by Ning Cai
Indian women simply hitched up their colourful long sarees, squatted and peed on the ground. The sight disturbed me because it seemed so unhygienic and you would never see any Singaporean do that in our cosmopolitan island city. But I quickly reminded myself not to be so judgmental about other cultures and their way of life.
Being the tallest of the three of us had its advantage. Above the sea of heads, I found us an old bench against a cracked wall on the far corner of the bus station. The bench barely accommodated us and all our bags but it sure beat standing on our feet for seven hours.
Twice, fat brown rats ran past our feet. Big, nasty-looking roaches scuttled around on the floor and along the walls like an alien breed of ninjas, but the BFF and her father didn’t seem to take notice.
It was an agonising wait and at 2pm, I finally noticed a creaky ancient bus – that looked like it had gone through both world wars – pull into the bus station. A noisy horde of Indians ran swiftly towards it with their bags.
Wide-eyed, we watched as people threw their belongings in through the open windows to reserve the seats, before quickly climbing up the creaking bus. It was a commotion that seized our attention, but the other locals seemed completely unfazed. This was the 2pm bus to Delhi, which we had enquired about.
There was absolutely no way that the three of us could have jostled our way through the mayhem. Clearly, not everybody had seats on the bus and many had to stand, holding on to the bars for support as the full bus farted black soot and slowly rumbled its way towards the capital of India.
“Hey, let’s move,” I pointed to the empty bench next to us, which was now vacant. We shifted over since it was a lot wider and could fit three tired Singaporeans and their belongings nicely.
“I need to go to the toilet,” Pam suddenly announced. “Do you?”
I shook my head, completely absorbed in my paperback copy of The Time Traveler’s Wife. I hardly read fiction, but Audrey Niffenegger’s award-winning novel is truly excellent and I couldn’t wait for the BFF to read it after I was done.
“I’ll come with you, Pam,” Uncle Pat rose, taking his trusty walking stick with him as he joined his daughter, leaving me to watch over the bags.
I turned the page and stretched, adjusting my well-seasoned Puma cap before going back to my book. The balmy Indian afternoon was making me sleepy. Although I was still holding the book in my hands, my eyes had glazed over. I had stopped reading.
Suddenly, a well-dressed Indian girl of about 11 sat next to me on the right end of the bench. My eyelids flew open but I kept my composure. My instincts warned me to be careful, despite her appearance.
All our bags were on my left. Both our backpacks that held everything we had, Uncle Pat’s trolley luggage, my sling bag and Pam’s casual handbag that had our passports and plane tickets. Separating the girl and I was a big plastic bag containing local snacks that we had bought earlier.
I pretended to continue reading, but kept a close watch on the young Indian girl from under the brim of my cap. I had a gut feel that something was up, and I wanted to be ready for it. I wasn’t reading but I flipped a page and the girl slid closer. My eyes narrowed. I reckoned that if she made off with our snack pack, it really was no loss. But if she tried anything else, she’d find out that she had picked the wrong target.
A young Indian man suddenly stopped in front of me. He was well dressed in a smart shirt and pants, but there was mud and dirt on his black shoes and the cuffs of his long shirt were frayed from use. Grunting for my attention, the thin dark stranger pointed to my left. In front of the empty bench we had vacated lay a few Indian rupees scattered on the dirty floor.
“No. It’s not mine,” I said simply as I shook my head, going back to my book. He had quite a charming face, but there was a cold hardness to it and his gaze was aggressive, almost animalistic.
He grunted again, more insistently this time as he tried to get me to look at the money. I shook my head again, ignoring him. But I was watching his feet (they were pointed completely towards me, with zero attention towards the pile of money near him) from under the brim of my cap, while keeping a watchful eye on our stuff.
My heart was racing and my eyes narrowed as I watched his feet finally move away. I wasn’t sure if the mysterious Indian stranger had given up completely or had merely moved away to leave me alone, for now.
Of course it was the latter.
