~ by Shobha Gallagher
Photo Credits: Pixabay
Our boat snipped through the waters like a pair of scissors through a swathe of rumpled silken fabric. The receding jetty seemed to unhinge the past soundlessly, pinning it to where it belonged: behind us. Life almost immediately slipped into a slow-motion glide.
We were in Alappuzha, on the shores of Vembanad Lake in Kerala state. This is a backwater world, with labyrinthine canals, lagoons, lakes and rivers that drain into the Arabian Sea. In the local Malayalam language, Alappuzha (pronounced Allapura) means “a broad river,” or “the land between the sea and a network of rivers flowing into it.”
I was relieved to be on the water. Kerala, a landscape of coconut trees, paddy fields and banana plantations had invaded my waking hours, and blundered through my dreams with arms of green fronds. I needed a breather from the lushness.
We entered a portal of shimmer globules that rocked on the waters, flashed through the trees and shone on paddy fields and the tips of plants.
They say that in Alappuzha children learn to swim before they can walk. We saw vignettes of daily life on the embankments. A woman in a blue sari blouse, bare midriff and a bright mustard lungi (a cloth wrap around the waist) scrubbed clothes on a stone slab. A group of school children sprinted along a dusty path their satchels slapping behind them.
At a jetty station, clusters of villagers waited for the boat-bus or for catamarans to ferry them to their destinations, while nearby boatmen offloaded goods wrapped in gunnysacks or Styrofoam. Dugouts, canoes and paddle boats carried loads of cooking gas cylinders, rocks and sand-filled sacks, bags of cashews and rice, coconuts with their husks gleaming orange gold in the sun. The bellies of the long country boats were just inches above the water as they glided beside us.
Fishermen, their boats stationed in the middle of the lagoons, were intently focussed on their catch. Black cormorant birds stood rock-still nearby in Samadhi meditation, before zinging into the water for their aquatic meal. Not many people looked our way. Maybe they were tired of tourists, and just veered around them as they would a shoal of ducks swimming across their path. And so we moved on this shimmer highway - a phantom water-vehicle along with other boats.
Barges Retooled As Houseboats
We began to see the huge exotic domed-roofed houseboats known as kettuvallams, or “boats with knots.” The planks were held together with coconut fibre and caustic black resin extracted from boiled cashew kernels. It was an ancient construction technique that did not need the use of nails. Though rustic looking these behemoths could carry about 30 tons - and if well-maintained, lasted for generations.
In the mid-18th century, kettuvallams were commercial barges, shipping rice, cashews, spices and paddy harvest some 40 miles through these canals and lagoons to the port of Cochin. It could take boatmen five days to a week to carry a load to the port. They lived on the waters for most part of the year.
It was easy to catch the abundant fish, which they marinated with spices and ate with rice. And when the moon sailed through the night, they hung their lanterns in the kettuvallams and perhaps sang native songs before slipping into deep slumber on thin mattresses or on the floor of the hull, oblivious of the road and rail construction that would threaten their livelihood. And yes, it was only a matter of time.
In the 20th century, the lumbering kettuvallams were sidelined by sophisticated land and air transportation. In the early 1970s, a few enterprising local entrepreneurs began to revive them as houseboats. By the 1990s they were fashioned into luxury barges for tourists who could travel for several days accompanied by oarsmen and a cook.
The typical dishes served onboard include pearl spot fish, rice and prawn curry with the lentil flatbread, pappadam and Kerala payasam, a rice pudding-like dessert.
“Madam, lench?”
Our boatman’s question cut through my reverie. He steered towards an eatery on the banks, where we were offered a simple menu of kappa (steamed and mashed tapioca) with meen (fish curry) and plump rice. The cooks doubled as waiters and cashiers, racing in and out of the kitchen to serve as many people as fast as they could.
Next we headed for Kumarakom, a cluster of islands. The somnambulistic drift of our boat, the slosh of oars, the water spray erupting with each stroke, watching the women either working in the paddy fields, hustling after household chores or drying coconut husks for twisting into strong coir ropes ... were all woven into this silver-edged rhythm.
I was cradled in Alappuzha’s luminescent bubble with life reflecting on itself from above and below on a softly heaving shimmering surface.
How Parasurama Created Kerala
The region of Kerala, is believed to have emerged from the waters due to geological seismic shifts in the sea thousands of years ago. For natives, though, the ancient mythological story of Parasurama, the sixth avatar of Lord Vishnu, is closer to the heart.
It is said that this warrior sage vanquished all the male members of the Kshatriya clan, the ruling warrior caste of ancient times, and filled the five lakes with their blood. To atone for his sin, Parasurama meditated for a long, long time.
Seeing his relentless efforts at self-redemption, Varuna, the god of the Oceans, and Bhumidevi, the goddess of the Earth showered him with their blessings.
He then traveled to the southern tip of India. From there he flung his bloodied battle-axe far into the sea. The waters immediately receded from the spot where the axe fell, creating an eight-mile wide shore that was later known as Kerala.
We continued another 150 miles on our journey by road to Kanyakumari - the southernmost tip of India where the Bay of Bengal, the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea merge. This was the spot from where Parasurama had thrown his axe northward and the very same place where Mahatma Gandhi’s ashes were scattered into the Arabian Sea.
