Must have been the tempestuous night I started in the morning to a gentle wake. It took a while to collect my bearings: the thatched roof tapered towards the top, quartered window frames girded by coir, bamboo-matted partitions, wood slab flooring. An air conditioner thrummed somewhere. Unfamiliar contours. A throbbing head. The bed swayed. A glass bottle rolled across the floor making a muted Bonsho sound. There is a blanket but it is not covering me. Attire and footwear are everywhere. Strewn. I am cold. I remember asking for a blanket on unsteady feet while marsh toads croaked all around me. A portly man offered me the one wrapped around him; his lungi lay around his feet. I hesitated.
“Take it,” he assured me. “I have another.”
The bed swayed again like it did through the night. The contours shifted.
“Good morning.” It was the portly man from the night. The lungi had wound its way up; he wielded a besom with gusto.
“Where are we?” I asked as he turned and walked toward the stern where the kitchen was. It was a houseboat I was on. “We are still on the Vembanad only.”
The backwaters are canals that run parallel to the Arabian Sea coast and wind inland from the coast between Kochi and Kollam. The most popular ones remain those between Alappuzha and Kumarakom. We were on a day-night trip from Alappuzha around the Kuttanad region, a major rice-growing part of Kerala. The canals are mostly flanked by paddy fields three to 10 feet below sea level; the houseboats were once barges used to transport rice and other agrarian produce. The water bodies are fringed by coconut and palm trees, where the ‘best toddy’ comes from.
We moored at Cherukayal alongside another boat; not a houseboat but an ugly multi-tiered soap dish.
Travel and tourism sites sell backwater cruises as a year-round activity. But the trip I took in March—officially before summer—sambar-ed me on board. April and May? The best time from my experience would be when monsoon peaks—June, July and part of August—when you can watch the downpour from the deck. A massage when it is coming down is more than divine—it is recommended by Ayurvedic traditions too. The cool, moist and dust-free atmosphere opens up skin pores, which make the body receptive to medicinal oils and therapy. And a massage aboard a houseboat? The next best thing is sex.
“Most boat owners own the strip of land next to where they drop anchor,” the skipper explained. “This land belongs to our boss, who paid lakhs of rupees many years ago.” A new houseboat owner is left with no option but to take on lease these charging ports for big money.
At almost 97 km, the Vembanad is the longest lake in India. With 10 rivers feeding it, it is the largest in Kerala with three districts—Alappuzha, Kottayam and Kochi—bordering it. A narrow island separates it from the Arabian Sea.
I sat on the deck and espied the Vembanad not very far away. A hazy mist blanketed the backwater and the Vembanad looked like the Flying Dutchman would spring out of it any moment. Darters skipped across the surface for a bit before toppling into the water spotting prey. Vying for their prize was a lone fisherman in his canoe with his ottal, the traditional cane basket, and fishing net.
On our way back we passed grocery shops on boats. Fathers took their children to school in boats. Farmers reported for work in the fields by boat. There was incessant honking at intersections between houseboats; my captain even gestured censure at another for not going fast enough at a T junction, which forced us to slow down. “We have orders to reach back by 9 am. Then we clean up, buy grocery and tank up for the next trip.” Customers arrive without booking and insist on seeing the boat before hiring. “They are the finicky ones and it is easy to lose business here.”
I looked around my room and understood why my skipper was flooring it.