Nurungukal...contd....

      September third was coming to an end. It was for the first time in my life to spent a whole day in such close proximity with a girl. Ever since I tied the nuptial knot she was with me. She did not speak much but her silence and looks were enough to open her mind. So was her sister and brother-in-law. Occasionally he came to me to talk in praise of her and he wished us to enjoy a very happy future. Her sister always put up a smile and rarely moved from where she was. Even her movement was unusually slow, as if not to hurt the earth. The fragrance from the jasmine  and the smell of the new silk Saree were in a way working as an aphrodisiac in me.  A synergy was mounting in us. But the members of our family as usual, never wanted to put a stop to their entertainment and it went on and on. I think it was my brother-in-law who put an end to it, perhaps after sensing my uneasiness. We were ushered into the bed room with usual acts of fun and excitement. And once inside we were taken over by natural impulses slowly slipping into oblivion.

       I was woken by a loud knock at the door next day morning.  She was in deep slumber. Watching her in that state , although resisted me from leaving the bed, the knock at the door shattered my desire, instead forced me to gently wake her up.

      As we joined the crowd we had to face a lot of routine inquisitive  remarks. Although we tried to evade them, heart of heart we were enjoying such subtle gestures. We were expected to leave for Wayanad early in the morning, to attend a reception. They had arranged a car for the journey. My sister was our representative.

      I had visited Wayanad along with my colleagues a few years ago. It was a pleasant journey especially in the new company, except for the one or two stops en route to provide comfort to some of the members. Wayanad was lush green and the nature was like a garden with full of flowers every where. The ghat road with many twists and turns wound up the hills to enter a cool and salubrious land scape. The ravines,brooks and the gushing water at many falls produced musical notes as if from  thousands of strings. We felt as if we were on he top of the world. As I looked down I saw tiny buildings on a green carpet above which white clouds floated like cotton. On the background a blue canvas hung far away completing the awesome scenery.

        The house is of typical Wayanad style, without much aeration inside, may be to protect from severe cold. It is situated on the side of a hillock facing a s wide stretch of paddy field. There was a small crowd of her relatives and some of their estate workers in waiting. A silence prevailed. Every one talked in hushed tones. It was quite a contrast to what I have experienced in Ponani on such occasions. Most of the men were basking in the sunshine, holding their hands close to the chest and keeping their back to the sun !!. The ladies remained inside and the children like any, were playing around. A few estate workers were crouching far away around a quenched fire.

          Here also there are a few paintings of their elders and the tusk of a huge elephant in the reception room.  The roof is panelled with  wood. There are two replicas of their family temples. These are the craft pieces of one of their carpenters. The surprising piece is a dining table made from a rose wood plank. The top is made out of a single piece without joints of the size of nearly 4’x6’. I was told that there were three such pieces and one was gifted to a British officer. The second one is now decorating as a swing in her sister’s house.You can very well imagine the size of the rose wood tree from which three such pieces would have been made.

          After lunch my sister returned. In the night there was a gathering of their friends and relatives. I was inquisitive about the presence of some Britishers in the crowd. They were the officers from M/S Malayalam Plantations to whom many years ago the family had leased out a chunk of their property.

              Night was getting cooler and cooler. And we spent the second night under the warmth of a woollen blanket in ecstasy and many more there after, sharing  the warmth of each other......[part one concluded]

       

Nurungukal...contd....

          We reached home in time. The pilot party consisting of brother-in-law,sister etc, had already arrived earlier and were waiting to receive us in the traditional style[aarathi etc.]. Then a session of offering milk followed. It was always customary to make fun while the milk is poured in a small spoon as the couple had to adjust their mouth to accept it when some members tried some tricks. Over and over again in every marriage such funny scenes are enacted. This ritual is enjoyed by all and taken lightheartedly. After this orientation it was time for the bride to change dress and be present before the guests.

            We had arranged a get together of our local friends and relatives in the evening.  I met many with whom I had lost contacts. Most of my classmates had already become parents. It was nice to renew the friendship. Some were new settlers in the immediate locality. Many families had moved into our village as it provided all facilities and a peace full atmosphere. All of them had come with gifts wrapped in colourful paper. The size varied depending on the intimacy. But a few,while taking leave discreetly left a brown cover containing cash  in my hand. Earlier days this custom was not prevailing in our society. Only very close relatives reciprocated each other to offer a gift or helping hand in cash. We had received a number of silver glasses and plates, a few gold coins etc as gifts to my sister.Some of the silver glasses are still available in a wooden Almira on the first floor of our house in Ponani.

