Old memories surface.
I was born in the ‘Edam’ ( house ) of Atchan, Palakkad Raja, behind this gramam, at the opposite end to the temple. That was what my parents told me proudly. I don’t, however, remember!
But I do remember, the location of the house near the temple, where my Papamai, the old woman with long and skinny hands died. I remember her long hands because , my mother and her three siblings, werimagee fed and raised by those hands, lovely for me, my mother and her siblings, though were in fact, dark and skinny. My mother’s mother passed away, at 30 or so, leaving four small kids to the care of her mother in law, my Paappaamai, grand father’s mother. Apart from the two women who gave birth to me and my children, my grand mother who brought back my mother from the gate of death and my mothers’ grand mother who raised her and her siblings are among the Moorthis in my idol-less temple..
I remember her long hands for another reason. She hid once, a nenthrampazam, long plantain under her pillar, away from my greedy eyes, to be given to my younger brother, who was allergic to rice then. Wheat, oatmeal or such food alternatives were unknown then, especially for a 90 year old woman. As my brother was not taking rice food, her sympathy with him and not with me, who gulped any food offered. Water always flows to a lower level; so is the affection of parents with their weak and under privileged children. They are the only ones who likes the under-scorers.
I was 4/5/6 when pappamai passed away. I remember holding a hand torch, a stick with cotton cloth wrapped at the other end and lighted after soaking the cloth bundle in ghee, while the dead body was removed from the thinnai of the house. I wept, as I knew that she wouldn’t return. Despite her partiality towards my younger brother, I wanted her to stay, though I was not then aware of the sacrifices she made . Later, during school days , I used to join the congress processions, holding a banner or a flag yelling, ‘ Mahatma Gandhi zindabad’ or some such slogans. That was enjoyable, but not the funeral procession of my Pappamai.
Pattali VadhyAr was the temple purohit then. His wife DharmAmbal mami died on her way back from Kasi, or in Kasi itself, don’t remember. A highly respected couple. Their son Keshavan was my classmate in the high school. He was the only boy with kudumai, tuft in our class.
He used to crack jokes and we laughed a lot together.
‘Half the class should laugh for your kudumai, but you are laughing at their expense,’ commented, Panchapakesan Iyer master, a strict teacher who quoted the name of Napolean Bonaparte, ten times a day.
‘Sir! if you sport a kudumai, the whole class will laugh,” replied Keshavan.
The teacher didn’t ask my friend to shut up. He too laughed, instead.
Some teachers like some parents enjoy jokes of the children.
I lost contacts with Keshavan, after leaving the school. Several years later, met his son in Chennai and was sad to learn that my classmate with kudumai had passed away. Didn’t ask the junior whether my jovial classmate died laughing, though he was not incapable of it. Nobody dies laughing. I have enough wisdom to know that.
‘Hope Appa had a comfortable journey?’
‘Journey?,’ he laughed. The same lovely, rhythmic laugh of his father and continued,
‘could death be comfortable to anyone?’
A stupid question, it was, mine. How could death be comfortable? I could have asked him, ‘hope he didn’t suffer much?’ . That would have been apt. But, many time we miss asking correct questions and repent later.
But, can’t death be comfortable ? My question was not totally absurd, when I recollect death of some friends and relatives. Some deaths gave comforts to the owners of death and others to their relatives.
Owners of death? Am I making another stupid statement ? How can I own my death? Death owns me not the the other way. Did I own my birth? Stupid question again, silly fellow. You didn’t own your birth. So, I own neither my birth nor my death. Thjen, what do I own? You own your life . Once it is handed over to you, it is your duty to take care of it till death takes it away. Funny !
Another scene comes before my mind, seeing this picture. Thatha, Subramania VAdyar, Chuppai for friends and the Raja of Palakkad, is sitting prominently on the front seat of Pallakku, mini chariot of the Shivaswamy, his ebony- black chest and limbs smeared with white vibhoothy lines. His kadukkans, ear ornaments with white pearls, shine in the black background of his ears. A big Rudraksham, bordered with gold linings hangs from a gold chain from his neck, pushing aside a humble tulsi Mala on his broad chest. He cracks the whip in his right hand while producing ‘ha, ha sound’, encouraging the animal pulling the Pallakku while, the Nadaswaram and Thavil sounds reach the silent sky. What a proide on thatha’s face! ‘I’m the charioteer to the great Charioteer of Arjuna!’. Had he been on the ground, I would have heard his metallic voice breaking into a sloka, ‘Kalaabhyyam choodalamkritha sasi Kalaabhyyam nija thapah: bhalAbhAm baktheshu prakaditha bhalAbhyam bhavathumae:’ . He would also be explaining with facial expression and hand movements the majestic appearance of Lord Shiva wearing the crescent moon on his head while the holy river Ganges flows down from the thick locks and other hundred details about the Lord on the Himalaya mountains. He enjoyed the presence of God as he enjoyed his river bath and Sooryanamskaram. For people like him, life was never a burden, despite all the weight thrust on their shoulders.
