Summer sets in and I begin the countdown, vacation will soon be at my doorsteps. I start my regular enquiries… “ammey(mom), when are we going to ammamma’s (grandma) place this time?” The moments’ amma took to reply were nail biting impatience personified for the kid in me. She murmured vaguely in between the chores to be completed before going to school. “Paray ammey, please (tell mom)”- I insist in impatience. “Let achan(dad) wake up, you can ask him” – she speaks undecided. The curiosity & excitement cannot wait. My anxiety peeps into the room and check his eyes closely. Unable to contain the excitement my small tongue whispers into his ears – “ enitto acha? (Are u awake dad?)” And yes he wakes up. Before he gets angry, my cute smile makes his day.
I shoot my questions like the rapid fire. “ nammal naattil pokumo acha?( will we go to the native place?)”
He nods in affirmative, sleep still lingering in his nostrils, breath, eyes and eyelashes.
“ Really?” The exclamation is innocent. “ When will we book the tickets?” and 100 other questions wander in the morning mist.
Neither did my Ammamma nor we have a telephone. A 5th standard’s heart yearns to hear, meet and enjoy the moments of life in his distant native. A visit close to heart. It was always twice a year that he visited Vadakara/Thalassery. The excitement though didn’t cease even with the arrival of the telephone, except that the intimacy grew. A feeling even my mobile grants is that the person is near my heart.
The half yearly exam culminates. Last day is more in anticipation for the final bell to ring. A hundred thousand plans charted in mind, memories of intermittent rains cascading the roofs, cricket, football and ammamma’s warmth, all pregnant in his mind to deliver. Shouldn’t I make things happen? Lots of plans went unfulfilled in the previous vacation. Should make amends and I board the school bus to take me fast.
The enthusiasm in packing my bags, the wait for the train to come, the hooting smoking train, jumping up and down the berths, hanging like Tarzan until dad presses the pause button- energy exuded uncompromisingly. I sleep but wake up early & see the morning change its suit to vibrancy. I dint know the time. ‘Tellicherry” or say Thalassery, The black in yellow invites me. The greed to board an airborne private bus, for Trivandrum always had the snailing KSRTC’s (govt. buses). The private ones had an extra staff, the kili or cleaner, thumping on the aluminum sheet metal in resonance to any neighbour who may kiss his door.
Ammamma comes and picks me up in both hands. Kisses of intimacy and showers of love were spread across. Ajitechi too ‘walks out’ in embrace. There are a few kids who look in awe and excitement. They have come for tuition. Ajitechi, my mom’s sis cum the ‘Sacred heart convent’ teacher teaches them. My eyes search for Master Sarin – one among the naughty guys whom I befriended last May. A hand springs up from the motley crowd of girls and boys. I wave back stealing the moment from Ajitechi. The flock starts to gossip. ‘ Silence!’ Ajitechi shouts. I look elsewhere as if the culprit is on the roof. Before turning back, I blink at him the one eyed art that he had taught me last.
A, B, C, D, E…. and the classes continue at its reverberating best in frequency. I regret looking down at those 5th standard pals who were no magic in my eyes. Learning A.B,C’s at the age of 10, where I used to chorus at the age of 5. Learning Apples, Balls & Cats when I was delving deep in the parts of speech and figures of speech. By hearting a way of life.
Sanoj goes over the top. The carpenters son, adept in making small tables, chairs as showpieces, misses the K in the list, gets a ‘K for kissing’ from the cane. Ajitechi seethes, but in control. My small eyes watch it all through the grilled window of the bedroom. The 11 AM’s saw them all leave in a herd, after a strict and strenuous exercise. The plastic covers of the jewellery shops rustle in glee for they get their companion in the book it holds. Another romantic sequel.
Ambili looked cute in her red Paavada (frock) and sandal dyed blouse. Her face elevated by the small mark of sandal applied in horizontal streaks. Her hair tied in pretty knots rested on both the shoulders. The decorated umbrella in her hand opened. She turned back and smiled. “Did she have a crush?”. She was one among the many I dazed easily with my smile. Once later she came to me and professed with all shyness and gifted a peck on my cheek. She breezed away faster than the wind. I looked around to breath free. None had seen the small act of affection. She looked an aunty to the tiny me. Ever after whenever she was in proximity, I escaped her glances and approaches. No strings attached rule. A happily married housewife, she should be enjoying in one among the 100’s of Malayali gulf mints. There was but a butterfly that had me enthralled with her dainty dances in the house. An arch of Vermillion decorates her forehead now, losing her transparent wings to someone titled a husband. The boys were simpler in their slippers, non-tucked, half sleeved shirts and half pants sometimes covered in the length of the shirt.
