Kanyakumari – I
My bus from Madurai to Kanyakumari heads southwards passing through the vast plains of Tamil Nadu. Summer has not yet set in, and there is pleasant breeze coming in from the window. Strong sun brings in a bit of discomfort whenever the bus halts, but nothing close to reminding the scorching summers. The grass is green and stretches endlessly to the horizon. There isn’t much habitation on the way and my views are not interrupted by human settlements.
The plains seem perpetual as we progress south, and there is little change in the landscape. Occasionally, flat grassy tracts gives way to towns and villages and farmlands but quickly returns to the same terrain. Once in a while, palm trees spring up in small clusters to break the monotony.
A few hours in the bus, we are close to Tirunalveli, when clouds start gathering in the distance and the weather becomes distinctly cool and moist. Driving under the clouds, we are surprised by an unexpected drizzle that eventually picks up into a steady rain. We are now in hill station like weather, and the cool wind lulls me into sleep.
When I open my eyes, it seems like a completely new world. Rains have stopped. The earth is now fresh with wetness after the rains, and blades of grass are decorated with water droplets. There is some change in landscape too – there are tall hills rising at a distance, with their ridges barely visible in fog. Driving through flat unchanging terrain for many hours, the green hills rising one behind other are a welcome shift.
I kept wishing that we pass through these mountains and descend into the sea side town of Kanyakumari, which did not happen. But driving through the foot of the hills and beyond them, we go past green plantain orchards and coconut groves as we approach Nagercoil. The coconut trees fill me with an anticipation of sea. At the edge of Tamil Nadu, the region has a distinct Keralan feel, with its sparsely spread housing, a few small shops selling nothing more than gutka packs and candies, all under the expanse of coconut trees. “We will reach Kanyakumari at 4pm,” the driver had told me earlier. We keep the time and arrive at 4.10pm.
Kanayakumari is a small town bustling with tourist infrastructure and pilgrim attractions. The eastern side of the town facing Bay of Bengal is lined with hotels advertising sea-facing rooms. Restaurants crowd the streets trying to appease every kind of pilgrim, serving food varying from South Indian to Punjabi, Gujarati, Marwari and North Indian. The southern tip, the end of mainland of India, hosts the Kanyakumari temple and bathing ghats that get crowded in the morning with pilgrims and tourists from every part of the country. The western shore is quieter, with fishing villages, catamarans on the shore, and a church that dominates the landscape.
Later in the day, I head to the quieter western shore to watch the sun go down and paint the sky red. Local government has built a tall and ugly tower adjoining the sea to view sunset, which seems to find no takers. But further ahead is a beautiful expanse of rocky shore ideal to sit and while away the time as the sun makes his journey down the horizon. Next to the rocks is a small beach laden with catamarans of fishermen who have called it a day. The same waves that collide into the rocks with a roar gently diffuse into the beach and retrace into the ocean timidly. The sky is cloudy and it appear as though the sun may not show up for the evening, but just a few minutes before the time of sunset, clouds make way to reveal an orange ball that changes the hues of the sky.
A few dozen of people who have gathered to witness the sunset leave soon after the sun goes below the sea. Tourists and their few vehicles gone, the sky turns from orange to dark in a few minutes. In the ensuing quietness, there is no sound but of the waves bouncing off from the rock. I lie on a boulder for a long time feeling the cool wind blowing into me, immersed in the moment and indulging in the pleasing environment.
Back in the town near the southern tip, I am disturbed by the glistening lights by the shore that is a contrast to the place I have left behind. But far away from the shore, Vivekananda rock and the Thiruvalluvar statue in the ocean are lit up and look beautiful. A strong eastern wind livens me up and forces me to spend some time there, listening to the barrage of waves.
Next morning, I wake up just before sunrise and hurry to the sea shore. Expecting crowds similar to the sunset hour yesterday, I am a bit of put off to see a large crowd near the confluence – almost a thousands of people! A quick survey shows me that there are people from all over the country – traditionally attired farmers from places as far as the Hindi belt, turbanated Punjabis, well dressed families from Mumbai and the local South Indian crowd. The acclaimed diversity of India has converged to see sun come up over the confluence of the seas.
It takes some time to locate an empty place, but I manage to find one close to the shore. But within minutes of my arrival, the crowd swells further and every inch of space around me is occupied. Hawkers too, are already up and walking around selling trinkets, trying to take advantage of the gathered crowd. A fake pearl necklace attracts a woman sitting next to me.
“How much?” she asks the vendor.
“Two hundred,” says the vendor, and he hands out the necklace.
A serious round of bargaining follows. The lady wants it almost for free while the vendor is hoping to pull off a big profit. She pretends she is not keen on the necklace, but the vendor is an expert seller and is not giving in easily. The woman gives a tough first quote, trying to bring the price down by a steep ninety percent.
“I will give twenty rupees,” she says flatly. I am surprised by her confident quote. From two hundred to twenty? I need to learn some negotiation skills from her.
The vendor pretends to be angry at her and rises his voice. “You won’t get anything for that price,” he says thrusting the necklace into her, “this is original pearls, have a look at it.” He then takes a lighter and puts the necklace in the flame. “See, this is original, not fake; you can see it doesn’t burn.”
The woman is not impressed and has no intention to increase her quote. The vendor is playing a loosing game, and the price suddenly comes down to fifty, and soon after that to thirty! I am impressed with the woman’s ability to get the price down, but the lady herself has no plans to revise her quote. The sale did not happen.
Just when all this exchange is over, sun comes out, gloriously lighting up the eastern sky, shooing away the morning cold and bringing in warmth. Within minutes after the sunrise, it is already bright and harsh, bringing end to the romance of the morning. The best moments were before the arrival of sun when the sky and the seas looked dull blue as the light spread slowly all over.
Later in the day, I take an hour long bus ride towards Kerala border, to Padmanabhapuram Palace. The journey to the palace itself is a rewarding one. There is greenery and plenty of water all around, and earth looks live and beautiful. A canal filled with fresh water runs along the road. Green paddy fields spread far and wide to one side, and to the other side unfold plantain orchards and coconut trees. Towering far away are Travancore Hills covered in a thin layer of grass. It was appealing enough that I traversed the same road again the next day, relishing on the scenery.
The palace is located i
n a picturesque village, in a leafy environ with dense growth of coconut trees around it and views of Travancore Hills at a distance. The palace itself looks ordinary from the front, but once inside, unveils ornate wood carvings, beautiful windows with wooden grills, and tiled roof. The insides boast of a long dining hall where the Brahmins once ate free, a three-story tower where the kings lived, well lit courtyards for the women, a stone temple with a theater and a beautiful pond in a green arena. It is a haphazard but charming structure built by the kings of Travancore 400 years ago, and most of it is still maintained intact. The upper floor of king’s living room has some pretty frescoes, but now out of bounds for visitors; I had to be satisfied with poor photocopies displayed in the palace museum instead. (More on the palace in a separate post)
Continued in Part II