Though not grown here, I have many memories on Kalpathy villages and the temples around as well as the river which we used to cross everyday to reach our school and college. Some of my best stories like, ‘Kamu, my childhood friend’ and ‘Mayilkkan veshtikal’ are born here.
Some of my best friends lived here .
Many of them have died and I received the sad news after several years. All those were my classmates, whom I thought were inseparable, while studying.
Kalpathy River, despite our attempts to destroy, continues to flow. So far, so good.
And on the other bank, is the land where I lived as a child, as a teenager.
Blog
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Pazhaya ( old ) Kalpathy village.
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Jyeshta bratha pitru samaha – elder brother is equal to father
“Anna, I want a Gingera,” requested my brother, while we were searching for some
Krishna idols to be carried to America, in the Guruvayoour shops. Gingera, as you know is Tambourine , a circular percussion musical instrument, with a leather top and jingles at the central rim which produce tinkling sound when moved or shaken.
“Why Gingera?” I asked, “you love Kathakali songs, not Masthan sahib’s songs. Right?”
“No, Anna, I’m singing now Masthan Sahib’s songs too. One of our tenants doesn’t pay rent in time. I want to disturb his sleep, so that he vacates the portion soon and runs away”
“But, you will be losing your sleep and he might or might not get disturbed”
I tried to reason out.
“Don’t worry about my losing sleep,” he assured, ” I will compensate by sleeping during day time. But, I’m sure, with my Ganjira beats, that fellow will run as chased by a mad dog”
For everyone in our family, unlike me, my younger brother is an innocent, simple -hearted man and I couldn’t imagine that he was smart enough to devise a trick to push out a troublesome tenant!
Vicha, younger to me by just two years, undoubtedly is a simple hearted soul, too good not even to allow me to enter the kitchen, but always cooked food for me and fed me as my mother or wife would have, despite his health deficiency due to type 1 diabetes. Often he articulates,
Jyeshta bratha pithru samaha” .
We live together, in Hyderabad. He cooks for me and I eat and appreciate his expertise and he gets excited at my satisfaction. When he gets bored with cooking and me with eating, he sings Kathakali songs and me Carnatic music. It is fun for we both. Need not be so, for our neighbors.
A few years ago, we went to our native village to participate in the car festival.
When the crowd dissipated at dusk, he sat in a corner of our temple and sang Kathakali songs. Within a few minutes, he was able to collect a big crowd of rasikas or fans, mostly women and most of them old.
I was jealous of him and went back home disheartened. But God has never let me down, especially when it comes to the display of my talents, including in music.
The next day, the lady from the opposite house,( she was not old), entered my house and demanded, ‘uncle, give me a hundred Rupees and join our team to learn Annamacharya krithis. In one month, our music madam will teach us six or seven selected songs and uncle, believe me you are going to be a musician”
“Wah, What do you think of me now, Vicha?” I asked my brother with the proud of a
conqueror like Tipu on capturing Sriranagapatnam. He smiled. He thought perhaps, Manni( my wife) a gold medalist from the TVM music academy could not teach me even the basic Chittaswarams, in thirty years and would I gain the expertise to sing six or seven keerthanams, in thirty days!
Believe me, I learned and sang Annamayya krthies along with a crowd of over one lac singers and that the event found a place in the Guinness book.
‘To sing along with a crowd of a lac people! Chu. Even a water buffalo could do that!’
No, you are wrong. I continued to sing to such an extend that every time I entered her house, Meenasister, my neighbor, had to warn, ”welcome, you; but without singing’. The warnings and threats continues even in America but I continue singing.
Sorry, I left my Gingera story, half way. Whenever I see a good, fragrant flower, I think of the gods in my home shrine and whenever I see good display materials, I think about my daughter and daughters in law, including my sisters’ Dils . When I see toys, I don’t think, but buy for my grand children including my sister’s grandchildren.
