I woke up feeling Kerala today and one day I am sure I will live Kerala. Kerala is an idea that has grown on me and is like that mysterious lady every guy is enamored with. Perfection is perhaps something that everyone admires but never falls in love with. And it is the lack of perfection that draws people towards it. Kerala in many ways epitomizes that.
By no means perfect, but romantic by all means. I have seen everything, I know it is a dangerous statement to make, but let me risk it, good people, bad people, festivals, big houses, small houses, good roads, bad roads, beaches, mountains, coconuts, bananas, movies - gross to masterpieces, intellectuals to people who never realized they existed, floods, droughts, walking to school in rains with books over the head, crossing canals over narrow coconut trunks, catching fresh fish in your own pond, growing your own vegetables, living without electricity to sleeping in air conditioned comfort, the list is endless. The vast canvas on which the vagaries can be fitted amazes me and makes me wonder about the things that could be hidden under it.
My dream has its roots in the village I grew up in. The vague, almost black and white memories of my village still surfaces in everything I do, think, and lives within me. Waking up within the wooden walls of my ancestral home, waiting for my black coffee in the smoke filled kitchen, watching mama steam idlis and grind coconut chutney is not a day, I know that I can live one more time. I wonder if I will ever get a chance to brush (or cleaning is a better word, because there was no brush!) my teeth with Ummikkari (the ash from burning rice husk) hung from the Uttaram (wooden cross beam supporting a tiled roof) of the Front Varandah. Walking all over the yard with Ummikkari in the left palm and cleaning the teeth with the right index finger and checking the well being of all the permanent inhabitants of the yard- dogs, a variety of birds, chickens, ducks, and even snakes!
The ancestral home used to be surrounded with paddy fields, and used to be lush green during the paddy season. The paddy seasons are busy times for the villagers. But as a kid I had no role to play in it apart from being an intrigued onlooker!! The harvesting activities, all manual, from assembling of the bundles of paddy, to separating the grains from the husk, used to be times of hectic activities and it would stretch into the night and to our delight give us a chance to keep awake late into the night and watch them work. The times used to be busy and stressful for everyone other than the younger ones in the family. This perhaps explains the fond memories I carry about those times!
This was the life in the village, but what made it memorable was the people. By no means different from people one will find anywhere else in the world, there too existed the tales of emotions, love, hatred, anger, jealousy, lust and everything that was as much a part of the daily routines as it would be anywhere else. But in the village everyone knew everyone else. And everyone was known by the family they belonged to. Family tree was a big thing in the village, something that I realized to my surprise, happiness and sadness during one of my few visits to the place I love so much. Few of the humble villagers came and waited to see me and parents, because we are a part of a family tree that was very well respected in the village. Sadness is slightly inexplicable, and primarily because of the longing for the place.
What used to bring structure to the bizarre collage was the temple, the yearly Utsavam, the various festivals Onam and Vishu in particular. The amount of eagerness for the events that was a routine and something that people probably have seen all their lives was a thing that one has to experience to understand. Yes, most people in the village were born and grew up at the same place. The temple, events surrounding the temple, the paddy fields, ownership of the fields, the family structure and familiarity with each other brought a certain amount of organization and sophistication to the village. And yes not to forget the schools that were again central to the scheme of things. Imagine 25 years back, in a far flung corner in Kerala, where Bollywood was virtually unknown and when Doordarshan was taking its first baby steps, they used to teach Hindi in the village!
This discussion cannot be complete without the mention of Onam, the harvest festival, in a place where the life of the people revolved around harvesting! At the mention of Onam, apart from the delicious Sadya (Kerala feast served on plantain leaves) that accompanies it, the word Oonjal (traditional Swing) is something that instantly comes to my mind. Somebody in the family would make sure that there are Oonjaals for everyone in the family, small ones for the little ones to long scary Oonjaals from the tallest tree in the yard for the grownups. But then, the 10 day event with the mythological backdrop of Mahabali and Vamana is too big to be described in few lines here and needs to be given its own share of the limelight. May be we will keep it for a later date.
Even with all its sophistication and organization, the village had its own rustic charm. Rustic as we all have seen on TV and heard from our grandparents, that of wandering gypsies coming to sell their wares to assembling in front of a stretched out white sheet on which a movie would be screened, to listening to aspiring crooners. Somewhere in the black and white images in my memory lies a bizarre auction on one such occasion, an auctioning of a liquor bottle that my father bid and won!
Where is this place? Is it imaginary, real or both? Perhaps the later! This village is Eara, a part of Kuttanad, the Rice Bowl of Kerala, part of Allapuzha district. The place germinated the idea called Kerala in me and grows within me. The ideas that I carry with me and grows within me, may be are just my imagination, it may not exist anymore. Times have changed and I am sure Eara too must have changed. But the idea continues to grow, the fond memories of my childhood and the desire to live that day one more time continues to grow stronger. Yes, today I woke up feeling Kerala and I am sure one day I will live Kerala!
