He swerved the
car into the narrow street on the right that could have been easily missed as
old land marks he remembered where all gone, but yet he had the hunch that this
was the one. He was not wrong. .As he let the car gently down the asphalt
country road that was once, long winding dusty strip strewn disorderly with
stones – granite metal which made walking along an exercise that demanded some
effort and deftness if one was not wearing thick soled footwear. Now, when the
car moved along the winding stretch, he mused about the past, long ago when he
was little- vacations from school was often spent in this country side that
knew no bounds and time was elastic and gaiety & fun seamless; where sun
above was not hot but only warm, when people were people.
The warm days of summer beginning March stayed warm until
the manna pelted down as summer rains in mid of April. It was usual for the sun
to be dispassionately severe through each day, as severe as it could; until one
day on an afternoon unannounced thunderous cumulus nimbus and cumulus stratus would
gather menacingly, condense and rain down. Marvelous and awesome blazing silver
fiery streaks flash across the skies packed with dark ominous clouds, like the whipping
of urumi- the curling sword of gods,
thunderous clangouring of their steel armour-clasp of the cymbal in the skies
deafeningly transform the air. Beasts, birds and man young and old their senses
awed by the shift in the air, scramble towards shelter. Hailstorms were not often
an exception that lashed the earth during summer and enlivened children who ran
helter-skelter with aluminum pans and vessels upside down over their heads as
protection from the pelting from the sky- scrambling to pick the stones of ice.
They would refuse to barter it with fistful of diamonds, but to their dismay in
even time hail stones would melt into water.
The summer rains was
often, a timely elixir from the heavens to quench the parched lands and paddy
fields. Mayflies that appear from nowhere and with no warning swarm the afternoon;
rain clouds – grey and dark grey gather above. The rains pour down always in
the mid afternoon when humidity reached its apogee and could even threaten the
fishes that surface in the ponds for air. Lightning and thunder makes a signature
statement. Occasionally lightning struck a tall coconut palm and they appear
like burning torches of the god of fire – “Agni”
up in the heavens. Soon the rain quenches the fire but the tree would be scorched
and lifeless, smoking from its top as from chimney and by then destined to stand,
remain like tall detritus relic of an ancient era bearing an ineluctable fate.
He reminisced how once three tall coconut trees were struck by the bolt of
lightning and stood burning at their top even in the rain. It was an awesome
sight. To be appreciated with humility – the insignificance of our being. The
power of Nature!
The morning after was always feast for the mynas, the
sparrows, the mina and crows and
pheasants, indulging on the carcasses of Mayflies. Cattle Egrets flock in from
their usual pastures in the paddy fields. Green jack fruits dazzled on the tree
trunks with regained freshness, the dark green leaves washed off the summer
dust, sparkle in the morning sunrays.
The land will have regained its stymied vitality, the soil,
the grass, the trees, the fresh look water in the ponds, and the puddles on the
pathways -élan vital.
Then again, the sun got back with vengeance to burn
unrelenting on the mortals below attempting perhaps to dampen the hubris of
man.
The lull in the in the downpour till the month of May is ephemeral
and the monsoon arrives. The monsoon is announced by the presence of dragon flies.
It was said that they flew in ahead of the monsoon sailing in its current over
the Indian Ocean from far away Africa. The arrival of the monsoon rains in late
May, early June gathering from far out in the sea off the southern coast of
Thiruvanathapuram, reaches central Travancore in a day. It is then pell-mell.
Poets and the pleasant hearted relate the monsoon downpour
to the ragas; the fall, the beating of the rain drops to the gentle percussion,
the rain itself –the romantic melody from the soul of the Veena of the Gods.
Did the Gods by themselves render the Amruthavarshiniraga
that propitiates heavens to bring forth the rain? The Ramayana describes that when the Asura King of Lanka Ravanan set
fire to the tail of Rama’s messenger – the monkey Hanuman, the mischievous primate
set fire to entire Lanka. Then Ravana played the Amruthavarshini raga on his Veena and brought forth rain to douse
the flames around his city.
