17 years without you…

Dear Ippappa ( That’s how I addressed my grandfather)

Its been 17 years since you left us. I had known you only for 6 years of my life, yet I never connected with any other grandparent as much as I did with you. Maybe, I was too young and innocent to love you without being judgmental about what you did or said and I am glad it had to be that way. Coz, there are very few people in my life like that whose fallacies ( if at all there were any), I refuse to believe.

Your little girl is all grown up now. No longer the carefree bird whose only motive in life was to escape Amma’s scoldings after rolling in the mud. Today, even if I fall in deep shit, both of us (amma and me )know the scoldings aren’t going to make any difference. Its upto me to take responsibility for my actions or suffer the consequences.

In a few weeks time, I will be embarking on a career path which was not even there when I was charting out a roadmap of my future. But, as they say everything happens for a reason. These 17 years have been too long and whatever happened in between, some have just vanished, some memories are blurring, some things I don’t want to remember and some moments I desperately, cling on to, never letting them go.

Each passing year, your death anniversary fell around the same time that I had my exams. A Mass in your remembrance, sparing a few thoughts for you that day was the custom. Gradually, you started fading away from my life. Even though your photo hung on the wall opposite to the entrance of our home, with time it just became one of the stationary objects hung on the wall. Life was taking its own course, I got carried away. Death… strange how passage of time, manages to convert the sense of an irreparable loss to a mere disappearance. But then, those hard hitting moments came about, when you were the one I needed the most.

Each visit to your house reminded me of your absence and the distance it created. Initially, I was saddened wondering why was this happening. And then, as I grew up, as the picture became clearer there are moments when I actually thought,’ I am glad you are not there to see all this happening’. How could people determine a price for your ‘sweat’ or rather the fruits of it? That too, people who never really mattered.

The day you left, I never knew life was going to be so tangled up. I have survived so far and I know somewhere you’ve been watching over me.

Tears are welling up, my heart feels heavy. Words wouldn’t justify what I really want to tell you.

I can’t really claim I am happy about the person I have become, I do not know whether I’ve met the expectations you had from me, I do not know if I’ll ever be someone like you. But, I was blessed enough to have YOU as my grandfather.

Since, I’m not biography worthy, I’d rather do an autobiography ;)

Once upon a time…

The uniforms that held us in bondage were discarded, the terrible red ribbons which in no way matched with our uniforms were thrown away and I was celebrating independence. I liked to believe so.

The ‘single-pampered-spoilt-brat’ label was getting on to my nerves and I pleaded, persuaded and pestered ( the 3 Ps of parenting the parents) to send me away from Mallu Land and away from them. Delhi University was out of question and Chennai was a dirty place. So, Bangalore seemed a safe bet with Hitler (aka my Maternal Uncle) and family appointed as my local guardians.  I had the choice of only 2 colleges, Christ and MCC. Christ is where, every B’lore Mallu and his cousin existed and I knew I wouldn’t be spared from the web of extended family  here.

MCC chics were pretty cool and my moment of epiphany happened on a particular trip to Veega Land, when the girls and boys were sent in separate buses due to several ‘concerns’. So, while grooving to the beats  in the bus, during this particular trip, I wanted to know how it would be to study in a women’s only institution.

As I walked up the drive for the first time, I fell in love with the college. The Principal tried to dissuade me from opting humanities and attempted culpable homicide by asking me to shift to Economics, Math and Stats combo instead of the artsy combo of Pol. Sci, Eco and Socio. I stood firm, for the first time in my life.

Interview done, admissions done and it was time to pack my bags and come back to Bangalore. This Bangalore was nothing like the early 90s Bangalore which I’d lived in. So, advice flew in all directions. “Be very careful, the girls are dangerous”. “People will make you fall in a trap”. ” Don’t befriend guys there”. ” Be yourself, don’t succumb to peer pressure”… sad I didn’t note down some of the hilarious ones.  Also, questions arose on why go all the way to B’lore to do a mere B.A. Many people offered their condolences on the ‘death of an engineer’ in me. ( Who decided I’d become an engineer anyway?). But none of it had prepared me for the awesomeness and awfulness I was supposed to experience in the years to come.

Hostel, college everything was new to me. The reopening session included the mandatory Retreat which I attended diligently, like a goody goody Mallu catholic girl who had just come from Kerala. From the next year, I entered the vicinity only when attendance was taken and in the final year retreat, I slept most of the time in my room.

Now, I believed my college life way cooler than everybody else’s and wrote tiny bits and pieces and spammed people’s inboxes until they issued a shoot at sight sight of mail order. And that’s how I discovered this cool thing called bragging by blogging.  Well, the main reason was a particular friend of mine, the bane of my existence in school had started a blog and received many comments. I hadn’t outgrown the ‘competition’ spirit yet, and if she could, then I should blog too.  People were generous enough to comment and encourage me those days. Arun, Kunju, Raghav, JK, Akhil.. the initial days of blogging without any apprehensions were so much fun. A big thank you to all of you who took time off your busy schedules to read a few kbs of my online trash.