The young Indian girl had now slid nearer. It was an uncomfortably close proximity so I casually laid my right arm on Pam’s handbag, which was above mine. I turned another page, pretending to read as I waited her out. The balls of my feet were planted on the floor, ready to spring into action.
From under the brim of my cap, I saw a gleeful Indian man in uniform walking swiftly towards the money. He obviously worked for the bus company, but a co-worker sitting nearby called out and said something to him in their local dialect. Immediately understanding, the Indian man sheepishly backed off. My breath caught. After witnessing all that, my heart raced faster.
It just did not make any sense. Why would the young Indian point out the “fallen” money to me if he had found it first? Wouldn’t he pocket the cash for himself? Obviously the money was planted and I was now a target in someone’s game.
As I turned another page of my book, I quickly ran through various scenarios in my head and plotted how to handle the situation, still resting a firm arm on our bags. I wasn’t reading but keeping a watchful eye. Pam and her father had been gone for an awfully long time. What was taking them so long? I sighed. The pile of money still lay there on the floor, untouched.
After what seemed like an eternity, the young girl finally got off the bench, padded over to the scattered rupees on the floor near us and meekly scooped them all up, before walking away. It was probably less than five American dollars in total. I pretended not to notice her absence but secretly tracked the girl’s movement through the crowded bus station.
She stopped behind a pillar and carefully handed the rupees to the same young man who had urged me to pick up the money from the floor. He had another Indian man with him and they all looked bitterly disappointed. As I watched the trio leave the premises, I let out a long exhale and thanked God nothing bad had happened.
It would have been really awful if I were dumb enough to have fallen for their scam. If a greedy tourist were to leave his or her bench to pocket the money on the floor, the young girl would have swiftly made off with their handbag and they would have naturally given chase.
That would mean everything else would be left unattended. The two men would then quickly carry off whatever was on the bench. So when the exhausted tourist tragically returned to the bench because he was unsuccessful at nabbing the lithe girl who had a headstart and a better sense of direction, he would realise that everything he owned had been swiped. The end.
Pam and her father finally returned from the loo some ten minutes later. I must have looked quite perturbed because Pam asked me why I had a frown on my face.
“You’re lucky you don’t have a greedy imbecile of a BFF,” I told her, as Uncle Pat joined us on the bench where the little girl had sat.
I proceeded to tell them what they’d just missed...
Ning reading at the Agra bus station. Yes, all the bags are ours!
26
way of the warrior
Kerala, India . October 2011
NING
The urumi before me was an ancient relic that had seen many different generations of fearless warriors, respected masters in Kalarippayattu, Kerala’s ancient martial art. The sensuously coiled blade held many powerful mysteries, old secrets and untold stories.
The flexible, sword-like weapon is considered by many to be the deadliest of all. Sharp on both edges and with seven deadly metallic belts, it was used like a cat-o-nine-tails whip and could be concealed and worn around the waist like a belt. It is also written in ancient texts that a warrior who has fully mastered the urumi can easily slay a dozen armed figh
ters surrounding him, with just one deft sweep of his weapon.
I’d seen a senior pupil of one of Kerala’s most respected gurus work the urumi. Sacks of coloured powder were suspended from the branches of trees to simulate the heads of surrounding men, and with a dance of twisted metal that flashed like angry lighting, the boy’s focussed curling blade sliced through all ten gunny sacks, sending clouds of red powder spilling everywhere, signifying instant death.
“May I?” I whispered in hushed reverence, my trembling hand just inches above the deadly weapon. Standing beside me in his guru’s kalari (a martial arts school specialising in Kalarippayattu), Jolly nodded. I sucked in a breath and slowly picked up the urumi. I gasped, surprised by its weight. Or the lack of. I had expected the legendary coiled sword to be much heavier.
“The urumi is the very last weapon taught in Kalarippayattu,” my knowledgeable companion murmured. Pam’s old friend Jolly is a successful lawyer with his own practice in Kerala, and he had brought us into the kalari he trained at. “And only the best warriors have the privilege to learn how to wield it.”