It would be deluge- water, water everywhere! Tiny country
boats and thatched kettuvallams would
look like distant ghostly arks in the streams, backwaters and the expanse of
the Vembanadlake. Lush green shrubs lined the peripheries as fences. They lined
serpentine pathways demarcating lands. The path way was dug out a few feet in
width and was called thodu as they were also meant to let water flow along in
the monsoon and rains. Monsoon brought much profusion of water, that water form
ponds that fringed the fences overflowed into the thodu in the monsoon, and along
with it, in it, little fishes, tiny crustaceans and even small fresh water
turtles. Tadpoles seemed to outnumber their exotic amphibian cousins –fishes,
silver, yellow, red and some plain and dull. Frogs croaked in chorus as if they
were accompanying music to a waltz – male frogs calling to attract a mate. In
the night lashed by the wind and the rain, in the lull in the rain male frogs call
from where numerous males have converged on breeding sites by the pond and
among the damp peats. It was common near the edges of ponds to see frogs'
embryos typically surrounded by several layers of off white gelatinous
material- several eggs clumped together, frogspawn.
Life was manifestly profuse and effervescing in those
surroundings and waters during and after the monsoon. Life frolicked after the
rains while it was sedate and brimming under the surface at other times eager
to erupt free. Walking along the thodu was almost impossible then. One had to wade.
The palm fringed beach, white sand, backwaters, paddy fields
that seemed to extend beyond the horizon, sacred groves and mammoth mango trees
that dropped ripened sweet fruits at the whiff of a breeze in the warmer climes
of summer nights and days always beckoned. Mangoes-ambrosia, sweeter than any
elixir from the heavens, some fell off the trees pecked and half eaten by
crows, squirrels and birds. They fell with little thud and sometimes like
meteorite showers. Under the huge Chakarachi, some would even roll down the
periphery of the pond by which the tree stood; her huge trunk, lush green canopy,
heavy boughs older than any surviving man or woman around. Some of the trees would
make one feel that the trees came first, then the faraway mountains, the
rivers, backwaters and the sea. They certainly were older than the mad karnavar
at the kizhakeytilillam!
Some house hold land had three to four ponds and most of
them were fringed by huge mango trees, brindle-berry ( Kudam puli) and other
tropical green giants some that bore fruit, some edible and relished by man,
animals and birds, yet some ignored by even the avian. Coconut palms were
dispersed ubiquitously around. Their long palm leaves moving, flapping, swaying
in the breeze and wind. Some of the palms were marked by tappers who
religiously climb them at dawn and dusk to retrieve the nectar- toddy that
gather in the clay pot placed on tree tops.
There were no brick walls and walled partitions with granite
stones, to sequester lands and identify one’s own. Three to four feet tall thicket fences with mostly bush of
hibiscus with myriad colours of flowers and an ubiquitous shrub that was simply
called “pacha”. Pacha had two meanings in Malayalam- one denoting
its color and the other its profuse growth-they were called “communist pacha”. Though they predated communism-the
universally rebellious atheistic philosophy from a faraway land that in some
way one can say, usurped the shrub and rechristened it after its increasingly
prolific growth in the minds of the young, the working class- the proletariat. Communism
spread in Kerala quicker than the whirl wind and wild fire, fast towards the
middle of 20th century. The “pacaha” shrub also spread very riotous like
Communism and thereupon, the rechristening- “Communist Pacha”.“There was a time
when communism was unheard of. And red was just a colour. Red was not related
to blood. It was then less sanguinary days”. Elders used to muse.