And once, I began blogging, almost everything about my life is chronicled here though there has been change of urls/addresses. ( just like me). This page is like an extension of me now, though I don’t like the fact that I’m forced to keep certain opinions to myself to avoid the wrath of people I know in real life .  I already told someone off coz he’s was being a prick, picking on me and my blog entries, fb updates and tweets. Today we refuse to acknowledge each others’ presence which is very convenient for both of us.

Ya, so where was I? Meandered as usual?

By the way, its time to change the Blog headline in a few days time.  I won’t be a Mallu stuck in B’luru anymore

 

 

 

Childhood misconceptions- a tag

I was pulling my hair out in frustration staring at legal texts and decided to give it a break. Nothing can be more relaxing than random bloghopping, skimming through posts and then coming across something that really strikes you. I discovered Pepper’s post this afternoon and this is a very interesting tag. I’m not waiting for the niceties of being tagged and all that.

Here goes, my list of childhood misconceptions

1) Babies are made only when thunder strikes

Bollywood movies are to blame for this. A guy and a girl in a room, lightning and thunder, the girl gets scared, hugs the guy and lights go off. Next scene in the ‘lady doctor’s clinic’ where the lady says, ‘Aap Ma bannevaali hai’. There must have been a zillion scenes like this in every Hindi movie those days.

2) How will I die

I always feared I’ll die coz of a lethal  snakebite. My ancestral home in Trichur is located in what was once a ‘Sarpakaavu’ and some ruthless older cousins made me believe that I live under the curse of the snake gods or something.

3) Lump sum grant- They determine whether you are SC/ST through blood tests

Once in a while, the peon used to call out the names of certain students and send them to the School Office to collect what was called the lump sum grant. It was the fancy name that caught my attention first. On further prodding, Amma told me it is given to people who belong to SC/ST. She had no way of explaining what that meant to a 7 year old. And my next doubt was, do they determine whether one is SC/ST through blood tests?

4) Nuns were the wives of priests

5) Bangarappa was a superhero

S.Bangarappa was the CM of Karnataka in the early 90s. His name was sprawled all across the newspapers and television and my little brain actually deciphered that, he was someone who had come to save the world.

I’m leaving this tag open to anybody who wants to do it. Walk down the memory lane once again and amuse yourself

Memories I hold on to…

The train begins to slow down, it hoots and chugs into the station as my heart does a flip flop. On the left I see steps leading to the Church where it all began. It has a new coat of paint this time around, new wings have been constructed, the road has been tarred. I try hard to spot a familiar face or someone I may have met in the past. Ammachis clad in ‘chatta and mundu’ are a rare sight now. That generation of ammachis who fascinated me are being wiped out gradually. The train stops at the station hardly for five minutes and moves again. It picks up speed as I see the ‘landscapes of my childhood’ buzz past me. The railway gate, the fields, the house, the ‘vayanashala’ ( library)…the landmarks vanish and I’m left with nothing but another train of thoughts.

*****

I step out of the auto, hold on tightly to my father as we walk towards our ancestral house. The passage is narrow with several small holes and I was afraid there were snakes in them. Amma tried several times to convince me there was nothing in those holes, but the few minutes of walking through that passage was like walking on fire. As soon as I reach the gate, I run down the sloping entrance, relieved. My grandfather would be seated on his easy chair, a glass of black tea beside him, peering over Malayala Manorama.

Tommy, my grandfather’s pet would bark at me, frustrated coz he’d be on a leash and would be deprived of my grandfather’s attention as long as I would be there. And I was damn scared of dogs. So the feeling of hatred was mutual between that canine and me .

I’m walking across the fields, with Grandpa carrying the ‘thoookupathram’ filled with black tea for the workers. Grandpa is giving instructions to the workers while the Chechis come and exchange pleasantries with me. About how tall I have grown, about why my ears weren’t pierced yet, about how thin I was becoming. The warmth and affection in their voices, the value of which I understood only years later.

The tractor is making contours on the land, a huge mass of mud is piled in a corner. My cousins and I, in our moments of madness and adventure decide to climb and slide on the pile of mud. Grandpa who was busy sharing a ‘beedi’ with one of the workers got the shock of his life seeing the three of us. Covered in red mud, top to bottom we looked like warriors returning from a battlefield. He drags the three of us and pushes us into a small stream in our backyard. This was more fun than rolling in the mud and we refused to come out of water. The only threat that worked on me was unleashing ‘Tommy’ and alas, I was out in a few seconds , followed by my partners in crime.

Our mothers were furious seeing our condition. We looked at Grandpa with pleading eyes. He said, “I’ll handle this. And we were off on our next expedition. ‘Peedika’ in our part of the world refers to a petty-shop. ‘Peedikayile Jose’ referred to the shopowner. In Thrissur slang, it became ‘Peediyele Jose’ and I thought it was P.D.L Jose!  He bought Narangamuttayi ( lemon based boiled sweets) for us and his own quota of beedis.

