The Lion, The Witch & The Rucksack
by Lynn Kilcline

CHAPTER ELEVEN - KANYAKUMARI

Kanyakumari also known as Cape Comorin, is the Land’s End of India, where the Bay of Bengal meets the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea. On the day of the full moon in April it is possible to see the sun set and the moon rise simultaneously. Unfortunately we would be long gone by then.
Kanyakumari has great spiritual significance for Hindus. It is dedicated to the goddess Devi Kanya, the Youthful Virgin, Siva’s wife.
The guidebook had this to say: “Kanyakumari is highly over-rated, with its trinket stalls, lousy beach and one of those places with megaphones at each end of the street which during festival time, rips your eardrums apart between 4a.m. and 10p.m.”
We didn’t happen to agree. There was a lot more to Kanyakumari and it was a great loss to those who had chosen not to visit if they followed the Lonely Planets guide to India.
As we reached the town, everybody got off the bus. I went to get off, and the conductor told us to get off, but for some inexplicable reason Brian refused. He seemed convinced that the bus was going to continue elsewhere and that was where we should be. I pointed out we were already where we wanted to be and would he kindly shift his arse.
The conductor became very agitated with Brian’s refusal to move.
In one of the best examples I can recall of Brian’s pig-headed obstinacy, he would not get off. I wanted to kick him all the way back to Trivandrum and then kill him. I was raging, I couldn’t imagine where he thought the bus was going. But, he wasn’t moving.
I would have liked to have left him sitting there, but as much as I loathed him at that minute I was not going to be separated from him. I would only have to spend the rest of the day looking for him. He could be the most awkward individual.
We sat on the empty bus as it turned away from the town and headed over a rocky road to nowhere. After about two miles, which seemed like 50 the bus pulled up at a depot, where we HAD to get off. I threw my rucksack on the floor in a rage and Brian stomped off. I had no idea where he was going and I didn’t really care. The farther he was from me, the better. I couldn’t understand what had got into him.
Within five minutes he came back scowling, and I told him that he could bloody well go and find a rickshaw to take us back to where we should have got off the bus. We couldn’t walk all that way with the luggage.
Brian has a vile characteristic at times like this; it has emerged only in the last few years but is guaranteed to make me nearly pass out with temper. Instead of just saying: “ I made a mistake” or “ Sorry about
that,”’ in fact anything to defuse the situation. He would come out with something stupid, said in a hostile way.
His angry retort on this occasion was: “ I’ll carry all the luggage back to Kanyakumari.’’
Brian is a big chap but he is not Hercules. There were two rucksacks, two carry-alls and assorted plastic bags and bottles. We simmeringly
took a rickshaw.
By a series of grunts we communicated with each other, and on arrival in the town, I headed for the Hotel Manikan, which had been recommended to us by Dot.
I left Happy Harry outside with the luggage while I checked the rooms. The hotel was the right price and from the bedroom there was a good view overlooking the sea and the magnificent Roman Catholic Church.
Unfortunately the room had marked walls, dirty switches, and sheets that were clean, but with holes in them. The helpful porter wore the standard issue filthy jacket with frayed cuffs. I felt I could do better so I left Manakan, grunting to Happy as I passed.
There was a nice new hotel quite close by. The rooms were much better and looked out over the wonderful raging sea. Just for good measure I checked a third hotel but it was disgusting. I walked back to the second option, The Supreme. I yelled at Brian to join me. We made our way to our room and within seconds there was a knock at the door. It was the Laundry Wallah. We off-loaded our dirty washing, but unfortunately when it was returned the next day it looked as if it had been beaten for six hours on a rock and then ironed with a dirty steamroller. We declined to pay for the washing. The clothes were wrecked.
We unpacked some of our gear as we would only be staying a couple of days. The room was quite large and had a T.V. [not AXN sadly] and we had a little balcony with two chairs. The bathroom was very clean and had a sit-down lavvy too. Brian said nothing and I had the feeling that there would be another little altercation before the atmosphere cleared.
We went out and looked over the balcony. There was a refreshing wind blowing. The air in Kanyakamuri was so clean after what we had been used to in Trivandrum. We were about four floors up and looked out over the fishing village. We could see the fishermen mending their nets and the children playing on the house roofs.