Households had ponds meant for varied purpose. The sarpakulam
was in the sacred grove – “the sarpakavu” and extra care was put to not violate
its holiness. Woman folk seldom ventured near it or entered its waters while
they were in their monthly cycle. It was exclusively used by the priest for
ritualistic bath and other rites. The pathrakulam on the north, outside
the kitchen was meant for cleaning and washing utensils. The pond that was
accessed by all stood on the south west and that was the waters where kids
frolicked. The disused pond with green moss and stubbornly still water that
occasionally broke into ripples when a fish dived back from the surface with its
lungs full of air was straddled by the chakarachi - the huge mango tree
that stood like a behemoth. She seemed to relish the banter and fun that went
under her huge branches and her leaves would flutter in acknowledgement. Only
that she might be a bit playfully-rude and disappointing that she would hold on
to her sought after fruits that tantalizingly dangled from her tall branches rousing
and inviting, wonderful than any honey as
she refuses to let them fall off her even when prodded by a swift breeze. This
was disappointing for the kids who wait, alert as the wind blows , eyes roving and ears cocked- waiting for the
little thud somewhere around and then to spurt to be the first to grab the
fruit. It was the sense of hearing that locks on to the spot where the fruit
fell. They hone in to the fallen fruit that lies amongst the dry leaves with
the instinct of the fruit bats that descend at dusk from the trees in the
sacred grove. When disappointed, they would then dislodge raw mangoes from the
tree nearby- the less assuming moovandan, and devour them- with pinch of
salt and vattalumulaku. The deviled mango!
Slings and stones were used to target mangoes high up in the
branches. When they fall down and roll down the sides of the pond into the
water kids jumped after it damaging the well manicured edges of the pond. Chinni
Peramma would shout from her kitchen window in annoyance and rebuke. Unable to
wreak her authority she sometimes chased the kids and this was often a spectacle.
They enjoyed her agitation. He had little to fear as she always had something
special for him. She would single him out from the gang. “After all”, she used
to say, “You are my Kochu Kesavan’s boy aren’t you”. She was in her late-
seventies but agile, alert and the hunch of old age had not touched her, she
did not walk, she trotted. She had a routine that began at six at dawn and
wound up at eight in the night. She would dip bathe in the pond little before
sunset, light the wick in the tiny oil lamp at the Thulasi plant that stood in
front of her house. Before her meal she took two glasses of toddy that was
retrieved from the palm at dusk. This was followed by dinner, a meal that
consisted of rice gruel made with rich brown rice, curry of yam or jackfruit
sautéed with coconut and spices and the pickled tiny mangoes, the “kannimanaga” she stored under her cot in
Chinese jar. She ate the meal deftly scooping from the dish with the leaf of
the jack tree ingeniously made into a cone-that served as the spoon. Once the
meal was done she would retire to her little room .Some nights she would smoke
a beedi. It was a strange and interesting spectacle to see the woman smoke. Was
it an audacious intrusion of sorts into man’s realm and privilege, a bloomer? She was a spinster.
Many giant trees-mammoths stood unperturbed through years of
sun and rain, having seen many moons and monsoons, their vast canopies lending
shades of cover and haven for roosting birds. The old tamarind tree with low
thick branches and small but lush leaves was the roosting place of Chinni Perama’s
roosters and hens. It seemed to be in their evolutionary code that when the sun
has set they must climb up to the safety of the tamarind tree. Chiniperama did
not keep a pen, a cage contraption for her chicken. They followed the routine
roosting in the tree by night “cock-a-doodle-doo” and fly down when dawn broke
in the east.
Sadly indeed a giant tree, often a mango or the jack fruit
tree was felled when a death happened in the house hold and served as firewood
for the funeral pyre. It was one such melancholy occasion when his great uncle
Narayan Panicker passed away-and elders surveyed walking around the vast
property and chose the Anjili (Jungle Jack) that unobtrusively stood on
the northern side outside the sarpakavu.
It was almost on the fringe of the land after which one entered the
slope to the vast punjapadams- on the east extending into Thakazhi and
further into the bosom of Kuttanad. He was about nine then. He was always
astounded by the huge tall tree and he was sure that while on top most branches
one can see the end of the world and perhaps touch the heavens too. He would
recollect the animated comic story of ‘Jack and the Bean stalk’ where in little
Jack climbed up the bean stalk that grew into the clouds and to the abode of
the ogre. He often stood watching birds feast on its fruits and the crows
nested on its branches.
