“Gods own Country” the marketing blitzkrieg
by Kerala tourism has ensured that when I tell my friends that I am visiting my
hometown the glances are those of envy and the mental pictures are those of me
drifting along in a house boat on the backwaters
For me Kerala has always been a town called
Trichur, a place I can call home, a point of stability in the otherwise nomadic
existence I had as a naval officers daughter. A home built by my grandparents,
where my playmate was my grandpa with whom I wrestled and fought, whose shirt
sleeves I tugged at when I wanted something and to whom I listened with starry
eyes as he narrated epic tales of Demons and Gods. Where my Grandma mixed my
rice into tiny balls liberally sprinkled with ghee, gleefully adding to my
already generous tummy.
I am big now, an adult with an MBA degree,
I work with a multinational, I have responsibilities and a fat check gets
credited to me at the end of each month…all proof of ADULTHOOD. Yet when I come
to Trichur all those years seem to melt away, the burdens are shed and I am a
little girl again.
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