One afternoon we were able to watch a fisherman lying in the shade of an awning on his roof while his children played around him and his wife picked nits out of his hair. Well, what else is there to do if you don’t have a telly and don’t play golf?
Brian just looked at the view and said nothing. If he kept it up I was considering pushing him over the wall. We sat on the chairs and I decided to update our diary. He had another moody when I finished writing as he realised how much catching up he had to do with his entries. He threw himself down on the bed, puffing and panting and attacked the pages with the pen as if it was the diary’s fault.
We both wrote in the diary so that we would have different views on the same subject. We each remembered different things but strangely Brian made no reference to our little domestic tiff in his diary account.
Later that day we went for a walk around the town, it was so cool and no hardship at all to keep going. The two main streets reminded me of Skegness or any busy seaside town in England 20 years ago. Stall after stall was selling the same tat, seashells, coral, replica Reebok sports bags and cheap nasty saris. There were hoards of day-trippers and busloads of people staying at the lodging houses, they were milling around the stalls and coming and going down to the temple.
We had expected to find six things in Kanyakumari: a raging sea, a fabulous sunrise and sunset, Gandhi’s memorial, a temple, a large Roman Catholic church and the Vivekananda Memorial.
We found all these and we also found a huge monument not mentioned in any guidebook. Out to sea and towering above anything else was India’s answer to the Statue of Liberty, 133ft and representing a poet called Thiruvalluvar. It had been unveiled on 1st January 2000 and was the state of Tamil Nadus very own Millennium Project. The Tamils seemed convinced that the poet Thiruvalluvar, was world famous and who were we to correct them?
We bought a book and a pamphlet about the fellow. It was written in complete gobbledy gook and after we had struggled through it, we were none the wiser. At the back of the book were physical details about the statue, how much different parts of the statue weighed, how high different parts of the statue were. But surely the most comforting piece of information was that the number of steps upward was 70, and the number of steps downward 70!
Well, thank Thiruvalluvar for that!
Each morning just before dawn klaxons sounded so that people could make their way to the seashore to watch the sunrise. We needed only to roll out of bed and look out the window, which was just as well as it was too cloudy to see the sun pop up on the horizon during our stay.
We weren’t too concerned. We made a cup of tea and sat on the balcony and watched the waves and the changing colours of the sea, which were quite magnificent.
Less magnificent was watching the shoreline too closely in the morning. The fishermen would go down to the thin strip of sand for a pooh. It was a strange experience to see a row of men with their skirts hitched up, squatting down having a collective ‘ bowel movement ‘ and chatting to their neighbours.
The first monument we went to see was the Gandhi Memorial.
I had no knowledge of the work of Gandhi. I knew a little more than I had done after speaking with Jacob in Ernakulam. I was aware only of the image of a small frail man wearing a loincloth and round glasses. The memorial itself was a peculiarly shaped pink building, close to the rocky foreshore and was 20ft below street level on one side. Steps led down to an open area - the Gandhi Memorial Shoe Park. Here we removed our shoes and received a token in order to reclaim them later.
We entered the double doors and the only soul inside was a very old Indian curator. In front of us was a room perhaps 100ft by 50ft. It was the palest shade of sandy pink and the central area of the black marble floor was raised allowing a walk-way around the edges of the room.
On the walls hung a dozen large black and white photographs, all with the grainy quality of old photography. They depicted the life of Gandhi, his graduation at university in England, working with peasants in rural India, and meeting world leaders.
A simple mural in relief depicted the figure of Gandhi and bore following inscription:
‘’ I am writing this at the Cape in front of the sea, where three waters meet and furnish a sight unequalled in the world. For this is no port of call for vessels. Like the Goddess, the waters around here are virgin.’’

We stood by a 3ft black marble column and the curator told us to look upwards to the domed ceiling. Directly overhead was a circular hole in the dome. A second dome covering the first also had a circular hole, but this one was slightly off centre. By stepping to the left or right it was possible for the eye to align the two openings and see the sky above.
The curator explained: “ The dome is 79ft high; this was Gandhi’s age at the time of his death. His ashes were laid to rest on this column before they were scattered over the three seas. Each year on Gandhi’s birthday, the 2nd of October, at noon, the sun shines through the opening in the dome on to this inscribed disk. At 12.20p.m. the sun moves from its zenith and the light goes out.’’