By no means perfect, but romantic by all means. I have seen everything, I know it is a dangerous statement to make, but let me risk it, good people, bad people, festivals, big houses, small houses, good roads, bad roads, beaches, mountains, coconuts, bananas, movies - gross to masterpieces, intellectuals to people who never realized they existed, floods, droughts, walking to school in rains with books over the head, crossing canals over narrow coconut trunks, catching fresh fish in your own pond, growing your own vegetables, living without electricity to sleeping in air conditioned comfort, the list is endless. The vast canvas on which the vagaries can be fitted amazes me and makes me wonder about the things that could be hidden under it.
My dream has its roots in the village I grew up in. The vague, almost black and white memories of my village still surfaces in everything I do, think, and lives within me. Waking up within the wooden walls of my ancestral home, waiting for my black coffee in the smoke filled kitchen, watching mama steam idlis and grind coconut chutney is not a day, I know that I can live one more time. I wonder if I will ever get a chance to brush (or cleaning is a better word, because there was no brush!) my teeth with Ummikkari (the ash from burning rice husk) hung from the Uttaram (wooden cross beam supporting a tiled roof) of the Front Varandah. Walking all over the yard with Ummikkari in the left palm and cleaning the teeth with the right index finger and checking the well being of all the permanent inhabitants of the yard- dogs, a variety of birds, chickens, ducks, and even snakes!
The ancestral home used to be surrounded with paddy fields, and used to be lush green during the paddy season. The paddy seasons are busy times for the villagers. But as a kid I had no role to play in it apart from being an intrigued onlooker!! The harvesting activities, all manual, from assembling of the bundles of paddy, to separating the grains from the husk, used to be times of hectic activities and it would stretch into the night and to our delight give us a chance to keep awake late into the night and watch them work. The times used to be busy and stressful for everyone other than the younger ones in the family. This perhaps explains the fond memories I carry about those times!
This was the life in the village, but what made it memorable was the people. By no means different from people one will find anywhere else in the world, there too existed the tales of emotions, love, hatred, anger, jealousy, lust and everything that was as much a part of the daily routines as it would be anywhere else. But in the village everyone knew everyone else. And everyone was known by the family they belonged to. Family tree was a big thing in the village, something that I realized to my surprise, happiness and sadness during one of my few visits to the place I love so much. Few of the humble villagers came and waited to see me and parents, because we are a part of a family tree that was very well respected in the village. Sadness is slightly inexplicable, and primarily because of the longing for the place.
What used to bring structure to the bizarre collage was the temple, the yearly Utsavam, the various festivals Onam and Vishu in particular. The amount of eagerness for the events that was a routine and something that people probably have seen all their lives was a thing that one has to experience to understand. Yes, most people in the village were born and grew up at the same place. The temple, events surrounding the temple, the paddy fields, ownership of the fields, the family structure and familiarity with each other brought a certain amount of organization and sophistication to the village. And yes not to forget the schools that were again central to the scheme of things. Imagine 25 years back, in a far flung corner in Kerala, where Bollywood was virtually unknown and when Doordarshan was taking its first baby steps, they used to teach Hindi in the village!
This discussion cannot be complete without the mention of Onam, the harvest festival, in a place where the life of the people revolved around harvesting! At the mention of Onam, apart from the delicious Sadya (Kerala feast served on plantain leaves) that accompanies it, the word Oonjal (traditional Swing) is something that instantly comes to my mind. Somebody in the family would make sure that there are Oonjaals for everyone in the family, small ones for the little ones to long scary Oonjaals from the tallest tree in the yard for the grownups. But then, the 10 day event with the mythological backdrop of Mahabali and Vamana is too big to be described in few lines here and needs to be given its own share of the limelight. May be we will keep it for a later date.
Even with all its sophistication and organization, the village had its own rustic charm. Rustic as we all have seen on TV and heard from our grandparents, that of wandering gypsies coming to sell their wares to assembling in front of a stretched out white sheet on which a movie would be screened, to listening to aspiring crooners. Somewhere in the black and white images in my memory lies a bizarre auction on one such occasion, an auctioning of a liquor bottle that my father bid and won!
Where is this place? Is it imaginary, real or both? Perhaps the later! This village is Eara, a part of Kuttanad, the Rice Bowl of Kerala, part of Allapuzha district. The place germinated the idea called Kerala in me and grows within me. The ideas that I carry with me and grows within me, may be are just my imagination, it may not exist anymore. Times have changed and I am sure Eara too must have changed. But the idea continues to grow, the fond memories of my childhood and the desire to live that day one more time continues to grow stronger. Yes, today I woke up feeling Kerala and I am sure one day I will live Kerala!
No comments:
Post a Comment