October 22, 2011
We drove past the Shangumukham beach, back and forth, this morning when going to the airport to drop Amma and coming back.
More than a hundred small fishing boats gently tossed about like ambivalent markers all the way to the horizon .
All the little sails were a slighly bright blue. The sea wasn't.
The 'thulavarsham' monsoon inaugural shower yesterday had churned the normally blue sky into a grayish grumpiness.
I wondered if there is a colorcode for the sails or an unimaginative manufacturing company has monopoly on them.
It wasn't difficult to imagine them to be a shiver of gigantic blue fin sharks trawling the shores haphazardly. Nevertheless, the monochromaticity conferred an unintentional cinematic celebratory mood to the scene.
Thulavarsham segment of the monsoon, which is north-easterly, is more vigorous than Idavapathi, the south-westerly post-summer season.
When I had returned in August, Idavapathi had begun her move to Northern India.
She had the gentleness of a bedecked bride leaving her home in the Arabian sea, halting first in verdant Kerala, a polite jingle announcing her presence outside the windows at night.
In contrast, in her Thulavarsham avatar, she comes thundering down.
The heavier raindrops drum on the corrugated metal roofs.
In the majestic Himalayas, the bride met her match and returned with twins: flashy and loud.
On our way back from the airport, my uncle and I talked about the slow inland invasion of the sea. The rock cut, stone- roofed, pillared, open resting areas on the beach, that used to be a favorite film shooting spot, were deserted this morning. We thought an underground bypass road running below the airport's runways would be a great way to connect the international and domestic terminals and save on the at least 3 kms of driving, skirting the runways that needs to be done these days.
After couple of months of waiting, two khaki-clad technicians from the Kerala State Electricity Board showed up this morning to replace our home power meter. One of them was a pleasing man with a Rastapoulous (Tintin reference) nose. The other gentleman, clearly the harder worker, was all sweaty already from earlier metrological assignments of the day. He had a severe body odour problem. I wondered how Mr. Big Nose managed to stay partners with him.
"Ivide cable aano?"(Is it cable in this house?) asked the sweaty one waving his left hand flat to indicate an underground electic cable.
"Alla"(no) I said pointing upwards to the 3 different wires coming into our home for the 3 phase connection.
He proceeded to disconnect and unscrew the existing meter while the nosy partner delivered the new meter from its plastic placenta. From the difficulty he faced in opening a hard plastic lid in the lower half of the device, I am pretty sure the same company that makes audio CD covers makes these too. It is a conspiracy. It is humanly impossible to open these casings without breaking them.
"Ithil pakshi valarthunundo?" (Are you keeping birds in them?) the unscrewing technician pointed his screwdriver towards the three single-holed earthern pots that we have around our garden lamp.
"Cherayund, athukondu kili varila" (There are ratsnakes, so birds don't come)
"Chera...ivideyo?" (Ratsnake...here?) a sudden sense of caution in the voice of the man unafraid of electricity.
Vertical head bob; Affirmative on the snake.
Before leaving he ran his hands on our verandah railing.
"Ithu thengin thadiya alle?" (This is coconut tree wood?).
"Athey" (yes)
I checked out the new meter. Made in Himachal Pradesh, it was called Sprint. I could see that it was already sprinting towards a nasty bill by the end of the month. "800 blinks correspond to 1 unit" the label stated. The two tiny, red LEDs winked.
After lunch, Achan left for Kochi by the Madras mail. Even after all these years of that city reverting to its ancient Chennai name, the train still remain Madras mail in the Malayalee mind.
The car salesman, Sanoj, came in the afternoon to collect the registration papers of the old car for the exchange deal. "Amma kurachu deshyam ulla koottathilanale?" (Amma is a little hot-tempered?) he sought confirmation. She had pounced on him for bringing up a possible delay in the delivery of the car and for asking her once again what color she wants after we had spent over quarter of an hour under his guidance deciding the color and all the papers were signed off.
He called Amma up to let her know that he had come to collect the papers and will ensure that the new car is delivered as soon as she gets back from Bangalore.
"Set ethu vennam?" (Which set do you want?) he asked me after the phone call.
I was stumped. Among all the possible sets in this mathematical universe, what was he talking about?! Apparently, 'set' implies the stereo system for the car. He gave me choices of simple mp3 player with FM receiver or the more expensive 'set' that also comes with a USB drive. I opted for the cheaper one. Sony set would cost Rs. 5500. Turns out speaker system is not a subset of this set. That has to be ordered extra. A set of frontspeakers to go with the set.
"Adichupoli dicky speaker vende?" (you don't want the sound-blasting boot speakers?)
Horizontal head bob; Negative.
There was a report yesterday that the finial (thazhikakudam, kalasam i.e. the metallic structure that adorns the topmost points of the temple roofs and pagodas and looks like a pot with a coconut in it) was stolen from a temple in Chengannur. Three years ago the local news media outlets had fallen over each other in reporting that a German research had confirmed the presence of Iridium in the finials using satellite imaging! The use of Iridium (and Ruthenium) as adulterants to gold have been rampant in recent years. The increasing demand had catapulted Iridium prices to nearly half that of gold.
Idol stealing from temples is quite common, but finial nicking is a new high.
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