Part 2 of 2

Travelling with Aunty

The next day we go for gold. The hotel concierge tells us where to shop, the best places for gold. A couple of men escort us, unsolicited, take us to a jewellery shop not far. It is as large as a warehouse. We walk up to the impressive frontage, grab the brass elephant-head handle and tug at the glass door. It’s locked. The tall Sikh guard looks down on us indifferently. Our escorts scatter. We wait. Handsome mustachioed young men stare at us from within. No one makes a move. Eventually a lazy buzzer goes off and the door opens.

We sail in. We get ‘vip’ treatment. Several men jump to attention and pull out stools for us. A scruffy chai-boy appears carrying a wire cage with tall glasses of hot milky tea. Having slopped two glasses of tea on the polished counter he stands close to me, inches away, hands behind his back, breathing sweaty steam on to my cheek. My nostrils flare taking in his alien scent. My peripheral vision registers him staring unblinking at my profile and feel my right ear scorch with hot breath.

AG makes herself comfortable. She asks if she could have a diet coke. The men look lost. ‘My figure, you know,’ she says. They don’t know, they look doubtful. Then she gets her little note book out and asks to borrow a pen. One of the young men whips out his pen. It does not work. He’s hurt by his unfulfilled chivalry. He examines the pen for too long, confusion and anger evident. Another man offers her one, a Parker Pen. AG takes it, admires and says, ‘Eh, not bad.’ She asks intelligent questions, makes copious notes about fluctuating world gold prices, international markets, methods of weighing gold, and jewellery trends. She studies diamond cuts carefully with an eye-glass and notes countries they come from and is surprised by the news of a thriving Indian diamond industry. I enjoy this secession too.

AG examines the workmanship of the gold bangles, and finger, ear, nose and toe rings with the eye glass. She moves on to examine a large variety of gold chains that hang in glass wall-cabinets in the interior. A vast cavern manned by more men, handsome, mustachioed, old spiced and roving eyed.

I wait by the counter, by now tired and bored. I stand for a while, I shift from foot to foot like a tired flamingo. Having left greasy smudges on the counter tops I study my reflection, angles and poses, in the many mirrored walls. Then I retire to the threadbare, maroon, velveteen sofa at one end of the cavern. Several pairs of eyes are on me. Today I am wearing a short dress, I tug at my skirt, pull it over my knees. It falls four inches short of gold-shop modesty.

AG comes back from her inspection tour. She rummages in her bag and returns the Parker Pen. We leave the shop having purchased an incredibly cheap pair of inferior ruby ear-rings.

The next day we buy genuine second cut Hindi movie videos and original Malayalam movies though we both know no Hindi, and understand only a smattering of Malayalam. We purchase CDs of Ravi Shankar and ethnic drum music. We buy many recycled paper-back Indian novels and out-of-print books.

I remind AG of our mission. It’s close to the end of our week here. We need to go to Travancore to look for our grand-parents’ home. We need to trudge through vast expanses of muddy paddy fields and coconut plantations and locate that practically unknown postal address – Mathavan Charveel Veedu, our ancestral home.

AG says, ‘Plenty of time.’

The day before the end of our trip AG decides that she has had enough of Kerala. She says after all she is only 27, we are young, there’s plenty of time. We will come back. We still have temples to visit.

Homeward trip is a disaster, wrong choice of airline. The plane arrives half full from Mumbai. I am claustrophobic and overcome by the odour, a cocktail of chemical air freshener, spicy Indian airline food, stale floral hair oil and urine.

We are overrun by three to four year-old-shrieking thugs from only-child families. One thug reigns supreme, hits me on the head from behind my seat with an airline vomit bag of his toys, miniature metal cars. Mother and father look on indulgent. Another monster slams port-hole shades up and down. He catches his fingers and howls his head off. I am kind, I refrain from saying ‘good show!’

