Heading home..
Picture taken in Karnataka.
Looking Back: Part 3
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We Need To Talk About Dalila…
While I am happy a hen has adopted us,
Dalila is positively delighted.
But is her joy maternal or culinary…
Picture shows Dalila, my amazing cook, walking through the house with our hen
The Sounds Of Mission Creep…
Here in coastal Kerala, late evenings are played out against a gentle orchestra of cicadas, while night is punctuated by pye-dogs‘ alternating howls and barks. The cries soon summon restless answer from their housebound cousins. And, lest tedium ensue, variety is on-hand from rapturous choirs of toads.
Inside the house, mosquitos’ persistent drones buzz the ears of those who risk sleep without fan or nets.
But, well before the sun’s first gleaming and muezzin’s call to prayers, neighbouring roosters arise en masse, in boisterous anticipation of the day.
Our new lodger presumably escaped from one such neighbour’s clutch. Though, no sooner had our guesting hen settled and laid than Shaji, Dalila and Anu bought wheat grain to enhance her feed, and sat in conference to plan her continued well-being. Chickens are social animals and apt to pine if kept alone. It seems that acquiring company for our paying guest is to be Shaji’s new project.
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Hens are thought to have been first domesticated in either India or China, maybe almost ten thousand years ago. Their original appeal to humans lay in cockfighting. Notions of eggs fried “sunny-side up” or chicken tikka masala, came considerably later.
Unexpected Guests
I receive frequent visits from welcome but unexpected guests:
sparrows who fly in from the yard.
Like most Indian homes, during daylight hours I usually keep the yard gates closed but the house doors wide open.
The birds would previously fly in and out through the ventilation gaps in our coving.
But, since moving in, I have had these gaps meshed, to keep the mosquitoes out.
The birds, like everyone else, now have to use the main doors,
though they still check-out their old access-points.
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Home From Home, Of Sorts..
On arriving in Tsomoriri the driver and his cook immediately set about trying to find us accommodation.
They returned to the car looking just a little glum, worried that we might not be happy with what was on offer.
It was certainly basic:
no beds; just a mattress upon the floor.
But our experienced carers had wisely brought sleeping-bags, and a gas-fired stove.
While, fortunately for me, the room did have a sofa, of sorts, to sit on.
My life has been relatively privileged so it is no bad thing to experience the simpler life.
And on occasion, I have slept in even more modest style.
Despite the limitations, our cook produced an amazing supper.
But as far as the bathroom facilities were concerned,
a discreet veil of silence might be in order..
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The Wanderer Returns
A Day Of Sunshine
Morning sun lights a home in New Zealand
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An Art Installation?
Or maybe just parts of Shaji’s bicycle-frame hanging in my yard,
and in the process of being repainted.
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A Returning
We have returned:
to workmen refurbishing the doors and wood panelling;
to stained glass windows, mask-taped and newspapered;
to fine coatings of wood-dust on floors and on furniture.
To Dalila and Shaji: their cooking and caring;
to the familiar;
to comfort;
to home.
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Home Before Nightfall
An often long and winding road..
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Picture taken in Chellanam, Kerala.
Back In The Driving Seat?
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After a very happy month in Britain: the country of my birth, childhood and entire working life;
I am now back at home.
I am back in India.
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Back to the charms of chaotic, but generally well-intentioned, transport and shopping.
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Back to riding pillion on my houseboy’s bike, whenever there are local errands to be run.
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Back to constant warmth and frequent sunshine, despite this being the monsoon season.
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Back to pretending I’m running the house.
When I know perfectly well that it’s my kind staff who keep this show on the road!
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In Transit
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I sit in the airport lounge.
Fragmented English memories of both failure and happiness now behind me.
The warmth, excitement and comforts of life in India await my return.
An apt metaphor of my life:
A life in transit.
A muezzin sounds its plaintive summons to prayer:
An invitation extended to all who travel light, or with heavy burdens.
My heart is touched.
But lies elsewhere.
Picture of the June sky taken in London. Those of the airport are taken from the Emirates transit lounge in Dubai.
