The Land of Paddy Fields

Oddly enough, the weather's just like England. It started off as a bright sunny day; suddenly a few clouds gather together conspiratorially as though to ruin the pleasure of all those (like me) who'd finally hung some washing outside.

This is Wayanad, the land of paddy fields (Malayalam vayal, “paddy” and naad, “land”). But that title's a tad misleading because Wayanad is actually the southern tip of the Deccan plateau and is at least 2000 feet above sea level. Nevertheless, the fertile soil has long made it an attractive destination for agricultural entrepreneurs from various parts of Kerala. The long history of settlement has not been without its social cost, however. The indigenous tribal peoples (adivasi-s) of Wayanad were often exploited, tricked or coerced and, consequently, find themselves on the margins of progress in Kerala.

I arrived on Thursday at the Jesuit-run school in Eachome (a medium-sized village outside the Wayanad capital, Kalpetta) and the small Jesuit community (4 priests) attached to it after a wonderful bus journey through some very pretty countryside. The school, Sarvodaya, serves classes I to X (Years 2 through 11 in the English system). The medium of instruction is Malayalam. The school has nearly 800 students, mostly from agrarian and/or underprivileged backgrounds. About a third of the students are from the adivasi community. I'll be here for a couple of weeks, mainly meeting the students (and, hopefully, inspiring them to ambitious life-goals) and teaching them a spot of English. On Friday, I went around a few of the classes, doing a bit of 'meet n' greet' and letting the kids interview me (the most common question was about my family). Yesterday, I assisted Fr. Salvin Augustine SJ (recently ordained and a new arrival to the school staff) in conducting a day's leadership work for the student coordinators team.

Working with kids can be very very tiring – and still leave you with a buzz and a hunger for more. I think it has to do with the fact that their lives are full of promise, their outlook always optimistic. Somewhere into adulthood, most of us lower our hope thresholds significantly; kids remind us just how high it can (and perhaps, should) be. And, perhaps, how little our many cares actually matter in the grand scheme of things:

How void of care yon merry thrush,
That tunes melodious on the bush,
That has no stores of wealth to keep,
No lands to plough, no corn to reap !
(C.K. Williams, The Thrush)