A sumptuous rendezvous

It was well past the time for my evening tea, and I had not realized. We just got out of the adventure zone at Thenmala – there was enough chest thumping and adrenaline pumping in the couple of hours that we spent inside the park. For the size it was, the adventure zone could have been maintained a little better. Neither helmets were given for games where you are mid-air, nor life jackets given while boating. And mind you, some games were quite challenging. We were seven of us and only one managed to succeed in all the games.

By the time we got out, we were not only just tired from the games but sweaty too from the humid air that hugs Kerala tight. I needed tea. Cold water simply does not satiate my thirst. I mean, it never does. Even under the heat of sweltering summer, I always needed tea to feel better. It pacifies me and no wonder, I call it the elixir of my life. I told my friends that we must stop somewhere for a cup of tea on the way to our next stop – the Kollam Sengottai branch line. I was assured we would stop at a chai kada as soon as we see one. I sat next to the driver just to make sure that he stopped for tea.

We all were on the way towards our next halt. On the way, I saw Kerala State Transport Corporation buses plying to and from Tenkasi, a small town in the Tirunelveli district of Tamilnadu. I have not been to the town myself, but it reminded me of the Courtallam waterfalls that is situated close to Tenkasi. Since the time of actor M. G. Ramachandran, renowned by his initials as MGR, Tamil cinema has been singing its praise. Both MGR and Courtallam have thus become household names in most Tamil families. I simply forgot about my tea and instead, began humming some songs on Courtallam.

Soon, we reached our destination. With thirteen arches and spanning a length of half a kilometer, the bridge was larger than I expected. I was upset about not having a cup of tea. Suddenly, aroma of fresh prawns deep fried in coconut oil wafted through the air. Oh, My!! Oh, My!! I took long and deep breathes to inhale more of that spicy aroma. It had ginger, garlic, peppercorns, and prawns. Now, I needed more than tea – a plate of chemeen porichathu, as the locals fondly call it. That sumptuous aroma wafted from a chai kada nestled under one of the arches. This is what is called destiny, I thought.  It was a small shop run by a couple in their mid-forties. It appeared like the shop also served as their house.

We ordered chai and lime soda, helped ourselves to some chikkis and arisi murukku from the bottles placed on a table in the shop. When I saw that the dish was being prepared in a small kada, I guessed it was being made as an evening snack for the family. I noticed that my friends were not at all excited about the aroma of the prawns fried in coconut oil. I had to let go of my idea of having prawns with chai. The prawns were still being fried and the aroma lured me much more. Well, that’s it.

I initiated a conversation with the chechi.

“Will you be selling those prawns?”

“Illa, for the family.”

“Okay.”.

I smiled at my friends who were already giggling at my uncontrollable urge to taste those prawns.

The hot tea was amazing too. Nothing too special – just the right amount of milk, sugar, and decoction. I had my tea and while cheta was busy making lime soda, I asked chechi.

“Can I take a picture of your chemeen fry?”

She laughed and nodded. I instantly stepped in and took a picture. The prawns were small and had curled in the heat of the coconut oil in which they were being fried. I was reminded of my granny after seeing those prawns with some shards of garlic. Granny has told me that the smallest of prawns often tastes the best. It was then time for us to leave when someone called me from the back.

Chechi handed me a plate with some prawns and asked me to taste it. My joy knew no bounds. I took a mouthful of prawns and my eyes lit up. It was heavenly. The prawns were crisp on the outside and soft inside. There was the right amount of salt and spice. Again, nothing too complex about it but it was such a splendid preparation. Noticing my contented look, my friends laughed uncontrollably and joyously.

I thanked chechi and would thank her another million times for that delicacy.

That’s the thing about some days – it ends in a simple way with simple people, the heart  fulfilled with contentment.

Namaste, mademoiselle!

Paris, 7th July, 2017: Wafts of dry breeze blew through the narrow, cobbled lanes and puffs of cigar smoke hung in the air. I scurried through bunches of bodies for a cup of coffee and some relief to my limbs, aching from the travel. I approached a cosy, little restaurant towards the end of the street and bought myself an espresso and a buttered croissant. After a few quick stretches, I sat conveniently at a wooden chair near the entrance.

As I took bites of the croissant and sips of coffee, my withdrawn senses gathered themselves up. Inside the door were age-old, worn out tables and chairs, long bottles with drinks sparkling under a dim light, aroma of roasted meat with cheese and a faint music tickling the eardrum now and then. Outside the door were windows of artisanal boutiques glinting under the setting sun, elated and hasty cries of people and blissful vapours from surrounding bakeries.

