We’re leaving Thumpoly Beach later today.
Yesterday I spent two hours happily painting with acrylics surrounded by paintings of local artists and classical music in a specially designated room in a local art gallery. The owner of the gallery, a retired professor of political science and engineering, provides this wonderful experience for any tourist fortunate enough to learn of the possibility and make a reservation. There’s no fee.
He explained as we shared a cup of (way too sweet) coffee that he left the university five years before the age of retirement because his wife left her teaching position and was at home. There was a hint of illness on her part but he didn’t elaborate and I didn’t ask.
I sensed that the experiential opportunity he offers is an opportunity for him to socialize with people from all over the world now that he’s restricted to this lovely but insular fishing village. We chatted for an hour as he brought out spicy roasted cashews and cookies. A little politics (a big Modii and Bibi fan). A little religion (he’s Christian and fondly recalled his pilgrimage to Israel). A little economy (India has a vastly more reasonably priced medical system and price of living).
A man happy with his lot in life.
As I walked home I thought it could be very pleasant to be in Thumpoly for an extended visit and share afternoon tea and conversation with him from time to time.
I recognized several of the women I passed in their colorful saris with an umbrella held overhead to protect them for the sizzling sun. We smiled at each other, wagged our heads and offered a soft ‘namaste’.
Most stores are closed for a few hours when the sun is at its hottest and only now, at five o’clock, people are again out and about.
My partner and I had agreed just that morning that, as wonderful as it is here, we were ready to move on. But as I gazed at The Arabian Sea and the young men strolling along the beach I realized that I’m a little sad to be leaving.
Every morning we see the fishermen heading out for another day of catching whatever they can – and it isn’t much this time of year. They throw their gill nets or small trawling nets and harvest what they can. A few shrimp. A crab or two. A kilo of very small fish if they’re lucky. Later in the day we see exuberant children walk by in their school uniforms. Inevitably they stop to say hello, ask our names (again) and inquire after our health.
In the late afternoon, when there’s more of a breeze, we see various village residents walking by on the dirt path along the shore in front of our balcony. No one is in a hurry. They seem to be enjoying the sea air and the crash of the waves as much as we do, even though they’ve undoubtedly lived here all their lives.
I suppose there’s gossip and intrigues here as there are everywhere; heartbreak, ill health, kids making life choices their parents don’t understand.
There are very big beautiful homes and tiny unkempt hovels.
But in general life here seems to have a gentle rhythm and people seem to smile much more than in the towns with which I’m more familiar.
Our friends here have two children, which is the norm. One, their daughter, was accepted into the engineering program at a prestigious university very far away. The other, their son, is finishing high school and plans to spend seven years in the army.
Our friend, Antony, raised in this village, the son of a fisherman, was a career officer, head of the anti-terrorist units fighting in Kashmir, and retired as a colonel, one of the wealthier residents of Thumpoly. His wife is a school principal who (in spite of her profession?) is almost always smiling and happy.
Antony and Teresa both give much of their time to the community. Whether from modesty or simply relaying this village’s reality, Antony has told us often that giving to the community is the norm and not the exception.
There are certainly downsides to life in this crazy patchwork of a billion and a half people, over 25 spoken languages, millions living in slums alongside the abundance of IT employment, jewelry production and export, and a caste system which refuses to die, just to name a few challenges.
At the same time, there is a gentler way of life and a serene inner beauty to those who have less, in many cases a whole lot less, but retain an appreciation for what they do have.
So, yes, I’m a little sad to be moving on, even while I look forward to better physical conditions and an evening cocktail.
Ah! The contradictions of life.