“How tall and big can a man grow if he lives a hundred?” The
old namboothiri karanavar who lived in the Illam nearby shouted once in
askance. He could not understand the logic of chopping down a tree that has
seen more than two centuries of sun and rain to burn to dust a cadaver which
was left behind by someone who lived for about seventy- may be eighty odd
years. Why must people cut down a tree when men die? To only serve as fuel to cremate the dead!
This hubris of man! Yes the old man has a point hasn’t he thought the boy. He, figured
in his mind the tree must be older than the lunatic karnavar. How old would
the karnavar be?
KochuKalli the pulaya
hag who often went to the illam to gather firewood- twigs and pick coconuts
that fell from palm trees would authoritatively claim he was one hundred and six.
She could be precise and accurate about that she would say with exaggerated
confidence. And she also adds, “bhrandhankizhavan is living on extended
time”. If that was the case how old would his mother be? She was seldom seen
outside. She is blind, Kochu Kali says and that was why she seldom ventured outside
the house. He was not prepared to take KochuKalli’s assertion at its face
value. For she seldom spoke well about the old fellow, in fact she made an
oafish of him. She had a rage against him after being chased away from his land
one day, into which she would often sneak in through the opening she made out
in the thicket fence. She was using those audacious expeditions to stealthily
gather kappa which was grown in
there. The old karnavar would for a while wonder about the uprooted kappa stems
and would curse the hedgehogs and field rats for the foul. It was by chance
that one day he, perhaps in his saner moment’s noticed KochuKalli and her
basket full of kappa . He chased her shrieking and waving his long
stick. KochuKalli booted through the opening she had made in the fence and
yelled, “bharandhanennekollunney”. Since that day KochuKalli spun pitiless
stories and intrigues about the old fellow. She even claimed that he killed his
old mother and plowed her underground in the parambu. She swore on all gods that she often had seen the ghost of
the old woman - even at mid-day sitting in the house. When kids wondered loudly
how ghosts could walk about at mid-day, she would gape with her reddish eyes,
curl her lips and open her cavity displaying the vettila stained sparsely
remaining ugly stumps that seemed to be fossilized remains of what could be
called teeth. She would regurgitate the slimy content from her throat and jet
it out through her two fingers clasped to her lips. She would then lean forward
and whisper,”Namboothirimarudey pretham pakallunadukkum makkale”.
Well, as a boy, he could not make out the truth for long,
for he would not see him. He could not gather the temerity to sneak in through
the fence. All that he knew of the old man for long, since the days he could
remember there, from his tot days- was his loud oration and at other times recitation
of poetry in a sonorous voice and often the gibberish loud monologues late in
the night, monologues from the works of Shakespeare, rendition of Victorian
poetry and sometimes kathakali lyrics without injustice to their ragam and thalam. His voice was sonorous, clear, without flavoured accent,
they were chaste.
“Nor heaven nor earth
have been at peace tonight. Thrice hath Calphurnia in her sleep cried out, “Help, ho! They murder Caesar!”—who’s
within?”
Pause followed by some gibberish tongue twisting language
spoken as if like Greek, stomping of wood and then again.
“Go bid the priests do
present sacrifice, and bring me their opinions of success.”
“Caesar shall forth. The
things that threatened me, Ne’er looked but on my back. When they shall see the
face of Caesar, they are vanished.”
From KochuKalli’s description and stories, he pictured the
old man, bent at the back-freckled skin under the arms dangle supple like loosely
stuck to the bone with glue. He was sure that he heard the creaking of his
bones when the man moved about in the ‘parambu’.
He would sit with bated breath on the outside of the thicket fence and listen
to the gibberish the man spoke to himself. He was sure he was speaking to
himself as he never heard another voice however much he strained to hear one. The
mottled skin and withered face with the silvery grey kudumi at the back
of his head sparsely populated and stained teeth in a blood shot mouth
calloused with the stain of years of chewing vettila, over grown silver hair on his wrinkled weather beaten chest
and arms, that refused to drop …! But he must be surprisingly spry for his age
and physical appearance if he chased Kocukalli around the compound. She said he
ran with a hunch and ran faster than kids would; then she added, “Well if not
faster almost as fast. Certainly faster than a gecko”! She stated his spine was
bend though not as much as a bow that he could not stand straight, even with
the walking stick which is also his aid to move around and scare or frighten
children who peep in through the thicket fence, to kill people with a blow on
the temple. The derelict old illam
and the old man who lived there added to the mystery that was attractive about
the place.
