ISSUE 40

A sudden thud woke me up. I had been flung forward onto the seat in front. The airplane was filled with loud screams and cries. Overhead compartments flapped open and luggage flew down to the front. A little girl and woman slid down the aisle. Through the window, I noticed that the left wing was engulfed in a large blaze of fire, glowing bright orange against the pitch-black night sky. The plane was on a freefall, nosediving into the Indian Ocean.

This is it. This is the end of my life. This is how I die. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I felt weightless, falling serenely in dead silence. A loud crash, and I was propelled down about twenty feet beneath the surface. When I looked up, to my surprise, the water above was still, with no signs of any people or wreckage. I tried to swim up, but kept getting pulled down.

I woke up with a jolt, my eyes wide open. The pilot announced that we were about to begin our descent to Kochi in a few minutes. I sat straight and fastened my seatbelt. Another drowning dream. But this time, it was a rather spectacular starry night journey deep into Indian Ocean, not to the concrete bottom of the chlorinated university pool on a dry, hot Tucson summer afternoon. And instead of Dad diving in and rescuing the ten-year-old me, I was trying to rise. I pondered what it meant as I pulled up my duffle bag from under the front seat and hugged it. It’s been close to two years since Dad passed away. I still missed him.

It was three in the morning by the time I exited the airport. It didn’t take long to spot an oversized name board that read ‘Madhav Vijayakumar’. The person holding it was my cousin Vishnu, his face familiar to me from his Instagram pictures. He rushed to me and gave a big hug, ignoring my outstretched hand.

It was late August and we were at the end of the monsoon season. The road, wet from a drizzle earlier in the night, glistened in the light from oncoming traffic. The windows were rolled down and warm, humid tropical air hit my face.

‘So, how is America?’ Vishnu asked with a grin.

I just smiled and shrugged. Vishnu had been living it up in Bangalore for a couple of years, until it all came to an abrupt end when Appumama, his dad, suffered a stroke. Vishnu had to return home and take over the family business of auditoriums, luxury bus fleet and rubber plantations.

‘You have any American girlfriends?’ he asked.

My negative response disappointed him.

‘When I was in Bangalore, I had some. Here, in the village, it is difficult,’ he ruminated. ‘They all want to, but they are afraid!’

He was wearing a black and white chequered cotton shirt and a saffron mundu, had thick long curly hair, and sported a moustache and a two-week old stubble. A bunch of black and red strings with a couple of cylindrical amulets were tied on his right wrist. He had taken off his sandals and rested his bare feet on the pedals. There was an air of casual laziness about him. I wondered if I would also have had a similar outward appearance and demeanour had my parents not migrated to the US.

I was born to a Malayalee Hindu father and Goan Christian mother. My parents met at a Diwali party at University of Wisconsin, where my dad was an Organic Chemistry grad student and mom worked as a nurse at an area hospital. Later on, Dad accepted a faculty position at University of Arizona, Tucson and they settled down there. Mom’s folks passed away early, and since then she never really felt like visiting India. She could never win the approval of Dad’s conservative Hindu mother and shared a cold, strained relationship with her, as a result of which Mom and I hardly joined him on his annual India summer trips. This was only my fourth visit to India, the last one was about two decades earlier during my sophomore year in high school. India has always been as alien and foreign to me as to any other Yankee tourist. Growing up in a suburban college town, I was mostly unconscious of my Indianness but for the occasional snarky ‘coconut’ and ‘whitewashed’ comment from Indian grad students serving as reminders.

Vishnu shook me awake. I didn’t realise that I had dozed off. We had reached Dad’s ancestral home – his tharavad – that he was so fond of. I got out of the car, stretched my arms and looked up, yawning. There it stood in front of me – the imposing silhouette of the mansion against the backdrop of predawn sky, with its tiled roof, triangular front pediment and a series of tall round pillars along the verandah. The thick, ornate front double doors opened, making a squeaking noise and an old lady clad in white saree emerged. It was Sharada Velliyamma. As she got older, she looked more and more like grandma. I hesitantly went up the veranda steps and approached her with a smile. She hugged me warmly.

‘Take some rest. We will talk later,’ she said.

