At Shankhumukham beach, some five to six Brahminy kites were swinging the air and waves with a few crows after them ...Sighted racquet tailed drongos, drongos, golden orioles, sat bhais (babblers), green barbet, bharadwajs, pond herons, warblers, magpie robins, tree pies, squirrels with dark brown coats, three dogs barkless, biteless, two noisy kid goats, butterflies... flowers, trees, fields .. silences ..... at the home of Kadammankote Narayana Karunakara Kurup. At 5 Kurup made coffee and me sipped watching the silence ... the soft thud of dew making it from one banana leaf to that below .... crowds of bananas and tapioca in the fields; was not sure whether me was taking coffee or silence; maybe coffeed silence. Jet Airways morning flight from Mumbai to Thiruananthapuram was on time and a three hour car run into the quiet of Kurampala; it just drapes one, blesses one. Days spent tracking with a walking stick birds and bird calls, trying to identify trees and grass or just lips shut.. Kumarakom, billetted at Saro Lake County on the edges of Vembanadu Kayal with African payal (water hyacinth?) bobbing as the kayal revved up waves to winds; mornings still; a three hour boat ride past a white church, famed for a Mohanlal shoot in Sphadikam, with cormorants, Brahminy kites, white breasted sea eagles for company; a country boat ride on a channel off the kayal in Kumarakom bird sanctuary; this is not the season for birds, the gentleman at the counter remarked and there were cormorants around. Off season we were told; some ten steps from Saro Lake County and me could descend the kayal; fishermen on motorised boats; dosas and idlis fine for breakfast. Back at Borivili, Rama counted the number of temples we darshanned: 11. Mostly Shiva temples with Chenganoor a dear with its stone koothambalam built by Perunthatchan and wide grounds; every devotee has a legend making many legends to a temple; some sort of Vedic poetry with every poet adding a word or a line; no space for fact and fiction; there is faction and factions; prayer was not a rite or ritual. Me relished it, tasty as the valla saddhi at Aranmula Parthasarathi temple; with the boaters and their songs invited by women with vilakku and lunch. Me had heard of it; not experienced it. As Rama, Kurup, Sugatha and me drove past highways about 10 ft. wide (holding two cars), high rise apartments stood above unkempt coconut trees and tiled homes; tiled homes were not; the air and everything around had many dashes of cement and paints. Thiruananthapuram looks a Mumbai. Perhaps Mayooram Fruits Stall at Pandalam is the lone concession to a past of naranga vellam (lime juice); ginger, green chillies, powdered sugar and salt, soda tanging the soul. And my good friend Bala Murali, 35 year old, M.Tch, working at the rationing office off Kottarakara; with parents holding transferable jobs, Bala Murali is grandma child with grandma tales in wide pockets of his jeans. He does not want to quit Kerala to live a high paid job. 'Ithu mathi (This is enough),' he says, like some Marquez character. Books, poetic soul and wife Reshmi for company. Began with a trip to Ganesha temple at Kottarakara with its Three Lamp Corner and lillied temple pond and two peepals. Asked the Elephant God about me roots, born there. Roots is an obsession; when trees give way to cities, roots go. Air India flight to Mumbai was late, as usual. Midnight it landed at T2 Andheri International Airport. Felt small in its cemented hugeness. Quest for roots remains... or maybe roots for a Mumbaikar like me is Mumbai. For 40 years it has left me alone; 10 days in God's Own Country, everyone knew me details. God is like that.
