fort cochin, india
chai! chai! chai-ya!
chai! chai! chai-ya!
payam! payam! paiy—-am!
chai! chai! chai-ya!
chai! chai! chai-ya!
biryiani! biryiani! biryiiii-ani!
chai! chai! chai-ya!
tati vellum! tati vellum! vellum! vellum! vellum!
chai! chai! chai-ya!
always chai! chai! chai-ya! the cacophony of the shoeless,
mundi-clad hawkers’ voices singing and barking from the platform, as the train
pulls into every railway station in southern india. chai – the omni-present
sweet indian tea with milk and sugar. first thing in the morning, chai! chai!
chai-ya! the whole day long. tati vellum (mis-spelled, i’m sure) – colllld
water. payam (or pajzam) – banana, babies. biryiana – the rice vegetable mix,
better than trader joe’s frozen. chai! chai! chai-ya!
————
the sound of freedom, living north of kerala in ramshackle,
laid back goan beach towns: anjuna, baga, vagator, arampol. the ocean crashing
against the empty monsoon-drenched beaches. the local goans and the local
ex-pats living in harmony in the wet green off season. hordes of middle-aged
western-raised men and women turned on, tuned in, and dropped out of euro,
capitalistic culture. no longer having to answer identity-bending questions
like “whataya do?” “how old are you?” “what’s that
you’re wearing?” “how much did it cost?” we heard and read
about it in the 60s, and it’s still here. spirituality and its pursuit. here
in south india. ayurveda, yoga, tantra, astrology, palmistry, psychic healing,
henna, sitar, tabla…………….
om digga digga di. digga digga di. digga di. digga di. om digga
digga di. digga di digga di. om digga digga di digga digga di………
you get the point.
everything is long and beautiful here. very beautiful and very
very lonnnnnnnnnnng. amidst the poverty and squalor, so many rich, ornate
and beautiful things. taking so much time, training and endurance. the dance.
the music. the food. the language. every state has its own culture. a little
like america (USA, not south), but even more so. at least the dallas, texan
can understand the brooklyn, new yawker can understand the fargo, north dakotan.
sort of. not here. the speaker of marathi can’t understand the goan or the
keralan or the andra pradeshian or the rajastani or the what do i really know
anyway. at least the divisions here in india were made with cultural and language
sensitivity. not like what the hell we/they did in iraq after WW2. shia? sunni?
kurd? what the fuck’s that? just carve the place up. here’s the map, ready…..
go.
go, georgie, go!!!!!!
but “digga” this: a true dramatization of the mix
of the sacred with the profane.
i’m sitting in this fantastic “kathakali” cultural
center here in fort cochin, half way down the kerala coast of south india.
i’ve decided to be lazy for a few days, to get out of the bustle of over-crowded
indian towns and cities, and i’ve found this brand spanking new guest house
whose owners are teak and rosewood importers and exporters. and for some crazy
reason, they’ve decided to convert the top floor of their new mini-mansion
with polished red granite floors and collector-quality colonial teak and rosewood
furniture pieces into a guest house/home stay. and they’ve hired the top hotel
manager in town away from the mildewed, mafia-run “elite” guest
house on the main backpacker route; they’re hired warm-hearted, smiling-eyed,
radesh, who caters to my every need and cooks me not only breakfast, but fresh
fish from the local chinese fish-net market, and who extends himself to me
and the others guests (although i’m the only one for a while) with as much
graciousness and softness and warmth as south india can muster. and even though
my bowel can’t much hold anything down, radesh’s warm smiling eyes and
his warm brown skin make everything relaxed and comfortable and safe. and
the owners invite me down to their home whenever they’re around, so why should
i leave this little fort cochin with the portugues-dutch-british-hindu-muslim
mix of all india right here in one melting pot….
om digga digga di, digga di digga di………….
and i’m sitting here in the kathakali cultural center, a few
days after i’ve seen one of the great theatre presentations in my life. having
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in front of a rapt audience, transforming ordinary looking indian devotees
of kathakali into wild-looking, green, yellow, and red-painted, white-bearded
demons and gods and petty human beings. followed by a lecture demonstration
showing us “goras” the immense technical skill of the actors with
their wild eye movements and their precise hand and fingers articulation,
and their magnificent manipulation of costume, and…….. then the actual
performance — a condensation of an 8 hour story-play cycle reduced for us
honkies to about an hour, with frenetic tabla and soft indian drum accompanying
the actors in their over-the-top depiction of the inevitable fall and recovery
of our lost, loving, and pitiable reincarnated souls. a performance one has
to see to believe (can i help bring them to LA? anyone?)
om digga digga di, digga di digga di………….
so i’m sitting there again on night 2 and then on night 3,
for the late night, post-kathakali musical performances. i’m only 1 of 2 people
in the audience, or 1 of 4 on another night, but who cares, i’m the lucky
one. and the director of the center is a bare barrel-chested, white lungi-wearing
shaman-artiste who only lives and breathes for the survival and transmission
of south indian kerala culture. and after he introduces and explains each
“raga” (scale, there are over 3600!)), he is the most rapt audience
member of us all, sitting down front on the thin mats, tapping his hands and
fingers to the raga rhythms: om digga digga di, digga di, shouting, “sha-vas”
every time one of the musicians does a particularly brilliant improvised turn….
om digga digga di, digga di digga di………….
and i’m sitting there last night, and the master has just introduced
the bamboo flute player and the veenu player (giant pre-cursor of the sitar)
and the tabla player and the other drum player and we are waiting in the silence
of the moment before — and a high squealing, repetitive sound interrupts
our perfect anticipation. but nobody does anything to quiet the sound. something
keeps squealing and squealing, in a regular living breathing rhythm. like
the sound of what? a rat? rats? yes. unmistakable. rats. and the musicians
settle and concentrate and nod at each other and begin. and the rats never
do stop. but the players play over and above the squealing and they’re amplified,
so only in between ragas do we hear the high-pitched squealing of, yes, musical
rats, for sure – in this old bamboo building that soon will be torn down because
fort cochin is “developing” a new, “more commercial”
project so the kathakali center must “re-locate” and find a new
home, and even i give them 500 bonus rupees to help….
om digga digga di, digga di digga di………….
and in the midst of this most ancient and beautiful and hypnotic
and trance-like flute and veenu and tabla music, this indian raga music of
ravi shankar and all his less famous colleagues and disciples, amidst this
ancient sacred music of hindu india, the wonderful baby rats are squealing
and singing, because the musicians don’t want to disturb the new-born babies
because if they do, the infant sentient rats will die, so the musicians just
let them stay there in the walls and the roof tops, moving around during the
concert, first to the left, then to the right, so that the sacred and the
profane are both singing at us, to us, the audience, and the whole thing is
a marvelous, delicious curry-paste musical stew here in sweet sounding keralalalalala.
om digga digga di, digga di digga di………….
and then i’m walking home after the town has been drenched
in another monsoonic deluge. and the streets are glittering in diamond relief
from the wet, damp night, and suddenly i’m struck by the most beautiful sound
of all.
quiet.
and it is.
and i’m sure that i know that THIS IS the sound of one hand
clapping.
and in the poverty and muck and beauty of southern india,
i am content……
love may not be ALL there is,
but look for it and choose it; it’s pretty damn good.
luv and namaste,
india.erique