By noon the scent of ammamma’s sardines deep-frying in the ocean of coconut oil was seeping through the nostrils. Pomfret, mackerel, mussels, rayfish and kingfish are on the way in the days to come. The new Chinese wok (cheenachatti) was happy for being ‘fired’, after a long wait. The tastiest cabbages fried until it glistened at the marvel of oil and turmeric polishing the sheath. Mustards added an unknown charm as beauty spots to the dry side dish. Fish curry came a class apart; mangoes in the backyard added the sour and fruity taste amiss to the yellow gravy. Another lovely memory had always been the tamarind – chilly- tomato – fish combo, colloquially termed the ‘puliyum mulakum’. The fish burying in a darkish brown hue and the tongue twisting to the tastes of eternity.
Feasting sumptuously had my stomach work hard on avoiding a siesta. I had other plans in mind. A whistling whisper from the grilled window woke me up from a slippery slumber of the ‘thekke akam’ (east facing room). Sarin is back after his lunch. The mischievous guy with blubber, whom I had pocketed for my local exploits. Bribed with chocolates, he turned a dedicated guide.
“Let’s to go to kaadar mappilla’s (moplah) cashew farm and collect some” - I welcomed his plan gleefully. His eyes were eagerly waiting for my agreement. Like a cat silent in the walk to steal, I slipped slowly into my shorts and moved out of the room. Freedom of the skies. Sarin already had the plastic bags for the collectors pick. Anything ranging from small mangoes, cashews, bilimbi, areca nut, jamuns used to find place in the collectors colourful mosaic. But the whole bag would smell pungent and look dirty brown by evening. We leapt two steps at a time and ran as fast on the reddish dusty streets. Time was precious, we hadn’t got a watch yet. The birds, colors of the sky, intensity of the light were our guide in going back. We wont steal- that was decided. In summary we decided not to throw stones at the hanging fruits. Well-mannered and cultured kids – I patted myself. “Lets collect the cashews that have fallen at the mercy of a birds beak or the kiss of a swift breeze” – I suggest. The afternoons were posh in gifting. Children who usually collect were either asleep or weren’t allowed to venture in the summer heat. Thanks for the sultry climate we had our pick. Every cashew collected made us greedy. We left the pulpy red pseudo fruit for the birds or squirrels to peck. The interest swept away the significance of time from our thoughts. Grandma stood red faced like steel poured from the Bessemer. She has known of my eloping episode from a local spy. But I smelt banana fry’s too… I presented my steal. Two Amulya tins filled to the brim. Cashew barons in the making. She didn’t question. She had seen 1000’s of kids from the ages she started teaching.
Ajitechi takes over the mantle, and threatens me. I knew that they are planning my dental extractions. I was always offered an extra glass of ‘rasna’ if the teeth were removed. Though painful, my taste buds fell under the lure, coaxed my puny thoughts and agreed upon the deal. Ajitechi was always sweet like the rasna, taking me to every street in Thalassery for the best buy, getting me the normally restricted-by-mom falooda’s and ice creams, biriyani from paris restaurant. The most enjoyable among the scores of experiences were my visit to the Girls’ convent school. “When will u retire?” I ask Pathros, the peon. He stood confused at my callous query. I passionately disclosed my ambition to the head sister who stood pampering me. “Can I be the next peon here and see all these girls in sky blue and white like a daily dose of medicine”. The whole staff room burst out in contagious laugher to the 10 year old’s innocence. Ajitechi wasn’t embarrassed as she expected such gimmicks from me.
