Authors: Jose Thekkumthala
When we heard this story told us by Toms, there was none in the group who did not have teary eyes. It was a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions. It was a tragedy that the bard himself would have loved to pen.
Then there was the mathematics professor, T.T. Thomas, who could write long algebraic equations effortlessly on the blackboard and solve any mathematics riddle as if it was easy like one plus one equals two.
We discussed about the Sharada teacher in botany class, who came dressed like an actress every day and whose class, we boys were always looking forward to. She was capable of explaining any intricate detail in botany in her magically feminine voice. We paid attention not only to her beauty, but more importantly, to her beautiful voice. Toms, the macho student who always sat in the back row, would repeatedly interrupt her with questions; partly because he was too busy staring at her to concentrate, but mostly because he wanted to hear her voice again.
Toms would later marry the professor in spite of twelve years of age difference. They would settle down with three children. We would be attending one of his children’s—Elsie’s—wedding in two days.
How fast time flies and how strangely things turn out, I thought.
12
THE WEDDING
Tom’s daughter Elsie was marrying Jason. Both of them were software engineers and in their late twenties. He was working for the software giant TCS—Tata Consultancy Services and she was working for Wipro, another IT giant.
I walked around the houseboat amid the jubilant wedding crowd and finally settled down on a sofa on the upper deck, enjoying the panoramic view, as if I was watching a 360-degree IMAX movie. The tranquility that enveloped me even in the midst of a large, noisy crowd was astounding, and contributing to it was the smooth floatation of the houseboat amid the hypnotizing scenes of the surrounding greenery. There was a canopy of palm tree leaves over the observation deck along the path of the boat ride that intermittently cleared to let in the sunlight, revealing a clear, blue sky. The surreal feeling of the calm gliding along the smooth waters was augmented by the toddy that I was sipping. There really is no viewing of Kerala scenery that you would do justice to, unless it is accompanied by a steady flow of kallu.
The backwaters of Kerala span a distance of six hundred miles. It is a labyrinth of interlinked rivers, lagoons, lakes, and canals. This is also the meeting ground of freshwater from inland and the seawater from the Arabian Sea. The houseboat is a descendant of the kettuvallom that was traditionally used as transportation in the backwaters and also to move goods from inland to the sea. The kettuvallom is charioted along waterways by oarsmen who use poles to propel. Modern houseboats are exotic barges powered by high-power engines and functioning as hotels in motion.
I was in a different world altogether, surrounded by Kerala’s magnificent scenery on one side and the assembled younger generation on other side, whom I struggled to understand. I could not help once more comparing the present generation to ours. The young generation was unbelievably different from my generation which struggled hard to reach where we are today. There were historical events that made them luckier than us.
For one, once India opened its markets and financial venues to the outside world—which happened past the prime of my generation— affluence came knocking. Another important factor was the emergence of the IT industry in India, in lockstep with the advancement of technology and internet all over the world. Most of the young people I met in Kerala belonged to the Internet generation. Indians, skilled in science and mathematics, easily adapted to the world of technology, engineering, and information system. In a nutshell, the current generation was lucky to be born at a time when there was resurgence in Indian political history and a renaissance in technology all over the world. I was witnessing the results of these developments right through the prosperous and vibrant young crowd I mingled with.
As for my generation, we were born in an India unified for the first time in its long history, and this happened after the British left. The nation was pretty much groping in the dark, slowly coming to terms with the reality of being a new nation, ebullient with gaining independence, and yet struggling to rule over millions of people at opposite extremes of culture, heritage, language, and religion. While the nation was struggling to build itself with substantially no help from the outside world, we, the individuals, were struggling to prove ourselves and define our lives. We struggled hard, because we had to.
