Today my first leg and four day sojourn at Trichur comes to an end. I had a great lazy time in this city, eating, sleeping, watching the rains and occasionally visiting the city, mostly making parikramas around it’s heart, the Vadkkunathan Kshetram.
Trichur is a pathetic place to live in, if you have to attend school or go to work everyday; but it is a beautiful place if you are someone who has enough time at your disposal, good health, a bar full of variety liquor and a good mallu cook at home. Thankfully, I was on a vacation and I belonged to the latter category. Although the rains tempted me to, I didn’t do the liquor thingy this time, and that’s the only anguish that I am taking away from this city. I am sure, I will be back soon, and find enough room and reasons for doing that.
Trichur is a beautiful, vibrant and lively city. Unlike the desert where I spent my days just a week back, each little miniscule of land on this place is infused with life. Why only land, there’s life flourishing even on compound walls built around our apartment building. The funny thing though, is that every time I land here, I get a feeling like I am dead and in the heavens. And frankly, if this is the heavens, I would rather prefer to live a dead life like this.
The very moment I landed here, I was inspired to write; to write about this place, its rains, the greenery, its temples, its churches, its people and those silk and gold shops that I know, do more business than Corporates based in metro cities and listed on prime stock exchanges. The sad thing though, was that, the moment I started writing, I realized that I was short of words. It is not easy to write apt about a thing of beauty. One must be highly endowed and blessed with the right talent to do so. Anyways, I have decided to go ahead and write a few lines. I hope I have done justice. If not, please forgive.
Quatrains on Trichur - The city, its rains and its people.
It’s Heart
A one way roundabout,
as big as the city itself.
On whose centre lodges,
who else, but mighty Shiva Himself.
It’s Transport
Flying Auto Rickshaws,
driven by self proclaimed pilots.
With passenger seats big enough,
to fit four extra large buttocks.
Private Transport busses,
with little girl and boy names.
Speeding, avoiding potholes,
splashing muck on the by lanes.
It’s Buildings
Piercing Church spires,
taller than the tallest towers.
Their bare moist walls,
held by slimy algae, and creepy climbers.
It’s Business
Multi storied garment shops,
sell wedding saris like hot breads.
Alongside shimmering gold boutiques,
that trade jewellery like peanuts.
The Ambience
Moist cloudy days,
and cool cosy nights.
Verdant green plots,
and slippery cobbled tiles.
Rains playing concert on a temple,
Lashing the trussed plastic rooftop.
In an ethereal fusion symphony
with drummers and birds chirping atop.
Beautiful, bright motley flowers,
smiling on smelly garbage dumps.
And those hidden white lotuses,
peeping out of roadside drain culverts.
Moss carpets, creepers and plants,
decorate bare walls along the road.
Fertilized by voluntary mallu men,
easing bladders, squatting tiptoed.
