On an early morning a week after, and I’m standing in front of a huge steel gate with barbwire on the top. Gate is fitted into a four meter high wall, separating a big area from the curious eyes of passers by. Those are not many anyway, behind me there’s only a shoe repair workshop, hairdresser, two or three shops and a bus stop. It’s going to be a hot day. Sky is clear and the air starts slowly vibrating over the asphalt. Shopkeepers are already hiding in the depth of their caves made of shelves, and the animals seek refuge under a few trees growing scarcely along the wall. Before me, behind the small window of iron bars fitted into the gate, is the biggest cotton mill in south of India. Behind me – outskirts of the city of Thrissur. All around, in fourth dimension, Sunday.

I’m still in Kerala, and Christians are still at large. On Sunday half of the town is abandoned, and shops present closed gray metallic garage doors locked with padlocks, instead of the usual burst of colors, shapes and sizes of packages and products hanging from walls and ceiling. Sometimes it’s even difficult to find a shopkeeper face peeking from a little hole in this hanging mess, but today – silence and peace. Even rickshaws and taxis horn lazily, purposelessly, like they’re drivers would do that simply from being used to horn on every other day. Another day that will pass slowly and I won’t be able to do my investigation. Pity.

We stroll slowly along half abandoned streets in search for an open Internet cafe, and we find an old movie theater. Building looks untouched by paint for thirty years, and even the grass refuses to grow in the yard for some reason. There are also a few people sitting in its long shadow, waving at us invitingly. As we come in we find out that the movie started five minutes ago and there are still a few places left. From nothing else to do we go in. They are playing 2012 and the place is packed. It’s an experience on its own, and I can’t keep myself from laughing – whenever something exciting happens on the screen, people jump out from their seats and clap, shout, and generally erupt with emotion. They all participate in the movie, and all in exactly the same way, like one big organism spreading its tentacles all over the seats around us. Actors are running from an exploding volcano – “aaaaaaaaaaahhhh!!!”. Big building collapses – “Wooooooooooowww!!!”. People kissing – “Uuuuuuuuuuuu!!!!”. At the end of the movie everyone stands up and applauds, and I keep smiling for the rest of the day.

Next morning we are finally ready to set out and visit some factories. We want to find out if the workers are (or are not) exploited in them in any way, and are their working conditions acceptable in general. We also want to talk to managers and owners, to find out how (or if) global economy influences their businesses. Did you ever wonder who are those people making all this cheep stuff you can buy in shops in Europe? Well I did, and today I want to meet them. Task is not an easy one, we are a couple of white guys and we cannot expect just to be let in and go around asking difficult questions. We say that we are studying the economy, and we are making research. That is of course a lie, which I’m not very proud of. First place we go to is a huge old building in which 300 people turns cotton into clothes. Guard lets as through the gate and escorts us straight into the office. We explain what are we doing here, but the guy seems to be helpless in that matter. This textile mill is run by the government and to get any information about it we need permission from the manager, which happens to be on holiday and will return in two weeks. Of course we can get his permission over the phone, and of course we can’t get his phone number. Stuck, with nothing to gain, we move on. On our list there’s still two places left to visit, so we rush ahead to a place we’ve been yesterday.

As we enter through the steel gate we gazed at a day before, it immediately feels like something is wrong. Guards seem very nervous to see us, and the whole place seems like it’s not really in use anymore. There are only a few people busy with cutting trees in the yard, and a few sitting around and staring at us. We explain in slowest and simplest English known to mankind, but the guy doesn’t understand. As a remedy he calls another guy who doesn’t understand as well, who in turn calls another guy, and finally the fourth one can get the point. By now we are already used to repeat ourselves for many times, and to maintain our smile and patience. Using smile and patience you can get very far in India. Being angry and hasty usually gets you nowhere. Despite our obvious good will, everyone seems really tense for some reason and the atmosphere becomes thick. Finally, we breathe out heavily with relief as “the fourth guy” takes us by the hand and we march away towards the production halls. We can hear those left behind whispering “official visitation…”

