Kala kale! come back to me

Namaskara (thank you for your presence)…Shanto Sawagete (I am consumed by happiness)


Where do I begin…It seems to get harder every time. For despite having noted the events of each day, I appear to be scattered both in time and in mind. Letting the exact dates fall as they may without record or thought has been the most rewarding feeling and yet, realizing now that March is well upon us, I am reminded by the sting of a bitter pinch that our return home is nearer then I’d hoped. Since the last time I wrote much has changed my mood; most importantly because I have now started the process of writing my content analysis for my senior thesis. I, like the best and worst of my peers, am keen to procrastinate, but in the midst of field research such a quality seems to harshly intensify. So much so, that even I have begun to secretly scold myself for letting another day go by without any efforts gone towards my paper. I seem to have forgotten how to write like a scholar…. But anyway, writing to you is much more enjoyable and much more full of the personal enjoyments I’m having, both as a researcher and as a visitor here. At current we are back in Trasi, resting after a morning of travel. Ian is sweeping the sand and I am sitting facing the sea. We have been back for five and a half days after our short stay in Madodi for the traditional Brahmin marriage of two villagers. I unfortunately fell victim to that ungodly visitor of the month and experienced the most awkward night of my life. I would usually not be bringing up such womanly matters, but for the sake of telling this tale I just simply can’t avoid it. It all started after the wedding, which I will get to very shortly, when we returned to the house of our host to rest until the evenings processions. I suddenly knew what had come and was shaken with hesitation as Sunivay had already mentioned to me that if “I was having” I would not be able to go to the marriage, for fear of bringing bad luck. I eventually managed to convey what was happening to the wife of our host who immediately ran to get the neighbor who spoke fluent English. I was taken outside and told with much seriousness that I was no longer allowed to enter the home, no longer allowed to eat or sleep in the home, and must use the separate bathroom designed specifically for such occasions. I was mortified, on the verge of tearing up, as I attempted to smile and convey my interest in such a custom. So on top of already feeling uncomfortable from the pains of a body gone out of tune, I was drowned in the overwhelming feeling of being a leper in the house of a family I could hardly speak to. Even though I knew they considered this absolutely normal I could not help but want to shrivel up and hide myself in a hole. We caught the first bus back to Kollur at 8:30 the next morning.


