Greetings from Kerala, known here as “God’s Own Country.” Now, I had to fly here from Delhi, as there were absolutely no train tickets to be had (it’s high travel season). As we were flying over Kerala, coming in for a landing, I looked out the window onto the green-green land, with the sea lapping at its western border, and thought to myself, “wow, this is like God’s country.” I don’t usually have thoughts like that. It was only after we landed that I learned of the motto for the state.

However, god or no god, Trivandrum, or Thiruvananthapuram as it is now named, is basically just another small Indian city, or at least the bits of it I’ve seen are. There is, however, a dramatic difference in how the people look—on the whole they look good. There is very little begging, and the women walk as though they belong to the society. I haven’t seen anyone covering her face. The few Muslim women I’ve seen are wearing only a hijab, not the full covering. And, I noticed the other day, I haven’t seen one cow! They aren’t geared up for foreign tourists here though, and more “modern”-looking (read clean) restaurants are not plentiful. Even the Y.W.C.A. Guest House, which was amazing in Bombay (Colaba) and really good in Chennai, is a distant and very poor relation here. On Sunday we head out to Kovalam for a couple of days, so I’ll get to see a little more of Kerala before heading to Chennai on the 26th.

SNAPSHOT 1: Sweetness expressed: I stop into a travel agency on my walks one day. I wait as the young man serves another woman, so I have an opportunity to observe. The transaction is easy, she has a few questions, and he answers her willingly and with courtesy. I notice that he has a bit of a tremor sometimes when he speaks, almost a stutter, but not quite. Their transaction over, he turns to me, and I inquire about train tickets to Chennai. After a bit of back and forth to ensure that we understand each other, he informs me that I must go to the railway station to get train tickets. As I’m getting ready to leave, he introduces himself, Arun, and then tells me that he is a dancer, studying Bharat Natyam at the college just down the road. And we have a lovely little conversation about that. “Beautiful,” I say, and he thanks me.

SNAPSHOT 2: Politics and People: When I called the YWCA to ask if they had a room for me from the 14th instead of the 16th (as had been originally booked), Selline (spelling uncertain) informed me that the 14th is a strike day, and that I should call when I get there. Sure enough, all flights to the other communist state, West Bengal, were cancelled, but not to Kerala. However, when we land there are no regular government services, specifically no phone or taxis. But there are the private guys out there, ready to make a lot of extra money from the stranded ones. I pay an auto 150 rupees for what should have been about a 60-70 rupee ride. What to do? For them it’s a great opp. Later I go hunting for a bottle of water, only to find the town completely shut down in solidarity with the main strikers. Well, not quite. One gift shop is open, and the shopkeeper persuades his friend across the street, whose shop is shut tight, to sell me a bottle of water. I am extremely grateful.

I’ve been doing quite a bit of reading, and want to end with a quotation that I find powerful and hope you do too:

I should have been grateful, but I wasn’t. Even though I did not say anything, I wasn’t big enough to let the matter pass.
I built a low wall between us.
It wasn’t a high wall, but every time the poor girl wanted to get to me, she had to climb it. I regret building the wall now. I was the only friend she had, and I turned my back on her. Of course it is all too late now. I tell all my grandchildren never to build walls, because once you start, the wall takes over. It is the nature of the wall to build itself until it is so high that it cannot be scaled.
……………………………………………………………
But we are still friends, I told myself, stubbornly refusing to tear the wall down. When you are young, it is difficult to destroy a wall you have built with the red bricks of selfishness and cemented with gray pride.

- Manicka, Rani. The Rice Mother. New York: Penguin Books, 2004 (2003), p. 56 and 60

Take care,
Ellen