Wind in the willows

From the brilliance of a mid-day sun to the porcelain hide-and-seek of a gentle May moon, the backwaters resolutely reflects change in an ever-lasting ballet of waves. This changing mood emphasizes the habitual nature of the month that lives in the cusp between summer and monsoon in Kerala.Couple of hours into the drive from Thiruvanathapuram, I watch the ominous dark clouds gather as we near Alapuzha – Venice of the East – home to Nature’s love child, the Backwaters. The last few days have been affected by a climatic depression in the Arabian Sea and the eventual rainstorm had lashed through the length of the state of Kerala. Fortunately, it had also sent the mercury plummeting a few notches to give respite from the searing tropical summer.Blotches of rain start painting the pier the moment I set my foot on it. I watch the pitter-patter on the engine-oil thickened waters of the pier. It’s a jostling cackle of boats as far as the eye can see, these converted rice-boats of yore now carefully catering to the luxurious whims of tourists like me. Even as my wayfarer’s soul prays for that picture-perfect day, despair is just beginning to consume me.Do I sense a hint of apprehension behind the smiles on the sun-tanned faces of the boat crew, as I sink into the relative comfort of the cane chairs in the living room? The room yawns onto the bow ahead, its little copper fittings polished to sheen, almost imparting a royal character to the boat. I am told that the boat crew consisting of the driver, cook and the waiter can stand in for each other, multi-skilled to control the boat through the narrowest canals that form the backwater’s arteries. The driver’s eyebrows furrow when he hurriedly glances into the sky as the boat crew, with the help of long bamboo barge-poles, manoeuvres the heavy boat into position. Then they can rev up the powerful engines that will power the boat’s glide through the canal into the backwaters ahead.The waters are dark and ominous; unflinching in its effort not to give up her secrets whilst throwing your mind into a tizzy as if faced by a woman with a threatening intelligence; drawing you closer but wary of what awaits you. The crew, probably sensing my mood, asks me if I would like to have my lunch served. I go for it.The engines settle into a clunky mode as the giant barge drags its huge frame inching its way through the palm-hugged canal. I dig into the Aviyal, a local delicacy that is a mixture of all local vegetables you can imagine, cooked in their own juices with a wise dash of Indian masala and a generous touch of coconut garnish. There’s steaming rice to go with it, while a round steel platter is decorated with a whole fried pearl-spot, the much sought after fish common to the backwaters, the size roughly that of a large human palm and firmly jacketed in fiery spices, not to mention the accompanying pappadum and rasam.I am finishing off the meal just when the ambience suddenly begins to change – the crestfallen gray giving way to a luminous green; as if honoring my truthful prayer, the sun begins to peep through and the ecosystem explodes in the sudden transfusion of energy, the wet coconut palms acquiring a bold sheen and reflecting the verdant spirit into everything else around. It is as if this place’s soul has woken up, touched by the sceptre of an angel who has somehow heard me.I resist the meal-induced drowsiness and find myself onto the outer deck, right behind the driver. Te driver’s face is now a mixture of confidence and anticipation and he winks at me as I settle on the cushion and stretch my legs.The banks of the backwater are a microcosm of the region – life exists here as it has for centuries, unadulterated by the ravages of modernity. The bunch of smiling kids who run along the banks as the boat glides by, waving their hands in glee, emphasises the innocence of the rustic life. The images of women at their chores, the backwater forming their daily source of sustenance, life going by at leisure, the men at work in the paddy fields, the school children in the canoes off to school remain in your mind when the cruise is over. And it’s a photographer’s dream come alive – the profusion of blues and greens blending into great looking images of a beautiful place.Tonight, when I sleep in my floating bedroom, rocked by the gentle wind in the willows lining the banks, one part of my subconscious that belongs to a traveller will begin to believe in that one simple fact – each journey we make is as individual as we are; it’s a fallacy if we think that it is governed by laws common to all, simply because each journey is not about getting from here to there but rather, it’s an intrinsic urge of the soul to chart a different course, a different journey that will be true to itself. It is the only way we will see the truth, our own personal truth.(The author is a tourism professional based in Thiruvananthapuram. His poems and prose can be read at www.sonisomarajan.com)