6.5.11 – Poets and parties (Tirur, Kerala, India)

6.5.11 – Poets and parties (Tirur, Kerala, India)

Bard's pool

A lush green garden around sandy ground enclosed by red stone walls.  Coconut palms, leggy and supple, coconuts clustered at the tops, Jackfruit trees, their jagged yellow fruits the size and shape or rugby balls, clinging to their tall trunks, the twitter and whistling of birds; a building open to the palm trees, ornate pillars supporting its red tiled roof. This is the birthplace of Kerala’s famous bard, whose impact during the 16^th. Century ensured that Malayalam became a recognised language.  We made sandy footprints across to the museum building, removing our sandals on the smooth steps, to view the brilliantly coloured images of dancers, the glass cases of ancient musical instruments, dark wood and ivory glowing with the patina of centuries.  Outside again, and the pool used by the bard remains, steps leading down to still, green water.  Scholars grouped in the shade of the verandah, books on knees, delicate veils over their heads as they studied, turn their eyes fascinated at the sight of our obvious and unusual European faces.

Mango trees

Back through the boiling torrent of rickshaws, buses and motorcycles, while pedestrians casually strolled with loping strides in and out of the melee, women in jewelled saris, men in white garb which seemed to be worn much as a kilt would be, although it can be let down to ankle length or looped up to the knees, making a sort of loose pair of shorts.  Heads turn everywhere to look at us, photographs are taken, especially of Molly.  It’s a bit like being a film star, gazed at from every street corner.

Weaving our way through the endlessly moving mass of people on the rugged pavements, we arrived at a dress shop.  The assistant emptied box after box of diaphanous, bejewelled dresses onto the counter in front of us, till they formed a large frothy heap through which we ruffled in indecision.  Later, Catriona decided to buy a salwar kameez.  A large department store, long glass counters, numerous smart sales assistants, fans constantly circling in the ceilings and on the walls, dresses and fabrics in neatly folded piles or carefully boxed.  Indecision and the technicalities of sizing resulted in us trekking from room to room and floor to floor, collecting intrigued sales people at every turn, until eventually Catriona was surrounded by no less than six, all scratching heads and conferring on how to satisfy this unusual Scottish customer, while she and Bincy disappeared behind an ever growing pile of rejected sartorial possibilities.  At last it was agreed to measure her and make three salwar kameezes for her – this was about 3 pm and they would be completed by 7 tonight.  

Catriona, Bincy and Molly with family

Back in Molly’s beloved taxi, our destination three houses filled to bursting with Bincy’s wonderful, laughing, welcoming relatives.  Molly handled the adulation she received at every turn as being her rightful entitlement.  Everywhere people shook our hands, hugged us, offered us delicious fresh fruit – pineapple, mango, jack fruit – so fresh that the juice ran down our chins and over our fingers – served us coconut milk, drunk from the coconut, tops slashed off, straws inserted.  The first house was Bincy’s uncle’s home, photos were taken, presents exchanged, the warmth of the welcome even rivalling the heat of the day.  The next house, embedded in the forest, was the ancestral home of the family, a lovely building, teak ceilings, shuttered glassless windows, cool black smooth floors, made of crushed shells.  Palm trees curved over the red tiled roof, papaya and mangos - lush vegetation of all sorts everywhere.  Then on to Bincy’s great grandmother’s home, where a meal awaited us amidst more excited and welcoming faces.  It’s hard to describe how amazing it felt to be so welcomed, so far from home. 

Drinking coconut juice with Bincy's relatives