I was on a ‘cruise’ from Cochin to the islands of Lakshadweep. The cruise itinerary included 4 islands; ‘fun and frolic’ on an island during the day; and, onboard the ship at night while crossing from one landmass to the next. The trip cost me four hundred rupees. While making the ‘deck’ reservation, I dreamt of sleeping on hammocks under starry skies.
The ‘deck’ turned out to be a huge dormitory with rows and rows of berths within the cavernous hull. As neighbours, I had friendly agricultural merchants transporting their produce and purchases. On the first night, I tried to count the number of hands in each cluster (kola) of bananas hanging from frames and cross-beams. On the other days, I was tired after swimming, exploring and walking and did not need that to sleep.
The common toilets and shower area were reasonably clean. The food served in the canteen was fine – for breakfast, bread and jam or uppu maavu; for dinner, ‘ration’ rice (found a dead baby cockroach only once) with vegetable and curry (looked like fish curry or maybe it was vegetable curry). I had lunch at government tourist hotels or small tuck-shops on the islands.
Each day, the ship anchored in the deep at a safe distance from an island. At sunrise and sunset, the cruising lot was packed into a small motor boat for the journey to and from the island. I guess life-jackets were uncommon then. We never saw one.
On the third day, we were returning to the ship against the tide (was it from Kalpeni or Kavaratti?). It was a terrifying ride. Today, I might compare it to an out-of-control bloody-scary roller-coaster ride. I have stood with awe on many beaches, delighted with the lashing waves and scared of the under-currents, whispering “Kadalamme, Rakshikkane” (“Mother Sea, Please Save”). But, in a small boat on the high seas with no sight of land to comfort, the violent deep inspires lesser and more common thoughts appreciating the true sublime magnificence.
On the row in front of me, a young lady retched. Her husband held her tight with his left hand and held his own seat even tighter with his right. Two boys sitting next to me sang Hindu and Christian prayers. I lost my favourite cap to the wind and the rough seas. I held on to the boat, not even thinking of reaching for it, watching it bob away from me and disappear. I thought that it would be easy for me too, to escape like that, slipping and bobbing away, forever, to somewhere far away.
I noticed her then. She was sitting two seats ahead of me and I could see her profile. Her hair roughly caressed by the wind covered her face; her light translucent blouse stuck to her skin like grease-paper; her face was serene, with a wisp of a smile not of amusement but plain secret delight, her eyes contained that smile too; her young untroubled face expressed freedom and hope; and, she did not seem to have any worries about mortality.
I forgot my own fears and my plans to escape. I kept on looking at her, amazed and enthralled, till the boat reached the ship. In the rush to get inside the ship, I lost sight of her.
I did not see her for the rest of that journey, maybe hidden in some place with a no-entry sign for me.
Then, I saw her again a few weeks back, much closer to home.
About forty kilometers from Trivandrum, in a backwater lake with a strip of land separating that and the sea, there is an island. It is a small island, roughly half a kilometer in radius. It is about a kilometer from a pier on the mainland.
There is a small old temple in the middle of that island. The Trust that administers the temple has appointed a priest to conduct prayers on the first of every Malayalam month. But, devotees can visit on any day.
This temple has two peculiar features and one strange belief associated with it. The first feature is that the sanctum sanctorum, with the deity, is never closed. The second feature is that there is only one way to enter this island – there is a boat (vanji) and a single boatman who can bring the devotee here from that pier on the mainland. The belief of devotees is that a person with true faith will not return from that island. The island is called Thirichu Ella Thuruthu (Island of No Return).
I went there few weeks back. Maybe, I was like most people who visit knowing that they will return. But I felt that my own belief or faith, whatever it might be, was irrelevant.
I guess I was standing on that pier wondering about that when I saw her again.
She came out of the pay-and-use toilet there. To the right of that, and at a fair distance, there is a roofed waiting area. A man, with a kind and friendly face but with no inclination for small talk, runs a makeshift tea-stall in that waiting area. The stall has a gasoline stove, an old kettle, few glasses and plates, and two or three steel vessels with that day’s specialty. It was idli (with sambhar or chutney or chamandi podi, I guess) and vazhakka appam on that day.
She asked the man for a glass of tea, strong. I heard her ask him about the boatman, too. I heard him reply that it would be best if we (the waiting devotees) went to the boatman’s house to inform the boatman that we are waiting. She asked him for directions to the boatman’s house.
I watched her while she talked, while she sipped the hot tea. She looked older, of course. But, it was her, I knew. Those eyes, the smile, her small frame and the way she slips her hair behind the right ear. I studied her face and her body. She must have seen me by then but she did not look in my direction till I approached her.