By late evening as the situation curtails its intensity and I plead ammamma to get some nuts warm out of the sleeping cashews. The flame was set on the coconut husk. In the burning pyre slowly and carefully were buried some nuts. I waited with bated breath, holding my tongue, wetting my lips, teeth biting it at times, eyes in reverence. We were warned to stay off. The crackling sounds had established the nuts bottoms hot. Plop came a sound, out came the nut. After a while of dancing, ammamma took it out carefully with the tongs made of coconut ribs, reminding me of the Chinese with the chopsticks. The aroma was ecstatically addicting my olfactory, satiating the air of its pungency; so intense to attract the far stretched. Adding to the metaphor of love in the air. We opened every nut carefully to see the treasure inside. Some had burned itself beyond recognition, some mutilated, and discarded without mercy. Dusk hues spread the aroma of ammamma’s oil, ayurveda deep rooted in the culture of kerala. I accompany her to collect the dry leaves. A favourite pastime. Mangifera’s contribute the maximum to heat the water, secondary position held by the jackfruit leaves. The yellow-oranges were segregated, for once the sun evaporate the remaining water and earth distill the residual chlorophyll. The rains made the air smell clarity and the cool environs added to my sleep. Nights were the newspaper time for grandma. Marriages and bon voyages to heavenly abodes were keenly looked into. I sat watching the flies hover around the not so dangerous flickers of the fluorescent. There was one peculiarity of the rainy days. Less traffic into shops, shutters down earlier. Divakarettan will come. The dampened spirit of his lost business lightened up with the playful spirit in our ludo or ‘snake and ladder’ games. Torchlight on the ‘devoid of street light’ lanes was under surveillance. One torch and its light definitely would climb our cemented steps. I would run inside to collect the boards, the 4x4 coloured red, yellow, green & blue buttons, the die numbered one to six (sanoj, the genius, ‘carpenter in the making’ had crafted it from wood), mostly it fell facing six for my convenience as I insisted starting the game. Six awarded the player to roll the die once again. Now I had to find players, Tinku was too small to entertain the crowd; still he was a part when cousins weren’t available. Else a referee cum collector. Divakarettan entertained all with his daily dose of humour. I too enjoyed it until 99 plummeting to the unlucky 13 threw my tantrums on the playing board. Then I run inside and come back after a while rejuvenated. I used to hold on them late night to climb the rungs in the ladder and win at least once. A small game that built my confidence, a game that portrayed life as a game of rise and fall, positives and negatives. Failures had to be accepted gleefully and nurtured to find the minute dent that caused a defeat or loss. Even today my loss is someone else’s gain. My perspectives to life’s challenges and spirits never inclined to the negative.
I shoot my questions like the rapid fire. “ nammal naattil pokumo acha?( will we go to the native place?)”
He nods in affirmative, sleep still lingering in his nostrils, breath, eyes and eyelashes.
“ Really?” The exclamation is innocent. “ When will we book the tickets?” and 100 other questions wander in the morning mist.
Neither did my Ammamma nor we have a telephone. A 5th standard’s heart yearns to hear, meet and enjoy the moments of life in his distant native. A visit close to heart. It was always twice a year that he visited Vadakara/Thalassery. The excitement though didn’t cease even with the arrival of the telephone, except that the intimacy grew. A feeling even my mobile grants is that the person is near my heart.
The half yearly exam culminates. Last day is more in anticipation for the final bell to ring. A hundred thousand plans charted in mind, memories of intermittent rains cascading the roofs, cricket, football and ammamma’s warmth, all pregnant in his mind to deliver. Shouldn’t I make things happen? Lots of plans went unfulfilled in the previous vacation. Should make amends and I board the school bus to take me fast.
The enthusiasm in packing my bags, the wait for the train to come, the hooting smoking train, jumping up and down the berths, hanging like Tarzan until dad presses the pause button- energy exuded uncompromisingly. I sleep but wake up early & see the morning change its suit to vibrancy. I dint know the time. ‘Tellicherry” or say Thalassery, The black in yellow invites me. The greed to board an airborne private bus, for Trivandrum always had the snailing KSRTC’s (govt. buses). The private ones had an extra staff, the kili or cleaner, thumping on the aluminum sheet metal in resonance to any neighbour who may kiss his door.
Ammamma comes and picks me up in both hands. Kisses of intimacy and showers of love were spread across. Ajitechi too ‘walks out’ in embrace. There are a few kids who look in awe and excitement. They have come for tuition. Ajitechi, my mom’s sis cum the ‘Sacred heart convent’ teacher teaches them. My eyes search for Master Sarin – one among the naughty guys whom I befriended last May. A hand springs up from the motley crowd of girls and boys. I wave back stealing the moment from Ajitechi. The flock starts to gossip. ‘ Silence!’ Ajitechi shouts. I look elsewhere as if the culprit is on the roof. Before turning back, I blink at him the one eyed art that he had taught me last.
