Tuesday 10th December
We had a relaxed day today, with the only outing being a visit to the burial place of Appacha's parents beside the Jacobite Orthodox Church in Vengoor. His father was the priest of the church there, although he took no money for the position, instead relying on income from his role as school principal to feed his eight children. We lit candles at his grave, using the melted wax to make them stick upright.
Appacha's mother's burial site was a bit more complicated. It consisted of a large cube with the numbers 1-19 written on one side. Another side recorded every burial conducted there, as well as the slot number. Hundreds of names were written. When a deceased person was taken for burial, one of the numbered sections would be unsealed and slid open, and the coffin placed on a plate inside. If the most recent burial used slot number one, then the next burial would use slot 2, and so on. When it came to using a slot which already had a coffin inside, that plate would be opened, dropping the old coffin into a large underground pit to make way for the new one. We lit a candle to pay our respects before slot number 8, where Appacha's mother was buried, even though when I checked the records, I saw the slot had already been reused since her burial.
We also paid our respects inside the church before we left.
Wednesday 11th December
I slept badly that night. Shortly before 4am I woke up feeling ill in my stomach. Oh no. Before we left a friend warned me that this would definitely, definitely happen at some point. But we'd been so careful with the food and water I was drinking. I'd only had home cooked meals the day before, and water that was first filtered then boiled as well for good measure. I got the bucket from the shower and put it beside my bed. We were supposed to leave early for a long train trip south to Thiruvalla. I was hoping and praying it would get better within the hour. It didn't.
The family was concerned, but we decided to push ahead. Bumping along in the taxi for an hour was pretty unpleasant, but I made it to the train station without throwing up. Even at 6am, the place was packed. I held tightly to my bag and shuffled onto the platform behind the others. Bindu gave me a black anti-vomit tablet to melt on my tongue, but the taste was so awful that it almost had the opposite effect. We paid extra for access to a comfortable air-conditioned lounge while we waited. My stomach was starting to settle, but still the discomfort rolled through in waves. I vaguely registered the long platform and waiting passengers, but mostly I was too tired and sick to care.
Onboard the train, each compartment had two bench seats and two overhead benches for sleeping, separated from other compartments by curtains. It was surprisingly comfortable and clean. I set up Netflix's Laapataa Ladies (highly recommend!) on my laptop and we all watched together, occasionally pausing to see the paddy fields roll past.
We were met at the station by Mohachachen, one of Ajay's paternal cousins, and his wife Jessy Aunty. They took us to their house, where we were shown to our room and I was allowed to sleep for a few hours. I was woken again for lunch, and to meet three guests who had come to see us - another cousin, her son and brother-in-law. For lunch we were served a selection of 16 separate dishes, although I ate very little.
Shortly after lunch we left to visit some of Ajay's old missionary friends who had worked with Campus Crusade. Before we made it through the front door Abhi was distracted playing with their sausage dog and golden retriever - the first household we'd visited to have pet dogs, although stray ones are common. The couple had prepared a meal specifically for our visit, so we sat to eat again even though we'd just had lunch. I was encouraged to try a few things which were supposed to help my stomach, although it was about the last thing I felt like doing.
Ajay kindly dropped me and Abhi back at Mohachachen's house so we could rest while he, Bindu and Viv went to visit his inherited land and do some shopping. Later in the evening Abhi and I spent some time talking with Mohachachen. Until that morning, I thought Mohachachen was a title, until I learned that it was an amalgamation of his name Mohan and Achachan, the term for a father figure or older male. And that Dr Abraham Varghese, Ajay's maternal uncle whom we'd met earlier, was called Kochachan because koch means small, and he's the youngest of Ajay's late mother's siblings. Confused yet?
Mohachachan and Jessy Aunty had come to Australia two years ago for our wedding, although I didn't get much time to speak with them then. We had a lovely time chatting that evening, just the four of us. Mohachachen was a doctor, and he answered all our questions about his recommended diet. We told him about our recent bathroom renovations and showed him the photos, while Jessy Aunty read a newspaper. From my brief interactions with them in Australia I'd thought they weren't very friendly, but actually spending time with them in their home, where they felt comfortable, was entirely different. I felt grateful for the opportunity to create deeper connections with them.
Ajay, Bindu and Viv arrived back around the same time as Mohachachan's daughter Tara Chechi with her two girls and husband Melvin (Uncle? Chettan? I wasn't sure). They would also be staying the night. We had a late dinner of leftovers. Never in my life have I been so encouraged to eat on an upset stomach - especially spicy food! But they meant well, and I was getting more confident in saying no when I had to. Then Abhi and I went to sleep while the real adults stayed up late chatting away.
Thursday 12th December
The next morning we packed up and drove an hour from Thiruvalla to Kattanam for a memorial service to commemorate 1 year since the passing of Ajay's maternal cousin, Rex Varghese. On the way I learned it wouldn't be a simple gathering at someone's home, but a formal church service. We took our shoes off outside the church, and I pulled my dupatta over my head as a covering.
The church was packed. Over sixty people were in attendance, and it was difficult to find a seat. To have so many people attend a 1 year memorial was surprising and touching, and even more so because Rex was living in Dubai for work at the time. Not to mention that it was also a work day.
