What the cliffs don’t tell

Our eyes glowed and cheeks were radiant, laughter rang and words flowed wise. Actually it was like any other table of middle-aged drinkers where a lot of wine has been consumed. The dinner I was hosting for my friends who were musicians from Greece and XXX – whom we will get to know in time. We sat in one of the better restaurants overlooking the sea along the cliff; I call ‘better’ because it had real plants, even on a wall garden and a library. Books, especially mouldy ones, make wine and coffee smell better. Always go to cafes with books. In the horizon were flickering flecks, fishing boats that had left shore a few hours earlier. They were now coaxing catch to swim up, LED lights ablaze, recreating daylight. A practice that fouled up their biological clocks which would sooner or later mess with their reproductive cycles. But the fishermen were in dire straits. 

Varkala cliff – a geological heritage and a marvel

“Communism is funny. It sometimes binds itself wholeheartedly to short-term stupidities over long-term sense,” I remarked. My state was the first democratically elected communist government in the world and we continue to do so – democratically elect the communists. It had become obsolete in most places and where it held sway, it was with brute power. Say, like in China. Here the entire Army is an extension of the dispensation. In Kerala this service is provided by a militant trade union. There is the occasional bloodshed and violence alright but the work largely gets done through profanities, threats and mundus bundled up way, way above the knees. If the warring party has clout, there is a call from the local area office.

But my comment on communism followed a complaint from my Greek friends.

“If you want to take cash, you have to hire an auto rickshaw and go to Varkala town spending a few hundred rupees on the ride itself,” said Zorba, what I will call my friend.

Zorba’s wife fed biscuits to the dogs on the beach of which there were scores. At times she would take some of them to a veterinary clinic far away to neuter them. All these acts of kindness cost money that wasn’t payable by card.

She nodded absently watching the distant boats.

Cafes look – and smell – good with books

“We have repeatedly informed the local government and state tourism authorities about it,” said XXX. But the reason they continued to shy away from setting up kiosks was the auto rickshaw drivers who awaited fare at the helipad. These were the party’s foot soldiers, card holding members, mostly, non-swaying vote banks. Our equivalent of the Chinese Army. 

“Communism is funny…”

I have known XXX for some years now. Like most people who undertake serious work not always above board, XXX’s mien is like that of your favourite uncle. He is a very gentle man, full of kindness, warm eyes and a hearty laugh. And yes, he likes to eat too – an interest he passionately indulges in at any of the many hotels he has leased out along the cliff, whichever he is closest to. A self-made burgher, XXX likes to play the gawpus; call him anytime and he’d be doing nothing.

“Come to the helipad in 10 minutes,” he tells me whenever I call him to meet, day or night.

As a single male traveller, I meet him mostly for recommendations, pointers, beer company or party requirements.

The fishermen have many tales

There was a raid at a rave party a few days before I arrived. A heist stage-managed by XXX to benefit all the stakeholders involved – cops, dealers, media and the guests. The guests in the sense that these occasional inconveniencing ensured months of hassle-free partying. One or two of those totally trashed will be taken to the station and after fulfilment of optics would be let go. Like I told you, it was win-win. XXX was king-player, slayer and maker. He would play it for everyone else’s sake and in turn they all would be thankful to him for being the conduit of peace, progress and profit. And before long, most of the seized substance would find its way back into the chillums and roll papers you find at every second shop along the cliff.

When the India dip in tourist arrivals was anywhere up to 18 per cent as per industry estimates, Kerala managed a marginal rise of around 5 per cent compared to last year.

I won’t be surprised if XXX is felicitated for his work in driving, developing, protecting, promoting and even saving the tourism industry one day. 

The waves are the best trance music

‘Cross massage’ and Russian yoga centre

While there is no denying that some of them actually are, dozens of ‘authentic Kerala Ayurvedic’ massage parlours stare at you from every gully lane that snakes inside from the sea-facing walkway. I know three qualified Ayurvedic practitioners who come from Attingal and Trivandrum every morning to diagnose their clients and supervise their masseurs. Due to the number that mushrooms every season, the going is south. Still, in admirable sodality to the rest of their ilk, they do not call them ‘fly by night’ but talks about them with a tamer ‘not serious about their work’ or collective reputations. A case in point was one well-equipped and well-doing parlour which had been shut for over a month – the manager cum owner had taken off with a customer who apparently discovered that nobody else pressured her points better. 

“Are you looking for a ‘cross massage’?” I heard the term for the first time from XXX some years ago when I stayed with my crew making a short film on the geo-heritage cliffs and other attractions around Varkala town. It went on to be well-liked by hotels and accommodations and shared by them to potential guests racking up hits during season. I was asking XXX – whom I had just met – for massage recommendations as a treat to my crew after pack up. ‘Cross’ massages meant women masseurs on men and vice versa. What generally led to ‘happy endings’ or beginnings – or both – depending on pricing and proclivities. Sometimes even a jaunt around the country and even nuptial bliss. 

A yoga guru in a photo session

Instead of the rub downs, I gave my crew – most of whom were staunchly married – a lot of good stuff to light up. That some still flew into the night, disappeared with some Hare Rama, Hare Krishna devotees we met during the filming is another story. 

The morning after my dinner with the Greeks, I was sitting with XXX on accropodes zigzagging into the sea a few kilometres away in Kappil beach. The starfish-shaped structures had ample chair-like spaces whichever way they had tumbled. I was smoking up; the gentle lapping of the waves was, I have always felt, to be better than trance music. XXX didn’t smoke himself but procured the good stuff for his buddies. He was a precious buddy man. Better than brothers, I am sure, even if I never had one. This morning he was on a thinking spree, business thinking, planning to go sober-curious for a while. 

Kappil Beach – sand like style of a flower

“Yoga is the only thing that is making decent money in Varkala now,” he said.

“Aamir Khan was shooting here last week,” said one of the youngsters who had gathered around us. Local youth, these lads were XXX’s men on the street, his army, his eyes and ears. These foot-men did everything from drug running to line production on locations. Kappil was a beautiful strip of sand like the style dividing the petals of a blue flower. 

“For a two week-course, they are charging anywhere between Rs 50,000 and one lakh.”

“He was such a zaddy.”

“That too in USD.”

“Sported a beard this long.”

“Your Russian friend who was in your film, heard she is bringing in her own groups now.”

“Swole.”

“Are you guys still in touch?”

“Took selfies with all of us.”

“Maybe we could open a ‘Russian Yoga Centre.”

“Promised to come back.”