Kochi-fication

As most of you know by now, the parents live in Kerala, Which means an annual trip of some sort is always on the cards for the Southern parts of India. This year, unlike the previous years where everything, including temple visits, far-flung relatives and long-lost friends were crammed it, I refused to budge from the city and the only travelling we did was go as far as the waterpark in the outskirts of Kochi. All very restful and peaceful. For me. Can't say it was the same for the parents who shed a couple of kilos, added a few grey hairs and bit nails down to the cuticles thanks to the shenanigans of the Arunkumar clan (sans the mister who was busy slaving away at his desk while we made merry).
So, like I said, I finally had time to stop and smell the roses. Amongst other flowers. Kochi is so green and vibrant at this time of the year, it brought back memories of childhood where I used to accompany my grandmother on her morning walks during the holidays. She used to stop intermittently during our walks to pluck a few flowers for her Pujai.

Bougainvillea dotting the fences

The Hibiscus- we used to call it the Shoe Flower as kids

I'm sure it has a proper name, but Honeymoon Flower (as its called locally) sounds so much more fun, no?

Bird of Paradise flowers in the back yard

The Arali or the Oleander

The Tetti Poovu  (Jungle Geranium) synonymous with Kerala

The golden trumpet - we used to love planting them behind our ears as kids

Naturally, with an abundance of flowers comes an abundance of insect life. I tried to capture a few that were gracious enough to pose for pictures. But insects in general, much like children don't like to be papped. so I'm afraid I have a very measly collection to show for it. 

A wood white sitting on a Globe Amaranth

I shamelessly chased the wood whites

If there's one thing you need to know about Kerala in the monsoons, it is that if you leave something alone long enough (say 48 hours), nature WILL take over...

This is also apparently where cars, auto, scooters and even helmets come to die. Yes, I kid you not. Helmets. At random places. Unless its some weird Kochi code for two wheelers that I'm completely missing.

So while I was busy absorbing this fascinating side of Kochi, I was paid a visit by a couple of friends and, I hit the tourist spots at Fort Kochi with them.
What was different form the last time I visited were the quirky murals dotting the walls all over the place, thanks to the Kochi Biennial. Definitely gave the place character. I asked around if there was a 'Graffiti Walk' being organised, it isn't but it's a great idea. But, basically if you walk to all the spots on the Fort Kochi Tourist Map, you'll encounter these enroute.

 Most of the graffiti I encountered seemed to be very people centric. There were little impish boys grinning at you, A Mona Lisa or a Policeman or a Ronald McDonald doling out irony, even Burqua clad ladies and Kathakali faces were spotted...

...but my personal favourite was an artist who chose to work with cats...

I found this spray painting kitten is irresistible

This is the part of Kochi you don't find in tourist book and guides. But it's equally lovely, quirky and noteworthy. I promise to do another part with all the touristy bits, but for now, let look at the spray painting cat again, eh?

Rookie Mistakes - 2

Having experienced Kochi on foot and thanking God that I have lived to regret it, last week
I decided to listen to Dad and quietly take the car when we decided to go shopping.
Now by 'taking the car', I do not mean driving it myself, although the Government of India has foolishly granted me a permit to do so for the past decade or so. I meant assigning Dad or he-of-infinite-patience-when-it-comes-to-his-daughter the chauffeur duties for the day while mum and self (and brats in tow) swan in and out of shops. We left punctually at the designated hour (i.e. exactly half an hour after it was agreed we would leave), and this time when Dad headed towards to car park he found me right along with him, matching stride for stride. Right. so far so good. As we settle ourselves into the car, I see dad quickly reverse out of the car park after strapping himself in. "whoa! Hang on Dad!!" I say - "I haven't strapped myself in - and neither have the kids!" Dad, for the nth time in this very brief trip looks at me like I'm a raving loon, visibly composes himself before answering, calmly, "It's not compulsory for the passengers to wear seat belts here. And the back seats don't have any seat belts."
I look around incredulously at the back. The seats are bereft of any anchoring devices. The kids are grinning away bouncing about like helium-filled balloons, rejoicing at the feeling of not being tethered down. As we continue backing out of the driveway - this time in a vehicle rather than on foot, I feel no safer and hang on gingerly to the door handle.
No sooner have we emerged out of the apartment complex (after what I though was far too much aggressive horn-tooting by dad), we nearly ram into an SUV which, from what I could gather thought we were involved in a fun game of Chicken. I roll down my window to give the guy a sound talking to - only to realise I was talking to thin air - Chicken man was continuing his dangerous trip down to road determined to visit the A & E by the end of the hour.
Dad meanwhile continued down to road, unaffected by our brush with death, merrily leaning away on the horn - apparently this was how vehicles communicated with each other here - a short 'parp' to denote mild annoyance at how you're driving to a longer 'paaaaaaarrrp' to denote - 'really now, you're being a twat' to a staccato burst of 'pip-paarp-pap-parp' to denote 'watch out! I'm a huge truck with no rearview mirrors about to burst forth from a blind turn at break-neck speed' to a myriad of other complex signals.
I seem to have learnt driving from a totally different rulebook because the left indicator here somehow communicated to two-wheelers behind you that this was the time to overtake the vehicle from the left and a right indicator - well, I don't know what it meant because it seemed to have no effect on the surrounding traffic.
My favourites are the roundabouts- manned by a traffic constable. Where if you choose to go clockwise when you want to turn right, The constable looks at you in askance like you didn't know what you were doing. It's obvious to anyone with half as much brains as the rotund constable that the shortest route in a roundabout if you wanted to go right was, of course anti-clockwise. And that is what one is expected to do. None of this new fangled nonsense about uni-directional traffic for our intrepid Kochi Konstable.
I now realise why almost all vehicles in India have an image of God hanging from the rear view mirror or firmly pasted to the dashboard (including Dad's car which now incidentally has permanent imprints left by my fingertips on the dashboard) - after all one never knows if one is ever going to ever return to your loved ones once you go out into the streets (on foot or by car) of Kochi. 

