Nurungukal………….

     

Their first visit to our neighbourhood, a densely inhabited area, was sudden, short and unexpected. The pair of pachyderms  tusker surreptitiously trespassed into our locality under the cover of darkness, consumed a stretch of banana plants and retraced their path eluding an angry mob. The damage was costly and the target land resembled a war torn ground. From the size of the foot prints one can easily imagine the size of the animals. A boy on his way to collect the bundle of news paper from the nearby town had a glimpse of their long tusks as they were retreating in hurry at the first streak of twilight in the eastern horizon. The incident virtually hurt the otherwise peaceful locality. For the next couple of days the topic filled the air and all and sundry activated their social groups with the evidences of havoc done by our animal friends. Some even tried to mould a make belief contention that the pair are the descendants of a forgone herd who would have been reigning the hillock known as ANOMKUNNU and they have just activated by instinct an elephant path frequented by their ancestors many  years ago. As usual the memory of the invasion slowly vanished from our minds. But contrary to our wishful thinking, the pair appeared exactly after a month. A lady on hearing an unfamiliar sound peeped through her window  to witness them uprooting her plantain, a scene which will remain in her with a shrill. But to her surprise they moved slowly and left her premises placing the plant just in the porch of her little house, without causing any damage.  This time they refused to return, but remained in the vicinity for two days as if to establish a right on their ancestral domain and right of way.  Again they returned without much persuasion although this time the officials were ready to meet any eventuality. I heard today that the same pair is stationed in a coffee estate near to us. That means they are very serious about their intention of retrieving their lost ground, something precious and essential for the existence of their tribe. So far there is no loss to life or property. But how long they will hold their patience is to be seen.

       The episode has not attracted any intense media attention as in the case of Ottaplam sojourn on the banks of NILA. May be that ours is comparatively a low profile village.

       This conflicts between man and animal  on territories are to be dealt case by case. But in general the main issue is survival. The depletion of healthy forest systems denies sufficient food and water to our fore runners on earth, due to our encroachments to their territory and the lack of effective management of forest wealth. Let us hope that a day will ultimately dawn when a better harmony will prevail and till such time we would love to bear with the frequent visits of THEIR MAJESTIES… dum, dum, dum, pee, pee,pi……

Nurungukal…

     He narrated the incident with the fluency of a story teller. The flow was in correct sequence. There was no element of imagination. The young Poojari was in a trance,  as he described the unusual encounter, last night he had with a Fairy in the temple premises.

      He was young, dark, and muscular with long curly hair, which  fell below his broad shoulders. When he smiled the teeth sparkled like a crescent in a dark night. The eyes were expressive and his movements had the dexterity of a dancer. In nutshell he fit into the category of a CHULLAN , a glossary, the new gen girls use to describe a smart guy.

      It was after a frantic search we could manage to select him as the Poojari of our temple, because no member of the traditional Namboodiri family was willing to accept our offer. More over the temple is situated in the middle of a vast tea estate, isolated far away from human habitation.  He was just out of his teens and hailed from a remote village in Madurai. He had some training in conducting poojas from his uncle who was respected by all for his knowledge on such matters and was known as SASTRY.

       The story was told to us during one of our regular visits to the temple, usually after dusk to attend the deeparadhana. We selected the time mainly to get a full darsan as there would be no other devotees. In my case I took the opportunity to refresh my Tamil, conversing with him.

         After exchanging usual pleasantries, he slowly unravelled a mystery surrounding the temple.  When he was practising yoga in the open ground near the temple one night, he  felt a strange smell, followed by a tingling of anklets. There was a mummer as the slow breeze passed shaking the leaves of the Pala tree which stood majestically on the top of the nearby rock. As he turned round inquisitively a misty figure vanished with a deafening thunder and a red glow on to the top of the Pala tree leaving behind a fragrance for a while.

          In the past  I have heard about many such strange experiences, like odiyan, kappiri  etc. also stories of many weird forms from our night watchmen. Such items had never disturbed me. Even the one told by this Pujari boy, till the other day when I felt a similar feeling as I  happened to make a visit out of curiosity to the  top of the rock where the old Pala tree still adorns the surroundings. Rarely fictions are stranger than facts, I suppose……..dum dum dum pee pee pi.

Nurungukal….