The wedding was the culmination of two years of dating and another year of engagement. The days of arranged marriages were mostly gone. I heard that the couple had already been staying together in a condo in Trichur. Back in the old days such an arrangement was unheard of in Kerala. For one, the villagers would chase the couple out of the town with warning not to come back. Assigning the couple as target in a shooting range or a rock-throwing contest would not have been outside the realms of possibility. But now, life there was like in Canada. As for the arranged marriages and the unique role of the honeymoon night to host the very first love-making—they were the stuff that fairy tales were made of, unlike in the old days.
Many homes owned a car compared to when I left India, when
owning a car was confined to the ranks of the ultra rich. The surprising thing, however, was that the infrastructure still remained archaic while affluence, technological advancement, and information system outgrowth skyrocketed precipitously.
The family structure used to be hierarchical in Kerala, where the elders enjoyed respect, love and admiration. I was surprised to see that the elders remained isolated in the present society, aloof from mainstream population. There were many senior citizen homes now.
Toms came introducing the couple. The bride was unlike the traditional bride of old, who could not be seen until after the wedding. The social customs dictated the husband-to-be not to look at wife-to-be prior to the wedding ceremony. Elsie was well dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, unlike the shy bride of yesteryear, who would make her appearance in an elegant sari on her wedding day. I was nevertheless puzzled why the bride was in jeans and a T-shirt. “Oh that! That was the decision the bride and the groom agreed on—to be married in common people’s clothes,” Toms explained. I tried to suppress my surprise. I learned later that this was the bride’s second wedding. Her first marriage fizzled in a matter of one year. She did not want to have another wedding with great expectations and traditional wedding costume, unlike for the first wedding. She decided to take one day at a time, instead of overwhelmingly preloading the new chapter in her life with great anticipation of a romantic fairy tale. She realized that life was not a fairy tale.
A patriarchal society gave way to a society of equal representation in Kerala. Females were well represented in various walks of life. They were no more ignored and no more confined to the four walls of a home. This transformation was partly to do with the widespread affluence and partly to do with the diminished size of the family. Smaller family size meant that there was no need for a mother to stick around to look after a large brood, making her attached to the home like a fixture, and forcing her to fulfill the role of family gatekeeper forever. Being married to a man, bearing children, bringing them up, and dedicating her entire life to husband and her children were no more priorities to many women. This fact
released females from the clutches of a male dominated society, where she was expected to be subservient to her husband and children from cradle to grave. And this showed. Women were uninhibited, unlike in the days of the old. There was no code of society to demand obedience from women. They were seen as free as men, if not more. Divorce was unheard of in the days of old, whereas in the current society, it was widespread.
Affluence has made deep inroads in the society—it has made a dent in the class system, and it has made people independent, especially the women.
During a snack time prior to the wedding dinner, I got to talk to the young men and women at the function. I was fishing for their outlook on life and their political leanings. The age of socialism was pretty much gone. They called it “baggage of the old generation” and claimed it got the nation nowhere. The so-called friends that we got through socialism, such as the Soviet Union and China, proved to be not all that great, as proven by times of adversity like the India-China War, when the Soviet Union took sides with China, and the India-Pakistan War, when China took sides with Pakistan. The current generation was attracted toward capitalism with its associated freedom in decision making and abundant opportunities to be self-reliant. The culture of hard work seemed to have taken root. Political philosophy was intertwined with favorable capitalistic views triggered by widespread affluence.
The third boat in the boat train was chosen as the venue of the wedding function. It was the mid-train boat. A chapel was erected, and a group of five priests appeared at the podium to bless the bride and the groom. The bride’s father and mother, Toms and Sharada teacher, walked her down the aisle. The bride looked a splitting image of her mother Sharada teacher from long ago, when she was teaching us botany class. The bridegroom Jason eagerly waited for Elsie at the altar. Wedding music played. The crowd showered rose petals on the bride
After a long ceremony punctuated by lots of prayers, kneeling, sitting, and standing up, it was turn for the pair to exchange vows. Jason told Elsie, “I, Jason, promise to love you as my wife. I
promise to love you until death do us part.” Elsie’s vow was simple like Jason’s, except with a twist. She told Jason, “I, Elsie, promise to love you as my husband. I promise to love you until divorce does us part.” There was stunned silence in the church, followed by widespread gasping from the audience, upon hearing the divorce word. The priest stepped in promptly to avoid any unpleasant remarks from the audience. He declared, “Now I pronounce you husband and wife.”