Its getting dark. Ammachi starts yelling at everybody to come for the customary evening prayer. I’d be seated beside Grandpa, on the veranda ( the safe place for the ones who dozed off during the hour long prayers). Mostly, I’d fall asleep on his lap and not a soul would know . He’d nudge me to wake up when it was time for ‘wishing peace to each other’ ( better known as sthuthi kodukkal). Tradition follows that we’re supposed to wish people in the age-wise which made Grandpa the first in order.

Grandpa is out with his stick and torch. He’s doing a double check on whether the chicken coop is closed, whether there is enough water in the cattle pen, whether the motor shed is locked.

Its early in the morning and Grandpa is busy making my favorite breakfast, Pazham chuttathu.

We go on a walk, till the railway gate and watch the trains pass by. I count the number of compartments and he’d teach me how the numbers are named in Malayalam.

I’m sitting on one of the arms of easychair. I have my cousin’s slate board and chalk in hand supported against the parapet. Grandpa is holding my tiny fingers and teaching me the Malayalam Alphabet. I graduated to Thara, Para, Thala… and my Grandpa was a proud man.

Its time for us to return. That time around he gifted me a Malayalam Padavali. A book with a blue cover, with a picture of a parachute and a rainbow. When I kissed him goodbye, he had a glint of a tear in his eyes. He always does.

*****

The train is becoming crowded now.Day commuters are filling up the space. People are competing for space. Some are standing. Crowded trains always remind me of that fateful night.

*****

“Grandpa is not well, we need to go to Kerala”, one day Amma returned from office early in the afternoon. We packed our stuff in a jiffy and travelled in the crowded Island Express in the general compartment. We reached our hometown early in the morning. My uncle was at the station. I thought we were going to meet Grandpa in the hospital but drove straight home. The courtyard was filled with people. My grandpa lay there peacefully. The smell of chemicals, incense, flowers were making me heady. The photographer was clicking away those last moments which irritated me. Soon, the priest came. He recited some prayers and next thing I know, Grandpa is being carried away.

Few days later one evening, we all sat down to pray. There was nobody beside me on the veranda to wake me up when I fell asleep. It was time for giving ‘sthuthi’. I stood up, confused brought my hands together. It was always Grandpa who instructed me, whom to wish in which order.

From now on, I would be giving ‘sthuthi’ to his photo hung on the wall, the others instructed me.

*****

EDIT: ‘Sthuthi’ kodukkal is NOT wishing peace but translates ‘glory to jesus’. It is a traditional custom in Xian families where we greet each other saying ‘eesho mishihaykk sthuthi ayirikkate’. Thank you Jose, the common man for pointing it out.

At crossroads again

Being the last weekend of my ‘college life’ and with plenty of time left for my brain to wander, delve into the past and prod into my existence of 22 years and few odd months, while stirring the gajar ka halwa on the stove ( 1 hour, kill me)…now that I’m relieved of my kitchen duties ( Amma is on bed-rest and my poor family had to train their digestive systems to endure the fruits of my culinary endeavours amidst warnings that way to a man’s heart is through the stomach and if it goes on like this, we’ll have to get you married to a heartless person)…let the rant begin.

I’m famous for treading the path less taken and then getting lost, this time too confusion prevails.

The first crossroads came post Xth board exams.  Amma asked me to take up Arts and Dad said ‘go daughter, get married to accountancy like me’. With a decent marksheet to flaunt and my parents gleeful over their daughter’s performance, I too got carried away with the herd behavior. Any self-respecting 15 year old was expected to enroll for entrance coaching and take up science stream. So, I was at this place which provided exclusive coaching for IIT entrance. My first lesson in learning- never bite more than what you can chew. The man who was only interested in squeezing out the 5 figure fees as an investment for a 6 figure salary used his exemplary  deceptive marketing skills and we fell into the trap. Few days into the coaching and I felt like a babe in the woods among the who’s who of 15-16yearolds in Trivandrum. I remember a terrifying Dubey and a funny gult chem tutor. When I couldn’t take it anymore, the Latin, Greek and everything else that was physics, chem and math, I quit. It was humiliating to see my name at the bottom of the list for every ‘bubble shaded’ that is writing every test there.This was the first and last tution/coaching whatever phase of my life.

Since, I had no other option I slogged through the two years aka reading novels to my heart’s content whilst others were immersed in Pradeep’s, Comprehensive series and the modules given by the popular tutors in the city. I do remember names like JK sir, AO sir, Rajesh sir and the like. The frantic efforts to complete the modules and test series left me wondering, did I make the right choice by quitting? You know a 16 year old is not seasoned enough to make tough decisions and then stick to it throughout her life( neither am I now). Anyways, all the entrance application forms arrived on time, I filled them up diligently and posted whilst my heart was set at joining a course that gave me  more freedom to enjoy my creative pursuits.