We enter massive concrete buildings full of huge steel machinery. There are no people there, except three of us. We are not allowed to walk around freely. Our guide instructs us to follow him and not to make any pictures. From his facial expression I can see that he is very serious, and I don’t want him to get the least bit angry – he might kick us out of here altogether. We walk slowly and in silence, and the whole surrounding looks surreal and profound. Full, but empty. Huge old black steel machinery, with thousands of moving parts, is just standing there in silence, adding another layer of dust to its already impressive collection. Specks of dust raised by our slow walk arise and burn bright yellow, illuminated by lonely rays of sunlight that somehow found their way through the dirt covering huge windows. Coldness radiates from naked concrete walls, and along with an empty echo of our steps, reaches me right to the bone. Somehow it feels that it’s not proper to speak, smile or to make any noise. I am in a graveyard.

I locate a metal plate on one of the machines, and clean dust off of it with my hand. It reads: “Made in Czechoslovakia. 1963”. From one hall we pass to another and another. It’s all the same – huge, empty, gray, and full of profound breathlessness, only the type of machinery is different. I examine one of them closer, and see that it’s still full of cotton. Like someone would suddenly turn off the electricity, leave, and didn’t come back for a decade. On a blackboard abandoned somewhere in the corner, I locate the last date written on it with a bleak red chalk – it says 2003 in faint, barely recognizable digits. I try to walk slower and slower, to be able to breathe in this amazing atmosphere, this air unmoved for years, this time frozen so suddenly. Our guide however is rushing, and gives us a clear signal that he is in charge here. Finally we arrive to a hall, in which few people are wrestling with an enormous piece of machinery. They have huge wrenches, and other tools huge tools I can’t even name. Floor around us shines with a few clean rectangles – places from where they took the machines out. Right now they’re working on another one, unscrewing it from the floor. Behind the workers there’s lines of tens, if not hundreds more machines, waiting patiently to share the same fate. I can’t quite comprehend it, information I found on the internet was clear, that this is the biggest textile mill in south of India, employing more than 500 people full time. Last information was about a strike, and than – silence. Strikes happened quite often in Kerala, so I haven’t got a clue, that for this place it was the last and final one. Now the whole place is closed, and being dismantled and sold out piece by piece. From one day to another, half a thousand lost their jobs, a business lost its life, and a town lost its limb. Once a major contribution to local economy and a bread provider for so many – now nothing more than tons of scrap metal. On the way out we see some more workers pulling roofs and walls down. Seems like not long from now, only thing that will be left from here will be naked ground.

Still puzzled we ask around about the factory and why it’s not working anymore. Only one guy can give us the answer, and “It’s political” is all he says. That means so much and nothing at the same time. Thousands of things can hide behind this word but whatever it is, somehow doesn’t feel right. For some reason in my mind “political” never equals “just” of “fair”.

Our last chance is a small family underwear factory of Mr Kunnath. We go into his small shady office and get very welcomed instantly. He is pleased that somebody visits him and has so many questions about his work and his business. He himself naturally has many questions as well. We explain love marriages*, education and tax systems in Europe, in return for his knowledge of cotton processing. It’s an hour and a half long interview and what we learn is pretty grim. His factory started by his father in 1917 is not bringing any profit for more than two years. Big European and American companies (ex Nike) buy all the cotton from the market for export purposes, and what’s left is very expensive, and is getting even more expensive by the month. Prices of raw cotton in Kerala have risen about 2000% in the past ten years. He is slowly letting his workers go, few of them every month, to reach a full stop in a couple of years. He changes to paper production, because of the development of India the need for it is growing rapidly.

