My driver Kal is tired. I can tell by the way he’s rubbing his face. This makes me nervous. Driving in India takes intense concentration at all moments, and even a momentary lapse can mean that you either 1) run over a slow tuktuk or pedestrian, or 2) get squashed by one of the careening buses or heavy trucks which slow down for absolutely nothing.
Driving on any Indian road is dangerous enough, but the curvy, narrow roads of Thekkady are particularly deadly, as the occasionally skull-and-crossbones roadsigns continually remind me. Problem is, not only is he tired, he is also in a hurry, and I’m not sure why.
It’s a Friday afternoon and we are on our way from the mountains of Thekkady to the backwaters of Alleppey, a coastal town with an extensive network of canals and rice fields that are home to a world-famous fleet of traditional wooden houseboats.
I casually mention that maybe it would be a good idea to take a rest. After all, we’ve been driving for two hours and have another two hours to go before we reach Alleppey. Kal nods. “I’ll stop in twenty, twenty-five minutes for prayer time,” he says.
Up till now it has been unclear to me Kal’s religion. I’ve suspected he is Muslim because he doesn’t have the ubiquitous Jesus/Mary or Hindu figurine on his dashboard, just a small glass vial with a gold tassel that dangles from his rear-view mirror. I am still confused, though. Aren’t Muslims required to pray five times a day? We’ve been on several full-day drives and he’s never stopped to pray.
I ask Kal. “Yes, yes,” he says, giving me that liquid bob-of-the-head that is so hard for a foreigner to imitate. “But I am travelling, and there are special prayer privileges for travellers.” He went on to explain that for journeys of 130km or longer, he must still perform the fajr, or dawn prayer, but that he is allowed to combine some of the other prayers and perform them later in the evening. This being Friday, however, there is a special prayer which he always prefers to perform in an actual mosque.
“But where are the mosques?” I ask. During the hours of driving, I’ve seen dozens of Christian churches, a few Hindu temples, but only one or two Islamic mosques. I asked Kal why there were so many churches given that Christianity is the smallest of Kerala’s three major religions. He explains that the Christians are building all their churches along the major roadways so they can be conspicuous. “They only attend church once a week on Sundays,” he explains. “Because they don’t go to church every day, they can build their churches farther from their homes.” On the other hand, he explains, “Muslims try to attend prayer service at a mosque as often as possible, sometimes several times a day.” For this reason most mosques are tucked back in the villages within easy walking distance of the village’s worshippers. Similarly, Hindu temples dot the countryside but most of them have been in place for generations, long before the highway system. The end result is that Jesus and Mary rule the roadsides of Kerala, despite the fact that Christianity is the least populous of the three local religions.
If you think about it, it’s a terrific marketing scheme by the Christians. To all outside observers, including tourists like me, Kerala appears to be an incredibly devout Christian state. To my eyes there are more churches and small Christian shrines per linear mile of highway than I’ve ever seen in my travels anywhere on Earth (including my own childhood in America’s Bible Belt, where the roadside churches are thicker than the local sorghum syrup).
The dominance of Christian marketing along the roadsides doesn’t seem to bother Kal. Even though he seems to be a pretty devout Muslim, he doesn’t seem to be very judgmental about the other religions that crowd the spiritual space of Kerala. He just shrugs, and I realize that if everyone was as casually accepting of other religions as Kal, the world would be a far better place.
To see all the posts in this series (Seven Weeks in India), click here and scroll through the post listings.
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