Board exams came and went, entrances came and went bringing in a wave of panic. I thought I scored a negative in chem after going through the answer keys… dunno if I did till date. By then, things were moving quickly at the other end and with the blink of an eye I found myself at the doors of THE COLLEGE. I managed to secure a place in the lower rung of the 4 digit ranks. Dad asked if I wanted to attend the engineering counseling sessions held later on… I denied.

Three years of racking my brains over economics, sociology and political science. In the first year I had major plans of becoming a criminal sociologist. Second year, I was kinda clueless and third year, circumstances were not in my favour that I could make a decision. Economics sounded cool then and I decided that was it.

Post-grad life was nothing compared to the joy ride that was UG yet, there was so much to learn. I was not in a place where I really wanted to be in and thus, was kinda unhappy. But, I learnt to come to terms with it  ( even if I cribbed about ‘something in college’ this morning) and now there’s just a week left. I met people who were GODS in the field of eco, quite a few among them being Old generation Mallus.

Soon I’ll be done with ‘excuses to be made since you’re a student’ and will have to take up more responsibilities. Can’t really say I’m going to miss college but there are 2 things I’m really going to miss.

* The literature, fiction and political science section of the library

* The coffee and ‘open dosas’ at THE hospital canteen.The only reason I survived B’lore winter this time.

I’m at crossroads again. Confused, clueless… I feel I’m saturated with studying and if I need a good job exclusively in my field, I should have the two letters DR. as a prefix! Should I or shouldn’t I… only if I knew.

Food, wine and merriment

(Warning:  Directionless post ahead)

“Can I please not come”, My repeated pleas fell on deaf ears as my parents dragged me into the church to attend the baptism of a family friend’s grandchild. All this, after the previous day’s drama of finding a gift for the baby to be baptised. We had absolutely no clue about the age or sex of the baby. Plagued by the theories of socialization which emphasizes on the role of toys in identity building, my parents and me went gift hunting.

Embarrassed by the situation, the mean me disowned them for a while and loitered around the store until a specimen caught my eye. A distraught guy from CET ( don’t ask how I knew he was from CET, I’ve lived close enough to the place, long enough to identify the species) was searching for the perfect gift for his girlfriend. I kept on staring at his antics which left him embarrassed and me suppressing my laughter. The gift was wrapped in red, with a red rose on top and the guy was troubling the sales boy for a red satin ribbon and a red envelope for a greeting card , all this reddish-ness made my jaws drop to the floor. Any self-respecting girlfriend would fling the gift out of the window and dump the boyfriend for his aesthetic sense or the lack of it. Kids these days! Ah, never mind, I’ve seen worse cases of relationship induced gift paranoia. The parents finally got their gift, age- neutral gender-neutral and all that and we headed back home.

Next day, in spite of a head-ache that transpired to a stomach ache and then body-ache, my repeated requests were ignored. Powdered and perfumed, dressed, decked and accessorized I was literally pulled into the church by my parents. Sans, the niceties of it, God bless the family and the baby… ( my parents were relieved to see the gift was appropriate enough for the baby, it was ‘he’ by the way), my intention is to throw some light on the specimen you encounter on such occasions. After the final blessing, while the photographers camera assaulted the baby and family, the valiachayans, achayans and kuttiachayans disappeared into the safe confines of their four-wheelers. Obviously, to lubricate and dissolve their digestive systems which wouldn’t absorb a single morsel of food without the ‘petrol for the achayan’s soul’. Experienced valiyachayans returned steady and stable, the achayans in the making made a strenuous effort to appear stable while the kuttichayans, taking their baby steps into true achayan-hood were still learning to how to booze and not break loose.

Observing them all and making a mental note to avoid crossing paths with the who’s who present in the hall, I waited in the queue for my turn. Before I knew it, I was pushed forward step by step, my plate being loaded in the process. By the time I emerged out of the mob I was struggling to balance the plate and the high heels ( aargh Amma). As my bad luck was kharaab, I ended up right in front of the ‘local babu’ who never spares me from his annoying questions. This achayan conveniently skipped everything that happened in god’s abode above and landed on time for the lunch in the parish hall below.

“Nee maamodisa koodan vannatha?” , he drawled.

“Alla kooli pani kittuonnu nokkan vannatha”, I wanted to retort but a valicha chiri a.k.a a reluctant smile sufficed for the moment, just like smileys help you when you have nothing to say.

I was appalled by the audacity of the number of achayans who sauntered in one by one , their wifeys had to sit through the rituals in the church and busy achayans landed on time to fill their pot bellies. Anyways, whoever had walked in with high hopes of a sumptuous lunch, left with sullen faces. I’m sure even Obama and Osama would’ve struck a deal to finish off the cook, if they had to eat that abominable sorry dish of a mutton stew. When I realized, my body couldn’t take the torture any longer, I left the plate in the bin, balancing it amidst a leaning heap of plates that threatened to crash any second. Dessert looked like gulab jamun and tasted like rubber. Lets not delve into more details about it.