After a much needed nap, I freshened up and went downstairs. An elaborate spread of a steaming hot South Indian breakfast was arranged in my honour. It was not the time to be candid about my aversion for Indian food. Appumama and Vishnu were already seated, waiting for me impatiently. The house looked starkly different from what I remembered from childhood when the entire extended family lived here and noisy chaos was the norm. Now it was just Vishnu, his parents and Muthashi, my great grandmother. Muthashi was over a hundred years old and hardly got up from her bed. Sharada Velliyamma served generous scoops of steaming hot upma onto my plate. When I asked her to stop, she smiled and said, ‘Eat, eat’. She was not very fluent in English and most of her communication to me was limited to monosyllabic words. I felt ashamed at my inability to speak Malayalam. I hated most Indian food and upma was the worst; I had no choice but to politely smile and swallow it down.

The purpose of my trip was two-fold. Dad had wished for a part of his ashes to be scattered on the family pyre ground, where his parents were cremated, and the remaining to be immersed in a holy river nearby, at Thirunavaayaa. There was also the business of settling the sale of some family land and my signature was required for that in some places. I had to get back to New York by Monday, which gave me only two days to wrap up affairs here.

After breakfast, Sharada Velliyamma took me to Muthashi’s room. She was lying in her bed in a foetal position, facing towards the wall. Her home nurse was reading a magazine sitting on the floor next to the bed. On seeing us, she got up and shook Muthashi.

‘It’s okay. Don’t wake her up,’ I said.

‘No, she’s just resting,’ said Sharada Velliyamma.

Muthashi sat up and stared at us, her eyes widening. She barely had a few strands of gray hair left, wrinkled loose skin hung from her arms and neck and her earlobes, with oversized holes, hung loose. She ground her bare gums incessantly. I sat next to her. She looked at me. It was a blank stare at first, then she smiled. She pressed my hand and started breathing heavily. She grimaced, her dilated eyes welled up and she pulled me closer. Unsure, I looked at others.

‘Maybe she thinks you are your father. You look a lot like him now,’ said Sharada Velliyamma.

‘She hasn’t slept much last night,’ said the nurse.

Sharada Velliyamma eased her back into the bed.

The Sub-registrar’s office was a rather nondescript single storey building located at the town centre. Our arrival was expected and we were guided to a table at the far back corner. The man there smiled at me and nodded, acknowledging the American’s presence. Appumama untied the bundle of documents he was carrying and went over them with him. I could barely follow what they were saying except for a few English words sprinkled in between: ‘acres’, ‘register’ and ‘notarise’. Vishnu and Sharada Velliyamma immersed themselves in their phones. I looked around. People who were all brown complexioned with black eyes and hair like me, yet were so different from me – their language, dress sense, mannerisms, topics of conversation, likes and dislikes, thoughts, worries, taste buds, sports, pop culture – all different. After almost an hour of waiting, the proceedings came to a rather quick end with all of us signing a bunch of stamped papers in a flurry.

Later that afternoon, we ventured into the woods that surround the house, accompanied by an old priest and his two understudies, probably his sons. They led the way, walking on the narrow irrigation tracks through coconut and areca nut palms, banana, mango and jackfruit trees, along with a whole plethora of tropical trees, plants and climbers. I held the earthen urn containing Dad’s remains close to my chest. We arrived at a dark corner, filled with dense plants and creepers overrun by an army of red weaver ants in the midst of which stood a small platform made of grey stone blocks. On it were two small statues of gods carved out of black stone, both with snake hoods open atop their heads.

‘These are the Sarpa Kaavu, the snake gods,’ said Vishnu.

I followed their lead and slipped my feet out of my flip flops, folded my hands and closed my eyes, pretending to pray. But this Kaavu wasn’t our destination. We kept walking through the woods, and finally arrived at the family pyre spot. A rectangular patch had been cleared of all the grass and gravel by the workers, its red soil forming a bright contrast with the rest of the grassy surroundings. The head priest sat down on a plank of wood and arranged the prayer materials in front of him. His sons helped him, lighting up the lamps, incense and camphor, arranging flowers on a small strip of plantain leaf and setting up pictures of gods. Soon he started reciting mantras and offering flowers to the gods. We stood behind them in an arc, praying with folded hands. I looked on at the proceedings, occasionally glancing at my aunt, who was in deep prayers, her lips moving to silent prayer recitations. I wish I knew some of these prayers so that I could partake. This patch of earth right in front us is where all of Dad’s ancestors were cremated. This is the place Dad longed to rest in, finally. This is the home he grew up in, the land he always wanted to return to, the place he missed the most. The priest took the urn from me, untied the rope and removed the cloth covering. He asked me to step forward and handed me a fistful of ashes. I held them close to my heart, closed my eyes. An old, happy memory surfaced. I was in first grade and Dad was dropping me off at the school. I got out of the car and waved at him.