I separated from Abhi then because he had to sit on the men's side, and I followed Bindu to the front. Only half the women wore head coverings, and some only wore them for prayer. I wasn't sure why, but decided to play it safe and copy Bindu. She kept hers on the entire time so I did too.
The service ran for 2.5 hours, almost entirely in Malayalam. Bindu wrote translated summaries for me on her phone, which helped. Parts of the service and environment felt oddly familiar: singing hyms from booklets while the piano plays, the wooden pews, the timber signage on the sides to indicate the Bible verses and song numbers. A lot like my Grandparents' old church in Brisbane.
Rex's father, Rajachayan (Rajan Achachan) gave a speech. I recognised him from when he attended our wedding. I was half zoned out when suddenly he spoke in English, thanking me specifically for coming all the way from Australia to attend the memorial. I felt self-conscious, humbled and grateful all at once.
Afterwards we had lunch outside, sitting on plastic chairs and using our fingers to eat the many curries being served. I was selective about my choices, still left with lingering anxiety about getting sick again. We met so many family members that I gave up trying to remember everyone's names, defaulting instead to Aunty and Uncle if needed. The most difficult part was interacting with family who were hoping I'd remember their names from that one time they visited Brisbane two years ago.
After lunch we walked down the steps to visit Rex's grave. I'd been chatting with Tara's daughters, Irene and Selin. They were enamoured with me, and tried hard to convince me to stay at their home sometime. As we were walking towards the grave, I was at the back of the group with the girls. They wanted to touch my hair, and one of them asked me how I got such blonde hair. I replied that actually it was dyed, and laughed. But immediately I remembered we were almost at the burial site. I felt terrible. I hoped Rajachayan hadn't heard me laugh. Ordinarily I wouldn't dream of being so insensitive, but with the challenge of constantly facing new information and experiences, I'd been getting overwhelmed and making silly mistakes - such as forgetting super important stuff like where we were going and why.
Once we were ready to leave, I stood in the carpark with Abhi, awaiting instructions. Going with the flow was something we'd had to do a lot of so far. At that moment, I didn't know where we were going next, how long it would take, or who would take us; I was just ready to slide into whichever car I was told. I ended up seated between Abhi and an older woman in a saree, being driven by Rajachayan back to his house, which was only five minutes away.
The ancestral family home, Santhome as it was called, was 79 years old. It would have been passed to Rex, and the family explained to me all the touches he'd added, such as hanging up some of the old tools that were first used to work the land. The house had an internal courtyard with a large well, and a covered open air dining room. Rajachayan and Molly were welcoming, but we could see their sadness too. Rajachayan in particular went out of his way to make me feel comfortable. I thanked him for mentioning me during the service. He was gentle and kind; I felt like we had a special connection.
I also met Max and his wife Betty, and their son Haebel. They were a lovely family who had come over from Kuwait for the service. After dinner they drove us a short distance to their house, where we chatted with them for a while and then spent the night in our rooms upstairs.
ShortlyShorty 10th December We had a relaxed day today, with the only outing being a visit to the burial place of Appacha's parents beside the Jacobite Orthodox Church in Vengoor. His father was the priest of the church there, although he took no money for the position, instead relying on income from his role as school principal to feed his eight children. We lit candles at his grave, using the melted wax to make them stick upright. Appacha's mother's burial site was a bit more complicated. It consisted of a large cube with the numbers 1-19 written on one side. Another side recorded every burial conducted there, as well as the slot number. Hundreds of names were written. When a deceased person was taken for burial, one of the numbered sections would be unsealed and slid open, and the coffin placed on a plate inside. If the most recent burial used slot number one, then the next burial would use slot 2, and so on. When it came to using a slot which already had a coffin inside, that plate would be opened, dropping the coffin into a large underground pit, not visible from outside. We lit a candle to pay our respects before slot number 8, where Appacha's mother was buried, even though when I checked the records, I saw the slot had already been reused since her burial. Wednesday 11th December I slept badly that night. Shortly before 4am I woke up feeling ill in my stomach. Oh no. Before we left an Indian friend warned me that this definitely, definitely would happen. But we'd been so careful with the food and water I was drinking. I'd only had home cooked meals the day before, and water that was first filtered then boiled as well for good measure. I got the bucket from the shower and put it beside my bed. We were supposed to leave early for a long train trip south to Thiruvalla. I was hoping and praying it would get better within the hour. It didn't. The family was concerned, but we decided to push ahead. Bumping along in the taxi for an hour was pretty unpleasant, but I made it to the train station without throwing up. Even at 6am, the place was packed. I held tightly to my bag and shuffled onto the platform behind the others. Bindu gave me a black anti-vomit tablet to melt on my tongue, but the taste was so awful that it almost had the opposite effect. We paid extra for access to a comfortable air-conditioned lounge while we waited. My stomach was starting to settle, but still the discomfort rolled through in waves. I vaguely registered the long platform and waiting passengers, but mostly I was too tired and sick to care. Onboard the train, each compartment had two bench seats and two overhead benches for sleeping, separated from other compartments by curtains. It was surprisingly comfortable and clean. I set up Netflix's Laapaata Ladies on my laptop and we all watched together, occasionally pausing to see the paddy fields roll past. We were met at the station by Mohachachen, one of Ajay's maternal cousins, and his wife Jesi Aunty. They took us to their house, where we were shown to our room and I was allowed to sleep for a few hours.
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