          The menu was as usual a laddu, some mixture[same ingredients as of now],a ripe plantain and a piece of cake wrapped in a butter paper and of course a cup of strong tea all served in porcelain plate and cups. Paper products were not in use.

          The relatives of the bride en block paid a visit and left leaving her eldest sister and husband as care takers and escorts. Gradually the invites left one by one and it was time for the family members to engage in private conversations. The venue was taken over by my eldest brother and brother-in-law to crack jokes and prompting others to make fun. Mother was immensely happy and joined with us to enjoy every minute. It was always like that when ever we met together. But now as the quorum has shrunk we are not able to do full justice to our entertainment sessions. The major players have left us one by one  creating gaps in our family fabric. Now we are depending on the next generation to reestablish the lost grandeur of our family get together. We have not lost hope as some of them have inherited the spirit in abundance.....contd....

       

        

      

Nurungukal...contd...

           Circling the Deity, hand in hand, supporting each other, was a new experience. Her grip was gentle but firm and the occasional pressing of her thump on my right palm conveyed silent messages. Her attire was simple and elegant. She looked graceful with a bunch of fragrant jasmines and traditional ornaments. The emerald green nagapada thali was a perfect match to the Thulasi garland.In perfect harmony and rhythm we completed the rounds accompanied by our nearest relatives. The procedure connected with our nuptial ceremony step by step is a symbolic expression of entering into a silent contract of a life long partnership. An understanding of mutual respect and give and take. Even the offering of milk to the newly wedded, conveyed an assurance from the near and dear their support to the couple in their future journey.

             We were then taken to a nearby guest house where I found the other party had arranged a photo session. Fortunately a snap of that event is a precious document which we enjoy even today. Her mother an embodiment of humility stood close to us silently all the while radiating rays of love and intimacy. The way in which her eldest brother was conducting the proceedings left an impression of his meticulous planning. Even now he is the best in her family as far as the financial management is concerned.

            The guest house belonged to a very influential family in feroke. Even my mother used to say about their legacy. They owned tile factories, theatres etc. etc. Poothery family was in the high echelons of the society. Like them there were a few more names who prevailed high in the social and business world of Malabar. When I had visited Guruvayur along with my parents as a boy, I used to look at this guest house as a wonder land, comparing the facilities of the Sathram lodgings in which we used to stay. The temple, the pond ,the banyan tree, Sathrams, coffee shops, the wandering cows, the ladies with palm leaf umbrellas and of course the caprisoned elephants is the canvas I still prefer to visualise about Guruvayoor.

                     The feast was arranged in the Sathram hall. Those days there were no tables and chairs. I found many struggling to come to a squatting pose. The dishes were tasty and the size of the Guruvayur pappadam was big enough to cover many items. But I could not do justice. Leaving a big crowd to be attended to, our party left for Ponani as we were supposed to enter our house before a specified time....contd...

Nurungukal.......contd....

    The chirping of the birds and the cry of a crow from the top of a coconut tree woke me up to face the D-Day in my life, September 3^rd in 1970. My wedding day. I was unusually fresh and energetic. I had spent the previous night nurturing and fondling the sweetness of the impending episode. The rest of the family was in the process of getting ready. All were in a happy mood. Achuthan Nair as usual had prepared uppumavu and steamed plantain fruits, the easiest items on such occasions for break fast.  A few relatives whom mother had decided to accompany us and some of my old friends were ready on time. I do not remember how many were there. Some had already left by bus. The vehicle we had arranged was not very comfortable, still it was the best available in those days in Ponani. As the function had to take place inside the temple I adopted a  formal dress code. Mother preferred to stay back. My younger brother could not make to attend. The eldest was at his best in cracking jokes,were as sister and brother-in-law were busy in ushering us to the vehicle. It was a very jovial and noisy journey and we reached Guruvayoor in time. Inside the temple there was a fairly big crowd. The marriage of my bride’s cousin sister was also to place simultaneously. Her bridegroom was an engineer in telephones. He had wide circle of relatives and friends. Virtually they were a dominant group in the venue. Only my height helped me to standout. As both the pairs had to do the traditional procedures simultaneously there was some confusion, prompting the onlookers to make fun of us. But among the crowd I noticed her uncle attending the function in full divinity and silently showering best wishes to both the couples. For a few moments we were like puppets ready to comply with  any instruction.Gradually a silent urge crept in me and I was blissfully happy to hold her hand and commence a long journey. ..... contd...