      Jimickies have returned. I love to see them dangling to provide a golden glow in youngsters. It was so in the bygone days. Tastes have changed and even mothers are sporting a pair now, may be the effect of a latest movie song. I was surprised yesterday to witness all the sales girls in a departmental store wearing glittering jimickies! as part of their uniforms.  I felt as if, a few glow worms have descended to flutter about.

     Movies are always in the front to set- in fashions, especially in the case of ornaments, dress, hair style or even one’s body language. But in the case of hair style the foot ball players are the recent trend setters, although our fore fathers have a legitimate claim. If you look at the photos of your great great grand father or uncles you can draw a similarity with latest style. During our college days it was a craze to  imitate Devanand or even Gregory Peck. So was the popular putups of Asha Parekh and Saira Banu. The bell bottom pants of Jayan, the muscle man of Malayalam movies  gave him a special identity. Robert Taylor and the legendary Erol Flynn, the sword fighter were known for their stylish moustache and of course UlBrinner for his shaved head.

      Recently, black shirt and white dhothy were a passion and so are many girls proud of  showing their  lengthy and luxuriant curly hair in front. Both these trends were the product of a movie which was the favourite among the college students. A few mothers even ventured to put up vegetables gardens on their terrace, inspired by the idea mooted by a movie. Some popular stars even went one step further to cultivate acres of organic vegetables and paddy, a welcome lead open to many farmers.

        All of us wish to change our way of life and love to be part of any popular movements. It is all part of the evolution ‘Old order changeth yielding place to new……”. So don’t be surprised  if you see your granny or grand father dancing with your grand children when the latest viral song is played. Enjoy….Enjoy….and Enjoy……Jimckies….. 

Nurungukal

   He comes often in the evening almost once in six months, carrying on his back a mobile machine for sharpening knives. He hesitates for a while to enter our compound, after a call. On seeing him my wife would rush to the kitchen and would be back soon with a bunch of rusted knives and scissors. He would carefully examine each and with a characteristic smile tell her that there is much work to be done, indicating that the charges would be more. Without waiting for her reply he would slowly set the machine and start peddling. In the meanwhile they would enter into a formal negotiation and settle the charge. Now it is time for me to enter into a conversation and brush up my Tamil, because he had told me about his native place on the previous occasion.

    He hails from Thiruthani in Tamil Nadu, where the renowned temple of Lord Muruga exists. His wife and three children live there. He finds his living by the income he gets from sharpening iron implements. Leaving his family consisting of his wife and three daughters in his native place he  wanders from place to place, in Tamil Nadu and Kerala visiting each place in regular intervals. Over the years he has managed to develop a vast clientele.

     The machine,  is one of the the most eco friendly one as it works only on human effort. There is no use of fossil fuel or even electrical energy and hence devoid of carbon emission. It provides a living, using a simple principle of physics. I used to watch in wonder the rhythm of his body movements and the bunch of the sparks like the horrifying tongue of a Chinese dragon. As the work proceeds he would narrate  the recent political scenario in Tamil Nadu, his concern about his daughters or even on the problems of climate changes, in chaste Tamil and occasionally  with an admixture of Malayalam. I used to enjoy these moments to cherish my nostalgic memories of my service days in Tamil Nadu, many years ago. As my son captured his image in the mobile camera, a strange request came from him. He asked me whether I can spare an old mobile phone. Just to get in touch with his family as he is concerned now a days about the security of his teen age daughters. I replied that I would try. After finishing the job and collecting the cash with a sigh and praise to ALLAH he lifted the machine and moved out in search of his next customer. At the same time a spark burned in me when a faded character emerged from my mind’s gallery….none other than the legendary KABOOLIWALLAH.. As I looked back I saw my wife standing at the door to receive her next visitor, probably a sales girl alias marketing trainee……[revised version of my earlier FB poat ]

Nurungukal….2….

    To be in the company of a group of ecologists and nature lovers with an intention of repairing a torn fabric of ecology  of Wayanad  and be part of an effort to formulate a critical rejuvenation strategy , gave me deep insight into the impending disaster facing the agrarian economy  of this tribal district. It was virtually a journey into the flora and fauna, landscapes, history, birds , animal and even the amphibian wealth of this  piece of land, popularly defined as the lungs of western ghats. As the power point presentations revealed the dwindling number of species and vanishing land scape, one could easily comprehend the gravity of the issues that we try to address. It is  a ‘now or never’ alarm, no doubt.

