Sweet Summer Sweat…

 

The stairs leading to the main land were rocky and dilapidated, worn out from years of frequent use. I heaved myself with much effort, and that’s when it hit me.

It was humid and clammy beyond bounds.

It was 6:30 am  and I was drenched with sweat, and if were to extrapolate my entire time to  be spent in Kanyakumari , I had to find an instant  respite.I could not locate any air-conditioned outlet as far as my vision guided me and I wasn’t in a mood to go far from the sunrise point, since that area collectively comprised of all the hot-spots (pun unintended) of the town which I had to visit.

So, to sum it all, the only way out seemed like a refreshing shower in our desi Sulabh Souchalaya.

For those who haven’t heard of it, its a chain of Govt. installed bathrooms and lavatories across the country, and  despite the government’s sole intention of keeping the best interests of the citizens, undeniably , in its priority, the name reeks of inconvenience and slime.

Reluctantly I walked into one, paid 15 bucks for a shower.
(I would like to take this solemn moment to bring into the kind attention of my loving readers a question as old as the crumbling walls of this public restroom station. Is everybody normally able to the answer the question at the payment desk “What do you want to use the restroom for? ” Because, this question really puts me and my entire digestive tract into a  very stressful mode. Am I really in a position to carry out the unmentionable activity?  Which call of nature do I really answer?  Do I need a shower too?  Do I have to decide that right now?  Standing across that table? Or should I enter after deciding? What if the decision changes in the brief period of time of entering or after paying?  If I pay for the toilets what add-on services can I use for free?   What if I overpay?  Is that money literally down the toilet?  What if I underpay?  How will they find out? Should I be wasting so much pondering over this issue? Its a very strict Neo-Nazi culture which is emancipating in such premises and I feel they should really have a pondering space and a discrete form to fill out. Do these places have a suggestion box??? …)

So, coming back to the narration.

15 bucks.

Quiet a cheap price considering  you are entering into a Wormhole and travelling back in time, into the ancient days of India, where there wasn’t any electricity or the door-hinge technology.
On complaining to the caretaker, he casually remarked, its daytime, why do you need a bulb (even though the bathrooms had no ventilation or in this case a hole in the wall for the divine light to enter).Using my luggage to keep the door closed, and a heightened sense of peripheral vision , I somehow successfully took bath out of a bucket which was once a proud container of 50 litres of Asian paints and a mug, with a crack at the bottom so every time I refilled it with water, it was a race against time. (Reminded me of the Tantalus Cup, a device of practical joke created by Pythagoras. It was a specially designed cup for drinking wine that would start leaking it content once it was filled above a certain level, ironically its idea serving as the basic design for the modern toilets).

Just as I was nearing the end, my peripheral vision strengthened and I could make out the interiors of the draconian hell-hole.  Fossilized spiders, curls of hair of unknown travellers, spider webs so thick that they could double as a hammock , all these decorated the dingy corners ; I meekly adjusting to it, the entire scene  resembling a  less dramatic version of Indiana Jones discovering the booby-trapped temple in Peru amidst thickets of an eerie terrain.

And then something quivered in the dark, creating petite ripples in the undrained clog of water .

I wasn’t alone there.

A crippling fear.

As I cautiously moved the tattered bucket to discover who this friendly neighbour was, my eyes fell on the most horrid lizard, a minion of the anti-Christ  ( If I may kindly plagiarise a rhetoric comment from our beloved Chandler Bing) , swimming lazily in the gradually clogging water, with a belly that suggested of a big smiling  plate of worm breakfast and a cloak of withered skin, nauseatingly spotted with black.

It was one of those moments that you realize that an adrenaline-rush of courage is actually a thing, a primeval instinct  for survival that probably helped our revered ancestors brave the macabre of an all-jungle lifestyle.

The next few seconds witnessed a whole lot of things.

A muffled scream, a shudder down my spine as it  stealthily advanced towards me (que Psycho movie background music), me wiping myself dry and changing into comfortable khakhi shorts and bursting out of the hell-hole with an air of  supreme nonchalance.

Trying hard to forget the reptile of death, I got back on the track, not forgetting to apply the customary chandan tika on my forehead like the other travellers leaving the boulevard of scum.

