After three years of Covid-imposed exile, I finally made it to my momma-land GOC (God’s Own Country, or as in some interpretations, God’s Own Cakoos) in July for a short trip. More than the mind-numbing pre-trip bureaucratic procedures, what got my goat was the nail-biting wait for the RT-PCR test results.
You see, I had considered myself to be a cool cucumber throughout my life. Exams, exam results, job interviews, job, none of these things ever unnerved me much. I remember a Tamil friend from college days, who would visit my room on the eve of exams to relax. He will come in with his eyeballs popping out of their sockets, almost touching his soda glass specs, and veins on his forehead taut and about to burst. But then, he will see me dragging on a filter-less Panama cigarette and playing cards with another friend, an even cooler cucumber, and all his tensions vanish. Eyeballs pop right back in, bulging veins disappear, and the man is ready to take the exam next day.
That was me
before I encountered RT-PCR test. The clinic was going to send the results to
my e-mail the evening before the day we were flying. I was irritable all day
long, barking at my kids, and generally being an a$$*ole. At around 6pm, the
mails came. I don’t know if my eyeballs were touching my glasses, but it was
one of those rare moments in my life I was totally tensed. Adding to that
tension was the fact that all four of us had to clear this test. I clicked on
the links one by one 陰性, 陰性, 陰性, 陰性…All negative! Collective relief all around.
The trip. Narita
airport had the feel of a funeral parlour, but transit at bustling Singapore
Changi was fun as usual. Thirontharam Hawai Adda looked and felt the same as I
remembered it from 2019. The city streets also appeared to be more or less the
same as before, and some places still had the bombed-out Fallujah feel with
lots of rubble. Oh, it was good to be back. The first couple of days were spent
meeting family and friends in the immediate neighbourhood and eating parotta,
beef, appam, mutta curry, etc. Then it was time to attend to some unfinished business
from three years ago involving government offices, banks, etc. Surprisingly,
most of those worked out well. The government staff were mostly un-rude (if
there is such a word) and reasonably helpful, which was unexpected, to be
frank. I really wanted to get things done this time and was willing to pull
some strings if needed, ditching my convictions. So, it was a pleasant surprise
when everything went smoothly without me using my connections or greasing any
palms.
The only weekend was spent in Kochi with my college mates. We drove to Kochi in a friend’s vehicle to avoid public transport and the risk of contracting some new pox. My friend, I believe, took his license from the KSRTC driving school. He drives his Innova car like the drivers of the killer express buses of the state transport service ‒ threateningly, recklessly, and with utter disregard to rules, road conditions, and passengers. The man looks like he is on a mission, though nobody knows what it is.
Anyway, we reached Kochi safely and spent some quality time with friends
and the brews brought from various parts of the world including the sake I took
from Japan. One major disappointment, though, was the food: seafood to be exact. Kochi,
the Queen of the Arabian Sea, is famed for seafood, but for some reason the
place where we stayed served us something that felt like blubber dipped
in batter and fried. I started cribbing about it,
and seeing that, my influential local friends went out and found an exotic
small shop selling matthi fry (sardines), prawns, idiyirachi (pounded dried beef),
etc., which went a long way in assuaging my feelings and making me fall in love
with Kochi again.
On the way
back, my maniacal friend gave the wheels to me as he wanted to sleep. I was
still in Japanese mode of driving, trying to stick to my lane wherever there
was one, keeping distance with the vehicle in front, etc. This, obviously, was
annoying to the local drivers, and probably even some pedestrians, who were
wondering “ii ma#$an ethu konathinnada vandi odikkan padichathu?”, which could be loosely translated as “where the f*#k did this a$$*ole learn to drive?
Well, here I was, stopped at a red signal while heading out of Kochi, when a police vehicle came and stopped near me on my right. In most countries this would be against the law, because it was straightaway blocking the oncoming traffic by being in the opposite lane. Green light comes on and the police vehicle blares its siren and cuts across in front of me. I obediently drive myself into the ditch, which serves as the shoulder in most GOC roads, to let him pass. Behind him went a government car which had a board saying, “High Court Judge!”
Now, I know that we
shouldn’t judge judges just because they break the law. He might have been rushing
to deliver some late-night judgment of national importance. Maybe, it was related
to that actor showing his butt on a nude photoshoot, which riled many people in
the country.
To be sure, that actor was cutting into the action of the Jain monk people, who probably
have a monopoly on butt-show. The rule says that not every dumbo can show his
or her butt. The judge hopefully will decide “independently” as to who can show
their butt, upon giving due consideration to the ruling dispensation’s whims.
Remember, judges are important people who can throw the book at you using words
like infructuous, Suo motu and mutatis mutandis. So, I quietly drove out of the
ditch to continue with my journey.
There are couple of things you learn early on in India. One is to not diss on gods, religions, or religious people. The retribution will be swift and harsh. If at all you want to say something, it should appear to the religious person as you’re dissing somebody else’s god. Religious people are OK with that. Another thing you learn is to keep quiet against the powers that be. The state can do whatever it pleases using all of the tools it has at its disposal including the army.
The Supreme Leader of the
country, for example, is a man who boasts one of the biggest breast sizes in
the world at 56 inches. This is probably second only to the 57 inches of Arnold
Shivajinagar, popularly known in the West as Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Interesting trivia ‒ Shivajinagar is
also an actor like the Supreme Leader, though not as good. As a thespian,
Shivajinagar is limited to action hero roles, whereas the Supreme Leader is
famed for his ability to pull off any given role. Angry middle-aged man, tortured
soul, grieving husband, mountain-dwelling ascetic, weatherman, military
strategist, economist, mathematician, birdfeeder, you name it – he has done it, and done it with elan. To top it all, he is also a real-life crocodile
Dundee-ji.
Sorry, I went off on a tangent to praise the
Supreme Leader. I was discussing how you should not say anything against those
who rule over us. This is true even for regional leaders in many states. Many
of these leaders have special organs similar to the large breast of the Supreme
Leader. Some have double or multiple organs. And they all have cult-like
followers. For instance, the Supreme Leader only has to snap his fingers and the cult members will carve you up. Well, maybe not snap his fingers, because snapping might bring
the cultists out of their trance. Could it be dog whistle? I don’t know. The opposition
party representatives also have organs, but they mess up in putting the right
organ in the right place and often end up, for example, with their heads in
their posterior orifices. That is why people call them the dis‘organ’ized
opposition.
Anyway, I fervently hope that our law-breaking
judge was able to save the country and deliver a landmark infructuous decision
as to who can show their posterior in public. My reverie, meanwhile, was broken
by the maniac sleeping in the passenger seat, who was wide awake now and ready
to drive. With him at the wheel, we had an uneventful journey back to
Thirontharam with our hearts in our mouths, and the foul taste of an
eminently forgettable dosa from a restaurant in Kottarakkara.
Despite the two food-related mishaps (blubber fry and dosa), on the whole it was a short and sweet trip to GOC with kappa,
fish curry, idlis, dosas, vadas, bajis, appams, idiappams, puttu, patthiri and of
course the national dish of parotta and beef fry. Moreover, thanks to the
much-improved services at the village, taluk, and corporation offices, I was
able to accomplish a lot on the personal front. Next time around, I hope to
stay for a much longer period.
P.S. My
maniacal friend is not exactly that bad. From a local perspective, he is a
normal driver with the optimum amount of animal instinct necessary to survive on
the roads there.