‘Study well,’ he said, smiling.

I ran to the entrance gate, stopped and turned back to catch a glimpse of his car before it turned into the street and went out of view. At the stop sign, he turned back and waved at me. I smiled and waved back.

Jetlag woke me up in the middle of night. I got up and looked out of the window. It was a windless, cloudless half-moon night. The trees stood silently while crickets chirped. On an impulse, I stepped out through the backdoor and walked out into the trees. Sharp, moist strands of grass scratched my feet as I made my way, guided by dim moonlight. A strange sense of anticipation made me march on. On reaching the west end of the compound, I hopped over the wall into the adjoining temple land. I had come here many times as a kid. I remembered holding my grandma’s hand and walking around the temple. Whenever he was here, Dad began every morning with a bath in the temple pond followed by offering prayers here.

The place was deserted but dimly lit by a few overhead lamps. I walked around the outer wall of the temple and turned right towards the huge, expansive temple pond. I walked to the edge of the pond. Its sides were paved with large red stones and there were steps leading down to the water at regular intervals. A piece of the wall jutted into the pond all the way to the middle. I shuffled sideways along it all the way to the end, took my flip flops off and balanced on my toes right at the edge of the wall. The dark water arrested my attention, its gentle waves glistening under the moonlight. I didn’t know what got into me, I felt this sudden pull to dive in. I was being called from somewhere deep within its womb. On impulse, I dived in. I swam downwards, aimlessly searching for something. Or someone.

A blurry white shape emerged from deep down and moved up. As it got closer, it resolved into the outline of a woman. She glided up effortlessly towards me, her long black mane flowing in gentle waves. She stopped right in front of me and looked deeply at me, in a state of shock, her chest heaving. Then she smiled blissfully, teary-eyed. I was spellbound by her big doe eyes. She had shiny dark skin, tiny arched nose, and puffy dimpled cheeks. Who was she? And why was she mesmerising me in this manner? I knew her but I couldn’t remember who she was.

‘You came,’ she said, and hugged me.

I instinctively hugged her back. Her silky hair brushed my hands, her warm breath hit my neck, her raw scent filled my head. ‘I knew you would come.’

‘How long have you been waiting?’ I asked.

‘One hundred years.‘

I looked at her in disbelief.

‘It does not matter. You are here. I knew you would come.’

‘Why were you so sure?’

She just smiled, closed her eyes and leaned in close to me. I closed my eyes. We kissed.

‘Get ready fast, we have to go to Thirunavaaya,’ Sharada Velliyamma shook me and woke me up.

I sat up straight in my bed. It was still dark outside. My clothes were dripping wet. How did I get here from the pond? Was it all just a dream?

We reached Thirunavaaya before sunrise. A priest led us down to the river and had us sit on the steps near the edge of the water. The river, fresh from the monsoon downpours, was filled to the brim and flowing wildly. A few other families were already there, performing the last rites of their loved ones. With intense sombre faces, they paid close attention to every word coming out of their priest’s mouth and placed offerings on a small piece of banana leaf in front of them. I understood little of what our priest was saying, apart from the occasional mention of Dad’s name. I did as the others did and placed grains of rice, tulsi leaves and flower petals on the banana leaf. Finally, we descended to the river. The flow was quite strong and Sharada Velliyamma urged me to hold on to the steel railings. I waded further down, the water was up to my chest. We took dips in the cold water. Every time I took a dip, I was being pulled away by the strong currents. The priest handed me the urn containing Dad’s remains. I took a couple of steps further down and placed it on the water. I could not let go of it. The river was pulling it away from me. I held on to it tightly and peaked in for one last look at the ashes. And then, I let go. The urn rocked and swayed as the river carried it away eagerly in its strong currents. I kept my eyes on it, wishing I had not let it go. Too embarrassed to show my tears to others, I took another dip. When I stood up, the urn was gone.

