Memories

A stammer

A struggle

A switch between languages-

“Ah, sorry!! I meant to say-”.

Eloquence a bliss

accorded to a few;

Rest make do

with rapid heart beats

and nervous twitches

of the tongue

as it rolls out

words foreign, new-

Acrobatics

normal for it

abandoned.

My throat

constricts out words

My heart

translates:

Barish.

Rain.

Mazha.

The last faint echo

childlike and trembling-

always Malayalam.

         I

Malayalam.

The language of home.

Of innocence. Of laughter.

The excited words

of pa and ma;

their touches:

I was to be born soon.

Then the Doctor

and the midwife-

“Pennkutti aa!”.

The daily lesson

at the ashaan kalari

on the gritty sand,

my index finger

gripped firmly

by wrinkly hands-

a aa e ee u uu.

A sharp rap

on my thigh

as my mind wanders,

fingers a-drawing.

The cool ring

drawing out alphabets

on my tongue;

the ashirwadam

exchanged for

betel leaves and nut.

The Doctor at the clinic.

“Delhiyil ninnu aanu alley?”

The shots. The candy.

The incessant rain.

Mazha.
Sitting near ammachi
in the kitchen
listening

to her stories-

of settlement:

The long journey

on an oxen cart

all the way from

Malabar.

The young bride

with her pots.

The clearing of the forests.

The thatched roof house.

The killing of the Rajavambala.

The piteous cries of its mate.

Stories of births. Of miscarriages.

Of family feuds. Court cases.

Stories of fearsome ancestors

their statures increasing

with every retelling.

Then the truths. The facts:

The shakti of the eastern ambalam

passes through our front yard

on her way to the other ambalam.

The many helps

who never enter the threshold

smile, wave and talk

from afar

shoulders slouched

hiding into themselves.

The old ammachi

who comes for betel leaves

with only an adi mundu

and wrinkled sagging breasts-

her mind yet unkindled

by reforms.

Mazha.

The rustling of the rubber trees.

Peyyadi mala, now christened

‘A/C mala’ by the young,

after the last of the foxes

were killed.

The pana, the paala

and the yakshi-

the bloodcurdling tales

of childhood nightmares

recounted by gleeful

older cousins.

Mazha.

Running behind lambs

and calves

the drooping thotta-vadi

strewn around like corpses

in our wake.

The wild flowers.

And the rattling snake:

A frozen child

with a frozen scream.

My barefooted ammachi

and her forked veraggu:

a tale for my grandchildren

on a rainy day.

         II

Delhi 1990s.

Only one hindikaaran,

rest all malayalees

in our Madrasi Colony-

its proper name

unused, forgotten

except by postmen.

“Madrasi nahhi! Humm Kerala se hhai!”-

Wasted breaths and over stressed syllables-

we would always be madrasi.

The uniform blue tinge

of superwhite Ujala

on all our whites.

The heavy curly tresses

Always oiled.

Always braided.

Just like the kariveppu illa

always found in all our dishes.

Slightly accented.

Slightly broken

Hindi.

Words heedless of stops

rolling off our tongues-

wannu. tuuwu. threeyu.

The stress and the snickers

over the over stressed syllables.

The yearly summer pilgrimage-

the chugging train

washed in the rain.

Mazha.

Two months of naadu.

Of rain.

A little older me

demanding aaloo curry-

my harassed ammachi

playing show and tell

with vegetables.

Frantic phone calls

and much distress-

I refuse to quieten.

Atlast a saviour-

the family black sheep’s wife,

both convicted

of an inter-religious marriage,

an off-shoot

of their campus romance.

Estranged till now

but now embraced

over kezhangu curry.

            

             III

Another monsoon.

The four hour flight

passed uneventful

sans any turbulence.

Only memories.

No fights over middle berths.

No jostling for the window seat.

No pantry chettan

with pazham-pori

or chaya or parippu-vada.

No counting rivers

and bridges

with new friends.

No excitement over

spotting the engine

on a curve.

Eventless.

A smooth landing.

A car till the front yard-

the moldy stone steps

now flattened with tar.

The many neighbor-relatives

a blur through the tinted window.

No climbing up the steep hill

stopping every now and then

at homes of kin.

No answering the same questions-

“ethram classil aayi?”

“ethare mudi undayirunnda!”

No taking an entire day

to reach home.

Our home.

The tharavadu veedu.

The earth red front yard

now is blue with porous tiles.

The smooth red oxide floor

exchanged for tiles a-slippery.

The sound of the Dish T.V-

“ningalkum aagamm kodeeshwaran”,

and my ammachi,

now old, with her tooth in a jar,

in her slightly off-white chatteyum-mundum,

welcomes me home.

My cousins with heads bowed

over their phones

faces showing the irritation

of a slow 3G reception.

Ammachi.

A struggle to converse.
The easy flow of childhood
now elusive.

The limited vocabulary-
words lost, forgotten, unused.

The accented tone.
The english words.

Her puckering brow.

Robbed of words, eloquence,

my hands, fingers, gestures,

speak in my stead.

And like bhaiya,

mute till three,

i plunge on

and she understands:

The silences.

The gestures.

Just like she understood him.

Embarrassed and angry

i walk out.

My education

my degrees- all a waste!

The fading sun

drooping behind

the western hill.

Another look.

This one long. Steady. Hard.

No trees cloud my vision.

The kezhakan mala,
now a clearing.

Sold out.

Being dug for gold.

The new gold- manalu.

Metallic creatures crawl

the deep wide gorge:

a flaming red abyss

of swirling dust

risen to heaven

by the shattering blasts

of boulders.

A small head.

A cherubic smile.

Ah, new neighbors.

Not relations.

But non-blue

varunthanmaar.

“Thottathille yano?”

A nod and a smile.

Further talks get cut

by the Angelus bell

of the kovenda palli,

with answering bell

from the cheriya palli.

An apologetic smile

and the mother-son leave:

it is time for vilakku

and Amma.

As they hustle inside

I look towards the west

again.

The gothic towers

of the cheriya palli

atop the adjacent hill

rise up towards the sky.

The Syrian church’s gongs

mingle with the Latin’s-

unthinkable for their congregations.

Many puthu christyanigal

number among our

new neighbors
with their box-like houses-

the 3BHKs of Delhi-

cluttering the
receeding adirugal 

of now dilapidated
old tharavaadus and illams,
pushing the Old World

into the alleys.

Towards the north-east

our nearest of kins-

and bitterest enemy:

kootan- heirless kootan.

A bed ridden wife

a half mad son

and a daughter-in-law

who ran away taking her daughter.

The entire adjacent hill-

bought, snatched, stolen-

all his.

But after him, whose?

A blast.

The earth shook.

I looked back

at the setting sun

and the settling dust
of the powdering boulder.

The land being dug
was of another kin-
prosperous once,

now a thief notorious.

Heir to riches unseen,

his mother was found

two days after her death.

She had run

out of medicine.

I walk back

mouthing the Angelus.

The hill descends

into silence

as the workers

and their machines retire

for the day.

I cross the well

entering from the kitchen.

A puzha chakka.

I hack at it.

And eat.

The opening song

of Amma

floats towards the kitchen.

It starts to drizzle.

Mazha.

Barish.

Rain.

Nostalgia lives

in the hearts of the displaced.

Tomorrow my return flight.

A journey back-

to where?