He carefully unwound the coiled metal blade and handed me the urumi. My happy heart raced – I had read so much about this legendary weapon and now, it was in the palm of my hand.
My fingers curled around its whip-like handle and I allowed all seven deadly belts to fully extend to the moist red clay floor we were standing on. The blades were about an inch thick, definitely lethal enough to cut through flesh and bone – of both the attacking opponent and untrained fighter wielding it.
“For good reason,” I nodded solemnly, admiring the well-used weapon in my hand. Marks, dents and beautiful imperfections revealed its lifework in fights. “The urumi is definitely the most challenging to master, compared to the sword and bo-staff. I imagine it must take many years to understand it, before you can be one with it.”
“Yes, and not all skilled warriors have the gift of agility and grace. Too many men have too much aggression, they just use brute strength,” Jolly smiled as he carefully replaced the urumi. “You’d be surprised but throughout history, there have been quite a few highly respected women warriors well known for their proficiency in the urumi.”
I was stunned. A female Kalarippayattu warrior? Wow!
“Tell me more, friend, please tell me more,” I begged as we strode across the damp, uneven clay ground in our bare feet, to join Pam who had been patiently waiting for us by the door of the dimly-lit kalari.
* * *
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always been deeply fascinated by the various schools of martial arts. I suppose I must have been influenced by my father, who is a big Bruce Lee fan.
In his youth, Dad was also a passionate student of Ninjutsu, Tae Kwan Do, Karate, Taekwondo, Jeet Kun Do and other Chinese martial arts such as Taijiquan, Shaolin Quan, Arhat Boxing, Wing Chun, Wushu and more. He had a large library filled with books on the various schools and lineages, and I enjoyed flipping through them and looking at the pictures.
I was probably about five years old, because I was in kindergarten then, and I recall tugging on Dad’s pants one Sunday morning when he was home. We didn’t see much of him because he was always out of the country ever so often for work. Looking up at his great height, I pleaded, “Teach me Kung Fu!”
Dad stroked his moustache gravely and said that he would consider my request. I tugged at his pants again, adamant that he taught me something that day. He finally relented and told me to get into the traditional “horse stance”.
“” He ordered, prompting me to assume the stance of riding a horse. This basic building block is used in various forms of martial arts to strengthen the back and legs. I froze in that awkward position, in all seriousness. I wondered if I would get to fetch water from a well on top of a hill a la the olden days.
“Feet parallel. Toes forward. Bend your knees. Squat down more,” Dad corrected my posture. “Hips forward. Mind your arms. Watch your posture!”
We stood side by side in position, like two stoic riders on invisible horses in our living room. Mom was fixing us lunch in the kitchen.
“Very good. Stay there for five minutes.” He ruffled my hair before padding off for his coffee and newspapers. My scrawny legs gave out after a minute.
* * *
“There is a legend, an ancient folklore, about a legendary warrior woman,” Jolly shared as he drove us back to Tissa’s Inn, our B&B in Fort Cochin. “Unniyarcha was known for her beauty and her deadly expertise with the urumi. There are songs about this brave heroine who saved the women in her village from being enslaved by outsiders.”
“Is this mythology or did she really exist?” Pam, ever the journalist, asked as she leaned forward in interest. For some reason, Unniyarcha reminded me of Xena the Warrior Princess, one of my childhood heroes.
“They say she lived here in Kerala, during the 16th century,” Jolly smiled as our car turned into the compound of Tissa’s Inn and we were warmly greeted by the B&B’s general manager, Mr KP Francis. “You can find out more about Unniyarcha in our Vadakkan Pattukal ballads and folktales. She is well loved by all.”
* * *
KP was with two friends and they were talking in Malayalam. He introduced us to the young couple – Aswani, KP’s yoga teacher, and his sweet-natured wife Mereena. We shook hands and exchanged warm smiles, before going into the B&B to escape the heat.