On the drive back, Vishnu and Sharada Velliyamma kept asking questions about life in America, perhaps to distract my mind and cheer me up. After lunch, I snuck out on the pretext of getting some fresh air, and rushed to the temple. The afternoon sun was burning hot and the place was empty. I entered the temple and walked down the narrow pathway leading to the inner sanctum. Its tiny wooden double doors were closed. A picture of Radha and Krishna hung from above the doors. They were in a familiar pose – Krishna was standing cross-legged, playing his flute and Radha looked on with coy admiration, leaning on him.

‘It’s Radha and Krishna,’ a voice said from behind. It was her. She walked towards me, visibly thrilled at managing to shock me. Wearing a traditional white Kerala saree, she had sandalwood paste smeared on her forehead and water drops were dripping from her long, plaited hair. ‘Do you know them?’ she asked.

I nodded.

‘What do you know?’

‘Well … he’s an incarnation of Lord Vishnu. He’s this blue cowherd who plays the flute and she’s his girlfriend?’

She laughed and looked at the picture.

‘Radha and Krishna loved each other deeply. They are still in love. Their love is eternal. They were never able to unite. In fact, for most of their lives, they lived far away, separated. But this only made their love stronger. They spent every moment of their lives thinking about each other. They represent love in its purest form.’

I looked at her. Her eyes were fixated on the lovers.

‘Don’t look at me. Look at them, and pray.’

‘Pray for what?’

‘Pray for love.’

She closed her eyes, folded her hands and prayed. I wasn’t sure what exactly to pray or focus on. I hadn’t prayed in a long time. I prayed for love. For Radha and Krishna.

When I opened my eyes, she was not there. I looked around, searching for her. A frail old man emerged from a one-room building by the corner of the temple. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ he yelled at me.

I was confused, not sure what to say to him. I tried to mumble something in Malayalam.

‘Temple is closed! Go away!’

‘Madhav!’ Sharada Velliyamma shouted at me from outside the temple entrance.

She apologised to the temple priest and explained that I was her nephew from America. He smiled at me sheepishly and bobbed his head from side to side. On the way back, she gave me a piece of her mind for disappearing without informing them and entering into the temple in the afternoon when it was closed to the public.

My flight back was the next morning at nine, which meant I had to start from home very early. I didn’t have much to pack apart from the steady stream of fresh homemade snacks Sharada Velliyamma dropped off all evening. She stopped only after I told her that my suitcase had run out of space. We ate an early dinner and retired to bed by nine, hoping to catch some sleep before the long early-morning drive.

I lay in bed thinking about her. After a while, when the sound of chatter and activities from neighbouring rooms had died down, I quietly snuck out of the house and ran to the pond. Once there, I hurriedly took off my clothes, took a deep breath and dived in. My wide open eyes searched for her but she was nowhere to be seen. It was just me in those empty dark waters. I continued searching, swimming deeper down, but there was no sign of her. Tired, I stopped swimming and rose to the surface and drifted. I felt stupid. It was probably all just in my head. I gave up and was about to swim back up when a pair of hands hugged me from behind. I drew her round to the front. She giggled playfully. I got lost in her big eyes. I pulled her close to me. We hugged and kissed.

‘You don’t remember anything, do you?’ she asked, when we finally broke the kiss.

I shook my head.

‘It’s okay. You are here now. We are together. That’s all that matters. This is all I ever wanted. And now they are not here to harm us.’

‘Who?’

She just smiled and shook her head.

‘All these years, I spent every single moment thinking only about you, waiting for you, waiting for this moment. I knew you would come. I had faith in our love. Because it is true and eternal.’

‘Like Radha and Krishna?’ I asked.

She smiled and nodded. I cupped her face in my hands. She looked deeply into my eyes.

‘Let’s melt into each other and become one. Let’s escape from here, turn into wind and roam in the sky. Twisting and hugging, intertwined as one, we’ll fly over the rivers and fields and mountains and valleys.’

I looked out of the window as the plane accelerated down the runway and took off. The land underneath zoomed out revealing a sea of green: trees, farms, meadows, interspersed by scattered mosaic specks of buildings. A lone river meandered leisurely into the sea. Will I ever return to this land to which I am so profoundly connected, but yet, is so alien to me? Where would that urn be now? Would it have made it all the way to the sea? Or would it now be stuck on a tree twig, fighting to break free and flow away. Maybe it is peacefully resting at the bottom of the river. My view turned hazy white as the plane ascended into a thick bed of clouds. I leaned back and closed my eyes.