Homeward Bound
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Our tour was over:
Ten days exploring the wondrous temples and palaces of Karnataka and Tamil Nadu.
We were now homeward bound.
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Our journey had spanned a small arc of the subcontinent, from the Arabian Sea to the Indian Ocean.
We had crossed the Western Ghats to watch wild elephants, then slowly ambled our way through the Deccan Plateau:
From modern beaches and ancient temples to British architectural fantasies and bland concrete hotels;
Bustling towns to ruined cities.
We enjoyed meals in both grand restaurants and humble bamboo food-stalls.
Tea fuelled our road travels while cool beers soothed our evening stops.
We had explored and watched and wondered.
Our time spent in observation of people
At work, rest and at prayer.
Like life itself,
An amazing journey encompassing delight, despair and discovery.
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Reciprocity Of Sorts…
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Most often, I eat alone.
Shaji, Dalila and Anu serve my food but prefer to wait until I have finished before they sit down to enjoy their meal.
Tuesday mornings are different.
Robin joins us and we all eat breakfast together.
Vegetable oothapams, Kerala Sambar, curry meen,
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This may be stretching the idea of reciprocity.
Shaji went shopping for the ingredients. Anu helped prepare the vegetables. Dalila cooked the meal.
“Sir” was having his regular ayurvedic massage!
But if I had made breakfast
At the end of the meal, we would certainly not be looking at five empty plates.
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An Invitation To Breakfast
On Sundays, with Shaji & Dalila taking well-earned rest, we normally breakfast at Sri Krishna Café.
But Shaji & Dalila moved into their new home last week and yesterday they kindly invited us to a house-warming breakfast.
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Shaji’s mother was introduced.
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Gifts and congratulations were proffered.
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Appams and a delicious chilli fish curry was served with fresh chilled melon juice.
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Finally, a farewell family pose:
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Monthly Measures
Every month the thing in the corner must be seen to:
The fish caught and the water changed.
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Travels To My Aunt
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When my sister and her husband come to Kerala, we always enjoy a visit to our aunt in Kottayam.
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Matriarch to a vast and global extended family, she lives in the old family home, built at the beginning of the twentieth century by our grandfather.
This is the house in which our father spent his childhood, my sister lived as a toddler and I was conceived.
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My grandfather and two of his brothers bought three large adjoining plots of land in what was a quiet rural area just outside the city. Each built themselves a family home.
Over one hundred years later, one of the plots has been sold up and developed into a commercial complex. The remaining two estates sit slightly uneasily, their houses with massive coconut, mango and banana-filled gardens, marooned like peaceful tropical islands in a bustling ocean of inner-city life.
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Our aunt, as always, offered bright, entertaining company
And delicious food.
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Maybe not quite Brideshead but, none-the-less, our ancestral home revisited.
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Makeover Month
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With the monsoon safely months away,
Justin and Paul‘s reappearance herald the annual exterior makeover.
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A decidedly upbeat event:
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Banana Benefits
My banana plant continues to flourish.
Five new plants have appeared around its base.
While above, flower scales open sequentially to reveal row after row of banana flowers.
With many more scales left to open, I am in hope of an ample harvest.
An elegant sufficiency of bananas.
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Deck The Hall…
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My son and his beautiful new wife are soon to arrive.
The house must be ready to welcome them – in its sparkling Christmas livery.
The staff have been feverishly busy, ensuring all is as it should be.
On Monday their attention turned to our Christmas tree.
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I purchased the tree from London, some time back, during the height of summer. And, as serendipity would have it, in the bemused company of both my sons and their partners.
The tree is not small; measuring two metres (seven foot) once assembled. Its weight is considerable: transporting the tree to India cost more, in excess baggage fees, than the original price. With all the traditional paraphernalia of Christmas, it lies boxed up for most of the year, in the roof terrace store-room.
Setting it up is a major task; positively daunting. But fortunately the staff will help me.
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Who am I kidding?
They do all the work.
I supervise from my rocking chair, with a cool glass of something in my hand!
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