       The response from the gathering  traversed through different paths, depending on individual interests. When many desired for an immediate remedy to combat draught due to the climate change, others craved for ways to compensate crop loss. Some dowelled on ‘man animal ‘ conflicts. But all in chorus demanded strengthening the arms of Local Bodies to enforce existing  laws without compromising with short term gains.

       As a  mark of respect to the proceedings the nature also  responded by providing scattered showers which gave an added energy and enthusiasm to the organisers of the two day workshop [MSSRF]. The presence of the luminaries from different walks of life viz; scientists, environmentalists, social workers, farmers, elected representatives of local bodies ensured the  quality of the deliberations and above all the flawless management of the event helped to reach a meaning full culmination. Above all the presence of the vice chancellor of a newly formed university , who was once the head of National Bio diversity board and the tips he offered to formulate an effective approach was the main attraction of the event. I am sure that the participants might have left the venue with  a feeling of satisfaction and achievement……..

Nurungukal…2..contd..

    Last week blessed us with an opportunity to rewind the past and made us slide through some nostalgic memories.  As we descended the misty mountain road on our way to a suburban village in Palghat I never thought that the journey would end in the midst of a memorable past.

         After gracing through a muddy road wading through  lush green paddy fields and rows of palm trees we reached an ancient house  which was the abode of rich childhood events of my wife. In fact she was very fond of this visit and insisted for it adamantly contrary to her normal habits. Her father had renovated this house to its present status and glory a few decades ago. He was the dominant patriarch of the family and a strict disciplinarian. The eldest member of the present occupants, who is actually his nephew narrated how the dilapidated thatched house was transformed into the present state by using materials, especially wood from Wayanad. All of them were brought in buffalo carts which was the popular mode of transport at that time. . The design, workmanship and structure was very much similar to the houses in Wayanad. As we walked in the surroundings of the house my wife was overwhelmed with joy. The ambiance rekindled her childhood experiences. The banks of the huge pond and the shades of the granny mango tree made her vociferous to explain the pranks she had with other children during each vacation. She even remembered the different taste of each mango and the ecstasy they had while sipping the juice.  

      There was a ritual on that day which was being conducted without fail over the last many many decades without fail. Almost all the family members assembled on this appointed day every year and celebrated the occasion as a grand gala get together. The worship and pooja extended up to late night. It gave us time to cud the glorious past of the family and recollect the many fun each had in a joint family matriarchal system. All were in high spirits and gathered in groups to exchange each one’s past and present. Late at night after a sumptuous dinner which included a variety of sweet and sour dishes we bade farewell with a promise to assemble again next year.

    Next day we headed for Ponnani, my native place to attend a function, in connection with the 84^th birth day of my elder sister. As we covered a few kilo meters the rumour came that three tuskers from the nearby forest are enjoying a sojourn near Ottapalam, even enjoying a splash in Nila river. In spite of the concerted efforts of the forest guards and police they refused to return to their natural abode. The curious crowd which had gathered to witness the rare sight made matters worse to the guards to retrace. Unfortunately we failed to be part of the melee.

       Many from different walks of life attended the function which my sister and her children had meticulously arranged. I met some who were once my close friends. They had changed a lot , some sob re, some looked wiser yet another pretended diplomacy by keeping silence. But the majority made use of the occasion exchanging pleasantries.  What impressed me most was the after dinner chit chat we had with the grand children of my uncle. We could manage to cover many episodes of our life with clarity.  I even managed to recollect a few lines of H.G.Well  about Emperor Asoka which  my uncle had taught, while he was dictating to me his book on world history in Malayalam. The tender feelings which one can derive from such intimate get together can preciously be nurtured deep in our hearts without losing their fragrance, rest of our life.  

And while the taste of the Payasams and Omanian special Halwa linger in my taste buds, me like Dushyantha try hard to keep my heart  from  galloping back…..dum, dum, dum, pi, pi, pee……

      

     

Nurungukal…3…

      It was a different experience the other day when we concluded a work shop on the glory of mangoes. Usually any such event concludes abruptly with number of promises to carry on an indistinct plan, which never happens. But this time strangely there were no assurances, instead left deep in us the sweet and sour taste of about sixty five varieties of native mangoes and a lost past. Each one took ample time to etch an incident which lay deep in their memory. Whether it was about the taste of the juice of the fruit they sipped which had fallen from a Granny  tree at dawn. or about the one they downed surreptitiously from the neighbour’s tree or the extra taste they enjoyed when their mother served the yummy pieces when they returned from school.The list was long and elaborate.

