Among God's people

Things changed almost as soon as I crossed the Kerala border. As I staggered off the ‘A/C Deluxe Volvo bus’ into an unexpectedly sharp early morning chill, I was greeted by a pleasant faced, youngish chap. Turned out he was despatched by family friends, to escort me on the drive south. He stuck his hand out and said, “Clap.”

Puzzled, I looked around. There was no one else around except a stray cow, sleeping comfortably by the side of the road, and what appeared to be a chauffeur/driver in the Tata Indigo that Mister Pleasant face had brought along for my transportation into the Heart of God’s Country. Nothing worth clapping about, basically.

Nonetheless, I clapped. He stared, a look of extreme bewilderment crossing his face.

Oops. Wrong move. I stopped clapping, unsure of what to do next.

And suddenly, the incomprehension on his face was replaced by what appeared to be gradual understanding. “Oh no no no,” he said, “My name is Clap.”

Two hours into the drive, I’d managed to catch some sleep, and Clap and I had become mates. Turned out he was an architect, designing Ayurvedic spas and other such for the tourism industry. He was also, like almost every Malayalee I met on the trip, surprisingly well informed on just about any topic, from cinema to philosophy to the importance of the teashop in Kerala society.

Now, I could talk about what stunningly boffo pieces of work the beautifully maintained Kerala highways are (particularly National Highway 47), but that requires a raving petrol head post all its own.

So let’s talk about something else that got my attention. No, no, no (as the Malayalees would put it), it’s not the Technicolor tropical lushness that sort of swims around your senses from the word go that got me. It was the signs.

As we approached Cochin, we passed a white concrete edifice built in the grand Indian wedding cake hotel tradition, called, hold your breath, Hotel Max Providence. Max Providence had something called a ‘ Family Restaurant’, serving ‘Indian, Chainese (sic) and Mughalai’, which, as I was to discover, is the USP of practically every eating place in Kerala. Families are BIG in this place. Frighteningly well-informed, implacably insular families. They sit at the heart of the Malayalees' unique combination of left-leaning politics and social conservatism.

But I digress. Hotel Gaylord loomed into view a mere two minutes after Max Providence. Now, it can be reasonably assumed that the owner was not thinking of whatever we are thinking about right now when he christened the place, particularly since Gaylord had a large cross planted on top of it. My thoughts, naturally, were now with those decent, God fearing American families that descend on Kerala in the winter.

But my encounter with hotels of the spirit was far from over. A mere five minutes from Gaylord, Good Way Tourist Home beckoned to those recently shaken good Christians, as if to say that, ‘ No no no, come to our family restaurant, there’s no gay-bay business here Saar, we have the best Indian, Chainese and Mughalai food.”

Comforted by this knowledge, I was about to nod off once gain, when a bunch of giant hoardings appeared by the side of the highway, which was now fast approaching Cochin. The first one, with a pretty Malayalee bride laden with a tonne of gold beaming benevolently at the traffic, assured me that no trip to Cochin was complete without a visit to the ‘Gold Fort’. ` Another one emphatically asserted that ‘Sogo vitrified tiles’ are ‘the Ultimate Floor Choice’, though the next one went one better, offering ‘ Johnson, not just tiles, but lifestyles’.

And speaking of lifestyles, the next hoarding told us what we should be wearing. This, apparently, could only be ‘King Richard shirts, the sign of success’. And next to the King Richard advert was the means to this success, a brand new, all –white, mock-classical building called the ‘Little Flower Engineering Institute’. The students of said institute could step out and grab a bite from either ‘Chummery Bakery’ or Honest Bakery’, two gilt and white concrete edifices flanking its gates. Or they could pop into ‘Hotel Khayber, Veg, Non-veg and Chainese’ (!) Choices, choices.

Clap, hugely kicked by my bemusement, now gleefully pointed out a sign that stated that the Institute had been built by ‘Born Builders Private Limited’. He also informed me that there was a notoriously wealthy local fraudster (who peddles ‘cures’ for HIV) living in Cochin, who had christened his home ‘Virus House’.

Tired by all this, I eventually nodded off.

When I awoke, we were well out of Cochin, and I was desperately hungry. Clap, ever the gracious host, immediately got Narayanan, the driver, to stop by the nearest row of teashops. We parked the car by a tiny residential bylane called the 'Residents' Lane', and after a stretch and a yawn, walked towards the shops, my mouth by now watering in anticipation of some authentic Malayalee fare. There were two thatched shacks to choose from, both of which, Clap assured me, did very good tapioca and fish. There was little, it appeared, to set their cooking apart. We could eat in whichever one I fancied. Reflexively, I looked at their signboards.

