Ours was not the typical
ancestral home with tiled roof , front garden and many wings . It was big but
rather match box like ,with
rooms, bathrooms , out house and garage
added on as the need arose .It
jutted out to the front, almost touching the road, but had more space at the
back . It reminded me of Naipaul’s ‘
House for Mr. Biswas’ . But it was made out of our Achan’s hard earned savings
of a lifetime and was a treasure house of our childhood memories.
I was ten when we shifted to Devi Vihar, our house at Ambalamukku . While it was still
under construction, Achan used to go there regularly after office hours in order
to supervise the construction. Sometimes he would collect my younger sister and
me from school and bring us to the construction site. Initially the ground had
been over grown with sweet potatoes, coconut
trees and banana palms. Once the
construction began, the area was cleared. There was a lot of plain ground to
run about and play. My sister and I made friends with the neighbourhood boys
and we used to play hide and seek and SAT while the elders were engaged in
serious discussions about plan and execution
After shifting to the new house I remember all of us using waste cloth to wipe the
floors which were painted red with red oxide. The workers had left footprints
upon the polished floors by sheer
negligence and we tried to erase them with wet cloth and soap suds
but to no avail. Every Sunday we were given various tasks to do around the
house – dusting, cleaning the window panes, planting saplings in the garden and
so on.
One fine day , Amma came up with the fantastic idea of growing poultry .Since
we had a vast backyard , the compound seemed ideal for the purpose. Soon a chicken
coop took pride of place at the back of the house and into our large
household entered a flock of two legged creatures- a rooster ,
resplendent in its gleaming plumage, flanked by an entourage of hens. There
were hens of white leghorn and black minorca
breed to add variety and spice to the
rooster’s life. At first we were fascinated by the clucking and crowing in our backyard . The hens thrived on the care and attention given to
them and started yielding eggs. We used to run to the coop on hearing the
special cry of the hens , inorder to collect the eggs .These eggs were much larger
than the ones we got from the market. Achan and Amma were cheered by this
constant supply of protein and vitamins to our large , gowing family. But the
craze did not last long. Our backyard was ruined by large chunks of chicken poop . Many a time
our feet were soiled by the poop from so
many bird inmates. As the fowls started scratching and eating the grains, Amma’s crops
were ruined beyond redemption. Soon we were fed up of eating the large eggs
laid by our hens and preferred the smaller variety available in the market. My
brothers expressed a desire to eat the flesh of the chicken instead of the eggs
but Amma would have none of it.
The matter was resolved when a fox got wind of the presence of easy prey close
by. One night we heard unnatural sounds in the backyard followed by the alarmed
cries of the fowls. Our investigation revealed
that one hen was missing from the brood. We strengthened the coop but to no
avail. Two more nocturnal attacks occurred .The poor fowls were terrified and
Amma was disheartened. She decided it was better to feed her children instead
of the fox .That put an end to the poultry farming craze. For years to come,
the chicken coop stood as a sad memorial to a fancy that misfired.
A year after shifting
to the new house, my elder sister got married and left home with her husband.
Mani aunty, Achan’s colleague’s wife had taught her stitching and I picked up
the rudiments of stitching by watching her at work. Soon I started stitching
clothes for myself .My elder brothers who were in college, used to wear flashy, colourful clothes but our wardrobe was limited to frocks, skirts and
blouses stitched out of the material bought by Achan . We were satisfied with
what we had till the time our Uncle returned from Singapore and brought for us
lovely pleated skirt and top ensembles which made us the cynosure of all eyes. These
Singapore dresses held pride of place in our ward robe for years to come and we
continued wearing them till they became mini skirts and micro minis. Finally Amma expressed her chagrin at our crossing the limits of decency and forced us to discard them . .
Since we were 7 siblings growing up in the same house we
learnt sharing and caring and had a lot of fun at the expense of others . The bonhomie that
held us together helped us overcome many of the short comings of a huge joint
family. Achan was a strict task master
who supervised our every move .Our energy was mostly directed
at thwarting his attempts to control us.
