Last Sunday, along with family, I finally took that “stroll down memory lane,” or should I say, a drive down to Ottapalam, my ancestral home after 10 long years. As we neared home, we saw a family of peacocks returning from a walk. And instantly, my mind began reminiscing of a bygone era when mom would keep reminding dad to book tickets to Kerala during the summer holidays. Mom would get busy cooking Thair sadam (curd rice) to consume during our journey. We would pack our chess boards and pack of cards. Mom’s cousins who lived in Mumbai too would travel with us and mom’s younger brother or dad’s brother, would come to see us off at the station.
As the train snaked away, the landscape would change from concrete jungles to miles and miles of green fields, hills and hillocks with brooks and rivulets and swaying wild flowers in white and blue. We would slowly settle down as mom and dad, uncle and aunt exchanged niceties with fellow travelers. We would pull out our pack of cards and chess boards after the initial scuffle for window-seats and pillows. As the train whizzed past stations without stopping, I kept ticking off stations that dad had written down for me in a paper. 36 hours and we were almost home.
Welcoming us in the wee hours, with the widest grin, stood on the near empty railway platform at Ottapalam, grandma’s faithful, karyasthan ( caretaker ) and my youngest uncle. After the initial hugs and greetings, we drove past the hustle and bustle of the town to convoluted roads flanked by green paddy fields on either side, interrupted occasionally with huge black rocks. I still remember the crane that swept through the air and landed on the paddy field.
The road then took a turn into a mud road, taking us deeper and deeper into a sleepy village where very few people lived. Most of the land was owned by my grandparents. As the car moved slowly we waved at the goldsmith Madhavan who stepped out to see us pass by with a wide grin. The car would then stop near a temple and we would get down the car and trek down the terrain, a landscape of red clay.We would walk over bunds zig- zagging across paddy fields.
From afar, I can even now see a girl run towards me in her colorful swaying skirt, calling out my name. It’s my cousin. We run into each other’s arms in excitement and look towards the others following us. At the verandah stands a slim lady with ankle -length hair, draped in starched milky white mundu, ashes smeared on the forehead, radiating a beaming smile. This is my grandmother whom we called,Valiamma. I hug her tight, she enquires about us in her soft spoken voice, almost a whisper and ushers us in. The agrarian life interrupted with the cacophony of the just arrived family.
The Edorth house is large and cool, comprising many large, small and hidden rooms. The main door is hefty and ornamental with an ornate lock, which opens into a fairly large room. A wooden staircase from here leads to the top floor and to my favourite room- my grandmother’s room. The walls and ceiling are totally covered with wood. Rows of framed family pictures grace the wall. One side has a beautiful carved bed. The other side has a wooden couch on which I like to lie beside an open window for hours, staring at the beautiful night sky, the cool night breeze caressing my face. On the wall adjacent to the door hangs a gigantic mirror and the window next to it faces the paddy fields.
We freshen up and run to the kitchen where idlis as soft as butter with chutney are served. Valiamma cajoles us to eat more, but I love the kanji ( gruel ) more and the red onion chutney and the omelette cooked on open fire. The ripe fallen leaves of the jackfruit tree are transformed into spoons to drink up the kanji. My mema (mom’s sister) asks about my school and life in Mumbai, as she dishes out hot idlis onto our plates and dribbles home- made butter in the kanji, the sweet aroma of ghee permeating the air.
It was now time to run to the pond where our cook Ammini amma would give us an oil massage. Valiamma hands us the home -made shampoo with crushed hibiscus leaves to wash our hair. We are now ready to run to the Nalukettu pond. We had many ponds, but this one was the biggest. Those who know swimming dive from the bank of the pond, the rest practice swimming. After almost about three hours we are called back home for lunch. Waiting for us is a sumptuous lunch consisting of red rice from our very own home grown paddy, sambar, vegetables,fish or chicken, curd and accompaniments. Valiamma gently ushers us to the table and we devour the spread before us. The taste is ambrosial.