‘What a long day!’ I sighed as scenes from the daylong sightseeing and commute flashed through my mind interspersed with thoughts about home. A sense of seclusion was blooming within me despite the crowd and the clatter. Without much realisation, I had my gaze fixed upon an old man, sitting at an indistinct corner in the restaurant, his eyes buried in a big-fat, tattered book. He was quite absorbed in reading, undistracted by anything around him. A regular there, I presumed and picked up my bags to leave.

Just when I got up, the waitress started humming a popular tune. To consort her tune, she held a wine glass and gently tapped its bowl with a spoon. A couple of muddled claps emerged from the tables around, only to be in unison with her tapping. It was a song by Edith Piaf and waitress now moved around the tables singing, serving drinks and exchanging smiles. I could see the merry and cheer filling the air and I decided to stay for some more time. One song after another followed: happy, peppy ones to slow, sombre ones. Some continued with the claps, while some tapped their feet and some nodded their heads. The old man with the big-fat book was still there, snapping his fingers to the song being sung and rarely glancing at the sight around him.

The sun set, the neon-orange lights lit up the streets outside. The breeze turned cold and the clamour settled. More mellifluous tunes followed and I was slipping into my own world. The thoughts followed and I knew, no matter how elegant and enriching a journey would be, home is the place I belong to. No amity or comfort would dilute that feeling of missing home. In all enjoyment and exploration of the world outside, it remains.

Slowly, one by one left as the last song was being sung. ‘Did she read my mind?’ I thought.  The song was ‘Take me home, country roads’ by John Denver. I smiled, ear to ear and I gathered myself up to leave. The old man, the reclusive reader, was standing at the door with his book in one hand and a walking stick on the other, bidding ‘Bon soiree’ as they left. In return, they gleefully waved at him. As I passed him and smiled, he wished me too and I understood, home was not far.

He said ‘Namaste, mademoiselle!’

 

Me, the old man and the sea

Cochin, 18th March 2018: I woke up slightly dizzy from last night’s medicine but I desperately wanted to head out for a walk along the sea. I liked the city, its panorama and the salty breeze. It reminded me of my hometown.  While most of Cochin is just like any other fast-paced city in the country, areas around Fort Kochi has a charm, like a soul that has been left undisturbed over the years. Much to my disappointment, my friend refused to get out of the bed, quoting tiredness. I was not convinced entirely and I chose to explore the city by myself. That is my chosen way to start a day in any new place – a long and casual walk, especially when it is blessed with a water-based landscape.

We visited the Chinese fishing nets the day before, with the setting sun forming a backdrop of crimson, orange and peach. I dared not to climb onto one of those humongous nets, definitely wished to though. I just clicked a couple of pictures to satiate myself and returned to the hotel. After dinner, as I was scrolling through the pictures, I stopped at the picture of the fishing nets and zoomed in to study the structure of the nets. Not a simple one and it is not an easy business for an installed fishing net to become a landmark that would define a city. Enthralled, I went to bed with a single thought, which is to climb the net the next morning, come what may.

The day dawned and it was time to go up the net. As I hurriedly walked to the sea, speculations of what it would be like crossed my mind, every time with a different emotional trigger. The seafront was busy, bustling with fishermen and local folk, haggling over the freshly caught, saltwater-drenched fishes. The jewels of the sea, as popularly referred to by fisher folks, the fishes glinted in woven baskets, waiting to be auctioned. I was soon drawn into the hungama and I pretty much forgot why I was there. Such is my love for fish, not just for the sake of how they treat my palate but for the stories and the drama that accompany them. With vivid details, I can recollect how Indumathi akka would come to give us fish every morning, face gleaming, vice soaring high and narrating stories of life and death that the sea brings.

After pulling myself out of the whirlwind of voices, I walked to one of the nearby nets. The sea was quiet and there I was, standing and questioning myself.  As I had decided the previous night, I went up, one step at a time, holding the rope on the side. Once up, my legs felt relaxed, the dripping sweat settled and all the speculations came to a stop. That was it.

“Cheena Vala” exclaimed a voice from the other side of the net. I smiled and nodded.

That was the beginning of a brief yet brilliant conversation with a warm-hearted, 60-year-old stranger about fishing and life by the sea.  He comes every day to fish, for his wife. “She loves fish”, he chuckled. Some days, he stays until the sun is up above the horizon but returns empty-handed. She is not disappointed, but to him, these fishes are images of what the sea is like to his blind wife. “I love this sea and I wish my wife relishes it too”, he told. By the time he wrapped up his story, I was sitting on a log and leaning over a long pole in the net, legs dangling below, comforted by his voice and the waves. It felt right. We all crave to express love but have our own ways of showing it.

For a brief moment, there was me, the old man and the sea.