    When my turn came, the first thing that came to my mind was a flight on a rope swing tied on the branch of a mango tree. It was not a solo flight. In company was  a girl of my age. She was heavy and I struggled hard to lift the flight. I gathered all my strength to swing back and forth but in vain and finally lost the grip and fell flat on the ground, leaving the girl on the swing. I left the scene ignominiously. Dum..dum…dum..pee..pee..pi.But my self respect did not allow me to reveal the incident, instead just mentioned the thrill of other events, which the present day children miss. Instead I remembered about the smacks my mother had given when we spoil our dress with the mango stain or when our neighbour complained about breaking his tiles while we tried to bring down the mangoes with stones.

         As I passed through the row of mangoes displayed,my childhood instinct once again forced me to steal one or two for  sharing them with my wife nostalgically.

      Here I would be immensely glad and thankful to place on record my appreciation to that little girl who had once again proven her sincerity and ability to methodically conduct such events. But for her imagination we would not have been able to make a sojourn with our past. Thank you Suma.

Nurungukal…3…

v..chat… There was a time when we used to gather around a radio to hear eagerly the voice of Melvin Demalo, the famous news reader of all times. The husky rhetorics between Nehru and Lohia on the floor of our parliament still reverberates in our ears. When one praised about the ethos of India ,the other countered to remind the pathos. These are memories every Indian once again cherish to experience. So are we proud about the proceedings in the first Kerala assembly lead by EMS Namboodiripad. The never ending speech of V.K. Krishna Menon  before an august audience on the floor of UNO can not be forgotten so easily. There were many luminaries, to mention a few for eg. AKG, Dange, Vajpaye, etc. etc. who had made a mark of their own as good parliamentarians. If we search history  we can spot many such luminaries both in the distant past and in recent time worth emulating in speech and actions. I have read somewhere about the instant rhetoric of an advocate when he was admonished by the judge. The advocate by a slip of tongue addressed the judge as ‘you’. The judge immediately pointed out that there is no ‘you’ in the court. The advocate countered it by saying that …’but Me Lord …there is a U in the middle of the CO U RT’, making the entire court, including the judge to enjoy the counter. The above examples show the high degree of sense of respect the speakers held while driving home their point of view effectively.

       If one follow the language of some of the present day speakers, who are holding important positions acquired through public support, we shudder to claim a legacy of decency. Although many words in our language have derived different meanings, such as adipoli,kalakki etc. they are accepted as harmless improvisations.  But surprisingly now a days we venture to defend other’s intentional act of disrespect to others. Even an act of vulgar gesticulation of showing the inner wear in open by a public personality was pardoned off. These are situations which  can not at any stretch of imagination be compromised  by a society, which claim hundred percent literacy and progressive mind. It indicates that the time is ripe to initiate a sense of refinement among us to claim that top position. Otherwise posterity will blame us for the degradation.

         

Nurungukal…3…

        Some events in our life emerge most unexpectedly. That too when we are fighting with the time, for eg. to catch a train or attend a meeting. Narration of the details of such incidents are always an interesting part of our conversations. I remember a case heard recently from a senior officer. She was rushing to catch a train. There was not much time left for the departure. After hurriedly getting down from the auto when she wanted to make a call she was taken by surprise that her hand bag was not on her shoulder and lo it was left in the auto. A shiver passed through her and stood in aghast on the foot path at her wits end worrying about her precious belongings viz. ATM cards, mobile phones cash etc. etc. On seeing her predicament a police man came to her rescue. His directions helped her to retrieve the lost property intact  from the nearest Police station. To her surprise the auto driver who had dropped her at the station was standing out side with an expression of satisfaction of upholding the ethics of the auto drivers of Kozhikode city. Probably he was waiting to ensure that the property was returned to the correct owner, again a sign of good sense of duty.

            Another case I heard, was about the dangerous risk a young mother took to jump out of a moving train carrying her two children in one hand and a few luggage in the other. She was forced to be adventurous on this mission when she knew that she had boarded a wrong train and interestingly in the company of her father who was a retired railway staff. Her father with an exclamation was gasping to tell me how he managed to board the running train once again and jump out safely after retrieving a bag which he had left over in the first attempt. While her father was proudly highlighting his agility and technique in the act to me I was spell bound with a mixed feeling.

