കേരള ഫയലുകള്‍ - ജൈമോന്‍ ജോസഫ്‌

Kottayam city, especially at night, looks a fair bit like Delhi's Connaught Place. It's not laid out in round circles of course, nor are there the lovely white colonial buildings you'd expect to see. But the bright neon lights, the HUGE shopping malls, the traffic snarls on every arterial road gave me a sense of déjà vu.

It also gave me a massive scare. Kottayam's got more than a few, TOWERING malls for sarees and gold. I'm too much of a pauper to buy gold at a mall. But when the wife and I sauntered into a saree showroom, I didn't have the slightest inkling I'd be held prisoner there for the better part of four hours.

To a male brain, sorting through reams and reams of shiny cloth in every color of the rainbow is ok for the first few minutes. But positively nightmarish after an hour. Put a woman there however, and it's like setting a cat loose among pigeons. Salesmen who weather the treacherous whims of women running amok through the store, just for that ONE dream saree, my heart goes out to you.

Silk, cotton, chiffon, georgette. Daily wear, party wear, festive pieces, bridal couture. A floor area about fifteen times the size of my flat, stacked floor to ceiling, with every possible drape you could imagine.

Girls from the four corners of India, some from across the Atlantic, all picking, preening, nagging, haggling. What is it about six yards of cloth that turns perfectly innocent, likeable women, into scheming vixens - all claws bared? But maybe it's all worth it, when your love swishes out in that one piece that sets her apart from everyone else.

So yeah, Kottayam can blow a huge, ugly hole in your pocket, if you're holidaying there with your wife. But just beyond city limits, the town can also be surprisingly beautiful. Reach Kottayam Bus stand and get a bus to OdiMatha. Get off at the 'BEST' police station stand. Walk down to the boat jetty and buy a ticket to Alapuzha for ten rupees.

Those ten rupees give you a ride worth ten thousand. Maybe more. For the next two-and-a-half hours, you sail through what some call the Venice of India. The backwaters of Kerala. Yes, it's a transport boat. Yes, locals use it like a bus. But it's like a bus like you ain't seen before.

Every fifteen minutes, the captain tinkles what sounds like a old bicycle bell. A signal to the engineer, who mans a noisy diesel bus engine, to pull over. Passengers get off, new ones get on. Cling, cling goes the bell. The motor churns. And we're skimming again. Through paradise.

There are humble homes on both sides of the narrow water channel. Nestling between tall coconut palms. Kids run alongside the boat and wave from the banks. Others just grin, as they wait for fish to bite, at the bait dangling from their fishing rods.

The water channel widens into a bigger, deeper one. Like our colony lanes open out onto the main road. The sunlight changes somehow, the land basks in it, smiles with it, reflects it back. Paddy fields begin to stretch out to the horizon. On the banks, huge jackfruit trees stand tall, their sweet, heavy fruits threatening to plop into the water.

The engine chuckles noisily and the water way becomes wider, deeper still. The ocean's nearby. The waves become bigger, the boat rides the swells. A moment of alarm, a prickle of fear. I don't know how to swim. Will this creaking, heaving jalopy get me to shore?

And then, you forget to be afraid. A breeze builds up, tugging at your damp shirt. Suddenly you pass your first houseboat. Then another one. Then another. Huge, black and brown things. Thatched roof, five star interiors. A king sized generator at the rear. For a few thousands, you could hire one of those for the day. And party late into the night.

And then it happens. The land drops away. Till the horizon, as far as the eye reaches, is a yawning expanse of heaving water. It's not the ocean. But it's close.

Little black ducks bob on the water, diving under and disappearing for whole minutes. When they surface, there's fish struggling in their beaks. Cranes dive bomb and lift off, snagging fat fish with their toes. Floating green weeds drift past, their thick muddy roots trailing behind. Weeds, pretending to be islands.

The skies darken. And suddenly there's rain. Kids squeal with laughter, adults grin and move away from the windows. Thin sheets of water, falling on water. The temperature drops, the humidity's gone. You close your eyes. And drift to sleep.

The rain stops. And you reach the shore. Alapuzha boat jetty seems a rude jolt after a visit to paradise. So gulp down a cup of tea and board a bus to the beach. I've visited Kottayam for at least twenty-five of my thirty-two years. I never knew there was a beach nearby. Guess every place hides joyous surprises. You just have to look close enough.

A clean, long, virgin beach. With hardly any folk to stare at you. I walked for what seemed like three kilometers, without reaching the tip. The Arabian Sea's rough. Locals say two kids were swept away just two days back. And yet, girls from a nearby engineering college hike up their salwars and wade into the water. The guys hoot, the women blush.

A safe distance away, another team strips down to their underpants for a round of beach volleyball. Tall, muscled, brown projectiles, diving through the air to reach the ball. The ocean roars in approval.

In the distance, hulks a brooding, rusted bridge, stretching far, far out into the water. It hasn't been used for at least twenty years, sections of it have fallen off.

A long time back, ships used to anchor far out at sea and load their containers onto the bridge. From where a little train would pull them inland. There're old rail tracks still half hidden in the sand. If I was a kid, I'd be dreaming up tales of abandoned treasure here already.

The beach still stretches ahead invitingly. I could keep waking for another half hour, maybe an hour. In the far distance, the ocean crashes on the rocks. Thin flecks of surf try to claw at the sky. I could be there alone. I look back. Can't see the people I came with. Can't see the college girls, the volleyball players, the kids. Civilisation beckons. I walk back.