He was like, “Athu anugraham alla. Athu bhaathaya.” (That’s not a blessing, it sounds like a spirit.)

Needless to say, his explanation didn’t make things better. It only increased our anxieties at night. It reminded us of movies like Manichithrathazhu and The Exorcism of Emily Rose.

Things began to deteriorate when the neighbours continued to burn organic waste in front of the house. Our landlady has asthma and the smoke makes her really sick. She had continuously told them not to do it in front of the house, but to no avail. The funny thing is they actually have a bit of a lawn so they could totally make a compost pit. One evening, she caught them in the act and started asking why they would keep doing something which is not only detrimental to people’s health but the environment as well. They began to talk back and we were witness to the samskritam and theyam-esque screams again.

That night was what Malayalees would call a kaalarathri. The steps to their terrace were right near our room and we could hear him running up and down the stairs, screaming till one a.m. 

     

The fights continued as did the sleepless nights. In desperation, the police were called. The neighbours were disciplined like children, but threats soon followed. The neighbour patriarch claimed the Attukal Amma would help him kick us all out as soon as Pongala finished.

It so happened that my awesome roommate soon moved out due to some conflicts with P (a story for another day). And suddenly, I was alone. When someone is by your side, you can make jokes and ignore the crazy. However, when you’re all by yourself, everything seems a whole lot scarier. To keep my mind off the screams, I would stay up late texting friends, making funny facebook statuses with the hashtag #livingwithabaadhaneighbour.

One night, there were no screams and I had finally started to doze off. I was dreaming I was in a forest or something when it started raining. The dream rain woke me up in real life. For a second, I thought I was in Inception because it was raining in my room! I shook away my sleep and jumped out of bed. I thought the roof was leaking. Luckily for me, that particular night was Shivarathri and P and children were awake.

I open the door and literally freak out. The children calm me down and tell me that the maama (uncle) next door was watering the garden, and that perhaps the water accidentally came through the window.

“But the windows were closed.” I point out.

They come into my room and they see that. We look around and see that the only opening is the air hole which is way near the ceiling. There is no way he mistook his garden for the roof. There is no way. When I complained to P, she shrugged it off. I think she was tired of fighting with them. But I was also tired. For me, this was the last straw.

So exactly how long did I last in my first accommodation in Thiruvanthapuram? 8 weeks and 4 days.

The Keeper of the Smasana

The stench of death enveloped us even before we entered through the gate. It was strong, intruding. It made me want to vomit. Unable to control the urge, I began to breathe through my mouth. I wondered how she managed the job for the past three years. 

Her face reflected her struggle, her determination...

She was certainly an anomaly in the field: a woman, a Christian. When the last keeper fell ill, she took up the work that no one was willing to do and with no prior experience. She did it to support her family. Her husband left years ago and she singlehandedly raised her two daughters, educated them and now, married them. Yet in Malayalee society, a strong independent woman always becomes subject to talk. We saw this firsthand. 

As I started setting up the camera outside the gates to take the establishing shots, one of the men in the neighborhood approached our reporter. I signaled her to ask him to appear on camera. She shook her head smiling. He only had good things to say of course. It reminded me of the olden days when people would hover by the road or boat jetty to disrupt a possible marriage alliance by speaking ill of the prospective bride or groom. 

His claims which he would not say in front of the camera:

She is a horrible woman who drove her husband off.

She is making a lot of money.

She only uses only half of the wood required to burn the bodies. The bodies don’t burn properly and hence the horrible smell. 

What we saw and learned:

She is not given a salary from the corporation or any retirement benefits. 

She makes 1, 500 rupees for each body which turns up.

Out of which, 400 rupees goes to the corporation. It used to be 500 but she told them she was having difficulty running the place and they benevolently reduced 100 rupees. 

The rest of the money goes to buying wood (a lot is needed) and managing the building and land. 

What little is left over, she takes. 

She once requested the corporation to increase the rate for a body, but they dismissed it saying, “We cannot do that. This is a social service.” 

For religious and cultural reasons, families of the deceased are supposed to give dakshina to the keeper. However, the families who come give very little because they think she is getting paid heavily for this job.

The wiring of the place is ancient. There are a lot of loose connections and circuits tend to burst. Electricians are often afraid to come into the Smasana and she has to beg them. Majority of the time there is no light because of this. The light bulbs are difficult to replace because they are a different variety and can only be bought from somewhere in the city. They are also very expensive. She usually pays for it herself since the money does not add up. 

A body takes around 6 hours to burn and longer if the body has been induced with medicine for a long time. She will not take a body in the evening because of this. There is a lack of light because of the electrical problems, not to mention, she would be waiting alone. Yet people in the corporation who turn a deaf ear to her complaints and suggestions call her nonstop when there is a family important to them. They appease her saying, “do this and we’ll fix the wiring tomorrow itself.” She tells us that tomorrow has turned into three months now. 