         On hearing these two episodes I am recollecting about one such situation in which I became a victim. It was in1958 when me and my younger brother accompanying our eldest brother were returning to college after vacation from our native place. As the steam engine  with a long whistle and puffing of smoke and steam made a thudding halt a few feet away from us, we had only one thing in mind that to squeeze into the compartment though the crowded door and never thought about the two bags in which we had stuffed our clothes and books. The thrill of that journey vanished at the moment we realised that we had forgotten to take the bags from the platform and became a target of reprimand from our brother and a laughing stock to others…..dum…dum…dum…pee…pee…pi….

Nurungukal…3….contd…

      The high pitch call of the potter woman awakened me from my slumber. She was at my  gate  trying to balance a basket full of mud pots and pans on her head. “chatty, kalam  veno..” I said “no, not today”… I was a little bit angry because she had  broken my sleep. Again the appeal.  I turned my face. But she was not ready to leave me and slowly walked in. By that time my wife appeared at the front door. The potter woman gained confidence and started describing the quality  of her product and about safe cooking practises. She continued to persuade in a tone and style akin to their tribe which was very sweet to your  ears like a music. She was still balancing the weight and wiping the sweat on her face. At that moment I thought about a girl who had come to us carrying a heavy bag on her shoulder with the same intention of marketing, but in a different style and strategy. My wife volunteered to help her to bring  down the load and release the burden. I felt pity as she sat down on our step, requesting for a glass of hot water with a low gasp. My wife went inside and came out with a bowl of rice porridge, which, to my surprise she politely refused and insisted for hot water as she was observing a fast.In between the transaction we came to know that she has two children.Her husband is a labourer and the family depended also on the meagre income she earned from the sales. We settled to buy a few pieces of pots without any bargain . I was happy to note a sense of attainment passing on her face as she left with the burden of livelihood on her head and promising to call again.

         This community is one among the few which still follow their traditional craft. They cover each day many miles on foot in pairs carrying their products for door to door sale. It is a common sight  here. I do not know why many people, without knowing their hardship engage in bargain to get a reduction of one or two rupees, while without any hesitation pay whatever that is printed on a packet of cosmetics they purchase from a super market!!. And let our community who enjoys every Harthal day  in their cool drawing rooms be conscious about the hardship of many Malus  [her name] who overcome such adverse conditions to earn a living.  If you come across any like Malu  please help them in a fitting manner and celebrate a Women’s day in true spirit….

                                           

Nurungukal…3….contd…

      The high pitch call of the potter woman awakened me from my slumber. She was at my  gate  trying to balance a basket full of mud pots and pans on her head. “chatty, kalam  veno..” I said “no, not today”… I was a little bit angry because she had  broken my sleep. Again the appeal.  I turned my face. But she was not ready to leave me and slowly walked in. By that time my wife appeared at the front door. The potter woman gained confidence and started describing the quality  of her product and about safe cooking practises. She continued to persuade in a tone and style akin to their tribe which was very sweet to your  ears like a music. She was still balancing the weight and wiping the sweat on her face. At that moment I thought about a girl who had come to us carrying a heavy bag on her shoulder with the same intention of marketing, but in a different style and strategy. My wife volunteered to help her to bring  down the load and release the burden. I felt pity as she sat down on our step, requesting for a glass of hot water with a low gasp. My wife went inside and came out with a bowl of rice porridge, which, to my surprise she politely refused and insisted for hot water as she was observing a fast.In between the transaction we came to know that she has two children.Her husband is a labourer and the family depended also on the meagre income she earned from the sales. We settled to buy a few pieces of pots without any bargain . I was happy to note a sense of attainment passing on her face as she left with the burden of livelihood on her head and promising to call again.

         This community is one among the few which still follow their traditional craft. They cover each day many miles on foot in pairs carrying their products for door to door sale. It is a common sight  here. I do not know why many people, without knowing their hardship engage in bargain to get a reduction of one or two rupees, while without any hesitation pay whatever that is printed on a packet of cosmetics they purchase from a super market!!. And let our community who enjoys every Harthal day  in their cool drawing rooms be conscious about the hardship of many Malus  [her name] who overcome such adverse conditions to earn a living.  If you come across any like Malu  please help them in a fitting manner and celebrate a Women’s day in true spirit….