I was shaken to the core, my scalp tingled and tears pricked my eyes. Whether it was the simplicity of the monument, the calmness of the environment or the immense ingenuity of creating something so simple and yet so awe inspiring I cannot explain, but I was moved to tears.
I found the moment one of the most emotional I have ever experienced and it came from nowhere. Brian was taken aback by my reaction and was quite concerned. I was equally surprised and even the poor old curator became emotional.
I must have been in a bad way as I gave a large donation to the memorial fund when we left. That really had Brian worried.
We decided to look at the temple once I had pulled myself together. It was not what we expected. Four walls about 15ft high painted in red and white stripes encompassed an area about the size of a football field. On one of the four sides was the main entrance and a bazaar selling offerings for the goddess and other religious trivia.
Off came the shoes again and Brian also had to remove his shirt to gain access. As soon as we entered a very fat man in a dirty
loincloth descended on us, said he was a priest and would show us around. In complete contrast to the Ghandi memorial this place was like a huge dark cave and was swarming with devotees queuing in front of one shrine or another. We were whisked around in record-breaking time, past queues of Indians and through cordoned-off areas. It was the first time our colour had worked in our favour.
The temple was a monument to the Goddess Parvati and it was to her effigy that the pilgrims flocked. I was really disappointed when I saw the statue, it was about 3ft high and set back in a grotto with bars in front of it. Because of the gloom it was really difficult to see. There was, however, an excellent story attached to the temple, which we didn’t get from the priest.
Originally the east gate, not the west gate, had been the main entrance. This was the gate that opened out towards the sea, and it was also the gate that the figure of the goddess faced.
The nose ring of the goddess was an enormous diamond and it was so luminous that it shone like a lighthouse beacon. A British ship mistook the diamond for exactly that and was wrecked just off the Vivekananda Rock. However, some of the survivors remained to steal the diamond and now the east gate was open only at festival time.
The goddess now has two diamond nose rings donated 60 years ago by the Maharaja of Trivandrum. They certainly glowed and were very large. We thought perhaps the priest realised we were British and that’s why he took us around the temple so quickly.
There was some impressive stonework inside, but with our guide racing ahead muttering: “’look at the culture, come on, come on,’’ we didn’t have much opportunity to admire it.
When we reached the exit the priest insisted on payment and he even named his price. Unfortunately, due to my extravagance at the Gandhi memorial, I was able to open my purse and show him I had nothing but change left. He was quite disgusted and moaned on about being a poor priest. He may have been poor but by the size of him he was not going hungry. He stuck his hand out and made it clear that he wanted whatever money I had, so I tipped the contents of my purse into his hands. He was just about to make off when I suddenly remembered our shoes. I grabbed his arm and said: ‘’Shoes. You will have to give me money for our shoes.’’
His jaw dropped in disbelief. His face was a picture, I bet it was the first time he had ever given any money back.
From the moment we had arrived in Kanyakamari and set foot outside the hotel we had been accompanied by three little girls selling key rings and raffia dolls. They were quite well behaved and against all former policies I bought a bunch of shell key rings for the princely sum of about 5p. In order to be rid of them I promised that we would meet them at sunset the next day, which would be our last, and I would buy them some chocolate. Kanyakumari was obviously having a strange effect on me.
To round off the day we walked to the train station to check on departure times for our next destination and to look at the Roman Catholic Church. I am not a fan of churches but this one was beautiful. However stormy the skies it radiated a whiteness that was dazzling. From whichever angle we looked the place was magnificent. One side had the backdrop of palm trees and mountains and the other a tempestuous sea. It formed a startling contrast with the fishing shacks and mud houses surrounding it.
Despite our open admiration, God decided to let the skies open and sent down buckets of torrential rain. This was not a deluge that my sun brolly could cope with and we ran for cover. We dived into an open shed beside a nearby house to wait for the worst of the storm to pass.
Almost immediately a large Indian woman appeared in the doorway of the house. I thought she was going to tell us to clear off but instead she invited us inside.