“Are you going to the boatman’s house? I am also waiting for him. Can I come along?” I enquired.
“Yes, that would be nice,” she said and added out of custom or as if it was her place to be hospitable, “will you have some tea, too?” I shook my head and waited for her.
Somewhere along the way, I asked her, “Were you at Lakshadweep about twenty five years back?”
“No. I have never been there. Why do you ask me that?”
“Never mind, I must have seen someone like you.” I said. Why is she hiding the truth?
The boatman’s house was a hut. A lady was washing clothes outside near a well and beside her, a young man was brushing his teeth with umi-kari (roasted paddy husk and salt).
“Is the boatman here?” I asked.
The woman gave an angry look towards the hut, “Hopeless drunkard. Sleeping like a corpse…” (“Mudiyanaya kudiyan. Shavathine ppole kidakkunnu…”) I expected her to spit but she did not.
“Will he come to the pier today morning?” my companion asked.
“Who knows…wait till ten…that is his usual time.” It was only eight in the morning.
I looked at the young man, “Can you take us there?”
“After he dies…” (“Angeru chathittu…”) came the quick harsh reply from the lad.
We walked back to the pier. It must have been our common predicament that made us stand together and talk.
I pointed at a board nailed to a coconut tree near the edge of the pier. I asked her, “Can you read that?”
We went closer. She read the writing on that board: The Gita, Chapter 8, verse 26:
sukla-krsne gati hy ete
jagatah sasvate mate
ekaya yaty anavrttim
anyayavartate punah
“What does it mean?” I asked.
She hesitated and thought for a while, “I am not really sure… well, I think it’s something like… there are two eternal paths for mortal beings… the day and the night are symbolic of that…it is given in the Scriptures…the two paths are the path of return through rebirth and the path of no return through union with God.”
I told her, “Sounds like Greek to me.” She laughed.
Watching her laugh, I was reminded of the young girl’s expression. She has changed. The smile still entered her eyes. But along with that, there was also sadness or weariness or the hard weight of experience or knowledge or…
It brought back my initial thoughts about the purpose of my own trip. As if to extricate myself from that impasse via association or combined study, I asked her, “Why are you here?”
She looked surprised with that question. A stranger asking a personal question, it must have sounded like that.
She looked away from me, looked towards the island, at Thirichu Ella Thuruthu, and remained silent for a long time.
I accepted her silence. It was after all none of my business. I sat on the ground, leaned against a coconut tree, watched her and thought.
I should admit that my thoughts were not really virtuous. When I was young, I believed in going to temples with a virtuous mind; later, I stopped going because I could not manage that; then, I resumed going resigned to the fact that I could only be myself. I must have laughed at my petty thoughts.
She looked at me and asked,
“Do you believe in superstitions?”
“Not really…” I replied without hesitation.
“I don’t. But recently, I think I found a reason to believe…”
I avoided wisecracks and wisely I kept quiet. She continued,
“It started 12 years back.”
“What?” I prompted.
“Whenever I thought about one particular…thing, I faced a disaster.”
“Aha! Tell me that you caused 9/11, 26/11, Bush, Lehman…” I quipped.
She looked at me with a serious face, clearly wondering whether she should continue. I raised my hands in apology and silently begged her to continue. How could she understand that I was trying to cover my own discomfort by joking…her tale was sounding a bit too familiar.
“Mostly personal tragedy…relationships breaking, job failure, accidents, long-lasting bad luck following a brief tease of good fortune, loss of wealth, loss of those near and dear…one by one, till there was nothing…at first, I looked at it as mere coincidence or at worst, improbable chance. I even checked and tested…brought disaster on myself voluntarily…through that thought…but I still refused to believe…”
“What happened then?” I asked.
“Now, I have nothing left to lose…but…I lost even that thought…it is like its force is spent or that it had had enough of me…”
“What was it…that thought…what was it about?”
“The only person I loved…I was not supposed to think about that…till I lost all…now I can…but, it is gone too…strangely, I seem to believe now…”
“This person…?” I asked.
“Dead...”
By then, I was not sure whether the voices had flipped. Was it me or was it her…who talked about the lost thought? We did not talk after that.
At ten, the boatman did turn up, washed and cleaned but surly, smelling of yesterday’s liquor, still unsteady on his feet but steady enough to do his duty. Unlike our first boat journey, this ride was smooth gliding. I returned alone and I do not think I will see her again.
The second time I thought I saw her she guided me to the path of no return.
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