                                           

Nurungukal…3….contd…

      The high pitch call of the potter woman awakened me from my slumber. She was at my  gate  trying to balance a basket full of mud pots and pans on her head. “chatty, kalam  veno..” I said “no, not today”… I was a little bit angry because she had  broken my sleep. Again the appeal.  I turned my face. But she was not ready to leave me and slowly walked in. By that time my wife appeared at the front door. The potter woman gained confidence and started describing the quality  of her product and about safe cooking practises. She continued to persuade in a tone and style akin to their tribe which was very sweet to your  ears like a music. She was still balancing the weight and wiping the sweat on her face. At that moment I thought about a girl who had come to us carrying a heavy bag on her shoulder with the same intention of marketing, but in a different style and strategy. My wife volunteered to help her to bring  down the load and release the burden. I felt pity as she sat down on our step, requesting for a glass of hot water with a low gasp. My wife went inside and came out with a bowl of rice porridge, which, to my surprise she politely refused and insisted for hot water. The reason for her refusal was revealed to me after her departure. [she was carrying her third child !!!!] In between the transaction we came to know that she has two children, both girls, studying in 7^th and 4^th standards and her husband is just a labourer and seldom supports the family which depended on the meagre income she earned from the sales. We settled to buy a few pieces of pots without any bargain . I was happy to note a sense of attainment passing on her face as she left with the burden of livelihood on her head and promising to call again.

         This community is one among the few which still follow their traditional craft. They cover each day many miles on foot in pairs carrying their products for door to door sale. It is a common sight  here. I do not know why many people, without knowing their hardship engage in bargain to get a reduction of one or two rupees, while without any hesitation pay whatever that is printed on a packet of cosmetics they purchase from a super market!!. And let our community who enjoys every Harthal day without losing income in their cool drawing rooms be conscious about the hardship of many Malus  [her name] who overcome such adverse conditions to earn a living.  If you come across any like Malu  please help them in a fitting manner and celebrate a Women’s day in true spirit….

                                           

                      

Nurungukal…3...contd..

   I never thought that my grandson was such a bundle of energy. The way in which he climbed up a coconut tree with the help of  a tree climber surprised me. Even the robust worker in our estate hesitated to try it despite my prompting and incentives all these days. The machine was lying idle and almost at the verge of getting rusted in our store room from the day I purchased it. Once I even thought of selling it to a scrap dealer, who very often visited us and disturbed my siesta. My intention was to address a severe labour problem in Kerala. Now a days coconut tree climbers are not readily available and in my farm I used to collect the over ripe nuts as and when they fell. But this is not a good practise as it affected the fruit bearing and health of the tree.

         I doubt my grandson, APPU had visited a site in the net about mechanisation and came across this machine. He had seen young women being trained in TNAU and volunteered to give a try. He used his ingenuity to set the climber on one of the medium sized trees and after one or two trials succeeded to scale up to the middle.  It was a sight to me and his parents stood in aghast under the tree holding their  hands to the heaven and ready for any eventuality. But I enjoyed it, as a different incident unrolled in me. I was of his age. But in my case there was no machine. I ventured to climb on an arecanut tree with my bare hands. Usually such adventures we planned when our parents enjoyed a nap after lunch. When I had reached almost the middle of the tree precariously clutching it with my hands, heard a roar from the nearby compound. A shiver went through me, and the sweat in my palms made me slip down the entire height. I could not control the wetting of my half shorts. Just before reaching the ground and balancing on my feet, a smack on my posterior and a shout to go back home ,took me on heals. As I looked back Lakshmi etuthy the  next door granny was holding a stick high above with blood shot eyes like Bhadra Kali. My younger brother was supposed to stand in guard. But the unexpected shout did not give him much time to raise an alarm. There was a burning sensation inside my thighs  as the skin had pealed off during the sudden climb down. For many days I had to bear with it and never after ventured such heroic acts in my life…..dum dum dum  pee pee pi…

Nurungukal….3..contd…..

         This Vishu was so special to me. After a lapse of many many years I was in my native place to celebrate it. My sister was alone there to safe guard our old house, a Nalukettu. My father acquired it immediately after his escape from Burma from the onslaught of Japan during second world war. It was a dream house to my parents and to all of us and true to its name Ambiliparamb. Even now it is so, thanks to my sister who with much pain maintains its glory.