For the past few years, when this job is up for grabs, no one raises their hand. No one wants to do it. 

Isn’t it sad that the only person who is willing to do the job is not given the support or appreciation she deserves?  

Gods of the East

Question: Why is it that Hindu scriptures are referred to as mythology and Gods as mythological while Christianity is a religion and the Bible is a holy book? I seen this referral in a lot in textbooks and documentaries... I can understand if no one practices the religion anymore like Greek mythology (er, at least I think they don't), but Hinduism (a way of life and a religion) is practiced by a wide range of people...

I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

After a surviving a harsh downpour, we stumble upon a beautiful walkway like bridge encroached by moss, mud and dead leaves. It is above roads, houses, railway tracks, and a vast body of water. We walked smartly at first, eager to find where it leads... yet it went on and on and we never did reach the end. 

ride to your inspiration

A peek back into time...

This was an attempt to capture village life back in the day. Kattadi basically means a windmill. Here, it is a toy made out of palm leaves.

"Kochi pazhaya Kochi alla"

"Kochi pazhaya Kochi alla"  which basically translates to Kochi is not the same/old Kochi" 

It is a dialogue immortalized by the film Big B and one which encompasses so much meaning. 

From hosting India's first biennale to opening India's biggest shopping mall [Lulu], Kochi has changed a lot. And with the coming of the metro rail, it will soon be hailed a metro city, not that it hasn't already. 

When my colleague and I set out to find a old time barber shop in the city, we weren't sure if we would succeed. Check out our journey here: The Soon to be Extinct Barber Shop We were excited when we found one, a century old one at that, but our happiness quickly evaporated when we realized we were witness to an extinction of a barber shop in real time.

A friend and junior of ours took some awesome photos of the cool, century old barber shop which we found near South railway.

Do check it out before it becomes rubble.

Flashback

When I see rush hour traffic here in the evening, I think to myself this is nothing compared to India. The screeching, the honking, customers haggling with roadside vendors, the random cows and goats in the roads- compared to India, here, it is very quiet. However, some evenings, when traffic is dreadfully slow, I find myself drifting back to my early childhood years in India.

New Delhi, India. Population: a lot. Seriously, we have a population crisis back there. If you think New York is crowded, you obviously haven't been to New Delhi. There, I lived with my Mummy, Pappa, and Ammachey (grandmother in Malayalam) in a small rented house in the center of the city. Our house was by one of the main roads, and because of this it was often loud and dusty. I suspect my mother had to clean the interior at least twice a day. In the afternoons, the noise level especially increased with people trying to get home for lunch and children in the nearby schools having playtime. The only thing which separated us from the busy intersection was a thin wall, usually plastered with posters of the latest film releases in theaters. 

One of the more vivid memories I have living there is a day I got into huge trouble. As in most evenings, my Pappa had left for work, and my Mummy had just come home from it. They had scheduled their shifts so that one of them was with me and my Ammachey at all times. My parents feel strongly about spending quality time with family. Even to this day, it is like that and those values have rubbed off on me. 

That particular evening, I was riding my tricycle in the little space we had while my Mummy cooked dinner. Ammachey, who was watching me from the porch, called me back in, saying dinner was almost ready. Of course, my three and a half year old self could care less about what was for dinner. I just wanted to have some fun. Besides, Ammachey always cut my tricycle riding short. I wasn't having it this time.

It was at that moment my little eyes spotted a man with red balloons near the school gates on the other side of the intersection. I couldn't possible tell you what was going through my mind at that moment because honestly I don't remember much myself. All I know is I really wanted a balloon. It was like life or death. 

Luckily for me, someone had left the gate open. I rode my tricycle as hard as I could in efforts to get to balloon man. By the time I reached the gate, Ammachey realized I meant business. Seeing as she couldn't run after me because of her frail body, she called for my Mummy, who rushed out of the kitchen.

As my Mummy ran after me, I was no longer interested in the balloon man; rather I was in the thrill of the chase. It was fun! I was so near to the road that I could see all the auto rickshaws, taxis, and bicycles (even bigger than mine) waiting for the traffic officer to let them pass. Thankfully, before I reached the actual street, my mom caught me like a lioness protecting her cub.

That evening, I almost gave my Mummy a heart attack. She still reminds me of that incident to this day, always exaggerating the story....

Mothers. :P

NOTE: This is a flashback in two senses. One this is a memory of my early childhood in India.. Two, I expanded on the memory and wrote it for my Women Writer's class in 12th standard.