A Place on the Road to Somewhere

Something brought fond memories of this little village in which I spent my growing up years, as a girl and a teen. A place called “PoomKavu“.Nothing spectacular or picturesque about its geography , just a place on your road to somewhere else…..but for me everything else

We came to stay at Poomkavu in the year 1984 in a rented two room kitchen house with both front and backyard.There was a cashew tree in the front yard and a few bushes of hibiscus along with a poinsettia.
The house itself was small, with no porch or sit- out but just a couple of concreted steps outside the doors of both rooms which faced the road. At the backside, adjacent to the kitchen ,there was a shed too which we utilized as a play area and also by our house owner for storing wood and other such things.

It was a 10 minutes walk to my alma mater , St Mary’s Residential School.I was in Grade 5 and Lincey in Grade 1. Linta was just two years old.

The very first friend I had there was Anita .She was my neighbour and was in Grade 4. My relation with Anita and her family was not just that of a friend. She was my confidante , comrade –in – naughtiness, my soul sister . All those memories bring a warm comfortable feeling ….just like snuggling under a blanket on a cold winter morning and not wanting to arise …….

Our morning procession to school started from her house. Me and Lincey used to go to her house and the chaos there …..In all those years there was hardly any day when they were ready before we reached. Anita and her sister Aleena, then her cousins Jomon and later Gregory getting ready to be off to school, her aunt Laisa and uncle Georgekutty ..off to college ..all in that morning hours. We would be impatiently waiting in their parlour …..someone would be plaiting hair….other packing tiffin..Anita’s grandmother complaining of them not getting up early …..and finally somehow around 9:20 we used to rush off pulling our siblings along.

All our girlish tattle and discussions happened on the way to school and back .From teachers to classmates , stories of movies , neighborhood gossips, who loves whom , both at school and church ..and so on.
On weekends we would be visiting each others house and we would play together . It was house-house mostly,transforming lungi’s into sarees or draping mom’s old sarees (when she is in a benevolent mood). Someone would be the man of the house,wearing a lungi (as a lungi) ,going for shopping.Sometimes I used to climb the window ,which would be our coconut tree,with my lungi folded up to bring down the imaginary coconuts…..Then it would be travelling in a bus with one of us as driver and other conductor issuing tickets and making someone get up and offer their seat, because a lady with a baby has boarded and needs to be seated.Or else,hospital with doctor and patients with any ailments,ranging from fever to pregnancy.
Now when I look back I feel amazed,how even the tiniest conversation, or deed which is seemingly insignificant to an adult, is absorbed and emulated by children.We did then ….and our kids do it still,maybe in a different way .

Anita’s father was in Kuwait and during his yearly visits he used to bring dresses for us along with foreign erasers and pencils and chocolates which was my first taste of luxuries provided from an alien land.I used to listen to all her stories about her Dad’s office and Kuwait with awe. They started the construction of their huge double storeyed mansion which became our play area when the construction work was not happening.

I did my first act of dare.....jumping down to a heap of fine sand ,first from the first floor and then from the second floor never realizing the danger .Anita sprained her leg in the process and I do not remember whether we did confess the cause to her mother.

It was a second family to me where I had all the love and freedom and all those moments which I spend there, would remain with me forever . I do not recollect every minute detail, but all I know is, those years with Anita has left a mark on me …it is just like this bump on your forehead, having collided with someone you love, when you both bend down together to pick up something from the floor at the same time…….It wouldn’t go ….and every time you see it ,you cannot help smiling .

This is just one of my bumps….my marks…which I got from Poomkavu...

My memories of You

I read recently in a not so famous book ,that the saddest part of losing a loved one is when you realize that you have finally moved on ….that you can live without them .And if you thought so otherwise , it was during that moment when your heart is trying to burst due to overwhelming grief .

Initially your grief comes to you like an angry wave on a high tide ,lashing against all defenses …then slowly the intensity decreases ,reducing to ripples that broke smaller and less fierce and you watch them come towards you and stop short, not reaching you and you stand there watching ,being aware that they cannot grasp you anymore , nor disorient you , but only leave the frothiness and carry a bit of sand from under your feet .

And hence here I am, trying to pick up the pieces of my memories and polish them and preserve them before they fade too.

My first memories as a child is associated with the morning cycle ride from my home at Konni to “the tailoring shop” .I do not remember the name of the shop but at present Konni Telephone exchange is located at the place where the shop used to be. My school pick up car used to halt in front of the shop .It was about 15 minutes ride and my daddy’s cycle had this green coloured tiny seat fitted in the front for me .I do not know if we had any conversations during that ride .But once in a blue moon ,he used to buy me steaming dosa’s with coconut chutney from a shop on the way .It was during my pre-primary and primary years ,till third standard . I can still clearly see myself sitting slightly hunched on that tiny seat and feel my daddy’s face nuzzling my hair .This will remain as one unforgettable memory of mine about my daddy .

Then comes books. He bought books for me ,Balarama.Poompatta, Amar Chitra katha,Paico Classics and many story books. Here I see myself seated on the doorstep , on the eve of my social studies exam of third standard ,reading “Thacholi Othenan “ and my mother scolding daddy for buying story books during examination .We had this yearly visits to my daddy’s native village Kattanam during summer vacations. On the way, our bus “Prabhat” used to halt for 15 minutes at Pandalam right outside a Bata showroom, which used to sell books too. He used to buy books and sometimes allowed me to accompany him and choose one for myself . If I am a voracious reader today ,it is only because of my daddy and I have passed this legacy to my elder son .

I have a rather terrifying memory too .My daddy excelled in Mathematics and he used to teach me the subject .He lacked patience and his teaching method was more of scolding and less explaining .I hated maths then and I remember him slapping my mother once.(which is my only memory of him slapping mommy ) .I can still recollect her words .
She said “ You are mad like your mom .Why are you beating her? Can you never teach anything without scolding and beating? “. He just got up and gave one tight slap on the side of her face.

There after most of my memories are terrifying .He wanted me to be always first in the class and I had tough competition with Mercy Joseph and Binu Annie John .Whenever I failed to come first, me and my mom used to invent stories to escape the wrath of daddy , in which the fault would be of the teacher and me an innocent victim of some unfair game. I do not know if he really believed those stories but my mommy had to go through severe mental torture to save me from daddy’s punishments which would be harsh words and more rebuke.

There was a very huge distance between me and daddy .I was scared of him and always tried to get out of his way .Whenever he was at home ,I used to sit with books. I cannot remember any normal conversation between us other than asking for marks or words of reprimand .I always believed that I am not his daughter and hence his dislike for me .This sowed in me seeds of low self esteem and I became an introvert .

There is a particular scene which keeps replaying in my mind .I was in seventh or eighth standard and my sister was in fourth or fifth .Mommy made tapioca and chutney with green chilly . Lincey splashed the spicy green chilly chutney in my eyes since she got angry with me over something and my father did not scold her .I felt so heart broken and let down that day and I think deep down somewhere in my heart I resented my sister form that day on ,since she was my daddy’s favourite. Or so I believed.

I did not mean to summon up my painful recollections but I happened to go back to my four year old self and travel with my flow of thoughts and feel once again what I felt during each one of those occasions , joyful and distressing . I never thought them to have the clarity with which I see them even now.