Things look up for AG. She is sitting next to a proverbial tall, dark, handsome man in a smart suit. A man about 20, either leaving his family for the first time or suffering from a bad cold. He sniffles. AG takes pity on him and hands him tissue after tissue paper insisting he blow his nose. He squirms with embarrassment. He dabs his eyes and nose and does not know what to do with his wads of soggy integrating tissue. He stuffs them in his trouser pocket. She gives him more tissues. She whispers to me above the drone of the plane, ‘The poor baby. Must be upset at having to leave his parents.’

Meals and another big sleep and we are over Hong Kong. Bumpy landing. A few mumble prayers. An elderly couple furiously thumb through prayer beads. Cabin pressure drops quickly, the children scream with earache. We’ve arrived. Parents scramble about calling after their little ones tear stained and trying to get out before them. Some men and women tug at briefcases in overhead lockers with one hand and dial calls on their mobile phones with the other. The passengers pull and push, carrying children and tons of hand luggage, and try to get through smiles and choruses of airplane attendants:

‘Thank you for flying with us, have a pleasant stay in Hong Kong.’

Outside an electric storm rages. I am happy to be back.

End

Travelling with Aunty Geeta

Village children call her Aunty Geeta, we call her AG. Aunty Geeta is five years older than me, and not my aunty.

We are friends. Our parents, hers and mine, are from Kerala, a place known as ‘God’s Own Country’. Our grand parents had shared the same village. AG wants to visit the ancestral home, our ‘Motherland’. She feels she must go now while still young, a robust, healthy 27 year old.

We make the pilgrimage together.

Normally I travel light but knowing AG’s penchant for shopping I take an extra large suitcase, almost empty.

We are to meet at the departure lounge. AG is late as usual. She sweeps in, full apology, breathless and flustered followed by a group of friends, carrying various pieces of her luggage. They’ve come to see her off on this one-week trip to motherland. After long drawn-out hugging and kissing and goodbyes the friends leave. We gather our stuff and check in. We have back-packs as carry on luggage. We request special diet, she fish, and I vegetarian.

Security clearance becomes difficult. AG’s many jangling bangles and hair pins set off alarms. She has to remove and put them in a plastic tray. She obeys reluctantly, angry with the metal detectors. She mouths obscenities at the staff, whispers: the ‘s.o.b.s’ can’t tell the difference between a genuine traveller and a terrorist. All done, lips pursed, looks searing, she marches past the security team and electronic machine-operators.

Formalities cleared, we trawl the airport mall. The designer boutiques beckon us screaming out ‘Duty Free’. The first thing AG spots and must have is a designer back-pack. She’s generous and insists on getting one for me too. We now have four back-packs between us. We move on. We buy perfume and eye-shadow and ‘ageless’ creams. Then we get nuts and chocolates to snack on, and magazines to read on our flight. We board the plane on time, happy and purchase laden.

Our six hour flight is peaceful reading time for me. AG needs to chat. With her earphones plugged into the in-flight movie she does not realize she is shouting. When lunch comes she forgets her fish diet and insists on chicken. After lunch we relax, and AG takes stock of fellow travellers. She needs to connect. Finding we are surrounded by passengers asleep or watching movies, she sits back, sighs and soon falls asleep quietly snoring.

When we land in Cochin, Kerala, she is in a huge hurry to get out. She has had enough of plane and passengers. Anyway we want to be first in the queue she says. We rush out pushing aside those trying to get their luggage from the overhead compartments. In trying to keep up with her I trip over children. In the arrival hall we are the last in a long queue of about a hundred passengers who’d alighted before us from other planes.

To allay her cultural shock AG immediately starts questioning a Keralan in the queue about shopping malls. She gets all the gen from the woman. Behind me a fat, oily man keeps ‘accidentally’ bumping into me while talking to his rangy, red eyed companion. The latter has me in his radar too. I move away a little, I get more sweaty body contact. I turn round and hiss, “If you touch me one more time…’ rest of my threat goes unuttered. AG, embarrassed by my outburst, puts her finger to her lips. ‘Shoo’ she utters in a loud theatrical whisper. Lewd there-you-go gleam light up the men’s faces.