My younger sister and
I used to chant the prayers every
evening, read the Gita and attend matapadashala on Sundays in the nearby temple. A venerable, bearded sage taught us the inner meaning of the scriptures. More than the lessons, we were lured by the tasty ghee payasam served as prasad at the end of the ritual. Achan would make us read the editorial of the
English news paper every day in an
attempt to improve our English. Since I was an avid reader he allowed me to
read Enid Blyton and Perry Mason series on condition that I would write a
synopsis of each book that I read. Little did he know that every book had a
synopsis on the cover and I was merely copying this .He also failed to realize
that I had graduated from Perry Mason to Chase and then to Mills and Boon
and was chain reading on the sly,
compromising my academics and eyesight .Sometimes he used to come
noiselessly up the stairs for an inspection. But whoever occupied the seat next to the stairs alerted all
others so that we all pretended to be
hard at work with our note books and text books.
For Navarathri, we used to arrange the photos and idols of
Gods and perform pooja, copying our neighbours who arranged kolu ( an elaborate
arrangement of idols for ten days of navrathri pooja).. All of us would sing
bhajans together . The combined effort
was enough to shake the house. Amma would come running up the stairs ,
cautioning us not to disturb the neighbours. Her pleas fell on deaf ears .There
was more noise from around us- loud speakers blaring from the nearby temple,
bhajans and prayers , verbal duels,
drunken brawls from other home steads. We felt we had a right to make our presence felt in the melee.
The temple was the pivot of our
activities in those days. We learnt kolattam which we performed during Sreekrishna
jayanthi. We took part in bhajan competitions and Akhanda namam , chanting prayers while going
around the tall lamp . My childish heart
leapt in joy to witness the kodiyettam
and kodiyirakkam ( the hoisting and
lowering of the flag) of the annual festival of the temple. All of us used to
be present on all 10 days of the annual festival . Amma would accompany us for kathakali which lasted the
entire night . She would explain the meaning of some symbols and signs used by
the performing artists. When sleep over powered us, we would doze off on the
sheet spread on the ground or on a chair
if we were lucky to get one. When the kathakali dancers were involved in a
battle, she would wake us up as she knew that we enjoyed the battle scenes.We were particularly riveted by Dussasana vadham where
Bhima and Dussasana would move up and down the stage uttering loud shouts and
cries. Then Bhima would kill Dussasana, take out his intestines and apply the
blood on Panchali’s hair. Our little hearts thrilled in amazement as we
gaped , open mouthed, at the elaborate costumes , the long nails and the thick
make up of the kathakali artists. As the coils of twisted cloth came out of
Dussasana’s stomach, we were deluded into believing that it was the intestine
that was pulled out by Bhima. Oh! Those were the days when the mind accepted
without question , everything that took place in the make- belief world of fables and tales . My child’s mind had implicit trust in the triumph of
good over evil
The ten day festival culminated in the arattu on the final day of the festival . We were in a constant state of excitement that day. We used to help Amma in
arranging the paraphernalia required for receiving the
procession. In the evening we would stand awestruck to watch the commencement
of the procession which took place right in front of us as our house was
adjacent to the temple. There were band groups, decorated kavadi, men and women
decked up as various characters from mythology. Bringing up the rear , there were caparisoned elephants , the biggest of them carrying the idol of God on its
back. Most of the time there used to be three or five elephants but as the
interest in grand spectacles soared , the no of elephants also increased. Once we
had 21 elephants for the procession which brought the traffic in the area to a
standstill. We watched the huge pachyderms in awe from a safe distance . The next day’s
newspaper carried the report of an elephant running amok from Perookada to
Kowdiar and that put an end to such public displays. In the subsequent years
the no of elephants was limited to 3 or 5.
My childhood was intimately interlinked with the activities
of the temple. The elephant which was brought to the temple for the 10 days of
the festival used to come to our house to pluck coconuts and palm leaves . We
would offer the huge visitor bananas and jaggery and would watch with bated
breath as the elephant extended its trunk and gobbled up the goodies with
relish. No wonder then that the elephant appeared in my dreams as well and as in
real life, and I would lie mesmerised
and dumbstruck as the
dream elephant closed in and woke me up from deep slumber.
