Bikes, rides and barrels

All bikers have one of the two approaches to bikes – some own them merely to show off, while the rest are passionate about being one with their machines. Then, there was Cherian.

Photo Courtesy: Blueprints.com

Day 2 in Wayanad. The boys were mesmerized with the raw and rugged charisma of this quaint town – where the exploits of tourism had not yet destroyed its natural state of beauty. They had ventured a little further from their original plan to visit the Chembra Peak. They visited a nearby Wildlife Sanctuary and had managed to see bisons, deer and the Hanuman langur at fairly close range but they wanted more. They figured, a trek to the Peak would add another dimension to the trip before they called it a day. The humility with which nature presented itself with open arms to intrigued souls who wanted to understand it better. Not that it mattered, when you have a bike, and not just any bike but the Kawasaki Versys 650 which they affectionately called Howler. This was Howler’s seventh long bike ride. Even before Jai gifted himself the bike on his 23^rd birthday, he had meticulously prepared a list of the 20 bike rides that he wanted to do within India, complete with route maps, best-time to travel, stops required, places to visit on the way, etc. In parallel, he had also begun his physical and mental training to be part of the Iron Butt Association (Yes, it is a real thing!)

So once Howler was delivered, the riding scene set itself in motion. Being in Bangalore, it made sense to cover the lower half of the country first and slowly move farther with every trip. Plus, there was never a dearth of places here. So after covering most of Karnataka and Tamil Nadu, Jai chose Kerala. This time, however, he had a pillion rider – his Veeru, whose actual name was Amith. Amith had met with a minor accident eleven months ago that led to a hairline-fracture in his ankle. Since the accident, Amith restricted his riding to very short distances around the city but Jai didn’t want his Veeru to miss out on the trip. So here they were 2 days and 350 kms later, on the Vayavatta Road towards their resort after a fulfilling day.

It was now Amith’s turn to ride and Jai looked at his watch. ‘7 pm Veeru. We should’ve started a little earlier. The whole damn town switches off right after sunset here’. Amith however remained calm. ‘Why worry, when Google Baba shall show you the way!!’ he said poetically. ‘Only 20 kms. We should be there by 8. In time for hot appams and mutton stew. Just make sure you get the route right.’

After a while though, Amith started to get a little suspicious. ‘Hotel Dubai?? I don’t remember seeing this in the morning. You sure it’s the right route?’, he enquired. Jai, having had enough of Amith’s constant questioning, simply chose not to reply. Almost half an hour later and with no Roseberg Resort or people in sight, they stopped to look around for familiar places. Network was patchy here and Google Baba couldn’t do much about it. Most of the hotels and shops were closed but for one teashop whose owner was also just closing down. After much explaining in Kannada-Hindi-Tamil they realized they were in Padivayal, 16 kms away from the resort. 16 kms in Bangalore would have been a cake-walk (minus the traffic), but in remote towns and villages, it wasn’t that easy. Especially so since they were also running out of petrol. They asked the teashop owner (again in awkward Kannada-Hindi-Tamil) if there were any petrol pumps around. The owner smiled and said, ‘1 km straight and then first right. 3 kms, reach Cherian house. Petrol there. Then straight to Nedumbala. Roseberg Resort 6 kms from there’. So the shop owner knew English after all!

Although it took longer than expected, by combining the information from (the still patchy) Google Maps and the owner’s instructions, they reached their first stop. A small villa styled house with a board hanging from the tiled roof that said, ‘Cherian House’. The house in itself was a simple one-storey cottage with a verandah on both sides and a long sit-out in front. The decoration was minimal and consisted of a large wooden cross above the main door and two hanging flower pots with money plants. The garden had rows of neatly trimmed hibiscus, bougainvillae and rose brushes. The garden and entrance were lit by soft yellow lights which gave the house, a colonial Portugese look. The boys however were not interested in the house. They were instantly drawn to the garage on the right end of the house. A firm structure, which housed not one, not two, but four motorcycles gleaming in the moonlight.