The main room was very large and very tatty. There was a huge poster of an Alpine scene on one wall and an amazing array of dusty plastic flowers in vases along the others. The woman pointed to a chair and motioned us to sit down. There was just one chair free as granny was fast asleep on the sofa. A wicker hanging chair suspended from the ceiling was bizarrely about 6ft foot up in the air.
We crunched on the chair together and the woman balanced on the arm of the sofa. The television was blaring out and we all sat smiling stupidly at each other unable to communicate. We were so grateful when the rain stopped as we had just reached “Show the guests photographs of the family” stage. We asked if we could take a picture of her and she was so pleased and promptly gave us a slip of paper with her name and address in order that we could send her a copy. It seemed the very least we could do.
That night Brian crashed out and I doggedly watched the television in the hope that something other than sport would come on in English. I was rewarded eventually. Brave Heart again!
A third of the screen was taken up with constant advertisements for college courses and electrical equipment, so I gave up on the film and woke Brian to enjoy the free entertainment outside. There was a storm of epic proportions raging and we sat on the balcony with the wind blowing and thunder clapping, watching lightning and torrential rain. Wonderful!
The next morning we took the ferry to the Vivekananda memorial. The memorial itself was an inspiring sight, built on a huge rock about 400metres out to sea. The philosopher Swami Vivekananda sat and meditated on the rock 100 years ago, before setting out as one of India’s most important religious crusaders.
The ferry ride across the rough strait of water was like a roller coaster and great fun. The boat was packed and some of the occupants looked terrified by the bucking and weaving. The area around the memorial was immaculately clean and the crowds were marshalled in an orderly fashion by the usual scruffy officials, but these chaps had whistles. They ensured that by constantly blowing the whistles we walked around in strict accordance with the arrows painted on the floor.
The view back to Kanyakamari was breath taking.
I bought a plastic flashing Buddha from the gift shop. It was the tackiest thing I had seen in India so far, but Brian pointed out that I could probably have bought one in Bradford.
The island monument didn’t do anything for us spiritually, despite paying a visit to the meditation hall and sitting in front of the sacred ‘’Om ‘’ glowing on the wall. No matter. It was a great trip.
A short walk out of town took us to the Vivekanandra Kendra.
This was a school and commune run by followers of the philosopher where they trained to work in the community.
We were pleasantly surprised. The settlement had a school, a library, dormitories, and lovely gardens.
We spent two hours in the Kendra Pictorial Museum; it was heavy going but was very informative about Indian culture and beliefs.
We later made our way through the settlement to the rocky coastline. Facing out to sea was another statue of the Swami, which was surrounded by bougainvillea and lovely flowering shrubs. It was so quiet and still that we just sat on a bench and looked out to the horizon.
It was the most pleasant and peaceful time spent on the whole trip and I really didn’t want the moment to end.
Walking back in to Kanyakamari I thought I had better buy some chocolate for my imminent assignation. We walked to the promontory beyond the Ghandi Memorial and watched the sun set.
At that time of the day stalls were set up there, selling roasted nuts and other sweetie treats. While Brian went off to buy peanuts I bought him a string of beads to replace his lost worry beads. We went to sit on the sea wall to eat our peanuts and enjoy the scenery and within moments the three little girls appeared. I was about to make a huge error of judgment that we would not repeat.
The girls sat down next to me and I gave them the chocolate. We explained that it was customary to say: “thank you,” and then we had to explain the sharing principle as one of the girls grabbed the lot.
A large crowd was beginning to gather and a passer-by could have been forgiven for thinking we were dispensing gold bars instead of three small bars of chocolate. Older boys started pushing and grabbing at the chocolate and we almost had a fight on our hands. We ended up yelling and pushing at people - and all to prevent three girls losing their chocolate. Never again.
At 4.15a.m. the next day we set off for the train station. It was cool to start with, but after 1½ km carrying my bags and rucksack I was sweating.
Brian looked to be all set for a complete turnabout from the bus fiasco we had on our arrival. Now he wouldn’t get ON the train.
The train stretched endlessly and beyond the length of the platform.
I said: “Come on, let’s just get on. Anywhere will do.’’ But no, Brian was intent on walking back to Bombay by the look of it.
The train was the Kannyakumari Express and it left daily for Bombay, a journey of 48hours, and it had a lot of carriages.
My bags were too heavy, I was hot and sweaty, and if I could catch up with him I really would murder him this time.