As siblings, the seven of us had a close bond and were partakers of many a misadventure
. If walls could tell, they would narrate the tales of Devi Vihar brothers and
sisters playing pranks on unsuspecting friends and visitors. Now with hindsight I am able to understand
what an economic burden it must have been for Achan to cater to the needs of
seven growing children and what a Herculean task it must have been for Amma to
prepare food for all of us. Children grew up, took up employment and got
married. We have among us engineers, bank officers, sales executives, doctorate scholars and educators. This was no mean achievement
for Achan and Amma who hailed from an obscure village in Malappuram and shifted
to the abode of Anantha Padmanabha Swamy
to eke out a living .
When I got married to an army officer and went away to the
north, I had the first taste of life away from home, away from my native land, away
from the old familiar faces . Adapting to the new situation was not a hard task- now I marvel at the ease with
which I learnt the customs, traditions and language of the North and joined in
as a member of the glamorous army clan. But there was always a yearning to come
back to the lap of nature in Kerala, and to the house which had nurtured me in
my formative years.
Flitting
from one station to another , travelling the length and breadth of the country
was an exhilarating experience. Packing all our household articles in boxes, numbered and marked, my
heart would fill in anticipation of the new places I would see, the new
people I would meet and the new adventures that awaited me. My husband was a travel enthusiast and from him I too caught the travel bug. . The birth of our two
sons did not hinder the wander lust that had gripped us and we discovered our
Bharat Mahan in the course of our travels.
My husband’s sudden demise shattered our cosy world. I was
just 38 at the time, with two growing boys of 15 and 10 under my wings. I decided
to come back home though many tried to dissuade us as my father’s Alzheimer’s disease had
progressed to a state of dementia
and mother was an angina patient. Many well wishers advised us to stay in the
army station instead of taking up the responsibility of two sick and aged parents . I
don’t have an idea what had spurred me on to take the decisions which could change my life but now, on looking back, I feel they were
the right decisions .
There are no hard and fast rules to bring up children , especially for a single parent but somehow
we trundled on. My career as a teacher was a
boon – the students and my colleagues were a balm to my bruised feelings. The
cosy world of the army with its outings, picnics and parties became a distant
memory as my days and nights were filled with lectures, answer scripts and
parent- teacher meetings .
Bad times don’t last forever. My children grew up to be fine
young men. Siddharth settled in the UK and Arjun joined the Army Institute of
technology. There was no looking back.
A year and a half after my arrival in Trivandrum, my father
who had been my greatest support, passed away. Amma was non judgemental and non interfering- it
was so easy to live with her. She loved flowers and birds and was willing to
lend a helping hand to anyone in need.
Her support helped me tide over
much emotional trauma. The maid employed to look
after Amma proved to be a staunch supporter in our difficult times. She
became Amma’s confidante and nurse . It was owing to her that I was able to carry on my domestic
responsibilities without a hitch. When Amma passed away in 2015, I had become
so set in my ways that I wanted to continue living in the same house for ever.
But that wish did not materialize. There were days when I stood in the temple
with folded hands, beseeching God to help me take the right decision – whether to construct a new house or continue staying
in the old one. As if He heard my prayers, things fell into place and my dream
house materialised . My sons and
daughters in law find the new house appealing , a delightful haven to relax during holidays. . The arrival of my grand
daughter into our lives has brought joy
and contentment into our lives. . Now as I sit on the verandah and gaze at my
garden, I marvel at the destiny which brought me here, to enjoy my retirement
in peace.
The house that was my home
for a major part of my life was put up for sale. It is sad to part from
a house which held sweet reminiscence s of our childhood and teenage years and
had witnessed my struggle as a young
widow. More so because it was the outcome of the sweat and toil of Achan and
Amma . My heart fills with pride when I
think of the unceasing hard work – blood, sweat and tears- involved in our
metamorphoses into educated , wholesome
human beings. I can only bow my head in reverence at the memory of Achan and
Amma who made us what we are. This is the
time to spare a thought for their sacrifice and shed a few tears of gratitude for their labour of
love . But life has to go on…..and I
have learnt to move on…. without past
regrets and future fears. Que sera sera…….
