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Journalism of Courage
The brief seasonal rain in desert terrains, I believe, is breathtakingly beautiful. Nature channels on the television show barren land exploding in a riot of colours and all manner of birds flocking in for a dip in the crystal clear pools.
Our humdrum lives in my sleepy, backwater village undergoes just such a transformation during the first week of November. For it is the festival of St Gregorios at the local church. The first harbingers of the frenetic week ahead are the small-time shopkeepers. You go for your morning constitutional and are taken aback to see strange men and women in the process of putting up temporary stalls. Soon the trickle becomes a torrent and before long outlets selling cassettes, toys and household items have sprung up all over the place.
One also sees hospitality at its best here. There are refreshments handed out at the junctions, making the trek under the hot sun that much easier. The buildings by the road get a scrub and a fresh coat of whitewash. One suspects that even the beggars and the mendicants get all spruced up for the occasion. The good cheer on their faces is all too obvious. Arches welcoming the processions are erected in no time. Last year saw political parties put up a few banners too! Anything for potential votes, you could say.
Before you know it, the moment of festivity passes. The crowds dissolve and the shop-keepers pack up and leave without a trace. Until next year. Then, unerringly, they will come back amidst the hustle and bustle, the fragrance of incense, the chiming of bells and, above all, the serene grace of the departed saint of Parumala.