He, his cousin who was a few months his younger , the elder
cousins, Chakki the eldest of Madhav Vaidyans three girls and friends roamed
about spending almost all of the day under the mango and tamarind trees or by
the ponds. The fallen leaves, grey, brown and yellowish were always
strewn around and formed thick carpet over the soft white sand. Sometimes they
set off to fish with baits hung on tiny hooks tied to thin ropes made of jute
tied to long sticks, the marrow of the
tapioca stem used as the float; the ponds were dense with fishes of different
hues. The backwater stream further down towards the vast expanse of paddy
fields would brim with biral a special fish that was fancied by the
locals. Kids were forbidden to go towards the backwater canals but they have by
stealth been afar.
They often ventured
out into the paddy fields, to catch crabs and crickets. Such excursions were distressful
for the harmless reptiles such as the timorous garden lizards’, chameleons and
geckos. Those days when the kids raided the fields’, times would be difficult
for the timid and harmless water snakes that refuged in those marshy fields.
The kids seldom spared any of the unfortunate ones who they saw often basking
in the sun with their neck extended and a nit-wit, mortis (sic) look in
their eyes. The hapless creatures were snared by a lasso made of coconut palm
fronds. The dumb they are, they seldom noticed the snare dropping down their head
from behind. One tug and the knot tie tight, the poor reptile wriggles dangling
unable to free. At times they manage to break free and slither away faster than
one bates the eyelids. There was one boy, his cousin who would disobey the
collective decision of the group to free the snared creatures alive.
The pond by the sarpakulam at the far end, on the
periphery of the sarpakavu was out of bounds for fishing and the kids
seldom ventured there. The water was dark, covered with water lilies and choked
with weeds; wantoning creepers and flowering shrubs entwined severely and
densely. There was always eerie silence in the grove and the waning light in
the evenings would lend certain mysterious air and foreboding appearance to it.
By night fireflies flirted about and glow worms too .In the grove even by day
birds and crickets refrained from banter. Birds would perch quietly on the
trees in there and take off without any ado. Squirrels seldom squeaked. The
parrots that lived in the hollows of the tall coconut tree made lifeless by
lightning bolts were mindful and did not shriek when they flew over the sarpakavu.
The mysterious bats hung on precariously upside down on the high branches of
the peral. They occasionally flap
their wings and soon continue their inverted existence, perhaps surveying the
less arboreal ones moving about below. By dusk they would be a sort of frantic
activity up in the tree as the bats ready themselves for their nocturnal
wanderings. However, he did notice quite often the family of mongoose scamper
about in there and he wondered at their audacity. Or was it foolishness? He
could understand the temerity of the bats as they are high up in the trees,
somewhat cocooned from the reach of serpents who lived in the kavu. Yet,
what about the serpents that KochuKalli claims she has seen dangling from the
trees and vines in the kavu, the
arboreal ones? With deep sough the wind
snared by the thick foliage of the trees forcefully brush past, the bamboo
stalks screech intermittently and the hoot of the screech owl in the still of
the night would shiver timber.
The sarpakavu was used by the middle aged namboothiri
priest who religiously arrived on the day of “ailyam” each calendar
month. Rituals called “ailyampooja” were performed by the namboothiri,
clad in loin cloth and the sacred thread across his torso. He would take a dip
in the pond to cleanse his being before conducting the rituals.
Sarapakalm would be dexterously drawn out on the small
cement platform opposite the serpent deities in the grove. Coloured powder-
red, black, green, purple, blue and yellow turmeric; rice flour and other fancy
powders, all bought from the Haji Koya’s shop at the west gate of the big
temple.