         Just before dawn my sister awakened me to have a darshan of the visual treat [kani]. My sister had managed to arrange it, almost similar to that of my mother’s style, with minimum ingredients viz. a big jack fruit, a golden coloured cucumber adorned with a few pieces of jewellery, mangos, betel leaves and arecanut, a bunch of ripe plantains, a bunch of Kanikonna flowers, a gold coin in a small bowl and a pineapple all placed on raw rice in a polished cauldron. On the left side there was a lighted Nilavilakku throwing  a glow to illuminate the settings. In the background the smiling face of Lord Vishnu . Like our mother she had managed to arrange it when all of were asleep. I was enthralled when she offered me the first gift of the year [kai nettam ], and that too a sparkling gold coin!!.I remembered my father, who used to offer a four ana coin to all of us ,which we spent invariably to hire a bicycle for a jolly ride, keeping our head high, through the muddy roads of our village, wishing all and sundry.

           I along with my grand children walked in the compound to show them the pond in which we enjoyed a splash, the mango tree under which we fought for the juicy mangos, slipping  from the mouth of the squirrels and the paddy field, which once lay vacant for miles where we flew kites made out of stolen news paper and narrated our efforts to release when they got entangled on the branches of a tall jamoon tree. As we enjoyed the sojourn a call of the Indian koel prompted me to imitate its rhythmic whistle, but in vain. The taste of the Kerala type lunch with Kalan, olan, aviyal and to top it all mampazha pulissery and parippu pradaman still hesitates to leave my taste buds. In the night when I heard the howling of a pack of jackals [kurukkan ] from the nearby bushes and the call of the Mottled wood owl [kalan kozhi] from the sacred grove I was happy to know that the fragile environment is still trying to withstand from demolition.

         As our car moved out I looked back to witness a dark shadow descending on the faces of my grand children but it gradually vanished when the vehicle  gained speed and the blaring music  'podi meesa mulakkana kalam......'  once again filled the air.

Nurungukal….2…

      Post harvest festivals are commonly celebrated in Kerala as part of an offering to various Gods or Goddesses. Most of them are in the form of rituals which have set patterns. Besides an expression of obeisance to the Deity, these festivals are part of joy and happiness that reflects the essentials of respective social fabric where each community have predefined functions. Although in the past most of them were conducted to enjoy the fruits of a good harvest. But now they are  merely routine rituals providing a chance to be hilarious in the company of a joyous crowd. The committees who organise such rituals make sure that the programme includes such ingredients in the name of divinity which can trigger not only a chance to worship but also for abundant pleasure.It can be either a colourful procession by parading a set of caparisoned elephants, in the company of many types of musical percussions. Folklore artists are an inevitable part of this galore. They have an ancestral right to perform. The art forms  are diversified from place to place and are related to the class of the main Deity of a temple.

      A few years ago I had a an opportunity to head a temple festival committee. I felt it as a privileged post. Because  during the performance of the theyyams and thiras I was addressed as the karthav  which means the creator. Thus I became an inevitable part of many ceremonies. At the end of each performance the oracle or theyyam or thira addressed me in a trance. I had to accept their commands and agree for compliance. In the process they used to give holy water [ undiluted brandy !!!] or a few pieces of burning charcoal or some time pulled me to and fro on the fire pit. Each such moments gave me an opportunity to test my belief or agility. But above all what I appreciated and enjoyed most in such rituals is the welcome prayer [thottam pattu], so melodious, stimulating your senses, when its crescendo reaches in high notes breaking the silence of a dead night and the entry of the enigmatic figure, colourful and fierce looking. The glow of the flames of many oil lamps reflecting on the surrounding mass, eagerly watching the proceedings can make you spell bound. I have witnessed in their face anxiety,sorrow, expectation,happiness, quest for consolation above all a confidence for being a part of a Devine togetherness. At the end when you are drenched by the turmeric water from the burning cauldrons by a sprinkling with the areca nut fronts one attains the satisfaction of being purified externally also. Can you visualise any other function which can cleanse simultaneously your mind and body at a time?........

Nurungukal…2….

    I always enjoyed the calls in high pitch of the hawkers, irrespective of the location viz, streets, beach, railway stations etc.. each has its own identity enabling you to easily recognise the location. If it is the chorus shouting of chai chai chai in the morning hours it is certain you have reached Malabar. At break fast time the tune is different dosai dosai. Then it is Shornoor. in Tamilnadu  you will be awakened  by melodious calls of flower sellers, mallige, kanagambaram or December.While enjoying an evening in Marina or Pondy beach it is the fragrance of cooked bengal gram[chundal] attracts you by a crisp sound. And one can never resist to taste a combination of masala gram and mango bits served in paper cones. In front of Mambalam railway station it is the rhythmic shouting of mango vendors, announcing the number and rate , 20-10 ,10-20 in repetition.If you happened to see a line of laddies selling vegetables drawing your attention by calling amma, ayya  on the side of a railway track you can be sure that you are passing through a village in the suburbs of Coimbatore or Erode, where the train driver invariabily obliges the hawkers by stopping for a while in exchange of a basket of farm fresh vegetables. The arrival of Avadi station can be easily  recognised if you hear the hooting of sirens in different pitch and tunes. In Lal Bagh garden it is the chirping of birds when they come to roost at dusk.The appeal of the women fish vendors in different markets in Kerala can force any one to make a deal.

