The Land of Small Things

It's a journey back home. Getting used to life as it used to be.

As always, I saw things I never saw before. I heard things I never heard before. And I thought of things, I think, I never thought of before.

Another summer at home comes to an end! The last one month is left behind.

Sometime in July/August 2002
[ Published in December 2002 ]

I was miles above ground, and fast descending. The images came back to me. Just the same place. But there were more clouds then.

We were above the clouds, and as the sky below was lit up by the rising rays of the sun, they shone. A smooth milky white. And forms like foam, soft. They stood up below us, rising from the sky. And then we descended. So close that we couldn't see any more. Once inside, I could see the furious gush of clouds as the wings cut through them. Out we came through the other side, and suddenly the sky was above us. The foam was still there, hanging upside down!

Did I imagine that the islands also shone, like pearls on a vast stretch of silk? As we flew lower I could see the hills eye to eye. Waking up, green and fresh, in the sunlight that tore down through the slits in the sky. The sea came closer and closer, and the hill tops rose above us. It was as if we were going to dip into the water. At the last moment, as we touched down, the land stretched its hands and greeted us. Welcome to Hong Kong!

I passed through that airport twice. Up and down. (Down and up. Down and up.) But the images have now merged into one unfading image- of clouds and hills, of the water and the islands, the pearls on the silk.

The Hong Kong airport had a free e-hub. And through the large glass panes at the boarding area, you can see the sunlight lighting up the green hillsides.

But otherwise I found the Singapore airport more likely to impress. The vast spaces, the fountains, the ponds with the valiant 'Koi' fish, the silent prayer rooms, and even a free tour of Singapore! They would take you on a two hour trip through the city- to a boat ride and back- if you have the time.

The streets and the lawns were just too well-kept, almost uncomfortably so. The bird sanctuary that we passed was a welcome sight. A little piece of forest in the middle of the trimmed lawns. It was warm and the rain had just stopped when we reached the boat. On the way back from the boat-ride, I saw a coconut tree- against the shimmering sky washed by the showers, standing tall and just like the numerous I have seen... The moment passed and I knew why I was going home.

Our guide was a middle-aged woman. I forgot her name. She kept chattering through out the bus-ride. That's her job. So that we get to know about the land and the people. So that we understand them. It seemed that, if what she said was anything to go by, the biggest worries of the people are the number of rooms in their houses and the amount that they have to put in their "Provident Funds." I wonder if the labourers- the ones who were planting those gardens in the airport, and the ones for whom I filled out the immigration forms on my way back- if they also get to worry about that. May be they do. This is Singapore!

Entering Kerala

The journey back home. When did it begin? When I boarded the Silk Air flight to Trivandrum from Singapore? or when the sight of that coconut tree filled me with joy? Or may be in Hong Kong or San Francisco? Or two months back, when I left Princeton? Or is it two years back, when I left for Princeton?

I think it was just two weeks back, when I was coming back from Delhi. It was the Kerala Express. A long train, a long trip... into and through Kerala. Kerala, I thought, the Land Of Small Things...

The Train of Thoughts

"It's a race against your thoughts," she said, "You just want to catch up with them and capture them in words." Travelling alone, one meets interesting people in the train. The soldier coming home on leave, the students returning from vacation, the two men who are partners in business, the unforgettable families (with their large collection of luggage), the strangers who join you (or, whom you join?) for a game of cards, the train crew, the vendors in the stations and on board, the beggars in the stations and kept outside the A/C compartments, the people living beside the rail-tracks, their cattle living or lying dead in the hot sun...

The Monsoon hadn't reached the North. The land was still hot, and the air still felt and smelled of dust. On my way up, we passed through Rajasthan. A first time for me, as far as I can recall. A land of palaces and forts, a land of the desert and bright clothes. The almost flourescent colours penetrated the hot winds, and through the glass panes of the A/C compartment (oh those glass panes! I have more to tell of them). The old monuments stood here and there, in pretty much the same state of dilapidation and decay as the houses nearby. And the inexplicable, rubble! Wherever it came from, it's not going anywhere. Piles of brick and mortar, errors refusing to be erased. As if waiting to be resurrected, the senseless, persistent rubble! The rubble invaded everywhere, and merged the houses into the harsh summer landscape, the dust and the parched ground.

I travelled in the air-conditioned coaches, unlike in the good old college days. The `three-tier' A/C sleeper is almost the usual sleeper coach, except that, of course, it is air-conditioned. AC coach means fewer people, but more per-capita luggage. It means you feel less dust, but see more cockroaches and rats. It means less heat, but tinted glass and no rushing wind. Blankets and pillow, cleaner toilets, better service, and more expensive.

Tinted glass, did I say? Well, there's more to it. I don't know if this is true for all the trains of the Indian Railways, but at least the one I was in, at least the window I was next to, it had two panes of glass with water (!) filling the space in between. I wouldn't have realized it except for the water level falling a little short of the height of the window. And as we accelerated and decelerated the water surface tilted back and forth. Though those glass panes probably did a good job of keeping the summer heat out, it also dimmed the colours and the sunshine, forcing me to spend quite some time at the doorway.

Has anything changed?
I looked out. The Indian summer rushed past.
It all looks the same.
Beyond the looks, I never knew what it was,
and I still don't know what it is.
Has it changed? What has changed? How do I know?

Has anything changed? I must have. And things probably have changed inside the train- or again, may be, it's just me travelling A/C. Two years is not long enough for things to change enough- enough that I would notice.

As always, I saw things I never saw before.
I heard things I never heard before.
And I thought of things, I think, I never thought of before.
Kerala, I thought, the Land Of Small Things...

The houses and buildings are small. The paddy fields are small too, cut into small irregular patches by the boundaries of ownership. The tall coconut trees are not really tall. The rivulets and streams make up the rivers. The vast stretches to which eye could see are not vast either, thanks to the trees, the hillocks and the buildings. Small things, numerous small things... and in no particular order. The beauty of randomness! The carefully planted plantations of bananas and coconut looked like out of a forest. The carefully demarcated fields, like remnants of some act of God. Some small, some smaller.

(When I call the trees small, I'm comparing them to the tall trees that amazed me when I came to Princeton. A vast stretch must be at least as vast as a golf-field. And a big building is a sky-scraper. A large railway station could be in New York or Bombay. A big river must flow by the rail tracks, cutting through the Hudson Valley.)

The summer seemed short too.
Another summer at home comes to an end!
The last one month is left behind.