The caterers are the most despicable species in Mallu land these days. Add to it the extravagant people who don’t need a special reason for food, wine and merriment. I was shocked to see  chicken biriyani being served on the 41st day of my uncle’s demise. Food was wasted in tonnes for this baptism too. And there are people who get a heart-attack due to the soaring food inflation these days!

Being the season of weddings and baptisms, I am sure food, wine and merriment left many in dire straits by the end of it. Living epitomes of gluttony who binge and then rush to their docs, the ‘pressured and sugared’ ones who find it difficult to exercise self-control this season… I saw many ruthless daughter-in-laws who looked daggers at  appachans and ammachis foreseeing troubled times ahead.

Gone are those days when cooking food for the next day’s grand occasion was a celebration in itself. Tempos arrived loaded with huge vessels, people thronged the local village market, advance booking would be made at the ‘kula kada’, the pandal would be erected, family members stayed up all night to slice onions and grate coconuts over endless banter and gossip,the ‘dahannakaaaran’ or the ‘local chef’ was a VIP during the season, the plantain leaves had to be cut and cleaned,young men served the food to the guests and end of the day, the excess food was parceled to family members and neighbours. Ok I need to stop taking that trip down memory lane once again!

(PS: Not all Achayans are like that)

Muthappanpuzha- an enigma

Nestled between the Western Ghats, flanked by rivers Muthappanpuzha is what I call heaven on earth. Of the few places I’ve been to, never did I get to see nature at its best, unaffected and untainted. Located a few hours away from Kozhikode, I got an opportunity to visit this place just twice. Family members and cousins who’d been there filled me with stories of its scenic beauty but no description could match what I saw with my own eyes.

Reaching Muthappanpuzha is an arduous task, but worth every bit of the trouble. After a tiring 2 hour long bus journey, there is again a 45 minute walk/drive up the hill. Yes, whether you  take up a jeep ride or a walk up the hill, it would take the same time.  The first time I went, I walked up claimed it was my first trek in the process . The second time, it was a jeep ride. If you ask me, walking up is always better compared to the experience of having your entire system shaken up during the jeep ride.

( the road upwards looked somewhat like this)

It is the locals who transport you from the valley upwards and thus, everybody knows who is coming where, who is going where. Our driver had full information about our family and recognized us quickly. We began our ride upwards and the driver said, ” I may have to leave you halfway up, coz there is an emergency labour case and they may need the jeep to go to the hospital”. The pregnant lady’s house was on the way apparently, and we agreed. He stopped the vehicle to check in on them, rather to check if he had time to drop us and come back. We got down from the jeep and waited for his return. What ensued was a loud wail of a new-born baby, women folk running around the house, trying to get hot water, cloth etc and the mid-wife popularly known as the ‘vayattati’ coming out of the house and cleaning her bloodstained hands. Until then,  I had seen such scenes only in the movies. A child’s birth spread happiness all over the place and the folks in that house even offered us some ‘madhuram’/ home-made sweets(Unniyappams to be precise). The driver said, they didn’t need the jeep anymore and everything was fine. Most of the kids in the area were delivered by the ‘vayatatti’ as accessibility to hospitals was constrained in these parts. Supposedly, the same vayattati had assisted in delivering him too. This, is the paradox of my state. Its hard to believe there are some places where people still live in such archaic conditions, follow such traditions and yet, remain content.

The last leg of our journey uphill demanded the driver to negotiate a stream too. We decided to get off the jeep and walk toward my aunt’s house.  The pleasure you feel, as the cold gushing water touches your feet, as you hop from stone to stone and wait to sink in the picturesque beauty you see around… it cannot be described in words.

 

 

 

 

 

(Imagine walking across this stream)

 

 

 

 

Curving across the stream, my aunt’s house was just a few steps away and the aroma of smoked meat wafted through the air. They get real yummy meat from the forests here. Pork, porcupine… Call me a heartless carnivore, but the taste is heavenly.Even the texture of the meat is sturdy unlike the gooey beef you get at times. ( spoke like a true Nasrani didn’t I?).

And I can’t help but say this, if you were felt that even water had a beautiful taste, it should be here.

After munching on a few chunks of dry meat, lunch still in waiting, I was shooed of to have a bath. The train, bus, jeep journey had made me look ghastly ( those were my aunt’s exact words). If you thought, a hot water bath would do me good, it is blasphemy in this part of the world. When nature’s own bath tub beckons you to laze around, no hot water bath seems appealing.