Jai let out a whistle. It was an unbelievable scene, according to him. “Look at those beauties Veeru”, he exclaimed. “Damn it! All of them right out of my wishlist man!” Veeru was too stunned to reply. A moment later, the main door of the house opened and a smiling man in his mid-30s walked towards the boys and opened the main gate. Jai was the first to talk. He explained how they ended up in the wrong route and their desperate need for petrol. It would be great if Cherian Sir could help them.

The man, still smiling, introduced himself as Koshy, Cherian’s son. “You youngsters depend too much on GPS and phones these days, you don’t realize that in rural areas, the best guides are local people.” Jai quickly made a mental note – Less Google Maps, More Google Translate. You still had to have technology though! Veeru, however, couldn’t get his mind off the garage - “We were actually admiring the bikes in your garage. Straight out of my wishlist, Sir!” To this, Koshy laughed. “I have a Carwash and a garage in Kozhikode but in our hearts, we are a family of bike enthusiasts. Plus I like to keep them here so Appa can see them.” Koshy then took them to his garage where the boys spent a good twenty minutes fussing over the bikes, comparing the models and asking for reviews.

“Oh I almost forgot!”, Koshy said and then pointed to a small desk placed outside the garage. On the desk were ten plastic bottles filled with dark brown liquid, which the boys immediately understood to be petrol. The boys were so engrossed with the bikes that they missed seeing the table and only when they saw the bottles did they remember why they were there. Amith took a bottle and after thanking Koshy profusely for being a savior especially for tourists like them, he asked how much should they pay for the bottle. “Not that it matters, Koshy Sir. This is our Liquid Gold for today”, added Jai. Koshy looked a little surprise. “I thought you knew already. All the thanks should actually go to Appa and these bottles are not here for sale. We don’t charge for the petrol, although it would be great if you returned the bottles. Swachh Bharat and all, you see!”

Both Jai and Amith were taken by surprise. “How could somebody give petrol for free? Actually, why would they? In fact shouldn’t you charge more because it is so difficult to get petrol around here?” Koshy listened to all the questions and profit projections patiently before he replied laughing – “Thank you for your wonderful suggestions but like I said, this is something Appa started that we would like to hopefully continue for a long time.” “Appa sure sounds like a very interesting man… and super rich”, Jai exclaimed. “Actually on the contrary”, Koshy said. “Appa’s father was a care taker in one of the bungalows down south. The bungalow was owned by the British and their son was the first owner of a motorbike in the region. The first time Appa saw the bike, he fell in love. Since then, it was his dream to own a bike. Specifically, the 1942 BSA M20. So as soon as he started working, he began saving as well. But you know how it is those days. Sisters, Marriage, us kids and so on. Appa’s commitments increased but his salary, not so much. So although he bought himself a Luna and never failed to take us all on his friend’s bikes (it was his favorite hobby, by the way!), he never got to buying his own bike. That, however, didn’t stop him from saving for his bike, and also from putting in me and most of the kids here, that love and respect for bikes. What you see here is proof of that deep reverence we have for this wonderful machine”, he said waving to the neatly arranged row of bikes in his garage.

 “Wow!!” Jai exclaimed. “I am also a total sucker for bikes too but this is something else. One thing I still don’t understand, why the free bottles, if I may ask?” “Oh yes! That was a huge turning point for Appa”, said Koshy and continued “He once got a chance to visit Goa with his boss and family on a four-day trip. Appa was their driver and during their time in Goa, they used to reach their hotel late every night after all the dinner and playing in the beaches. One of the things Appa noticed almost every night on his way back to the hotel was that some houses had desks with bottles like the one you see here. He ignored them at first but after seeing this at a couple of places he wanted to know what they were for. So he asked about these desks to the people at the hotel. Not sure, if you have heard about it but these were the locals, Good Samaritans, who wanted to help tourists in case they ran out of petrol because petrol pumps were hard to find in some areas. And this was all before Google and Maps. So they figured they would help by placing bottles of petrol in front of their homes, that too for free! Goa was a huge attraction even them and most of the Goans made their livelihoods through the thriving tourism. They hence had a lot of love and gratitude for those visiting their land and wanted to ensure a warm welcome to all those visiting. That day, Appa learnt something that would change his life forever. These people who provided the petrol in Goa weren’t rich landlords or wealthy people. They were just normal folks trying to make their land friendlier. So after he returned from Goa, Appa took out all the money he saved for his bike and set up his table around twelve years ago. So what if he couldn’t have a bike of his own, he would instead help tourists get to their destinations, safely and without any worry. And all these years he did just that. He is not too well these days but still ensures that the bottles are full every single day. I would like to think we have helped a few people along the way. Making tourists happier, one bottle at a time!”

