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?
...and sometimes she prefers lying on my laptop!