A stream flows behind my aunt’s house. The stream formed a ideal curvature, with enough space for an entire family to laze around in nature’s own pool. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Post lunch, while the elders rested, the youngsters set off to see the newly built ‘ermaadom’ or tree-house. This was not really a tree house but a fusion of a tree house and a shed. You had to climb up the ladder and my mother and her younger sister, who were so disillusioned that they were young too, struggled with the steps. Inside the ‘ermaadom’ the sound of Muthappanpuzha regurgitating was scary at the same time amazing. My phone camera doesn’t really work well with zoom and this is whatever I could manage to capture of Muthappanpuzha (from the ‘ermaadom’) flowing in its full glory

My younger cousins refused to come with us to the ‘ermaadom’ as they were scared of  the ‘puzhu’ or leeches. You wouldn’t know you’ve been bitten by one unless you see gooseberry shaped blisters. My dad and I discovered that walking in a fast pace prevented the leeches from entering your clothes or feet. Amma and her sis, walked carefully checking for ‘puzhu’ entering their feet and ended up with a dozen.

When we returned home, the younger cousins formed a circle around us and refused to let us enter until we shook off all the leeches from our clothes. The poor kids were so scared by the stories of leeches that they missed a lifetime experience of watching this scenic beauty. Maybe, someday when they grow up they’ll learn to appreciate the beauty of it all.

 

 

But all this comes with a price. To access the nearest point of civilization one has to travel 45 minutes downhill. Schools, hospitals etc came to this proximity only a couple of years ago. Even electricity reached this place , only a few years back. Kids from the area stayed in boardings or as paying guests, in the pursuit for a good education. Yet, most of them learned the lessons of life the hard way, there is something about their simplicity which overshadows their great achievements.

New roads have been constructed, the place is now accessible by all means of transport (for the past 6 months), it is developing as a tourist spot, which now serves as an additional income for the people who lived on the returns from  pepper, rubber and arecanuts. While, the allure of money stays they do complain… how it has all crept in and distorted the grandeur of the place.  People hunt ruthlessly in the forests, beer cans and bottles are sprawled across the river shore, drunk youngsters and tourists make it unsafe for women to venture out after dark…

And that leaves me with the question, the paradox of development. While accessibility has improved, facilities have increased and lifestyles are changing, these people are unhappy about the place losing its past glory.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wheels of time

The two-wheeler which transported many Indian middle class families is going to be history now. I’m sure each one of us would have warm memories associated with that Bajaj scooter that safely carried us to schools, offices, markets…

My dad says that during the days of Bajaj’s glory, the common sentiment was “If you book a scooter at the time of your daughter’s birth, it will be ready for delivery at the time of the daughter’s marriage… you can give it as a dowry”… Such was the emotional accord with this vehicle which sends me to another trip down the lane.. on a Bajaj scooter.

The transition of my Dad, from an uptight principled bachelor to a family man was made possible only through this Bajaj ( Says Amma). He who was not ready to relent to anything that went against the law, paid his first bribe for this Bajaj scooter. It was some sort of premium payment.

The pride on the daughter’s face, traveling in the scooter, standing in the front. The excitement on being given occasional opportunities to press the horn.

The attempt to kickstart and finding yourself hanging and moving along with the starter.

The number of times you hurt your fingers trying to secure the school bag on the hook at the front which had some weird mechanism.

When you grew taller, the front position gave way to the sandwiched position, perched between the parents. Kinda analogous with your own life. As a toddler you were the centre of attraction, as a school going kid you were sandwiched between people, trying to fit in and find your place.

Soon, came the realization, motorbikes zipping past were way ‘cooler’ than the scooters. Yet, most of us chose to stay on with our beloved Bajaj.

Having served us for more than a decade, the Bajaj started showing signs of fatigue. It was time to let go of the old and embrace a new Bajaj. Sadly, the new one did not last more than half a decade. Quality which was the landmark of the brand, soon made way to unpredictable frequent breakdowns. Maintenance became an expensive affair, the consumers became rational… you could no longer survive with sentiments overpowering pragmatism. Thus, we had to switch brand loyalty…

It dawned upon us… sometimes you have to let go.

Yet, the Bajaj scooters remain as relics of a generation that grew up with globalization.

Tomorrow, I’ll be explaining to my grand-kids, what Bajaj scooter was, just like my parents describe, what was ‘kaala thekku’ to me.

Kaala Thekku: A mechanism to irrigate fields in the olden days like this… see picture

Picture source: http://www.columbia.edu/itc/mealac/pritchett/00routesdata/1800_1899/dailylife_drawings/ilnviews/ilnviews.html

Ileyamma

“Kungone, chorunnu”, the words still reverberate.Though I was too small to remember the days I spent with her, fragments of memories still remain. I remember she’d run behind me, while I dragged myself in the walker and later on ran all over the place. The process of feeding me used to be a procession. Ileyamma would carry me and walk around the park and mom or aunt would tag along with the plate of food. It would take at least 3-4 rounds in the park to feed me. I was a stubborn kid who wouldn’t let anything pass through her food pipe unless I had a view of the outside world and in a constant motion. Years later, people would taunt me saying, if Ileyamma had walked that distance (to feed me all those years) in a straight line, she would’ve reached Kothamangalam from B’lore. I remember how I would openly proclaim, I like her more than my maternal grandmother. I remember how she would call me ‘Kunjone’, my version of her calling me ‘kunjumone’. I know it was no easy task at her age to look after a kid like me. In spite of her health problems she stayed on till my parents could make an alternative arrangement, that came in the form of another blessed woman, ammumma about whom I’ve already mentioned.