The wedding of that day was breathtaking and all started with a bumpy ride in a bus with the cousins, uncles, sister-in-laws, and all other possible relatives of the bride and groom. It was a wedding caravan, of sorts, and was an absolutely wonderful way to start the wedding and the meeting of family. Being the only non-family members there we quickly became the point of everyone’s stares. A cousin of the bride approached us to say hello and to inquire about our visiting both to India and to the wedding. Over the sounds of all the voices it was hard to converse but his smiles and all the rest that surrounded us were comforting to bear. We occupied ourselves with the scenery that passed and eventually found ourselves stuck in a pool of water just meters away from the home in which the marriage was to be held. We all got out, women lifted their sarees, while men jumped rock to rock, and trekked together up a small incline that led to the beautifully decorated home of the bride. No one ventured up the steps as the groom had still not arrived, so we waited until he did and followed close behind. The rituals that were to take place were stunted by the procession of breakfast which consisted of sambar, idlys and chai. By the time most had finished the groom had already taken his place in the traditional customs of the day. He had figurines in either hand and was being periodically sprinkled with browned rice as the priest that stood over him directed swift words in his direction. On his right side stood his parents and on his left his mother and father-in-law, who were both immaculately dressed. I was surprised by the casual dress of the groom’s parents, who seemed more casual then even some of the guests. Maybe this was a custom I was not aware of. Many blessings took place before the groom was moved beneath the constructed alter, behind a golden curtain, where he would stand waiting for the first sight of his chosen wife. The moments seemed to last forever as a priest on either side of the curtain shouted mantras to the other, speaking only after the other had replied. The air was dense with excitement and anxiety, with shouts and laughter, until finally the curtain was dropped and in a flash the bride caught her groom by the quick placement of a garland around his neck. This too was never explained, but I assume it has something to do with the binding of the agreement because the groom instinctually attempted to pull himself away. The bride just barely caught him and the shouts that followed echoed thru the alter like a door knock in to an empty room. The big mystery was revealed and as the guests proceeded to take their seats I caught glimpse of the first stare between the couple. It was like seeing a child when they first catch glimpse of the sea, with so much wonder in their eyes that they hardly choose to blink. I don’t know how much I believe in arranged marriages but the sight of this couple made me doubt my skepticism just a little bit more. The fact that many Indians prefer such a set-up makes me think it can’t be all that bad, Indians are beautifully kind people, overall, and maybe such a custom has a bit of play in all of that. Having been raised In the tradition of love it’s definitely harder for me to outweigh the cons, but all in all, I don’t feel as opposed as I used to. The rituals from that point on were pretty intense and all together impossible to see. The crowd of priests that surrounded the couple in addition to the closest of family members left the onlookers staring between the cracks. Much was being done with coconuts, rice, and ghee, and one could see them littered across the floor, once their intent had served its need. When the crowd parted, family members came one by one to pile rice atop the joined hands of the couple who were, for the entirety of the ceremony, seated across from one another. Bags and bags of rice were spent thrown on and around them, it was a beautiful, remarkable, sight to see. The ceremony continued for well over three hours and in the meantime we were summoned for lunch. First the highest castes were served with the priests, and then the crowds of guest could proceed. The lunch, or better yet, the feast, was absolutely delicious consisting of pure veg side dishes that numbered in the dozens. Server after server came to add more of what you had or offer something new for you to try. They served good sized portions, in my opinion, that were tasters instead of fillers. I left the table satisfied but not exploding out of my saree. Upon returning to the mats that lined the floors where we had sat we caught the endings of the first ceremony that was followed by the next, this time held within the house. Waiting for the crowds to subside we slowly edged in to the farthest back room of the house. There seated around a flame and various spices were the main priest, the mothers and fathers and the bride and groom themselves. Family crowded the doorways to view, then as quickly as they came ventured out the way they’d come. The room quickly became suffocating with both the heat and smoke emitting from the flames, and we too found ourselves rushing out for fresh air. There on after the ceremonies ceased for the day and the remaining hours were spent giving blessings and sharing stories. By this time we were entirely exhausted and with a large group of schoolgirls following us about I was starting to get annoyed and heated within the many layers of my saree. We crowded into the same bus we had arrived in, waited several minutes for the driver to devise a plan to get us out of the water, and headed back to the home of our host.


Now being it as I’ve already told you how the proceeding hours of that night were spent, I’ll jump ahead to our arrival back in Trasi. It of course went without trouble, and I honestly hadn’t felt as much joy in returning home since the Friday afternoons of my weekdays back home. I was looking forward to being a hermit until my moods and pains subsided. On Thursday, upon an earlier invitation, we were given a wake up call to make our way to Kundapura to be picked up in time for a course being conducted for the general public on ways to preserve spoiling fruit. The women conducting the course was an assistant professor as a nutritionist who informed us that between 30-40% of food products go to waste each year, due to lack of technology and knowledge of preservation. Her numbers, though high, were not shocking to hear, as one can plainly see, merely walking down the streets, how fast a full batch of tomatoes or grapes can spoil. In fact, I’ve noted that in a days time a beautiful bunch of yellow bananas will brown before the day turns night. Her intentions for awareness were admirable and her pursuits plain and simple: teach them how to preserve locally accessible flora in ways that are affordable and possible, and thus, reduce the amount of fruits and vegetables gone to waste by populations who need them most. In the seminar we attended, which accompanied both men and women, we were taught how to make butter biscuits, laced with fruit and/or nuts, as a means to preserve, cherries, apricots, and/or apples. There was also instruction, though no demonstration, on how to make a mixed fruit preserve that when laced with citric acid could be preserved without refrigeration for a year. We were given recipes and samples of the treats prepared. The entire program was delivered in Kannada and it was only in our car ride, to and from, with the nutritionist that we learned all the details. Such an experience has given my research insight into how food preparation is passed on. It was a topic of interest since the beginning, but having realized that many of the traditional means of transposing such knowledge have been lost within the pull of modernization, I had left it in the back of my mind almost certain it would dissipate as a focus all together. The women and men that attended were part restaurant owners, part housewife’s, and part students, and they all seemed to get from it exactly what they were hoping. I am, at current, participating in a more traditional means of learning how to cook; with a mother, Suinvay’s mother to be exact, and am gaining more and more each day. I have ventured into her lair to learn the secrets of a good sambar, a beetroot dish I do not know the name of, Dosas, both plain and laced with onions/fenugreek, idlys, and coconut chutney. The keeper of our homestay is my translator, though not a very good one, and so I’ve been recording what I can in English and Kannada to go over with Sunivay during the evenings. I am starting to pick up on the names of spices and grains but get completely confused when she tries to explain the preparations. I am really more in it for the experience then for the recipes, as it makes me feel like a student partaking in an ancient tradition of teaching. One I’ve always craved, and one I someday hope to master. I have gotten a feel for the old and the new and have now developed a good idea for the preparations of my final analysis.