A, B, C, D, E…. and the classes continue at its reverberating best in frequency. I regret looking down at those 5th standard pals who were no magic in my eyes. Learning A.B,C’s at the age of 10, where I used to chorus at the age of 5. Learning Apples, Balls & Cats when I was delving deep in the parts of speech and figures of speech. By hearting a way of life.
Sanoj goes over the top. The carpenters son, adept in making small tables, chairs as showpieces, misses the K in the list, gets a ‘K for kissing’ from the cane. Ajitechi seethes, but in control. My small eyes watch it all through the grilled window of the bedroom. The 11 AM’s saw them all leave in a herd, after a strict and strenuous exercise. The plastic covers of the jewellery shops rustle in glee for they get their companion in the book it holds. Another romantic sequel.
Ambili looked cute in her red Paavada (frock) and sandal dyed blouse. Her face elevated by the small mark of sandal applied in horizontal streaks. Her hair tied in pretty knots rested on both the shoulders. The decorated umbrella in her hand opened. She turned back and smiled. “Did she have a crush?”. She was one among the many I dazed easily with my smile. Once later she came to me and professed with all shyness and gifted a peck on my cheek. She breezed away faster than the wind. I looked around to breath free. None had seen the small act of affection. She looked an aunty to the tiny me. Ever after whenever she was in proximity, I escaped her glances and approaches. No strings attached rule. A happily married housewife, she should be enjoying in one among the 100’s of Malayali gulf mints. There was but a butterfly that had me enthralled with her dainty dances in the house. An arch of Vermillion decorates her forehead now, losing her transparent wings to someone titled a husband. The boys were simpler in their slippers, non-tucked, half sleeved shirts and half pants sometimes covered in the length of the shirt.
By noon the scent of ammamma’s sardines deep-frying in the ocean of coconut oil was seeping through the nostrils. Pomfret, mackerel, mussels, rayfish and kingfish are on the way in the days to come. The new Chinese wok (cheenachatti) was happy for being ‘fired’, after a long wait. The tastiest cabbages fried until it glistened at the marvel of oil and turmeric polishing the sheath. Mustards added an unknown charm as beauty spots to the dry side dish. Fish curry came a class apart; mangoes in the backyard added the sour and fruity taste amiss to the yellow gravy. Another lovely memory had always been the tamarind – chilly- tomato – fish combo, colloquially termed the ‘puliyum mulakum’. The fish burying in a darkish brown hue and the tongue twisting to the tastes of eternity.
Feasting sumptuously had my stomach work hard on avoiding a siesta. I had other plans in mind. A whistling whisper from the grilled window woke me up from a slippery slumber of the ‘thekke akam’ (east facing room). Sarin is back after his lunch. The mischievous guy with blubber, whom I had pocketed for my local exploits. Bribed with chocolates, he turned a dedicated guide.
“Let’s to go to kaadar mappilla’s (moplah) cashew farm and collect some” - I welcomed his plan gleefully. His eyes were eagerly waiting for my agreement. Like a cat silent in the walk to steal, I slipped slowly into my shorts and moved out of the room. Freedom of the skies. Sarin already had the plastic bags for the collectors pick. Anything ranging from small mangoes, cashews, bilimbi, areca nut, jamuns used to find place in the collectors colourful mosaic. But the whole bag would smell pungent and look dirty brown by evening. We leapt two steps at a time and ran as fast on the reddish dusty streets. Time was precious, we hadn’t got a watch yet. The birds, colors of the sky, intensity of the light were our guide in going back. We wont steal- that was decided. In summary we decided not to throw stones at the hanging fruits. Well-mannered and cultured kids – I patted myself. “Lets collect the cashews that have fallen at the mercy of a birds beak or the kiss of a swift breeze” – I suggest. The afternoons were posh in gifting. Children who usually collect were either asleep or weren’t allowed to venture in the summer heat. Thanks for the sultry climate we had our pick. Every cashew collected made us greedy. We left the pulpy red pseudo fruit for the birds or squirrels to peck. The interest swept away the significance of time from our thoughts. Grandma stood red faced like steel poured from the Bessemer. She has known of my eloping episode from a local spy. But I smelt banana fry’s too… I presented my steal. Two Amulya tins filled to the brim. Cashew barons in the making. She didn’t question. She had seen 1000’s of kids from the ages she started teaching.