The serpent deities- the nagaraja, nagayakshi, inside
the grove was appeased with milk and turmeric powder. Noorum-Palum are
offered to remove sarpadosham. This is followed by the Pulluvanpattu
and the pulluva couples would sing to mollify the serpents. The festivity
is more prominent during the ailyam day in the months of Thulam, Kanni
and Kumbham. Those were the days the Ailyam festivities were held at the
Manarasala a few miles away.
Elders believed that ritualistic offering each month may
have ensured no reported sightings or bites of poisonous snakes. The last recorded
snake bite was of his father’s grandfather, before he was born. The victim was
rushed to the vishavaidhyan who practiced the traditional therapy for
snake bit. It was said that the snake that bit the man was among the most
feared and poisonous who probably was incensed by irreverence to the serpents
and there was no way the mendicant could save the grand uncle. The story went
wild and indulgent about the length of the serpent that bit the grandfather.
Imaginations and fantasy was abound and unrestrained. It was said that the
serpent was very enraged that it bit him on the ankle a few times over and
chased him further down the fields and bit repeatedly on the fallen man’s face until
its venom was exhausted. He lost consciousness a few minutes after the bite and
died the next day. Stories were plenty of the wrathful serpent being seen
outside the grove and many fantastic tales and lore were spun by the folks. And
the ailyam rituals have never waned since then.
The temple festival was a fascinating. He was very impressed
and delighted with the Vellakali the
pantomime martial dance where men dressed as Nair warriors in bright
traditional costumes and bearing swords and shields enact war dance to the
synchronised accompaniment of the martial music in front of the entrance to the
sanctum of sanctorum. To the accompaniment of panchavadyam– the maddalam, thavil, ilathalam, kombu and kuzhal the warriors move to the rhythm
of the percussion. Later, at the precincts of the temple pond, the vellakali would be performed and was
called kullathilvela.
The Nadakasalasadhya on
the ninth day of the temple festival was a melee that was meant for grownups
and not children. It was during one such event that he saw the old namboothiri . He was sitting at the kottiambalam near the natakashala while the frenzied revelry
went about. One of his elder cousins pointed to the old man and murmured
“there, there see the mad namboothiri!”
A middle aged man with peppered hair and beard. His mundu was somewhat soiled and wore a half buttoned cotton shirt. He
sat there, massaging his beard and keenly observing the ongoing melee of the natakashala sadhya . He shouted suddenly,”Damn
the Gods who will be appeased only when lot of food is wasted, thrown around like
missiles; this is robbing from the hungry.” Then after an afterthought, “If God
was appeased by that waste, so be it. It is he who lords over.” He stopped
abruptly with resignation and continued to feel his beard.
.
Of the many legends subsumed with the origin and chronicle
of Velakali the victory of the good over evil, of justice over injustice stood
out with the legends that were associated with its origin. The statutes of the
warring chieftains of Chembakaseri Mathoor Panicker and Velloor Kurup who are associated with the origin of the
dance was placed on the ceiling at the
entrance of the nadakasala and always aroused fascination. Of the many
aspects that he cherished and that he was also fortunate to experience as a
child on his many vacations, were the stories, folklore and legends of yore
that elders told. That was an informal education of immense value. Any child’s
fascination and awe would gradually turn into skepticism and enquiry. Certainly
they may have helped in later life when thrown about by the rough and tumble.
It is satisfying to walk without crutches.
Isn’t it?
Now, he stood reliving the past and transfixed on the
poltergeists of many moments of the days he spent there on vacation from
school, perhaps the only sanguine and salubrious days of his childhood that
were his twice a year. For a moment he wanted to be in a time machine and go
back into the past. It could be true that even if there is nothing that is left
behind like - souls when people are gone, there could be their smell, their
breaths - the aroma of Chiniperama’s
jackfruit curry, the lingering flavor of mackerel curry with sour mango and
coconut gravy Appachi used to cook for dinner, all hanging about in the air!
Now, as he stood there watching
the small ripples in the greenish water of the pond, he was startled back from
the images of the past by a voice from behind. It was Bhadra his cousin. “Musing
over the past? The old will not come back to live the days, the people, the
place or time”. She said.