Much of our days since have been spent here and there, visiting new friends and learning from the ones we’ve come to know. One day found us at a nearby resort, owned by a friend of Sunivay who also partakes in an NGO that works to build toilets in the homes of the poor. The most unsightly thing about the coastlines here is the human fecal matter that lines its shore. The Fisherman’s colony which takes up most of the shoreline in this area, use the beach as their personal toilet and so when you pass thru their territory its essential to keep your eyes down and your shoes on. This practice has spread disease amongst the people, most commonly varying types of worms, thus the need for personal toilets. I took interest when Richard, the friend of Sunivay had told us about it, but upon hearing more from the man in charge, I realized it was more of a business then an act to help the poor. Even still, I think it’s a good idea, and in my own way, I hope to help someday soon. I have noticed many volunteers in this region, most notably the ones that help the gypsy community and their children to learn English. Trasi and the neighboring junctions were in a mere 50 years back home to tigers, and roaming wildlife, and due to isolation remained in the ways of the past for many years until a bridge was built to connect them to the mainland. Thus many efforts are currently underway to bring alternative means of livelihood for the people, who more often then not, subsist in the same ways that their grandparents had. It has proven to be one of the best places I’ve been both in regards to my research and my personal endeavors. The village of Trasi will be seeing me again soon.


Today and for the next few days I will be studying the art of coconut palm weaving. My first lesson today went rather well and my little old teacher was pleased at how quickly I picked it up. I am eager to learn as I think such knowledge will come in handy in my travels. They serve as sturdy walls and rain resistant roofing…so in case I happen to be in the forest in need of shelter…I could always improvise. I completed two leaves today and am to make three more tomorrow. They have to be soaked for a days time in order to soften up, but once they do they bend like thread. I can’t wait to share it with my family in Puerto Rico, where coconut palms will not be hard to come by. I have also been assigned to perfect my sambar and chutney so as to prepare the morning meal for five, including Sunivay, his parents, myself and Ian. I am nervous as I really have not yet understood what my teacher has been telling me, so I’m going to have to get craftier with how I record her instructions. We are leaving to Kundapura again this afternoon to fill my prescription for a new pair of glasses I got for a whopping $5. Frames don’t get more then $40 here and to fill your prescription is at most $10. I am going to have a hard time readjusting to the cost of such items back in California. It all just seems so ridiculous now… Sunivay is getting better at driving and has tentatively invited us on a trip to Kerala and to Kodachadri so we can visit Raja again. He too loves the forest but because of his businesses must stay confined to the cities. He loves taking us around and telling his many friends that we are his children and him our adoptive appa (father). He actually sort of reminds me of my own appa and I find that being in his company is always reassuring and comforting because he protects us like my own father would. I always tell him this and he says he would be so happy to meet him…I think they would be the best of friends. He even says he’s going to build us a small place to stay in Trasi so we always have a place to call home when we travel to India, free of charge of course. I hope someday all the family will get the chance to meet all the beautiful people that have guided us thru our journey here…they have answered all your prayers, wishes, and hopes for us…..


Namaskara and Hogi buregteneve (Now I am leaving but will be coming back soon)