                  

Nurungukal....contd...

        After a concerted search I succeeded in locating a few of my old friends in Ponani. They were very happy about the unexpected reunion and gladly accepted my invitation. A goldsmith who was my father’s trusted artisan agreed to make my wedding ring. He had shifted his place of work to the veranda of a jewellery shop. Earlier he carried on  his work in his house and extended his service only to some discrete customers. I had seen him in action many a time in our veranda, sitting flat on the floor and blowing the fire to mould intricate designs in gold. It was a common scene in our house, a few days before a marriage. Mother was very particular either to polish or remake some of her old pieces. Another occasion he showed his face was when there was an ear piercing ceremony. I ordered for a simple and traditional piece.

             Mother desired to offer a gold chain to the bride. To purchase gold ornaments in those days we depended on the jewellers in Trichur. Chakolas was the trusted choice. My sister and eldest sister-in-law accompanied me. They selected one with a pair of swans as pendant. I liked the pendant as it resembled the pair of swans floating gracefully, in a painting depicting Shakuntala lying on the nearby grass, resting her head on the left hand and writing a love letter on a lotus leaf. This piece of art was my mother’s precious collection. I thought it was the best symbol of expressing my love to the would be wife. She still  adore it. A pair of silk sarees, to be offered as pudava was also purchased, pink and off white in colour.

    The ceremony was to take place in Guruvayoor temple on 3rd September. All arrangements were completed including the to and fro transportation of relatives and close friends. There was a small gathering  on the previous day. Mother’s  old veteran cook Achuthan nair was in charge and he did his job fairly well. When compared to the celebrations of the previous day of my sister’s marriage years ago , mine lacked tempo, no doubt. Yet personally I was at the altar of joy and anxiety.....contd....

Nurungukal.......contd.....

        I proceeded on leave in the middle of October 1970. 3^rd September was my marriage day. When I reached home my mother and brothers were busy with the most difficult task in a marriage viz. to ensure that the invitations reached every body and none is left behind. But  it is my experience that one or two very intimate friends or relatives might have been left. It would be known only after the marriage and we had to cut a sorry face. Things were being moved smoothly, but I felt that the absence of father was felt in the planning process. Although he never would involve directly in the execution his influence in the procedure was very important as he would foresee each and every aspect of the event. One of my elder brothers who was actually the force behind my marriage had expressed his inability to attend due to some unavoidable reason. All others were there to make the event lively.

          I found that my absence from the home ,since the attaining of the job had created a gap in my contacts with the local friendships. Many of my childhood comrades had left the village in search of better pastures like me. I could locate none of my school mates to become the best man and I had to depend some one who was a regular visitor to our house to assist my mother.

            Due to her age mother was not in her best, while comparing her performance during my sister’s marriage. Still she was the centre of attraction, by her in born ability of hospitality. From dawn to dusk she was like a busy bee, moving around, exchanging pleasantries, while unbundled  her past.

          Some of the relatives of the bride paid visits once or twice to fine tune the procedures. They insisted to adopt some of their customs, which I knew, later were of a tradition borrowed from Palghat area, from where her father hailed. Even now I feel that the Nair families of Wayanad  can not claim a tradition of their own as they are migrants.

          During that period Kerala politics was in a turmoil. The ruling and opposition parties were involved in mud slinging each other. As a mole to the mountain a minister was alleged of a corruption charge in which unfortunately my bride’s family was also alleged to have involved. But after a hectic battle in the court of law the cloud was cleard. Anyway after marriage I heard very interesting  versions of the episode which I feel now, can be moulded into a TV serial !!. But I do not venture to do it as it can rupture a hard earned harmony and stimulate a family feud.