He laughed wryly and said. “Yes I read that, but look at
what has become of this place. I can recall, with precision what this place was
during those days. Don’t you remember? Everything has changed, though it seems
to have been yesterday.”
“Yes. But then who are we to decide that what we feel is
good should outlive everything?” He sensed a certain degree of resignation in
her voice.
“But yet, still- what a change!” He exclaimed. Travelling
along the panchayat road to here, that is now well laid and asphalted - there
is nothing that has not changed. There are little of the old. The old land
marks, the trees, the groves, the houses- their facades, the ponds all have
made way. Lush paddy fields have made way to ugly looking houses with gaudy
coloured paint. The unavoidability? Yes the people all are gone, faded. New
faces, new house, strangers everywhere!” He wondered loudly if it is the same
God in the temple or has he too vanished from the scene? She gently rebuked him
for being presumptuous in matters of God. He felt a sense of derision and pity
for the palace and could feel a feeling of sympathy for the people dead and resignation
for those who lived there now. The past- retentions are like butterflies, wise
it is to let them fly away and watch their beauty and remember the gentle flapping
of their wings, while they were near.
“Ha, I’m the only person, perhaps, that you may know. I may
be the only one around here who knows you.”
She wiped the perspiration on her face with the pallu of her sari and continued.
“The new generation, they do not have time and patience. They want instant
gratification, money and luxury. Why should they retain their land here? Every
one, both amongst us and around the neighbourhood have sold their lands and
moved away to the Middle East, to Mumbai, to Kochi and some have crossed the
far seas to the USA. Children are being educated. Where do they have time and
the inclination to hold on to the old, for preserving the old? Why must they? I
cannot tell who will live here in this house after me; the kids will not want
to live here or even maintain it.”
“Do you still follow the aillyam rituals?”
“Yes, I do but mostly tokenism. Gone are the grove that we
all were careful to keep away, and all those eerie stories about. The grove has
been cleared and made way for the feeder road to the Railway station that has
come up in the town. You see we have trains that pass through this town. Ernakulam
is only an hour from here by train, and Alleppy ten minutes. Don’t you remember
we spent almost two hour on the road to reach Alleppy- by bus for the Nehru
trophy boat race? The long walk to Kacheripadi, then the wait for the bus…under
the tamarind tree! Now the government
has come up with an order that traditional groves are to be preserved. Funny indeed,
now after most, almost all of the groves around here have been cleared and made
way for houses. They pay Rupees Three thousand as a onetime grant to preserve
groves. And one is supposed to fence the grove with steel wire mesh and ensure
its preservation. Where will one find men to maintain and upkeep the place,
which has to be re-fenced every year? Let us assume that one agrees to pay from
ones resources, but it is next to impossible to even arrange a man to fell
coconuts from the palms. Who wants to walk about climbing trees? That is no
longer a means of livelihood.”
While they walked back to the house he surveyed. The horizon
has vanished and in its place brick walls plastered and white washed, some
coated with strange colours. They all, the houses and its dwellers were
cocooned inside their own concrete contraptions – comforted by the delusion of
their safety, of their seclusion, where the vision into the horizon ended at
the walls that surrounded the land on which houses stood. Their where no
neighbours , but only strangers . The chakarachi,
the sarpakulam,
the grove, and a sizeable area of the paddy field had vanished and strange houses with strange colours sprung up.
Where the chakarachi stood, there now
was the garage of the nearby house. Wonder whose cadaver burnt in the fire
fueled by ‘Chakarachi’s’ wood! Or did they sell the wood to the brick-kilns? Chiniperama’s
pond had vanished; her house collapsed out of disuse after her and her widowed
sister’s death. His cousin told him, that the land which she owned was bought
by a Chacko who runs a jewelry shop in Alleppy.
