Swarnalatha Rangarajan’s story is a powerful combination of folklore spiced with suspense and thrill in perfect doses.
Every other wall in the International Airport welcomed me to ‘God’s own country’ with restful images of swaying coconut palms, languid chrysoberyl backwaters, and elaborately masked kathakali dancers.
My brown skin was no camouflage as my humungous backpack and strange accent gave me away all too soon. I found myself accosted by taxi drivers who were all set to fleece me.
A garrulous chap almost bundled me into his taxi saying, “Your hotel is very far away Madam! Not in the city. Give me only two thousand rupees! I give you this cheap rate because you are not a foreigner!”
In a bid to escape from them, I broke into a brisk trot and hailed an auto rickshaw passing by. The driver was an affable man who could speak some English.