Ileyamma, is my maternal grandmother’s younger sister. She is a spinster yet, has the distinction of bringing up 15 kids in the family. My mother was sent to her uncle’s place after the birth of her younger sibling and it was Ileyamma who took care of her. History repeated itself in a way, when Ileyamma was the person who took care of me during my infancy. At that crucial time when my parents were helpless, (we couldn’t afford a servant from our hometown to stay full time in B’lore and  my mother couldn’t afford to quit her job) it was Ileyamma who stepped forward.

She showered us all with unconditional love. She substituted the role of what my maternal grandmother should’ve done. That of a mother for my mom and a grandmother for me. She had nobody of her own, yet, I don’t think any other in the family is held with so much respect and love as much as her. She’s been a solace for all working parents when it comes to taking care of their babies. Even though she didn’t have kids or grandchildren of her own, she has 15 of them, who still fight to claim, “I’m HER  baby”.

On the eve of my B’day this year, my aunt broke that devastating news. Ileyamma was dying. Cancer in the pancreas and intestines was taking her away from us. We were losing her slowly. Everyone was shocked. Doctors said that if it was diagnosed early something could be done but now it was too late. Ileyamma, not wanting to trouble anyone, depended on the ayurvedic medicines from the local doctor when the initial symptoms like stomach pain started showing. It was only in an advanced stage that we all came to know about her illness.

All this leaves us with a guilty conscience. This incident showed the value of relationships. People had taken her for granted over the years.  As the kids grew up, Ileyamma’s role started becoming less important and she was left shuttling between a few nephews’ and nieces’ homes. People got busy with their lives and our contact with Ileyamma was limited to the occasional phone calls or a visit once a year. These are things I deeply regret now. For all those years lost. We could’ve done more for her during those days and now we’re in a situation we cannot do anything for her.

Prayers, wishes, they all seem futile. Its terrible to see someone dying, especially your loved one. All I wish is, let her die a peaceful death coz I can’t bear to see her suffer anymore.

Ever since, I got to know Ileyamma’s days were counted, I’ve been trying to post something about her, but I always end up discarding the post, coz I feel words wouldn’t do justice to what she really means to me or my family.

Reminiscing those summers

This was probably the last summer vacation of my life. Blame it on recession and the unpredictable B’luru weather that eventually made me write this really long post.

Early memories : I spent the first 7 years of my life in Bangalore and we stayed in a staff quarters. It was huge with a couple of parks within and lots of space for us kids to wreak havoc. As my parents were working, I was entrusted in the care of Ammumma during the day. There was a gang of 8-10 of us who turned out to be the neighbours’ nightmare. Be it chasing the neighbours’ dogs or breaking their flower-pots and windows, flicking clothes from the clothes line or running across the grains that were spread out in the sun to dry ( gone are those days when coriander seeds, chilies, wheat etc were powdered in the mill after drying in the sun)… they all knew who the culprits were. As girls were a minority, we were bullied into playing games, which were monopolized by the boys. Cricket, goti ( marbles), spinning the top, football… these were the games we were forced to play . The only game both sides consented to play was ‘hide and seek’. We would usually play this game in the afternoons when most of the aunties in the building would be enjoying their siestas and the coast was clear for us to hide on the terrace and between the water-tanks. I had my first lessons in P&C , with ‘in-pin-safety-pin’ , trying to save myself from being the seeker. Now we had our own innovative ways of cheating but this one tops the list. Since we girls lived in the same block, sometimes our clothes would be hung to dry on the clothesline on the terrace. The boys would fit themselves into the skirts and stick their butts out from behind a door or on the landing space of the stairs, misleading the seeker. So he had to count, recount and do so for the entire afternoon.

Few summers passed with the same old routine until life changed with a transfer to Trivandrum. . I was heartbroken to leave my circle of friends and my only concern was will I make friends in Tvm? Our rented house in Tvm was at the entrance of this by-lane and there was no one of my age around. My first friend here is a well-known math tuition teacher for 11-12 classes in Tvm now ( Prasad sir)! So you can imagine how, a 7 year old girl was all lonely and sad, with no friends and no one to play with. Summers then made my parents paranoid. Both of them couldn’t afford to take leave and were wondering what to do with me.