           The upheaval of a movement against the atrocities inflicted by some of the feudal barons was another issue to be tackled. Their activities were creating a horror in the social life of the state and it made ripples in the political circles. There was a resistance in the minds of the public against such blood sheds as it was clear violation of the accepted principles of democracy and law of the land to settle a social issue. Soon the movement lost momentum and fizzled out. But it was an eye opener and found results later, although there are vibrant issues still to be resolved.......contd....

Nurungukal...contd...

      It was August 1970. My bachelor days were coming to an end. Mother had informed that the marriage had been fixed on 3^rd September. As per the wish of the bride’s family it had to be solemnised at Guruvayoor Temple. Somehow I managed to hire a small portion of a house near to the warehouse. Proximity to my office and availability of potable water were my priorities. My leave was sanctioned. I took a stock of the days I spent in Madras as a free bird. I had a good time. Madras had facilities for the rich to be lavish and the poor to be frugal and satisfied and the extravagant to be popper in no time.

      Very often I used to  enjoy an evening with my friend Rajappan  to have a dinner in Bhuhari hotel. They served food during night in your car . Crisply uniformed waiters would be ready at your service no sooner the car is parked. A hot plait of biriyani or aappam with varuval  was any gourmets choice. To top up a few sips of sulaimani tea. Then a Hollywood movie in Saphire was our usual routine. Very rarely if  I had stayed back in the lodge for some reason we would take a lunch in MLA hostel  canteen which was very famous for Chetinad preparations. Rajappan had kept some of the waiters there in his good books by offering lavish tips and we always received a special attention. The excitement you attain by squeezing through the street in front of Mambalam electric train station to make a purchase of choice mangos or rasthali plantain fruits is beyond description. It is were your bargaining capacity is tested. The  call of the hawkers had a strange rhythm when shouting the price of their goods[ pathu rupaik ettu, ettu pathurupaiku, alternatively shouted by a pair of sales men] The entire stretch of the street would be like a busy bee hotel , where many would be wandering up and down just to derive a pleasure of innocent or intentional collisions, while others, mainly commuters and house wives, were engaged in choosing their articles. Baniyans and hand kerchiefs from Thirupur mills were another popular items sold here.

               Once in a way I used to spent a few hours to loiter around Spencer’s, British council library and St. Theresa’s college. Spencer’s was a favourite shopping centre for the elite where select products at premium price were sold. But their baked items were the best choice even for the middle income groups. They used to be sold like hot cakes. St. Theresa’s of course represented the tradition and culture of Tamil Nadu. British Council library provided everything for a connoisseur, whether it is literature or art. The towering LIC building always amazed me and I used to wonder the farsightedness of its original builder. There were many more things about Madras which lay close to my heart. The politicians with great literary acumen and their capacity to hold a huge crowd spellbound for hours at the tip of their tongue, deliberating in chaste Tamil. The movie stars who could attract thousands as their fans.The industrial advancement  built up on the sweat and blood of a committed work force and the efforts of intelligent entrepreneurs. But in spite of all these I used to worry why Kuvam river and the slums on her banks remained as an eye sore on a land scape which had all the potential for a heaven on earth. I hope it might have all changed by now........contd.........

           

Nurungukal....contd....

      I had visited Madras harbour once or twice. Even had a chance to get into a cargo ship.It was a nice experience. We were showered with hospitality. Even offered hot drinks which we politely refused as we were on duty. The ambiance inside the ship was that of a star hotel. The food was excellent and a few dishes were new to our taste. It was only a courtesy visit. As we were about to leave the harbour, somebody showed me the damage inflicted by Emdon, the most dreaded and elusive submarine of the German navy during second world war. I doubt the German’s target would have been Sigapore and their deep intrusion into Bay of Bengal to hit Madras Harbour was a mistake. I tried to unwind some the scenes from war time movies, which was once my craze. Another elusive fighter was Rommel the desert rat.