Jai and Amith didn’t know what to say. They wanted to meet Cherian Sir. This man who had a small dream which morphed into something much greater. His wish to ride his own bike around the world transformed into a larger-than-himself dream of doing his bit to help other travelers who visit his hometown. Old age had taken a toll on him and he had been in hospital for a couple of weeks. However, he was better now except for his forgetfulness and hearing issues. “He loves to meet bikers like you. Please have a seat and I shall bring him.” A few minutes later, Cherian emerged from the room. He was a handsome man, probably in his 80’s and was fussing over his mundu, complaining that it wasn’t starched properly. He was in a wheelchair and Koshy brought him closer so he could took a good look at the boys. Cherian’s face lit up like he was meeting old friends and he gave them a broad smile.  Both Jai and Amith had a lot of feelings going through their heads but were too speechless to say anything. After a couple seconds, Amith, in his basic Malayalam asked, “Hello Sir. Kazhicho?”

“Aa. Idli, 3 ennam”

“Appo idli koode entha?”

“Chutney”, he replied which Koshy corrected, “Chutney allalo Appa, Sambar alle”

“Aa..chutney poloru sambar, sambar poloru chutney..”

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Where the tiger belongs..

Dasettan took his work very seriously. Or as most people who know him might say, ‘Immade Dasettan Puliyaantta!!!’ (Our Dasettan rocks!!!) Pulikali is an artform sans pareil in Thrissur. It is a matter of pride and a symbol of their eternal legacy second only to the famed Thrissur Pooram which men and women from all over the world gather every year to witness. These two events – the Thrissur Pooram and the Pulikali together encompass what the people of Thrissur truly believe in – the ensemble of culture, charisma and camaraderie!

To Dasettan, Pulikali was his mirror - the truest way of expressing himself. All year round, he would mentally prepare all the moves that would accompany the enchanting beats of the udukku, thavil and the like. Once the Thrissur Pooram ended, it was his cue to get started with his elaborate process. Who would paint, how would the design look like, how much rounder should his potbelly be, how much more food should he eat to achieve the desired ‘round-ness’, how many jingles of his handmade belt needed to replaced - all the details would be meticulously charted and followed to the T.

The event happens every year on the fourth day of Onam. For a performer the process starts from the wee hours in the morning. All the hair on the body has to first be removed and the now shimmering body is then given a first coat of paint which takes around 2 to 3 hours to dry. Then the second layer of painting is done, this time with great detailing and perfection (and of course, a truck load of patience). After a good 7 to 8 hours, the tigers assemble in the famous Swaraj Round. The drums sound and pulis dance, pounce and shake their bellies accompanied by the shikaris and other characters. The performance is a sight to behold and the sheer energy it exudes is enjoyed by both the classes and masses, alike.