Rookie Mistakes - 1

Having just arrived in Kochi after about three years, I tell my dad, 'I need to visit the bank, Pops. Is there a branch nearby?"
Dad, in an effort to show off how much Kochi has moved on since I last came informs me, "Of course. We have a local branch not five minutes away."
Me: Great! shall we leave in about ten minutes?
Pops agrees.
half an hour later
Me: Right. I'm ready. shall we leave?
Poppy, who's been waiting patiently for the past fifteen minutes (having been used to years of waiting patiently for the wife, sister, daughter,and other miscellaneous womenfolk in his life) nods away.
We head out of the lift and suddenly I find myself bereft of company. I look around for Dad and and find him heading swiftly towards to parking lot.
Me: I though you said the branch was five minutes away poppy, why are we taking the car?
Pops(looking at me like I was a few cards short of a pack): You want to walk? It's fifteen minutes away if we walk!!
Me (thinking to myself): eh? what a spoilt bunch we are... we can't walk for fifteen minutes?
Dad having given up trying to convince me that walking was a bad idea, trudges along forlornly with me. As soon as we step out of the apartment, I am nearly run over by a rickshaw with horns blaring. And the driver has the gall to then turn around and advice me on how to walk on the road- nearly running over three other pedestrians while he was at it. My heart rate was just returning to normal when a huge SUV which had no business travelling in a three feet wide road gently nudges me into the open drain running by the side of the road. Dad, the veteran Kochi traveller swiftly pulls me into a roadside shop (whereupon a shop assistant looked up hopefully, ready to make is first sale of the day - or maybe the week, even, judging by the fine coating of dust on the shop shelves) and just as deftly hops out and into the next shop.
We walk in this pop-in-hop-out fashion, while dad ably guides me though the end of the street filled with drivers who I'm convinced have walked straight out of Grand Theft Auto V (or is it VI? I've lost count).
At the end of the the road, I'm met by a scene that can only be called bedlam. Anarchic Bedlam! Cacophonic Anarchic Bedlam!!
Shouting over the babble, I tell dad "Gosh, it must be a serious accident. there are even cops in the scene"
Dad (shaking his head sadly at how totally clueless I was): That, my dear, is a traffic cop. He is directing traffic. And this, is what we call a junction. We need to cross now.
My jaw drops. We need to to cross this? Is he kidding me? I have manic drivers gunning for me from four different directions now. I close my eyes, ask the Lord to take good care of my children, and make a dash for it.
Three sudden brakes, two screeching tyres and six blue curses later, I have made it across with all my limbs intact. I can't believe it!! It has to be a miracle.
At the branch I am so shaken by my experience I ask for three glasses of water. And consume them (despite the fingerprints on the inside of the glass).As we are about the leave the branch, I turn around and tell dad  "Do you suppose you could go and get the car? I don't think I'm ready to die just yet."
Poor dad. Shaking his head, resigned to his fate of having crazy women dictate his life, he steps out to go get the car. I quickly avert my eyes as a two wheeler does his best to grind his toes to pulp. *gulp* Maybe next time I should let Dad decide how we travel.