Lunch time also meant, the workers from the field walking into the backyard for lunch and Ammini amma would serve them red rice and curries and cool butter-milk , while Valiamma would be updated about the state of affairs in her various fields and property. Grandma was particular about hospitality so there was always a copious supply of food so anyone who walked in unannounced would not go hungry. The fires burnt until late night.
We would then slowly slip away to our backyard to pick mangoes and then to Pathayapura, to play cards, chess, carom or simply read books. Some afternoons we walked around the large property picking fruit, wild flowers or gently touching the mimosa plant to see it shy away or would just laze under some huge tree to chit chat. Or we chose to quietly climb up the dark attic, where we dug into earthen pots filled with tamarind and salt or would dash to the granary or the front yard where threshing took place and large hay mounds lay.
By 4:pm, the house was permeated with the sweet fragrance of mouth-watering unni- appams or succulent golden jackfruits, ripe mangoes, vadas or rice murukku. Evenings were spent in hiking up the surrounding hills and mountains discovering the breathtaking beauty of nature. Some were spent in visiting elders and relatives or welcoming visitors as they dropped by to meet us. All of this meant more hugs, more love and more food. The children had to be home by 6.30:pm before it got dark. After a shower we had to sit for evening prayers and there after we spent hours in the verandah or the living room chatting until late night. It was even more lovely when summer rain touched the dry ground and left in its wake, a sweet fragrance.
During the span of these two months, Valiamma tried her best to fulfill all our wishes. Each day was a delectable treat. The morning was welcomed with the musical sound of Cheeru sweeping the yard rhythmically. As I came down the staircase, I would see my Valiamma fresh like a flower, her long lustrous hair let loose, softly praying. On seeing us, she would direct us to the kitchen to have cow’s milk. She loved her cows and often talked to them. It was the beginning of another treasure- filled day when Chimmini amma would bring payasam from the temple. Grandma would give offerings in the name of all her grandchildren every month to the temple. I wasn’t a religious person at all but I relished the payasam made with rice, jaggery and coconut.
Some days, we would have fresh coconut water from coconuts specially plucked for us. A day would be spent in fishing and another watching Velu dressing the chickens for a feast. Then there would be a weekend, when my eldest uncle would visit us. There was no paucity for activities at Edorth house. There were also times when I quietly slipped away to sit alone at the athani, my favourite spot of all, in the tranquility of nature, gazing into the endless fields, at the cows straying into the field and the migratory birds, with the cool air enveloping me.
The mobile rang and I was suddenly nudged into the present. Here I was in Edorth Mamballikalam, which stood bereft of its former glory. Valiamma, mom, dad, Velu and many others having departed to their heavenly abode. Others elsewhere. There was just silence everywhere. The Pathayapura and Nalukettu lay empty. An empty cow-shed, some new caretakers, a few chicken pecking on the ground, a duck family annoyed at the interruption, dogs tied to posts and barking protest at our intrusion. The door to the verandah creaked open as my youngest uncle and aunt welcomed us in with a huge grin. I peeked in. Things had changed. There was a TV and I searched longingly for some memories and walked up the staircase to my Valiamma’s door and pushed it gently open. The room was nearly empty except for the couch and some mattresses.
The bed was gone, so also the huge mirror and Valiamma’s pettakam (wooden chest ). All gone. The room was stripped off by my aunt, after the recent partition. I slowly walked down the staircase and walked into the kitchen. The fires were burning, my aunt was cooking a large meal but the cacophony was missing so also the people. On having inherited some of grandma’s assets, my eldest uncle had been coaxing me for a while to come down. I was quite reticent to face the reality, the loss of loved ones. But here I was again to relive memories that were soul filling and painfully poignant. I smiled. Though my eyes were growing misty.
Lalitha Menon loves people and has learnt that God has created each one of us to be unique and our talents, potential and experiences all put together can be useful to many lives. She works as a Corporate Trainer for Soft skills and sometimes as a Master of Ceremonies for Business Events. She has been a teacher in South Africa and an administrator in India. She loves travelling, painting, cooking, learning languages, dancing, swimming. And has had the privilege to contribute to Chicken Soup for the Soul- Indian Women and to Jet Wings magazine.