Dasettan was one of the very few who was still going strong. Most of his friends who accompanied him when he started out were now part of a very distant past. This, however, did not discourage him. It only became the foundation of his love for the artform, bordering on obsession. ‘Pulikali illathe enthu Onam!’ (What fun was Onam without Pulikali!), he often said.  Forty years of tireless performances and Dasettan was still the stud of the event. Most youngsters who joined the sangams looked up to Dasettan. He was their very own Birju Maharaj, their Da Vinci of sorts. These days it was much easier. You could get readymade masks, tongues, teeth, tails and all the accessories. Also, the Thrissur Municipal Corporation gives a grant of Rs 30,000 for each troupe so as to encourage young performers and keep the tradition in its vibrant best. But in Dasettan, you could appreciate the art for its innocence and genuinity. Lots of people who came to the event remember Dasettan from when he was a young man. When asked, they would chuckle and say, ‘Dasettan annum innum same aantta, vayaru maathre chaadittullo!’ (Dasettan is still the same, only his potbelly has gotten bigger!)

His family however, did not share the same love for Pulikali or for him. Tigers essentially live solitary lives, except during mating season and when females bear young. The same could be said about Dasettan. His female left after bearing her young. His pulikali hardly brought any money and Dasettan didn’t hunt. Also, his wife didn’t quite get the whole idea. Performing pulikali, won’t make you a tiger nor will it fill our stomachs, she kept reminding him to which he would respond with only a smile. So one fourth day of Onam, when he returned back home after his performance, he found his wife had left. And she took along with her, his little cub who was barely 3 months old. He didn’t go looking for them. Nor did he expect them to return. Tigers essentially live solitary lives.

However, as years passed by, Dasettan felt the void. Most people he knew had moved on. New jobs, new families, new cities. But Pulikali had kept him rooted. It was everything he had and the one thing he could hold on to. Today, after his 40^th performance he shed a tear. It was his last time and was truly an emotional moment. All the people including the Collector gave him a standing ovation after the performance ended. A salute to his undying devotion to Thrissur’s most distinct tradition by almost 30,000-odd people. But Dasettan could only spot one face – his cub had returned. And this time with a tiny one in his arms – a baby girl. His son had his wife’s eyes, but most else was Dasettan. There was no mistaking him. And if he was in any doubt, the look on the young man’s face said it all. Dasettan broke down.

Most children were either scared or shy but she readily greeted him with a smile on her face when her father introduced the town’s most famous puli to her. Throughout the way back home she asked him various things about pulikali – how many bells did he have in his belt, how many idlis could he fit in his stomach, was the tail real and many other questions which left Dasettan dumbfounded. She also claimed to be the one who cheered the loudest. The little one was now sleeping in Dasettan’s lap and he stroked her hair lovingly. Looking at his granddaughter he realized he had missed all the wonderful moments of being a father. He had not been there for his son’s first fall or first word, nor was he there to support him after first punishment at school or first breakup. He had lived all his life as a puli and now that it came to an end he was unsure what to do next. But he knew what he wanted. He wanted to connect with his son and know him better. Fumbling for words, Dasettan asked him his name and even before he heard it he knew what it was. His wife was a huge fan of the actor, Jayan. He had not forgotten after all.

Jayan smiled and told his father how he had been to Dasettan’s every single performance after his mother told him about his father. He was angry at first, but then as years passed it was just a deep longing to know the man better – sans paint and costume. And what better time than after his last ever performance. Jayan wanted to take his father home. Surely he could not grow up with his father but little Gouri would have a playmate and friend. Dasettan’s heart felt a lot lighter. He was proud that his son had grown up to be such a good man. Or maybe it was because Dasettan wasn’t around. He wouldn’t know.

It was getting late. Gouri Mol left home with her father but not before Dasettan planted a kiss on her cheeks and promised that he would join them soon. Removing the last traces of paint from his body, Dasettan felt the last signs of his old self quickly fading out of reality. The images of his wife, son and Gouri began to replace the happy faces he usually noticed when performing. All the cheer that he got from his enthusiastic audience now seemed to blend with the love of his family. He smiled weakly feeling complete and thus basking in the warmth of it all, Dasettan died peacefully in his sleep.

Tigers dont really cope with old age. Most of them are poached or killed by other predators much before their time, but some lucky ones live the full extent of their lifetime before breathing their last.