We’d ordered drinks at the restaurant, and our ginger-Cokes (I’d taught the bewildered staff how to boil strips of fresh ginger in Coca Cola) were just being served when KP walked in and joined us at the table. The likeable GM always had a smile on his face and a fatherly air about him.
“This afternoon, our friend Jolly brought us to the kalari he trains at but his master has just left town. Do you know of another kalari here in Kerala that I can visit?” I asked KP, after he’d ordered a coffee. “We leave India the morning after, but I’d really like to learn and experience more about Kalarippayattu.”
“Ah!” KP’s eyes went wide behind his glasses. “You just met Aswani and Mereena! They also teach Kalarippayattu!”
Pam laughed as my eyes twinkled. They call Kerala “God’s own country” and maybe there really is some truth in that... Amen!
* * *
The BFF and I caught a tuk tuk to Dakshina Bharatha Kalari on our last evening in Kerala. Aswani and Mereena were already there, coaching their students, when we walked in.
“Isn’t it amazing?” Pam practically sang out. “What are the chances, Ning, you were looking for a kalari and God practically delivers these wonderful people to where we’re staying!”
I smiled from the heart. Throughout the entire time Pam and I have travelled together, we definitely have been quite blessed and watched over. Mereena noticed us and waved us over to some chairs by the side of the well-lit kalari. “Welcome! Please sit.”
Barefoot, we crossed the moist clay floor and took our seats, unobtrusively observing the goings-on. There were three groups of students; the youngest ones about 6 to 8 years old were doing their warm ups, while the slightly older ones were already engaged in Maippayattu (body exercises) involving leaps, kicks, pivots, trots and all-round movement. The older students were near the sacred corner of the kalari where the weapons lay.
“Hello, Pam and Ning!” Aswani warmly greeted us. “We got KP’s call that you would be coming. It is our pleasure to have you at our kalari. It was recently handed down to me by my father. My wife was actually his favourite student. She has an amazing talent and skill for kalarippayattu.”
Our jaws dropped. Mereena?
We turned to look at the conservatively-dressed woman, who was patiently coaching the intermediate group, correcting their stances. Wow.
“Your wife... she’s a Kalarippayattu master?” I blinked.
“Oh yes,” Aswani beamed with pride. “She’s my father’s best student.”
Grinning, I turned back to look at Mereena with newfound respect.
* * *
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br /> Sparks flew when the blades clashed together at contact, the two fighters grunting loudly as they heaved their weight against each other, chest to chest. Oil and sweat gleamed by lamp light, skin on skin. Their artistically-choreographed fight looked like an intricate dance of warrior versus warrior. The men leapt into the air with gusto, fearlessly lunging for each other, sword and shield in hand.
“Amazing,” Pam murmured beside me. “This definitely isn’t something a regular tourist has access to.”
I nodded, suddenly remembering that Kalaripayattu was fabled to have been what the legendary monk Bodhidharma from South India taught the Chinese monks of Shaolin Temple 1,500 years ago. My father owns a painting of the Zen buddhist meditating in a cave, and as a child I’d always been fascinated by how much facial hair the fierce-looking red-robed Arhat (enlightened spiritual practitioner) had.
“I wish we had more time here in Kerala. I’d love to study Kalarippayattu seriously. It’s fascinating.”
“Why not now?” the BFF winked. She called out to Mereena, asking if I could join in. Mereena was coaching her students on the use of kolethaarippayattu (wooden weapons) and gestured for me to join in.
Grinning like a Cheshire Cat, I walked over and was handed a five-foot long bamboo staff. “Take this, pandeeran. We will now learn how to swing it.”
Gripping the long staff, I stood next to Mereena and the other two students, who were also holding similar long weapons. She made a perfect twirl with her bamboo staff, a clean elegant sweep with brilliant footwork. I followed suit with a series of smooth continuous twirls, hearing the familiar hum as my staff moved faster and faster. Staff spinning was second nature to me, something I have been doing for years.