Mr Kunnath is a real gentleman of the old kind. His speaks English in a beautiful fashion, and his gray eyebrows reach as far as the tip of his nose. He employs 82 people, of which 80 are women. He shares every detail with us, even those that do not make him proud as an employer. His workers are striking often, demanding higher wages. At the moment they earn 3,5USD a day. When they are desperate for a raise, they surround his little office and won’t allow him to go to the toilet unless he will approve it. We are of course allowed to go around the production hall, make pictures and to talk with whoever we fancy, but let’s not forget about a huge language barrier. We walk around and steal all the attention as we move shyly between women focused deeply on their sewing machines, women folding paper boxes, and women operating big machines similar to ones we’ve seen before in the abandoned halls of Vanaja Textile Corporation. We are all smiling kindly to each other and the women quickly divide into two equal groups: those who really want their picture taken, and those who really don’t. English for them is like a Korean for me, but after several tries I manage to snatch a line of dialog. How many years do you work here? Five. Do you like your job? No. That’s where the verbal interaction ends, but the non-verbal continues to flourish. I get called to many places where they want to show off with their professional skills. I tour the place from A to Z, and follow the whole production process from one end to the other. Cotton, thread, fabric, dying, drying, measuring, cutting, sewing, quality control, folding, packing, storing. I am truly amazed that using ninety (yes, 90) year old machines imported from pre-first-world-war Germany, you can still make a high quality product that can compete on a free market of 2009. There is a massive, nearly touchable difference between working in a family company, and one of the modern profit focused corporate model. It’s so apparent, that if I could only spend there more time, I could attempt to extract it from the air and contain it on these pages. Unfortunately – time is always against us. Later that day we take a bus to Bangalore.

For three days we attempted to get train tickets to Mumbai, but the task has proven to be too difficult. We walk for hours from one booking office to another, and the best answer we’ve got was “It’s impossible”. The worst one was a guy laughing in my face, like I would ask him for a magic potion of super strength, or something equally ridiculous. We are forced to take a huge detour through Bangalore, which will ultimately make our journey 300km longer in distance, and 15 hours longer in time.

Bus we take to Bangalore is a nightmare on wheels. Road seems like it was constructed during the times of Mughal empire, and haven’t been repaired since. I can’t sleep, I can’t read, I risk breaking my teeth out with every attempt of drinking from a bottle. When after eight hours we finally arrive, it’s six in the morning and I feel like I’ve been beaten with a wooden stick for the whole duration of the last night. I haven’t slept at all, and now we must sit on the sidewalk for four hours in freezing cold and darkness, waiting for another bus. Soon after sunrise people fill the streets and people approach us with the usual where-are-you-from and what’s-your-name business. I’m too wasted to even respond, so I just sit there with a thousand yard stare, desperately trying not to fall asleep – from fear of missing the bus. When we finally start rolling, tiredness takes me away, and I only wake up to notice that our bus broke down in the middle of the highway…

When we finally arrive to Mumbai, our bus has an eight hours delay, and we have no idea where we are. Looks like a circular road, but the mess, traffic and crowd all around prevents me from figuring out which way is the center. We start walking in a random direction in search of a place to sleep, but because of some sort of a conference, this whole area of town is taken over by visitors and guests, and we don’t stand a chance for a bed unless we will come up with money for a five star, which is of course out of the question. We need to get to the center, and we finally find a subway station (which is actually over the ground, it’s just called a subway). There are about hundred thousand million people pushing from all directions. Spilling from the trains on concrete platforms, loading themselves inside the trains, uncontrollably, the whole crowd at the same time, like the people it consists of would be all glued together. Through the windows I can see the inside of this railed sardine can, and I don’t find the least bit of will to join in. Anyway, we try to buy a ticket but there is no ticket office, no machines, everything is written in Sanskrit and everyone is in too much of a rush to help us out. Even stopping for a minute in this floating mass of bodies can result in an injury and aggression from blocking the way.

Few minutes later – windows rolled down, and hands hanging outside the doors we cruise in an old “Ambassador” limousine taxi, listening to Bollywood music of mixed basses and squeaks, testing the endurance of the ancient speakers…

*love marriage – marriage taken from love, as usual in Europe. Nearly all of marriages in India are arranged by the parents of the bride and groom, sometimes many years before their adulthood.