One was called ‘The Grand’. The other, ‘The Oberoi Five Star’.

Epilogue

And oh, turned out Clap had a sister. Her name was Dance. And their parents, naturally, lived in a house called, erm... ‘Clap and Dance’.

Note: This post has been anonymized.

The remains

Well, this is what happened.

I am now triply qualified (jeez). And licensed in large swathes of the world. There are no more exams left. Zilch. Unless I am insane enough to go repeat everything someplace where they recognize only their own, that is.

This is supposed to make me feel happy, light-headed, relieved et al. But no, it leaves me restless (intellectually), strangely inert (physically) and mildy unnerved at this weird wtf state of being. No amount of weird booze works. I mean, not plonk, not Islays, not Speysides, not arak, not the ladys Limonicello and Sambuca, not mead from Glastonbury, nor cheap XXX rum. Not even toddy or my dads brandy. Watching 5 movies back to back, Almodovar box sets, Femi Kuti concerts, listening to Bill Bryson and Alain de Botton on the pod, sleeping, reading, taking a 4 week career break etc. were all deployed. Look, I tried. It did'nt bloody work.


Then the visa thing explodes. Turns out I am safe, but that is'nt just it. In fact, that makes it worse. A doctor takes his life. This gets me worried. I get involved. More wtf days follow. Some medics at the academic group I run start piling on, big time. I can understand their anxiety, but it starts getting to me. I am beginning to feel permanently pissed off. Not nice.

Since it's all getting a bit too much, I travel. End up in a pretty remote part of India, eventually. That helps, to an extent. I go looking for an old lady, the wife of a poet who was part of my childhood. Turns out she is dementing and blind. No one appears to be too keen to look after her. Even my dad says, 'there's no point going, she can't see you or recognize you'. Well. When the poet died, the State Government erected memorials and politicians made speeches. The literary mags ran commemorative issues and obits. They had'nt had kids. Now she's alone. A retired professor of mathematics at a University, unable to handle everyday money. Not nice at all. Then a nephew is located, who appears concerned. She's despatched to the nephew. Respite. Then went in search of another old lady (there's an old people fetish at work). Turns out she is severely depressed and in pseudodementia. So, I end up making phone calls, negotiating with assorted relatives I'd much rather whack, speaking to old Professors, sorting out care. Eventually, I call time, and go and meet some family and an old friend from med school. The friend has quit medicine, runs an investors club and is trading on the stockmarket. I remember that he'd made his first million rupees at 17. It all now falls into place. One week there is good. Then I hear about another old friend, this time from college; gay, former muse to a famous playwright who writes in English, now dying of AIDS. I published his first story, about a padre who falls in love with another padre. This got both of us into trouble with a lot of other padres. Including the ones who ran the college. He's untraceable. By now I am beginning to miss the Lady.

In the meantime, the visa thing gets fixed. I also get interviews wherever I apply. This, when there are masses of doctors who have'nt even got one interview. Significant feelings of guilt.

By now, I decide that my original career plans vis a vis policy and finance isnt really worth it. But the way medicine is changing, nurses and social workers and therapists and researchers and doctors and academics are rapidly being rendered irrelevant by money and managers. I am told to come up with a 'business plan' for my academic group. Wtf is that? So, now, I go to a 'Top MBA Fair', where I wonder whether an MBA will give me the skills to effect changes in healthcare at the level I am interested in. That is, rather than thru the circuitous, conventional path laid out for me, which is PhD, Lecturership, Chair and so on. I have no desire to do a PhD. Besides, I have never done anything the conventional way. So, will an MBA lead to our own thinktank ? Then the lady can become its face and me the backroom boy. Is this fantasy? But I'd sure love to kick some MBA butt at LBS;-) Just for the heck of it, hey.

With my mind drifting like this, will I blow all my interviews?

I am good, hey. C'mon, gimme my mojo for one last party.

Time to hit the books again.

But what about the Lady? She's quickly and justifiably losing patience with me and the British system, and me being in a wtf mood doesn't help. She suspects that she may have to compromise on her ambitions, but this is unthinkable. Besides, she's cleverer and far more capable than I ever will be. Which makes the option also completely unacceptable. So, now we have to stop thinking you/I, start thinking 'we' in every way, strategically plan our lives this year, the primary goal being that she returns to the fast track by the end of the year. I also need to effectively and efficiently action some support rather than merely spout it. If she walks, I'll have only myself to blame. I love her, you know. Very much. She's a superstar:)

Fingers crossed.