Cheers followed. The assigned volunteers and loving relatives along with friends showered ticker tapes on the newly-weds. The new husband and wife embraced each other, and kissed for a long time. I thought they might never stop! I reminded myself that long ago, even touching each other was looked down upon while the bride and the groom were in the church, getting their marriage blessed by the priest. The vigilant priest used to keep an eye on the pair getting married making sure no hanky-panky took place between them. Kissing was out of question.
The friends of the bride and the groom gave speeches. There were music and dance. Gifts were given to the couple. There was drinking and more drinking. There was dancing followed by more dancing. That was it—the whole function in a nutshell. No dowry, no obligatory money or presents from the family, and no getting blessed by the elders. Everything of the old was shelved. The bride and the groom left as soon as the function was over, and everyone was on his own.
Not the Kerala I had known. Things lacked a personal touch. They were too mechanical.
13
THE KING COMES TO ONAM
The celebration of the Onam festival was an unforgettable experience. Its festivities and pageantry encapsulated the varied arts, music and culture of Kerala, among other things.
While I was away all these years, Onam arrived in Kerala with its refreshing regularity and departed annually, only to come back the following year. I missed many of those Onams and here was my opportunity to make up for the loss.
Thoughts of Kerala and Onam are synonymously interchangeable. To reminisce about Onam—especially of one’s childhood days, when every observation and experience had the freshness and purity of an Onam butterfly—is like repossessing a forgotten era of joy. I often like to time travel to this tantalizing atrium of memory. This atrium is where I park my heart and soul wholeheartedly.
Memories of Onam revolve around Mahabali, who is to Onam what Santa Claus is to Christmas. For me, Mahabali is an Eastern Santa Claus visiting Kerala on Onam, except he does not jump through decorated chimneys of Christmas season. He does not have to carry bagsful of toys. His annual visit to Kerala is a gift in itself.
It is a joyous experience to annually retreat from our maddeningly busy life to a cocoon of adolescent memories of Onam. In the childhood days of naiveté, innocence, and imagination, any tall story told about Onam sounded real. I hardly realized that mythology was creeping into the narration of Mahabali, a legendary king of Kerala. In those days of limitless innocence, it was hard to separate imagination from reality. I had implicit faith in every word told me about Onam and Kerala’s enigmatic emperor.
The prosperity that flourished in Kerala under Mahabali’s reign invited divine intervention, because the gods became jealous! The act of competing with their own creation sounded ludicrous, and yet flashes of possibility where a mere mortal could challenge the gods and become their equal had tantalizing appeal. The elixir of immortality appeared to be within human reach. Naturally, Onam
extends supernatural possibilities.
The story behind Onam narrates a god coming down to the level of a human. To put it in a better language, it is a story where a human reaches the level of god.
The god Mahavishnu became earthbound. Impersonating a wretched dwarf named Vaamanan he approached Mahabali and asked for a small piece of land, a piece so small that it would be covered by his three steps. The generous king did not have to think twice to grant that wish. As soon as the wish was granted, the dwarf transformed himself into a giant. He took earth with his first step and took heaven with the second step. There was no room for the third step! So the great king offered his own kingly head in place of the rest of the land promised, because a promise is a promise. This offered a golden opportunity for Mahavishnu to banish the king from the face of the earth, and that is exactly what he did. He stepped on the kingly head and sent him to the underworld, Paathaalam. However, in return for his generosity, Mahavishnu offered the king visitation rights. This meant that Mahabali could visit Kerala once a year, on the day of Onam.