          My friend Rajappan who was an upcoming painting contractor and me used to enjoy an evening on all most all Sundays on the silky sands of Marina. In Oxford dictionary the word Marina meant a harbour for yachts. Perhaps many years ago the beach would have been a  favourite port in the maritime map of the  traders from other continents. But for Italians the word meant beautiful. I leaned this when I met an Italian girl very recently in Wayanad. Her name was Marina. The roar emanating from the fathoms of the bay and the tranquil carpet of smooth crystalline sand spread delicately as if to induce a mermaid to the shore always made ripples in me. Rows and rows of kattumaram waiting for their next fishing spree lay motionless like an school of sea lions migrated from Pacific ocean. I used to wonder about the safety of the fisher men who embark upon their dangerous journey far in to the sea to make a living, on a few logs bound together while we derive a pleasure in bargaining with a fisher women to reduce the price unaware of the dangerous task behind the catch.

               A slow walk in the water when the water slide back into the sea can tickle your bare feet by the receding sand particles, while healing the bruises. The lengthening shadows reaching into the sea as the sun descends in your back, weaving  patterns on the sand gave a signal to leave. But to us it was the time to grab a cone of chundel  from the old woman and say ‘till we meet again’...........contd.....

Nurungukal....contd....

       Madras now Chennai ,to me was a place of many exclusive and unique geographical indicators. Madras central railway station still remains as a monument of colonial rule. It has a resemblance to such an edifice in London. I used to look in wonder at the clock on the top which is very much similar to a tilak. And before it, lay the Mount road [Anna Salai]stretching like a python trying to reach the St.Thomas Mount. The station itself was to me, with its many terminals resting on different platforms like the  many headed snakes in our mythology. Higgin Bothoms at the exit  ready to quench the thirst of any voracious reader can not resist you from picking up a book or two or at least a daily or weekly. I always used to dig for a popular  novel if not a latest edition of The Illustrated Weekly.

                As you come out a crowd of rickshaw pullers would swarm you and one of them would eventually grab your luggage and deposit you in his rikshaw.The slang in which they talk is typical to Madras city , more or less like the way M.R.RADHA spoke. On the way to my destination I enjoyed to engage in  conversation with  them mainly on politics and cinema. Majority of them were fans of MGR.No traffic rules were applicable to them and they would take you through the crowd at brake neck speed swaying on the pedals. Most of them wore a pant and sleeveless baniyan with a red hand kerchief tied round their neck. If your are not tactful they would squeeze out a chunk as fare. It is up to you to be friendly on the way and to get a fair deal at the end.

       Any body who went on leave, it was a practise to make a visit to the Moor Market which stood majestically near  Madras Central.They were like sisters in embrace. A heritage lost for the sake of convenience.Now it has become a foregone nostalgia. It was said that every thing from pin to plane were available there and where your capacity to negotiate was tested........contd....

Nurungukal....contd....

     Chrompet warehouse was our flag ship. We attained that status due to the hard work of a bunch of dedicated staff. Many Americans  experts had visited the warehouse to examine the condition of storage of the CARE products and had expressed their appreciation. Whenever a bulk customer sought our facility it was the practise of the management to show the performance of the warehouse. Madras Fertilisers, a venture in collaboration with a USA firm, when it set up a plant in Madras decided to utilise the services of Central Warehousing Corporation after evaluating the working of Chromepet warehouse. Later on it became one of our prestigious operations through out the country.

   The volume of traffic became more and more and we were forced to extend our service even during night. It was a real challenge to our efficiency. Most of the supervisory staff were married persons and thus were reluctant to take up night shifts. Ultimately the bachelors were asked to shoulder the burden. It was not new to me, as I had managed night duties while working in Railways. In fact I enjoyed it because it was less tiresome, considering the day time heat of Madras. Another reason for others to avoid night shifts was that there was a strong belief that the premise was  haunted. Some of our watch men had reported their encounters with an unidentified figure moving around, especially at the far end of the compound which was a grave yard before we acquired it. The presence of aavi in the form of a huge figure fully covered with a black blanket was confirmed on many occasions. Out of fear our watch men even ventured to damage the punch clocks of such locations, to avoid cross checking of their failure to make rounds!!

