Master of His Art

When we had gone to see M. Mouli on Wednesday, he had given us the name of Balaramapuram, a town a few kilometers away from Trivandrum, which specializes in the typical Kerala cotton loom. He also gave us the name of "Kasilingom" (spelled Kachilingam) a weaving house which could probably show us how they do the traditional weaving.

So, off we go with Girish (we had previously asked the good name of our driver) down the mysteries of the keralese roads. The mysteries lie beyond them; they are embedded in the green maze of its country paths, well protected from the traveller's constant staring. We see before us the roads wide open like a woman with stretched legs, expecting, offering us its lush palm trees, colorful, noisy streets and beyond, in its most intimate place, the endless blue sky. Yet, it is an illusion, there is much more....

Through a small, bumpy road, covered in weaving stores, we arrive in the middle of a small town square. Small because in the middle of it stands a huge, blue temple. The sizes are completely disproportionate.

A man guides us to the store where we explain the reason of our visit. The young owner obliges and we are off to see, a few blocks away, where they do their traditional dhotis (men's skirts). We enter a middle size hut and find two old men, standing below street level, conscienciously and seriously weaving the fabric. What strikes me first is the face of one of them, a kind dark figure with fluffs of white hair and a lovely, toothless smile. Our "namaskaram" is warmly received. The second thing I notice is the three small dishes sitting next to the weavers. One of them contains a very small portion of rice. A young boy, eyes down, quickly comes in and delivers two thumbles of chaia (tea). The mood is set, we only hear the clicking of the wooden slates, activated by our weavers' feet.

We return to the shop and start looking at all the different fabrics. There are different varieties of weaving : one sided (cheap), two sided (expensive), with gold threads (expensive) or copper and silver (cheaper). The speciality of the region is plain material with coloured lines or plain sarees with intricate designs, mainly birds or what they call here "mangoes" - cashmere design for us. They have very few coloured sarees with golden or copper linings.

Although Marie and I do not like the designs (too heavy for our taste) we cannot help but admire the fine work and the days filled with patience as well as minutie which result in the much coveted fabrics.

But, we have yet to discover what true masterweaving is...

One of the weavers specialized in traditional designs will show us how it is done. He is located 7 km away from the shop.

We are engulfed in the car, surrounded by our driver, a colossal young man named Ashokma and an old one. We speed down windy, country roads, deeper into Kerala, further into its entrails.

Finally, we stop in the middle of "nowhere". A dirt road, no signs, a few sporadic bungalows, many trees. The air is cool and sweet. A couple of little girls walk by, stop and stare at us, offering us a very shy "hiiee". The sun isn't the only one to shine in India; smiles are extremely bright and communicative here....

We follow our guides through narrow, mounted earth paths, no wider than two feet put together. I look above and see shady green umbrellas; I look around and see splashes of faded colours which stands as bungalows; I stare below and see I am following the same road as a colony of red ants. The sensation of absolute freedom comes with the sensation of absolute adventure.

We arrive in a small compound where three homes and a shop stand quietly. I hear a rustling of activity as we approach the compound. A small, thin and middle aged man greets us shyly; he is the Head Master. We offer an honoured "Namaskaram".

The whole family is there to greet us ; his brother with his wife and children, the dog, the weavers and other poking heads who must be other relatives.

We start the tour with the shop where the Head Master shows us some of the sarees he has recently woven; masterpieces....A garden of cream coloured fabric where golden peacocks with emerald eyes run wild and proud...

The Head Master then takes us to one of his huts where a weaver finishes off a fabric quietly. We then ask if by chance he also does silver weaving. Ashokma explains to us that they are not specialized in that but it has become an increasing demand so they do a bit. It turns out there are some fabrics with silver linings waiting to be finished. What he shows us is exquisite in simplicity : a white fabric doned with a checkered white and silver border, and another one with silver and golden lining, in the shape of losanges.

Already, early evening begins to show its familiar, tranquil face. A moment of peace sets in the compound. Our host offers us fresh coconut juice. It is hacked up in front of us and a small hole is carved for the mouth. It is my first one!!! An outpour of offers follows : sweet lime juice? A banana from the garden and to top it off, with a piece of cut coconut, they spoon out the inside of one; a fleshy and gelatenous white flesh is presented to my mouth. My tastebuds are unfamiliar to all of this. I eat everything but half-heartedly. I will just have to let it grow on me.

Ashokma explains to us that two years back the head Master had received the highest award from the Prime Minister. Proudly, he shows us pictures of the ceremony.

It is time for us to go; since we have no references as to what is abusing the hospitality of an Indian host, we feel we can no longer disrupt his day any longer. However, as they all have been so charming, I cannot leave without taking any pictures of them. Fortunately, they have a visiting card with the address. I promise to send him copies of the shots.

We leave reluctantly.

Once again, we are engulfed in the car, bumpily riding along the unbeating roads.

We are suddenly reimmersed into real life : live streets filled with buyers, walkers, onlookers; rainbow plastic coloured dishes, mats, nightgowns; gas spurting buses, honking cars....

Ashokma an the old man are dropped off in the town.

We ride back into the light of the keralese roads, looking beyond its infinite flamboyant sky.

Our hearts left behind in the shadows of the compound.