To the casual observer, there are three things that make a true mallu: the (in)famous accent that cannot possibly belong to any other community, a natural inclination towards meen curry and rice, the trademark mundu (dhoti), and an uncanny obsession with anything to do with coconuts.

I have none of these.

Well, maybe none of these, save a mallu name, which by the way is Harish Nair. And if the above criteria decides who the true mallus are, then I am by no means one. And here’s why: I do not have an accent. Having lived in Bangalore all my life, I cannot even speak the language properly (though I understand it well enough). To use my mother’s words, I “kill the language”. And make no mistakes; I take no pride in this fact. I am well aware of how shameful it is to not know one’s own mother tongue.

Secondly, I have no inclination towards meen curry simply because it does not agree with my stomach. Regarding coconuts, I have no particular issues with them. But I assure you, in the event of all the coconut trees of the earth getting wiped out, I will be able to survive quite comfortably. And lastly, regarding the mundu, I am going to be quite candid about it. On the rare occasions that I have worn it (certain temples in the state of Kerala will not permit anyone who wears a normal pair of trousers), I have spent hours in the constant fears of being exposed. During the events I am about to narrate to you, I was forced to comply with all these factors.

During the sweltering hot month of April, I was visiting my grandparents in Kerala. Having just read about all my inhibitions when it comes to Kerala, you can assume just how apprehensive I was about this vacation. I had taken a sort of vow of silence whenever I came here because of both my social ineptitude and my ignorance of the language. This left me being terribly misunderstood by my grandparents and relatives. Therefore, I simply could not allow it to go on.

The day began on a decent enough note. On seeing my grandparents at the door, I rushed up to them and greeted them.

“Ah! Look who it is!” my grandfather exclaimed jovially. “It’s been so long. And now I have to look up while speaking to you! Haha!” he said in English.

“Hello mutthaccha. It’s good to see you too”, I managed to reply in Malayalam.

“Hello! It’s been so long since you came!” my grandmother said to me.

“Hello acchamma”, I replied, smiling.

“When will you stop growing?? I cannot keep looking up at you like this”, she said.

I had nothing to say to this. So I just stood there smiling awkwardly, muttering something about having a healthy diet. Ha! As if! I thought to myself.

“Do you remember any Malayalam at all?” she demanded.

“A little bit”, I said in Malayalam.

And with that, I reverted to my vow of silence. After a heavy breakfast of puttu (rice cake), we took a two hour drive to a temple. Much of my time in Kerala is usually spent driving to distant temples. Unfortunately for me, this particular temple did not tolerate modern clothing.

“Harish! Put on your mundu”, my father demanded.

“Acha, you know how I feel about wearing that. I can’t walk two inches without slipping on the folds and embarrassing myself”, I explained earnestly. It was true enough. There have been some pretty embarrassing experiences that I do not wish to mention here. But you can probably guess from the context.

“Fine then. Don’t blame me if you’re not permitted inside the ambalam”, my father retorted.

Unfortunately for me, I was stopped right at the entrance of the temple, and asked to change into a mundu immediately. As I hurried off to change, the guard hurled a string of insults at me and loudly saying something about young men from the city who had no regard for tradition. After hurriedly changing, I stood in the line for the next two hours. All around me, people were praying for good health and prosperity and other such blessings. I would have gladly prayed for the same, just as I was supposed to. Only, my immediate circumstances forced me to pray for nothing more than my mundu to stay on for the next two hours at least.

Luckily for me, my prayers were answered. I was able to reach home without being exposed. I also felt terribly ravenous. So ravenous, that I was ready to eat just about anything that I could find. I was almost immediately put to test when dinner was served – a dinner consisting of meen curry, rice and deep fried fish. At this point, I had no idea what emotion I was supposed to be feeling. So I burst out laughing; a sign that others around me took for genuine happiness and thankfulness for my grandmother’s efforts.

“You like my meen curry so much?” asked my grandmother. “Then don’t hesitate! Eat how much ever you want!”

“Uh…ok”, I said.

I was just about done, when my grandmother asked, “do you want more?”

“No acchamma”, I replied.

“Why don’t you eat properly? See, this is why you’re so thin! What is your weight?”

“Fifty three kgs”, I said, flushing.

“Fifty three?? I will make sure you become fat by the time you leave!” she said.

And before I knew it, I was served another plate of rice! I ate up how ever much I could manage. That night, I had a massive bout of indigestion. I had to get out of bed five times, and by the morning, I was thoroughly drained of all my energy. Home-sickness was soon taking its toll. But later that day, I noticed something that seemed to have had a remarkable effect on me.

As I sat on the verandah, I noticed a child crafting something out of a leaf from a coconut tree. He seemed to be struggling a bit. He was immediately joined by an older boy who I assumed was his brother. He quickly helped the younger boy craft his coconut leaf into what appeared to be a figure of a dancing girl.

“Ah the dancing girl”, my father said, appearing beside me. “We used to make these when we were in school”.

Later in the evening, I passed by a pond where several boys were taking an evening bath. These rustic experiences that I was witnessing today somehow seemed to touch me. It struck me as the kind of life that I should have or could have led, had I not been brought up in the city. And quite suddenly, I felt a longing for the kind of life that I was witnessing in those young boys in the pond.

I left Kerala with some new perspectives in mind. The vacation had opened my eyes to a part of my culture that I had missed for so long. I knew now, that I would look forward to returning during the next holidays.

But until then, I think I’ll have to make do with jeans and junk food.