Briefly interrupted by the scary bath, my hunger was back and I found myself in a shabby breakfast outlet which nevertheless exuded delectable aromas of piping hot idlis and sambhar. I sat on table,  sharing it with a Tamil family and ordered a plate of Medhu Vada with chutney and sambhar and a chilled bottle of 7-up. I was dehydrating fast and it was just 7 in the morning.

I devoured the steamy vadas, dunking them in hot delicious sambhar ,relishing every bite of the simple meal. I was to begin exploring the town now.

The great thing about Kanyakumari is that you really needn’t have a Google Map or a guide to catch up with all the tourist points. All are present in a 500m radius. An amicable chat with any localite will provide you with the requisite information and directions.  I decided to start off with the Mahatma Gandhi Memorial, built in the fond memory of the leader,with a small pillar signifying where his ashes were stored before being respectfully strewn into the seas.

Built intelligently to resemble a temple, a church and a mosque, the Gandhi Memorial stood reminding travellers of the thread of communal harmony that binds the diverse country of India together. Overlooking the Arabian Sea on the right, the structure was pristine white , representing the solidarity it intended to.

After this visitation, I walked towards the Kanyakumari Temple, at the doorstep of which I roughly stopped at a replica of Vivekanand Memorial. The priest there ,told me later that his parents and he were appointed as labours , 48 years ago, when the main memorial was being built on the outlying rocky island.

 

Next I entered the temple premise and confused for being an NRI (cue Khakhi shorts), was immediately taken for a special darshan on account of agreeing to pay 50 bucks more.

Revelling at the idea of not having to stand in a long queue I gladly accepted the offer and was shown around the temple and told all its story. The temple stood as a shrine to a timeless virgin deity, Kanyakumari, who had once stood one one foot and prayed to Lord Shiva, asking him to be her betrothed. But as Hindu mythology would have it, Narada had entered the scenario to deflect Shiva from the wedding so that he could use his powers on fighting a demon. Kanyakumari , unaware of this cruel twist of fate, adorned her most prized jewels and a pair of resplendent diamond nose rings, and still stands awaiting, in customary bridal outfit.

The temple looked quiet ancient and the deity, quiet primeval. Her diamond nose rings glowed in the darkness as the soft light of temple lamps got reflected by it. Intricate artwork decked the old stone walls; the temple looked eerie ,with a hint of primitive paganism, and I was told later that it is supposedly three thousand years old by the bulbous pandit.

The only thing remaining next was the ferry ride across the sea to the Vivekanand Memorial Rock, which would hardly take me an hour or so I was told by the priest.

Great,  first phase of the trip almost done with lots of time in hand. Which meant I had enough time to explore Kovalam and  Trivandrum ,  and Varkala later.

Never make the mistake of thinking this in India.

For the second time in my trip had I failed to acknowledge the burgeoning population of India and not taking this factor into account can often lead you to undesirable situations, like the one I was stepping into which was  standing in a queue of 400 people to catch the ferry.
So there I was, amidst the assemblage of tourists from far and wide , waiting patiently to be one with the cool ferry-time breeze, meanwhile soaked in perspiration and engaging in small-“touristy”-talk with a Hindi-speaking family. The blue fleet of ferries docked was quite near from where we stood but the reprobate officials made us crawl sluggishly like a human centipede in a series of convoluted gated rows, tantalizing us with the prospect of freedom , which  tauntingly stood just a few yards away. The entire arena was being cooled with a singular yet spectacular lone ranger of a overhead fan, which moved with utmost sincerity and diligence, showering us with blessed cool tufts of air once every every minute.

Gradually the line moved and I got the chance to finally board the rickety ferry to the rocky islands.

 

The sun wasn’t overhead yet, it being hardly 9:30 am. The ferry swayed meekly amidst the three-way waves , and gently pushed by its senile propellers , we reached the rock which stood betwixt the three seas.

“There is a tide in the affairs of men,

 Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.

Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries.

On such a full sea are we now afloat.

And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures. ..”

– William Shakespeare

PS: I would like to take this moment and thank the EAGLES band for the wonderful , wonderful song which serves as the namesake for this blog post….