           It was on a night shift I had to face an incident which virtually demolished the theory of the presence of the hoary aavi. We were receiving imported wheat from Madras harbour. I was in charge of night shift. The unloading was in the last godown at the far end corner of the compound. There were three or four points at which the unloading were in progress. I was watching the progress from a corner where the illumination had snapped a while ago. Usually the men used to sing a tune in loud voice to free from the tiredness while un loading. It was going on in high pitch and I was engrossed in it. All on a sudden a black figure producing a hoary sound knocked me down and tried to vanish into the adjacent bush. But I was agile and the sports man in me could make a unexpected quick jump and catch it. It was struggling to get released. But my grip was firm enough to bring it down to earth. I shouted for help and a few came running to over power the strange object. It got up and started jumping and pronouncing something in Tamil repeatedly in a strange sound. The black cloth  had fallen. She was none other than one of our sweeper women in hysteria and seized by some unseen force. I had in my native place Ponani come across with such incidents during temple festivals when the oracles dance to the tune of drum beats in a particular rhythm. When ever any women  from the crowd attempt to act similarly the oracle would subdue them catching by the hair. I used the same  and she was relieved off from her fierce condition.

  That incident prompted us for a critical analysis and gave the correct clues for the shortages of stocks while unloading in some remote godowns and the scaring by the unknown black figure. Any how we got rid of the fear of night watch men and our punch clocks resumed working there after without fail.....contd.........

Nurungukal....contd....

     Some persons will never fade away from your memory. Ramesh was one such for me. It was a busy day in the warehouse. I was just preparing to go to my assigned godown when my sight fell on a young man climbing the steps. He was hesitant and moved towards me and wanted to know where he should report. He spoke English in a typical north Malabar slang and I could easily make out from where he hailed. He walked with a slight jerk and a bend to the right. Looked smart in his white full sleeves shirt, neatly tucked in the black pants. I was always fascinated by a crisp attire. I showed him the way to the office and left him to take care of himself. After a few minutes when I returned, he was  in our room preparing the joining report. When he attempted to resume the conversation with me, again in the distorted slang  I put him at ease by revealing my mother tongue. A sign of relief prevailed on his face. He had just passed out from Guruvayurappan College with a degree in science. It was his first job. A native of Dharmadam , near to Tellichery. Our routine tea was served at eleven. By that time he had completed the initial formalities of joining the post.  It was time for me to accompany the in charge of the warehouse Mr. Rajaram on his daily inspection of the activities in the various points. He told me about the new hand and to provide him with the initial orientation about our functioning.

                 Usually any new comer was taken to the laboratory to have acquaintance with various scientific aspects of warehousing. Mr. Decruze was in charge of the lab. He was a bundle of energy although puny in stature. I had accompanied him on many Sundays to Guindy race course. Horse race was his craze. He knew every thing about horses and jockeys. I do not know whether he had won any race or not.  If you can resist spending money on betting, I felt glorious to enjoy a day with jockeys, bookies, immaculately dressed gentlemen and good looking ladies , sipping a cool drink or licking an ice cream. For a few hours you would feel as if you were in a Royal turf. But the bad side of it is the misery of the families when the bread earner loose chunk of his income on betting again and again. The tendency is like a fall in a whirlpool from which no one can escape. It will only take you into the fathoms. Many years after when I met him he was still fondling the Guindy feelings.

           My relationship with Ramesh became more and more intimate. Till my marriage we shared a room in Nadar’Garden. A simple man without a passion to climb up the ladder . I learnt that he had lost his mother when he was a kid and his father was everything for him there after. He used to say that his father was like a playmate enjoying in each others pranks. We had spent many an evening in the dark cool corner of some joints in Madras sipping pitchers of beer. He was very talkative when the drink took the reigns. In such moments we used to invariably touch on the tender, nostalgic days of our childhood. He could not recollect much about his mother. It was his father who prevailed in him like a companion. Even after my marriage we continued to meet . When ever I touched upon his marriage he would evade it by changing the subject. But I could make out that there was a love affair in his life which he failed to culminate into nuptial. Perhaps he was nurturing its tender feelings, deep in his heart to derive a secret pleasure. Years later, after my retirement when I met him in Calicut he looked haggard. Then he told me about the unexpected demise of his father and the void it had thrust upon him. He had already become an addict to alcohol. The agony that he contained in him was visible in his un kept hair, beard, not to speak of the dress. He looked much older and emaciated. I could not bear the sight. But  not even for once he touched on his plight and left me after a few minutes of sharing old thoughts. This time his company did not trigger any feelings, but left me perplexed. I never thought that it would have been our last meeting..contd....