Ajitechi takes over the mantle, and threatens me. I knew that they are planning my dental extractions. I was always offered an extra glass of ‘rasna’ if the teeth were removed. Though painful, my taste buds fell under the lure, coaxed my puny thoughts and agreed upon the deal. Ajitechi was always sweet like the rasna, taking me to every street in Thalassery for the best buy, getting me the normally restricted-by-mom falooda’s and ice creams, biriyani from paris restaurant. The most enjoyable among the scores of experiences were my visit to the Girls’ convent school. “When will u retire?” I ask Pathros, the peon. He stood confused at my callous query. I passionately disclosed my ambition to the head sister who stood pampering me. “Can I be the next peon here and see all these girls in sky blue and white like a daily dose of medicine”. The whole staff room burst out in contagious laugher to the 10 year old’s innocence. Ajitechi wasn’t embarrassed as she expected such gimmicks from me.
By late evening as the situation curtails its intensity and I plead ammamma to get some nuts warm out of the sleeping cashews. The flame was set on the coconut husk. In the burning pyre slowly and carefully were buried some nuts. I waited with bated breath, holding my tongue, wetting my lips, teeth biting it at times, eyes in reverence. We were warned to stay off. The crackling sounds had established the nuts bottoms hot. Plop came a sound, out came the nut. After a while of dancing, ammamma took it out carefully with the tongs made of coconut ribs, reminding me of the Chinese with the chopsticks. The aroma was ecstatically addicting my olfactory, satiating the air of its pungency; so intense to attract the far stretched. Adding to the metaphor of love in the air. We opened every nut carefully to see the treasure inside. Some had burned itself beyond recognition, some mutilated, and discarded without mercy. Dusk hues spread the aroma of ammamma’s oil, ayurveda deep rooted in the culture of kerala. I accompany her to collect the dry leaves. A favourite pastime. Mangifera’s contribute the maximum to heat the water, secondary position held by the jackfruit leaves. The yellow-oranges were segregated, for once the sun evaporate the remaining water and earth distill the residual chlorophyll. The rains made the air smell clarity and the cool environs added to my sleep. Nights were the newspaper time for grandma. Marriages and bon voyages to heavenly abodes were keenly looked into. I sat watching the flies hover around the not so dangerous flickers of the fluorescent. There was one peculiarity of the rainy days. Less traffic into shops, shutters down earlier. Divakarettan will come. The dampened spirit of his lost business lightened up with the playful spirit in our ludo or ‘snake and ladder’ games. Torchlight on the ‘devoid of street light’ lanes was under surveillance. One torch and its light definitely would climb our cemented steps. I would run inside to collect the boards, the 4x4 coloured red, yellow, green & blue buttons, the die numbered one to six (sanoj, the genius, ‘carpenter in the making’ had crafted it from wood), mostly it fell facing six for my convenience as I insisted starting the game. Six awarded the player to roll the die once again. Now I had to find players, Tinku was too small to entertain the crowd; still he was a part when cousins weren’t available. Else a referee cum collector. Divakarettan entertained all with his daily dose of humour. I too enjoyed it until 99 plummeting to the unlucky 13 threw my tantrums on the playing board. Then I run inside and come back after a while rejuvenated. I used to hold on them late night to climb the rungs in the ladder and win at least once. A small game that built my confidence, a game that portrayed life as a game of rise and fall, positives and negatives. Failures had to be accepted gleefully and nurtured to find the minute dent that caused a defeat or loss. Even today my loss is someone else’s gain. My perspectives to life’s challenges and spirits never inclined to the negative.
2 comments:
Anyways your writing is superb, I love the way u have projected in all the queries and concerns of a fifth grader (in India at those times) in pure innocence.
I loved the summer time better as u have a lot more activities during that time, and as I always say………I have missed a lot. Will try to get Eesha the same.
I admire the way you write..
Lines like
“Before he gets angry, my cute smile makes his day” just touches the heart
“I look elsewhere as if the culprit is on the roof. Before turning back, I blink at him …..” succeeds in producing a curve instantly on my face ….
The way you have brought out “Ambili” in itself sounds a plot for a saga..
I could just go on with each bit ………
O yea, one more …I had not even got out of the tea making that you have fish fries to drool about now
What else do I write…….an excellent slice of memory…
This post made me wish for a rewind button to life…….. “on” and you are back to those care free years……….sigh!!!
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