They Come in Pairs

A farmer in Kerala opens a haven for young couples where they can spend time alone, away from judgmental neighbours and family

IN KERALA, admitting to a “love marriage” is like confessing to a misdemeanour. It’s one of those things people say with a half smile and lowered tone, as you let your listener’s mind whirl through the implications of your statement. Because, when you admit to having loved before marriage, you involuntarily also admit to several other things: that you are ‘modern’, which in turn means that, as a woman, you enticed; and that, as a son, your folks can no longer count on you. It doesn’t matter if the partner you picked is from the same socio-economic background, and a wonderful human being. ‘How could she do this to me?’ ask plaintive parents, stupefied that an educated adult could take away their parental right to pick the in-law.

Forty-five years ago, that was the sentiment of Kottayam-resident Threseamma’s parents when they heard about the boy she loved and their meetings in the local church cemetery. And though both families were Catholic, and all agreed that at 18 she wasn’t too young to get married, Threseamma’s family refused to wed her to 24-year-old John Joseph. “It was about control,” says Joseph, now 73. “They said when there are elders in the house, who are children to decide such things.” Joseph stuck to his guns, and like thousands of Malayalee couples every year, he and Threseamma left home, and got married. They bought farmland in Nadavayal, a forested hamlet in the northern hillside district of Wayanad. And it is here that the gentleman farmer Joseph started the Valentine Harmony Association, a centre that offers young local couples a place to have what he calls “open privacy”. Spurred by his own romance and the frustration of Nadavayal’s youth, Joseph has evolved into a contemporary Friar Lawrence, counselling and supporting young people who exercise their right to fall in love, their right to choose.

There is no Malayalam word for ‘dating’ or even a phrase that unequivocally says ‘I love you’. People usually just “see” and “like” other people. And the farther they are from Kochi, the less chance they have to discreetly see, like, and love someone they choose. Even in state capital Thiruvananthapuram, with its four bakeries and one Café Coffee Day, there is very little privacy, and even less respect for privacy. So, what the son of Mrs So-and-so saw, he will soon tell Mrs So-and-so; what she knows, she will tell her neighbour, your distant aunt Susammamma, who will tell your aunt Omana, who will tell your mother Lilly, who will whisper it to your father George, under oath that he will not make a scene. Which, of course, he will.

In small communities, every second aunty is a Mrs So-and-so, ostensibly looking out for her neighbour’s best interests, but really only interested in causing a little ruckus next door. Beautiful Nadavayal has no restaurants, 99 per cent of the population farm and live in joint families, and religion is the main platform for social interaction. For the young collegian, there’s the option of a ‘noon show’ at one of the city cinema halls, 20 km away. An almost empty, dark room, plus lots of distracting noise: furtive couples work out the math pretty fast. Joseph’s centre, located within the grounds of his home Chelly Villa, was set up with Rs 51 lakh of his and friends’ money, and offers the exact opposite opportunity. Adult couples (identity checked) can become members for Rs 100 a year, and then between 10 am and 4 pm every day for an entry fee of Rs 130, they are allowed to walk around the eight-acre property, swim in the pool, picnic, do yoga, read romance novels from its library, even fish in an inhouse pond. Stags are not allowed. Nobody stares, no one judges.

Joseph, like the name of his organisation, is a naïve mix of romance and principles of social democracy. “As a bachelor, I spent time in Bombay and saw the freedom. It was different from Kerala,” he says. Threseamma and Joseph channelled some of those big-city principles into their small-town lives. The couple went camping, took bicycle tours around the countryside, and to the absolute shock of their fellow Malayalees, the whole family swam together. “Even today in India, it is rare to see a mother swim and play with her children in a pool. We did that decades ago.” The black-and-white poolside family photos from those times, with the young bikini-clad mother and her three children, are studded across Joseph’s tiny office.

For those photos, for wearing pants, for walking beside her husband to church instead of behind him, for riding horses, and for doing a hundred other things that were perfectly within her right, Threseamma became the butt of general village gossip. Fifteen years ago, that alienation combined with the onset of menopause finally broke a connection in her mind. Today the 66-year-old spends most of her time alone; she neither goes out nor talks to strangers.

For all its dogma, the educated, morally persnickety Kerala has social predicaments like domestic violence, alcohol-addiction and a thriving blue movie industry. In pristine Wayanad, there is a communal pandemic of tribal unwed mothers who have children from sexually exploitative relationships with non-tribal men. “Men and women don’t know how to deal with each other because they’re not allowed to interact normally,” says Joseph. He’s rigged Chelly Villa to overcome the problem. The woodlands throughout the property are defiantly wild, thick bamboo overgrowth block your path at every turn, a woman even in the most sensible heels would find it difficult to walk straight. Joseph believes that by keeping things unruly and challenging, a young man will be forced to help his girlfriend walk along, while she will tend to his scratched palm or bruised ankles, both involuntarily picking up their first lessons in marital management 101.

Before 10 am every morning and after 4 pm, Chelly Villa is a swimming academy where families can swim together, as Joseph and his family once did. Women wear ill-tailored but suitable swimsuits, with a confidence most of them wouldn’t have dreamed possible. “In this area just holding hands will make ten people stare. So people are shocked to know women wear swimsuits,” says Gracy George, 34, an Association member. “They’re jealous, it’s too late for them.”

Seven years ago, before change came to her life, Gracy and her then-boyfriend George Mathew were just another Nadavayal couple who didn’t know how they would have a life together without family support. Chelly Villa and its old uncle helped by providing a weekly meeting place and sound advice. “The hiding and lying can get to you, some people opt for suicide or just run away,” says Gracy. She and George stayed, got married, and now the couple has two toddlers.

Some of Joseph’s neighbours think he’s a Godsend, others think he’s crazy, and some say he’s a good man with a troubling social agenda that lays too much stress on personal freedom. And Joseph’s not afraid to personally emphasise that point to couples’ families, even though most of them strongly believe their young shouldn’t choose their own partners. When Joseph opened his gates six years ago, the centre faced tremendous opposition from disgruntled kin who lodged complaints and harassed his workers. Last year, he registered Valentine Harmony Association as a non-profit trust, as much to beat the opposition as to help it outlive him.

Just this year some 20 couples renewed their memberships on the Association’s birthday: 14 February. And its neighbours, including the Holy Cross Forana Catholic church, co-exist knowing that the revolution has already started, and they can’t do much about it.

About The Author

Manju Sara Rajan