Spooks, elephants and the odd banana. Or notes from Kerala

To me, Kerala has always meant only one thing - my paternal grandfather’s home in Kochi. Every other year my family and I would spend a week or so in a damp house that always smelled of coconut oil, banana chips and clothes that were never really dry. The floor was always clammy and the walls were covered in old calendars – some dating as far back as the Emergency. As I grew older my trips to Kerala became more and more infrequent and soon I was only making a days stopover at Chitoor House on YMCA Lane before moving on to attend weddings in Guruvayoor and other temple towns.

After a gap of almost three years I revisited Kerala last week. Chitoor House has since been sold and my aunts and uncles have moved to apartments across the city. Though I never particularly liked the house I felt sad. Another link to my past had been severed.

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It is a shame I take terrible pictures, for Kerala is all colour. Black umbrellas shiny and slick with rain. A countryside that is wild, abundant, green and lush. Not for Kerala the prim and proper vales of South Buckhingamshire. Red hibiscus in profusion. Yellow bananas hang heavy in shop fronts. Terracotta tiles, purple lungis and gold bling for Alappat Jewellers. It is as though someone has set the colour contrast bar on the television at the very last bar.

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Fantastic houses are found in the most humble of corners. To the trained eye (or any set of eyes for that matter) they may appear gaudy and in bad taste. But these dream houses in mango yellow with columns reminiscent of Grecian temples and massive wrought iron gates straight out of Dynasty never failed to bring a smile to my face. Good design be damned. These were the very earthly realizations of castles once built in the air.

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Bhima, Josco, Alukkas are all familiar hoarding sights in this state. But the last thing I expected to see was a board for Hypnotherapy Training outside a decrepit building on the road to Edapalli.

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At Moozhikulam we met Meghanathan and Megharjunan. Megharjunan was sprawled in his side being scrubbed and washed by his two minders. He was to be offered to the temple that Monday and was being made decent for the polite society he would be keeping. Meghanathan seemed upset at the lack of attention coming his way and tried to turn the spotlight back towards him by waving his trunk at the odd passerby. I think the picture we took of him did a lot for his self esteem.

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At Chottanikkara the Bhagavathi is a benign, smiling presence. A pleasant face that belies the darker side of the temple. For it is at Chottanikkara that those believed to be possessed of spirits are brought to be cured. These men and women can be found sitting in corners softly talking to themselves or making their way around the temple calling out the Goddesses’ name. A giant arasamaram stands near the Keezhkaavu its bark covered in giant black nails as a mark of those that have been exorcised here. Tiny plastic dolls are skewered to the tree, arms and eyes missing as though they have been roughly handled by a spoilt child. My mother recalls fainting the first time she ever saw this tree. I wondered how long it took to cure a person here. And if spirits did indeed reside in the bodies of those afflicted where did they go once people were cured? Did they evaporate and become one with the Universe? Did they float away like a dark rain cloud? Or perhaps they were closer by, sitting on one of the higher branches of the tree on the lookout for their next victim.

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My grandfather is no more and the house that once stood on YMCA lane will soon be gone. But this time I left with another reason to return - Kerala herself.