All goes well after this, except at the immigration counter the man wants to know what kind of Indian I am not having born or lived in India. He smiles through my explanation and lets me through. We have to hurry. In our hotel we have a quick wash, leave our luggage unpacked and head out to the shops. As we reach the foyer of the hotel the bellman suggests he gets a taxi for us. AG tells him to ‘p… off’. ‘These thieving lot are always ready to make a quick buck’, she says.

We step off the kerb into the klaxon of two interstate truckers. We pull back having come within seconds of meeting our ‘Hindu Maker in Motherland’. Crossing the street becomes a 20 minute ordeal. Belching black fumes of weaving motorbikes, horn-blowing cars consume us. Bicyclists, ringing their bells, pass us grinning red teethed. We, sweating, decide to shop on our side of the street. There are throngs of people everywhere. It is nearly Deepavali, the Festival of Lights. Families are stocking up on clothes, presents and food. We are consumed by a shopping carnival.

AG is in seam-splitting jeans that hug the lower half of her rotund figure. Perhaps a little unsuitable in conservative motherland I think, but it’s her tee shirt that gets all the attention. Emblazoned across her ample chest ‘Don’t sweat the petty things. Pet the sweaty things’. The meaning of this wise saying obviously eludes her but not all who look at her chest. Some stare, others look and take a second look. A young man of a group passing points us out to his friends. They turn back, serious. They read AG’s message; raucous and lewd laughter follows.

I am wearing a long dress and a sun hat and look every inch a tourist. I want to kill the next man who asks me where I am from. I do not get the chance since AG is proud to help the curious young men, relates to them her and my family history. Her friendliness has groups of louts trailing us. They’re all coin collectors and want foreign coins, especially US coins. For a small fee they want to show us the best bargain shops. AG is delighted. She says she has never met such kind people.

Over the next few days we shop. We load up with eye catching sequined sarees, Punjabi suits one-size-fits all, trailing Kashmiri shawls, frilly long synthetic house-dresses, fray edged table mats, gilt effigies of made in China Indian gods, fake sandal wood carvings, and portent perfumes from mogul days.

End part 1 of 2

One Smiling Face

It is being named as the worst floods in living memory of Pakistan. There is desperate need for rescue, shelter, clean water and food. Aid is rushing in from all over world with relief to help victims of this flood disaster.

It is now the 2nd week into the disaster and Pakistan is still only in the middle of the monsoon season. The floods have spread to Pakistani Punjab, a vast grain growing region, and to Sind and part of Indian Ladak. To date 1,600 lives have been lost, and those are only that could be accounted for. More than 12 million people are displaced. 80% of the country’s food stock has been washed away, water logged or contaminated. Access to most places gone with roads and bridges washed away. Villages totally submerged. The people are now exposed to waterborne diseases.

Pictures of families wading with children and possessions on their heads, shoulder deep in water fill TV screens as the rest of world watches in horror.

But amidst all this there is joy: A smiling face we see. The face of the country’s leader in London, President Asif Ali Zardari smiling for the cameras .

One Pakistani
Not present
Not crying for his people
Not experiencing the suffering
Not counting the dead
Of his Pakistan.

Hiroshima Remembered
Today let there be this request:
Please bequeath the universe to our children intact, in peace, and in love.
Our moment has come to disarm nuclear weapons.

Black Storm

Butterflies never came today. Birds, plumage ruffled fly to nests urgent, swift, quiet. Small creatures scuttle and hide. Caterpillars cling to stems ceaseless munching. Thick dark sky descends. No scud of clouds. They, long gone, turned day to night moonless. Wind chimes swing hysterical. Un-staunched, gale blows churning steadfast bushes, tossing blossoms. A window tears loose, storm brings out in. Frangipani towering staggers slightly, firmly rooted, bark armoured, it looks about concerned. Splinters of lightning streak between its branched foliage fiercely parted. Rain descends in sheets. Frogs blink wet their rain choruses drowned. The day thwarted waits, perhaps to return.