Where do we go from here?

We returned to Kochi by Janashatabdi, with Achaamma joining us the next day. At the hotel, we played a game of scrabble and Mike got annoyed at the fact that (by family rules) he can’t keep nonsense two-letter words such as za, xi or qi and because he forgot that we allow for replacing blanks with the intended letter on the board. He usually wins in spite of this, to the frustration of everyone else, but this time, I won. Also, for the first time, Achaamma gave me the these Americans and their words! look, which was historically reserved for Mike.

Having good North Indian food is one of the things Mike looks forward to during his India visits, but the only restaurant that I knew of with good North Indian, Khyber, had now been tragically replaced by Coldstone Creamery. We decided to try our luck with a new place called Tummy Singh. 

The interiors had the easy appeal that comes with a vibrant, peacock-y mix of colors. Acha sized up the menu and disapproved of the prices, but once he had his murgh lababdar, he switched to the you get what you pay for camp. To be frank the prices weren’t that bad, just not Khyber-level, and more comparable to Delhi or Mumbai rates. I was nonetheless surprised to see a gang of uniformed schoolgirls getting their lunch from the restaurant.

The following day, Achaamma suggested that we take the water metro to Vypin, with the stress being on the metro part of things. I tried to understand what maybe different about this than taking any of the private ferries, but I didn’t get very far. My parents seemed to take a fancy to it and I think, especially for Acha, it was about examining the new infrastructure. Besides, none of us had ever been to Vypin before, and as a foursome, we were up for anything new.

We went to the High court terminal to buy tickets. As we arrived, the men at the local auto stand were shooing away a small, disheveled beggar in rags who looked a bit mad and unpredictable. One of the auto guys had a stick in his hand and escalated matters by trying to use it on him repeatedly. We had to cut through this scene, and as we tried to cross, the auto guy landed the stick and the enraged beggar came hurtling towards me. Acha and I yelled, confused and wishing an end to it all. I waved at the traffic cop standing a few feet away from us, and pointed at him to do something. But he turned his eyes away, and I wanted nothing more to do with any of it either.

The queue was long, but we gave in to fate, and joined in. Acha and I examined our surroundings and took the time to lament the water damage to the properties on Marine Drive. The queue was still long. We nudged along, and after a while I realized that there was a separate counter for Vypin. Upon enquiry, I learned that there were no frequent rides to the location and we would have to wait for at least an hour. So, we scrapped our plans and took an Uber to good ol’ Fort Kochi. As we sat in the car, stuck in a new queue for vehicles that wanted to catch the ferry and cross over to the Fort, Amma exclaimed, this is Vypin by the way! I started suspecting a complete lack of logic in our choice of water metro as the means for getting to Vypin in the first place, but spared myself the trouble. Instead, I watched a skeleton of a man, drunk and high on god knows what, dance away happily in front of the auto-rickshaw stand as the men there laughed, taunting and encouraging him.

Mike wondered out aloud why there wasn't a bridge to connect us over the water, since it is only a short distance. The driver explained to us that because of big cargo ships arriving at the port, setting up such a bridge wasn’t really feasible. Not for the first time, I found myself appreciating the common sense that many who are employed as drivers and attendants in Kerala possess, but I also felt frustrated at the underemployment of sharp brains and people who care to do their jobs right. A few days earlier, Mike and I were shopping for comfortable linen pants at Marks & Spencers, and the woman there, fluent in English, sensibly pointed out that there were two different cuts available, showed us where the men’s fitting rooms were, left us alone, and then when we were ready to bill, noticed that one of the pants he had selected was of a different length than the other and fetched the right pair for him. As we got onto the ferry, I squashed any nagging sense of guilt and instead, tried to appreciate my luck.