In Kerala the land bursts with green, ponds are blue and purple and the air is moist, thick with humidity and pressed with tradition. On your left from the mosk a deep and eerie echo of quranic verse is heard winding its way through the cement fences of the houses. Dark and binding the words press up against each door, rejected by the hindus and christians and welcomed in by men wearing all white. And in the front sits a temple, smoke tumbling from the cracks of the roof and through the windows a whisper of gold. A dream of an ancient culture with humans holding umbrellas and wearing countless amounts of jewels. Red, yellow and grey powder smeared on the doors, the pond still as stone. The namboothiri inside chants looking sternly at the stone of both Vishnu and Shiva. Here, 500 years ago, the men in gold sat in tapas. Here, behind the lamps, even the shadows of objects have life. On your right tall and restless, white churches loom over the houses with a strange and fatherly jesus figure staring down at his subjects. The people of Kerala are musical. Their voices stretch each word till it sounds as if each sentence has a hook, a dip and a question. The cats, like old ghosts trace all the houses like its their own. Sometimes only two, other times ten, they silently slither through fences and gateways watching everything. And in this house, everyone seems busy. Washing the floor once, twice, thrice and then sweeping it again. Water sprinkled on the veranda, the stairs and on the porch. Until there isn't a spot the water hasn't touched. Except the rooftops, but then the rain will always take care of that. In this house, in each room people sit, tense and aware of the pressure of fate. Is it fated? Is it destined? Everyone asks these questions as they fold their ella ada's and slip pawn into their lips. Quietly, everyone prays, looking north towards the temple. For a good future, for the potential that something may happen in the afternoon. When cups are filled with steaming chai and plates are dressed in sweets. Then, at the moment right before the showers begin again, everyone hopes the boy and the girl will find a fine balance. For a few seconds, time will stop, eyes will meet, and there is either an agreement or a disagreement. In that few seconds, an entire future is born.
In Kerala the water is pink, boiled with spices till the nothingness of water turns a rosy haze. This water is then transferred into jugs, bottles, cups and the people sip it deeply. It both tastes and smells like a room of seeds. Of course, each house has their own mixture. Sometimes the water is dark as a pomegranate seed, and at others, light like the sky at sunset. The boys of Kerala sit on terraces, temple walls and prowl the streets like foxes. Their ears perked listening for the sound of feminine laughter. Their eyes bright, their features fine. The melting pot of Jew, Turk, Dravid, Aryan all combines to give the Keralite a look that one cannot immediately put their finger on. Sometimes, the boys are fair with curly hair and long noses. Sometimes dark and somber. The girls are both elusive and fickle, hiding under umbrellas, eyeing handsome men behind their mothers, smiling to themselves and looking away fast. No-one can know. The boys holler at girls passing by, singing, whistling and clapping as the girls, in clumps act irritated but smile inwardly and walk fast.
