Note on Kochi
In my notes app, there was an entry that said “Write (about) the romanticisation of Kochi.” I didn’t add any further comments or embellishments, and I am pretty sure that I wrote that a day or two after I got back from my trip. I can’t say much about what then-Audrey wanted me to write about because, frankly, I can’t seem to remember. As such, this writing will merely be about my current feelings about Kochi, and all of the essential things that I still can sense on the tip of my body.
Kochi was my last escapade in 2022. The entire trip was ridden on top of anxiety as I had to catch a plane from Bali to Jakarta on the 18th, with my flight to Singapore and Kochi at 11 AM the next day (meaning I had to be at the airport by 8 AM). It was also about two weeks before my thesis deadline (in which I ended up deciding not to graduate this year, so that deadline was for nothing!). In short, no matter how much I wanted to enjoy the trip, the entire thing was based on fear and caution even before I stepped on the plane.
However, when I finally set foot in Kochi at 2 AM local time, with my a little too-exposed torso waging war against the cool air of the Arabian Sea, I was at peace. Perhaps it was the kind smiles that Ajay and Mathew, our local friends, extended right in the depth of night. Or it could’ve been the celebratory slogans around the town that made me realise how developed Kochi was. Maybe it was the communist symbol littered around the nooks of the area (turns out the ruling party of Kochi was a lefty). Or perhaps, it was simply the idea of me finally stepping foot in India. Who would’ve ever thought that Audrey, the Europeanised girl who was far too pretentious for her own good, would step foot on little Cochin? That was the moment I truly felt myself being so expansive — I unlocked another door in my multitudinous.
Everything else was much of a blur. Perhaps it was due to the fact that I spent two out of my three days in Kochi partaking in a competition. I’m not complaining — that competition got me to Kochi and made the lecturers (especially Mas Yandry) back in HI UI okay with me running away to India. As such, do forgive the little plot holes I cannot salvage in this story.
On the first day, we went to Jew Town and Fort Kochi. I found it hilarious how the two adjectives that explained Kochi to me were “communist” and “Jewish.” Oh to bring this back to Indonesia, someone is ought to have a heart-attack! But yes, I went to Kochi’s Jew Town and was confronted with an environment I had never been in. Despite travelling around Western Europe and being a Christian, I came to realise that I have never been amongst a Jewish community, let alone a literal diaspora. It was an odd feeling — seeing the David Star in every nook and croony of the lane. Of course, it was preceded by blocks and blocks of heritage shops, ones filled with spices, deities, and a gallery of objects that I cannot help but fall for. However, it didn’t amount to going through Synagogue Lane for the first time.
The colours felt Malabarian, but the stars said otherwise. The smell was different — it was no Hindu incense. It was the one I encountered in the small orthodox church behind Gandaria City, or the one in that one church William brought us to. The Postcard and The Gem Palace felt so out of place — safe havens made for guests of the West who fetishized India. And oddly, the gardens felt a little bit too much like the ones of the Spanish Quarter at Groot Begijnhof.
I cannot help but think of the first Jewish diaspora that set foot in Kochi. How did they share their practices? Was it easy to find ingredients for their incense? Did they have to substitute anything with the ones used by the locals? How did they explain Yahweh to the community? I wished I had the time to talk to one of the group members. I am deadly curious about what sort of religious amalgamation came to happen in the area, and how it differed from the ones in Central Europe or the Balkans. There has to be a difference, right?
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I dragged Danny to visit the Jewish Cemetary. I don’t think any of our friends went there, and that bubbled some unrecognizable feeling within me. I wondered if I was the only one fascinated by something so macabre, but all at the same time seemed peaceful. My train of thought was halted when we realised that the cemetery was locked. Of course, it was; why would they let anyone (especially curious tourists) enter something so sacred like the necropolis? I stood in front of the corroded gates, in awe of Gan Shalom. They said it meant “the garden of peace,” and I don’t know whether it was because of the nonexistent crowd around me, but I felt at peace there. Despite it being gated and dead, it felt peaceful. It wasn’t scary at all, and I can’t help but think of the rituals and prayers performed in Gan Shalom. Was there any Indian influence peppered around the prayers? Do you put first your identity as someone from Malabar or as someone of the Jewish faith? The starkness of it all intrigued me, and I can’t help but find it difficult to imagine a person’s multidimensional edges under the southern sun.
Another thing worth mentioning was Fort Kochi. Despite not being where Vasco da Gama’s first landed in Asia, it was where he was buried. Due to this fact, you’d find loads of guesthouses and tourist spots catered to gain that Western feeling. It was an odd feeling for me, again. In two of Kochi’s most valued tourist areas, they were not the manifestation of Kochi, Kerala, Malabar, or even Indian culture. They were the ones of settlers — Jews and Europeans. If you were to ask me what was Kochi’s culture, I would not know. Perhaps the Syrian and Anatolian orthodox churches that Danny and I tried to find. But even they are not of Kochi origin.
I know that no one owns culture. And that culture itself transcends borders. I think this was a statement brought by Nami a few moments ago about the contestation of kebaya in the international sphere. The world itself is a giant melting pot and its difficult to discern one culture from the other entirely. But I was able to pinpoint cheese in Geneva, the beaux-art in Paris, the beer culture in Brussels — what was Kochi?
Maybe I should spend more time in Kochi before I settle any statements that can get me into trouble. However, I am quite ashamed of not knowing exactly what ‘Malabarian’ culture did I encounter during my trip. It was Portuguese this, and Jewish that, hints of Chinese and a handful of Orthodox & Catholic influences. Kochi was a melting pot of so many things at once that I lost sight of what Kochi really is.
Maybe I should traverse more around the Kerala region, and not just Kochi which is dubbed as its’ trade centre. Maybe I should go to Goa and find the difference between da Gama’s birth and death in India. Maybe I should go to all the Syrian, Anatolian, and Catholic churches, along with learning more from the Hindu, Jain, and Sikh temples. Maybe I shouldn’t get my heart broken a day before I go home, ruining my fascination towards the sight before me.
Maybe I should go back to India, and for much longer this time.