He enquired about the mad karnavar. He passed away. The illam was bought by a gulf expatriate Rawoothar
and he demolished the derelict old home of the Karnavar and there now stood a
multistoried insipid concrete incubus. The old trees in the compound were cut
down and sold by the new owner. The small grove in the land that was exclusive
to the illam was pulled down to its roots,
the idols of serpent Gods were evicted thrown outside and coco plants where
planted. Of what significance is tradition and culture subsumed in a grove to
this neo rich Gulf-Malayalee? To him the grove was nothing but an unkempt area
ridden with wildly growing shrubs, vines, undergrowth and a haven to nasty
creatures like raccoons, hedgehogs and reptiles. His monotheistic didactic
faith made it easy for him to exercise iconoclasm. It only made it convenient
for him to pull down the grove and with it exorcise and banish the pagan gods who
may have dwelled in it, even without batting an eyelid or a moment’s vacillation.
The house is looked after by a caretaker and the Gulf expatriate’s old parents
live there-strangers. Strangers to the neighbours, to the land they live in and
are seldom seen outside. The windows and doors of the twin storied house were
shut tight through day and night, the faint hum of the air conditioners mounted
outside the windows reminded and conveyed the message that someone after all
lived in there. He wondered if it was the ill-fated destiny attributed to the
land where the illam stood that those
who live there are looked at with a sense of curiousness.
“There is a rumour that the Muslim expatriate is negotiating
to buy the couple of adjacent properties too. These people have the money and
they can even shell out a few extra lakhs to possess what they want” his cousin
said.
“What about Esthappen?”
“He died long ago. His daughter Kochu Maria sold the land to
the panchayat society whose members could not yet decide what they would do on
that property. So now the land is ridden with undergrowth and the rundown house
of Esthappen with no roof and dilapidated walls.”
“Esthappn’s daughter now lives with her daughter in Chennai.
Her husband passed away a few years back and she sold the land and moved with
her daughter immediately after. I think Babu has still some contact with them.
You know they are rich, no more the old nazrani
family that we saw. They are very, very rich!”
The house which cousin Bhadra gained from the assets that
her mother ,( his appachi) bequeathed was reworked upon and now has a modern
outer sheen about it like the town itself -an artificial facade, a decorated
mask; the verandah that went around the house, and the forecourt where
“Thiruvathirakalli” used to be performed by women, the cold verandah floor
where elders and kids used to get together in the evenings, when the night air
erupted with songs, mono acts and laughter, were now laid with some exotic
coloured tiles. Even the interior , the walls, the flooring were all done ,
new sofas with upholstery stood in the
living room and curtains with drapes upon
the window. The framed photographs that hung on the wall long ago were
all gone and replaced with that of some Bollywood nymphs.
“What happened to all those framed pictures that hung here
on the walls?”
She helplessly shrugged and said. “Children do not like them
hung on the walls. What can I tell? It is they who decide now.” She paused and
continued. “Besides, some remind of melancholy days and moments. It was good
they are gone. Often it was like watching ghosts hung in frames on the wall.”
“Well, is there any picture of him that I have not seen?
When he lived here for a while? You know I last saw him some six years before
he died.”
Yes there was one picture which Krishanan chettan brought
after he attended his funeral.”
“Can I see it?”
“Why must you? No. Don’t. Do not ask to see. It is sad, the
picture. Why do you want to see his lifeless picture?”
It was thirty three years to be precise that he was there
last. A land, place and people he simply let go or did they go farther away? Things
towards which as a child he felt much kinship and was matter of delight. He
used to lie awake with muffled and restless anticipation for hours well into
the late night the day before he was send there to spend vacations. The last
time he was there was for the sixteenth day observance and rituals after his
paternal grandmother’s passing. After a few months the umbilical cord that
connected him to the place, the land and people was severed. Was he since then
walking with the limp end of the umbilical cord in hand? Or did he throw it
away knowing that there once was a connection? He did not feel disconnected.
That was a lucky matter, in a strange sense!
This journey now was not of rediscovery, or attempts to
recover the past, it was not to mend and it was a decision to come as the
severity of the wound and the sourness that curdled memories were less bludgeoning,
now that three and more decades have sailed past insouciantly. Time, it humbles,
and time is a catalyst too.