When I see good eatables, I think only about me.
“Buy a dozen Ginjeras,” I told Vicha. “You take one, the rest, I will carry to America”
‘Why not a dozen chandais?,’ he chided me. ‘Your bags are already full with aavakai packets”
Chendai would have been an ideal gift for the kids. But how to carry a dozen of them?
God never lets me down, I repeat. His favorite musical instrument, bamboo flute was hanging in a bunch in the next shop.
“Pack the whole bunch” I ordered.
“For selling in the running trains, Sir?” He enquired.
“Yes” I replied. I didn’t want to waste my time arguing.
I distributed the gifts to children, in Baltimore, New Jersey, Florida.
Then on, it was a continuous flow of ‘pee, pee’ sound in all the houses, day and nights.
The moment they get up, ‘pee, pee’; the moment they return from school, ‘pee,pee’
Through the weekends, ‘pee, pee’
I was excited the kids enjoying the sound but their mothers were not. They stared at me initially. How long can they stay staring? They screamed.
In turn, I screamed at my brother at Hyderabad, on phone.
“Your pApam, sin, of spoiling your tenant’s sleep is following me in America. Stop your night beats. Has that guy left?”
“No, Anna,” replied the simple hearted brother, “I asked him not to quit”
“Why, he settled the dues ?”
“No, Anna. He too bought a Ginjera and together, we are enjoying the beats”
“Masthan Sahib songs?”
“No, he teaches me Mariamman songs and I teach him Masthan”
“No complaints from other tenants and neighbors or they too have bought Ginjeras and you all enjoy your nights together?”, I enquired biting my teeth in anger and was about to put down the phone, when I could hear a voice from the other side,
“jyeshta bratha pitru samaha “ -
His vehicle lacked wheels, engine and power
‘Konjam Ovaltine tharavaa?’ Kindly enquired Shanthamma( that is how Ishaan calls his grandma)
Ovaltine! Where have I heard that name? I rubbed my eyes and it took a minute to go back several years to my childhood days, when my mom, used to give that drink. I never had it later. My mom perhaps, wanted me to grow tall like a mountain and strong like an elephant and chose that luxury drink for her son. My wife and me too wanted our children grow tall like a mountain and strong like an elephant but don’t know why we didn’t think about Ovaltine.
Another life guard during childhood was Lifebuoy soap, which again was never used later.
Incidentally, I have come back to my old Cheevakai powder for washing hair, completing stopping all shampoos . The meera brand is a fine herbal hair -wash powder and when applied on the hair, it gives a cool effect of chemparathi thaali, that green powder.Have you seen Cheevakai tree?
I have. There was at the gate of my goldsmith friend, in a lane near the Vadakkantara temple.
A simple person he was, as I too was then!
Bought an old Ambassador just to keep near the front gate so that those who passed through would envy his asset.
He never drove the vehicle nor it would have moved an inch, had he wanted .
vehicles need wheels, engine and power to move, which his Ambassador lacked! -
Farewell now, Hudson!
Farewell now, River Hudson, will be back soon
only to meet you, not Sri. or Me.
Your calm beauty reminds the one who bid adieu to me for ever.
When your chill breeze whispered in my ear last night, ‘was it she?’ I thought.
No, the gods are not so kind, every weapon they used to slice and separate us.
Many weapons, many hands and many were the gods
but still she tried to cling on to me like a tender creeper.
Is there a vibration there, far there, in the water?
Foolish thoughts again, a leaf dropped from a tree.
Like a leaf she dropped, fresh and green, not dry, weary or worn out
The storm was fierce, still the selfish tree stood still, me, worst than gods
‘Who wants your eye drops, hot,?’ chides the trees now on your bank
Blood drops, not water, those are; blood, still there?
Blood, bone, tissues everything in their place; and heart too beats
though shrunk and shaken
Or are those drum beats leading to my last place of rest ?
But why rest, when the melody of her memory flows in me, like you,
Silent, like her sad eyes which closed for ever.
Between us Hudson, she was always calm and cool like you,
Hardly spoke but her silence was eloquent, again like you.
We should meet again and we will, what is that vibration, far there?
Oh, my friend, it is she among the woods, hearing our talk.
( Sri. and Me: short for Srikanth my son and Meena, his wife. They are shifting soon from the shore of the river