The first solution was a failed attempt at sending me to Jawahar Bal Bhavan. June was still a problem as schools reopened but I had vacations until the last week of June. With no other option left, I’d be dragged to my parents offices, alternating between the two. Amma’s office was small in terms of work force but had a huge expanse of area, situated close to our house. It was a prominent research centre and had numerous testing labs, workshops etc and when Amma was too busy, I would slip out to these places. I had my hands on experience with a voltmeter and other similar equipment at an age when I could barely spell their names. Workshop was my favorite hangout watching the technicians doing the cutting, drilling, moulding etc. A huge windmill, which was assembled during one such vacation, was a fascinating sight still etched in my memory. Solar panels, biomass stoves… I was introduced to the non-conventional energy sources quite early and I didn’t leave a single opportunity to show off during science classes in school. Once, there was this group of French Scientists working on a new prototype of a solar cooker and I was officially a part of the research team’s entertainment, sitting wide-eyed and awestruck seeing that water boiled with no fire. Magic, Magic, the Frenchmen tried to fool me though I blindly believed them then . The office had a huge garden and I would mercilessly catch butterflies and put them in a small container. So also, I developed this fascination for a certain type of weed, which looked beautiful. Planning to surprise my mom, I made a bouquet with the available weeds, grass and all that trash (plucking flowers from the garden was a strict no-no… whoever said the gardener Manian was my best friend) but the surprise element came when I developed rashes and started itching all over my body.

Visits to Appa’s office was another experience altogether. This was the typical govt. office, overstaffed, filled with dusty files, gossip aunties, and virtually no space for me to wander about.. People who went to my Dad for attestation work, often complained he couldn’t be located, seated behind the files. Well, the aunties in office pampered me for sure. I’d be seated at the corner of Appa’s table with the age-old technique of making a child docile… drawing book, sketch pens and crayons. Watercolors were a strict no-no after I managed to add some color to someone’s Confidential Report that my dad was working on. I was not the kind who could sit quiet for hours together in some corner. When Appa was not looking, I would sneak out and once, got lost. A couple of years later, the construction of our house began in the far end of the same by-lane and those 2 years were the times I enjoyed my summer vacations to the maximum.

The construction work began in a summer and Appa was on leave. I would accompany him to the site and learnt the basic lessons of construction. Those days if anyone asked me what you want to be when you grow up I’d answer ‘Mesthiri ayal mathi’ ( I want to be a Mason). I would pester the carpenter to let me try a hand at the device used to scrape wood and level them, or else mix cement or be part of some activity or other. One day after being brushed off by all of them, I was playing the sand that was piled up on our construction site. Remember the ‘mannappams‘ we made with coconut shells. I was busy making a few, when this girl and her sister joined in from the neighbourhood. ( More people had moved into the neighbourhood by then). Those days something as simple as ‘njanum varatte‘( can I also join in) laid the foundation for a life-long friendship. Today imagine the number of times you think about whether to take the initiative and ask ‘can I join in?’ without being asked to. The three of us hit off really well and in a couple of days, there were few more additions to the gang. We were seven of us now and this time girls were a majority . There was a basement, left idle in an adjacent plot, which became our official playground. ‘Kanjim curryum‘ was our favorite kali(game).( what else do you expect when a gang of five girls, aged 7-12 join in). So we girls had our first lessons in managing the household. At that time, the soil dug out in the process of digging a well was piled in the plot. The different layers were of different colors. We had enough ‘raw material’ and ‘provisions’ to last us for one summer. Sand, bricks, mud, leaves, broken utensils, water, wooden scrapings… name it, you had it. Our menu and ingredients were something like this: Sand-Rice Red soil+ water- Sambhar/Rasam ,

Yellow soil+ water- Pulisseri (a mallu dish made with curd),

White soil+ water- Morumvellam (buttermilk),

Mussaenda – chicken pieces

wood scrapings( the long ones)- cabbage thoran, Soon anthurium flowers found their way into the menu ( it was fish fry I guess) and neighbours started wondering what was happening to their plants. Our creativity in culinary skills were enhanced with all those chambaykkas( water apples), mangoes and pulis (tamarinds) we managed to gorge on during the summers.(and developed digestive problems too).

At the end of the day, I was allowed entry into the house only through the backdoor, which led to the bathroom. “Kulikkathe ninne veetil kettila. Kaala kalichu, chelil kulichu vannekkunnu” ( I wont let you enter my house, unless you have a bath) Amma would scream . Soon construction began in the adjacent plots too and we were a sad group with literally no place to gather and play. Indoor games and board games were not for us! Each passing summer also stood witness to the fact that we were growing up. We were placed with greater responsibilities, esp. on the academic front. Tuitions ate into our playtime; people started focusing on their studies, my piano grade exam preps took all my time in the summer hols and the entire gang was now reduced to a group of people who were acquainted with each other. As years progressed , few of us moved into different cities while some of them shifted from the locale.

Separated by time and distance all that remains are the sweet memories of those summers.