    In every call, irrespective of the tune and pitch there is one thing in common.A struggle for survival and self reliance and expression of respective social culture.

Nurungukal…2….

    I always enjoyed the calls in high pitch of the hawkers, irrespective of the location viz, streets, beach, railway stations etc.. each has its own identity enabling you to easily recognise the location. If it is the chorus shouting of chai chai chai in the morning hours it is certain the train has  reached Malabar. At break fast time the tune is different dosai dosai. Then it is Shornoor. in Tamilnadu  you will be awakened  by melodious calls of flower sellers, mallige, kanagambaram or December.While enjoying an evening in Marina or Pondy beach it is the fragrance of cooked bengal gram[chundal] which attracts you followed by a repeated crisp sound. And one can never resist to taste a combination of masala gram and mango bits served in paper cones. In front of Mambalam railway station it is the rhythmic shouting of mango vendors, announcing the number and rate , 20-10 ,10-20 in repetition.If you happened to see a line of laddies selling vegetables drawing your attention by calling amma, ayya  on the side of a railway track you can be sure that you are passing through a village in the suburbs of Coimbatore or Erode, where the train driver invariably obliges the hawkers by stopping for a while in exchange of a basket of farm fresh vegetables. The arrival of Avadi station can be easily  recognised if you hear the hooting of sirens in different pitch and tunes. In Lal Bagh garden it is the chirping of birds when they come to roost at dusk.The appeal of the women fish vendors in different markets in Kerala can force any one to make a deal.

    In every call, irrespective of the tune and pitch there is one thing in common.A struggle for survival and self reliance and expression of respective social culture.

Nurungukal…2..contd..

When the telephone ring awoke me at 2am today, several thoughts passed through me, as usual. The voice on the other side had a shiver, which intensified my apprehension all the more. It was sad and cracking, and conveyed the message that my sister-in-law Padminieduthy is no more. I gasped and ventured to get in the details. It took me a little more time than usual to become normal.

  She had stepped into our family first time as a sprightly young teenager, as result of my sister marrying her uncle. Then as a bride to my elder brother and later on as a scholarly sanskrit teacher and mentor.

   Children of both our families had enjoyed many a vacation exchanging our visits, frolicking in the village arena, either swinging on a rope sling, licking mangoes or a swimming competition in a pond etc. etc. And as time passed she proved her supremacy in competitions like andakshini, akshara slokams , among us. When ever we met during family get together it was laughter and fun.

  Today we have lost a link connecting a glorious past and in me she will remain always as a beacon, rendering a bunch of rays , leading and blessing………

                                                                                                                                                

Nurungukal..2…contd…

      I do not remember exactly when I started using ball point pens discarding the fountain pen. It can be probably in the early part of nineteen sixty's. Because I am sure in the primary school we were allowed to use only slate and pencil. The pencil was just a piece of soft stone, which came in different colours and texture. Some were very hard which refused to make impressions on the slate, instead made deep etchings, damaging the surface of the slate. We used to clean the slate  every morning using the leaves of hibiscus before going to school. A few cuttings of a grass which store water in its stems for cleaning the slate, would be always available in the jute bag in which we carried our books, slate etc.We managed to get the jute or very rarely a cloth bag from mother after a prolonged pleading. Invariably our request would be considered only after producing the one in use and confirming that it is in an irreparable condition. These bags are used to hold packets of LG brand of asafoetida [kaayam] which is popular even now.  Where as now children get costly back packs just for a song, new in every academic year.

       As we reached higher class, slate and pencil were replaced by still pens along with an ink bottle, which we precariously balanced in our left hand while running to school. Very often we came back from school smearing the ink on our dress and of course inviting painful smacks from mother. I remember that often the ink used to either drop or flow in excess forcing us to blot with dry sand collected from the class room floor.Blotting paper was unreachable then to kids. If the quality of the paper is poor the ink will spread, drawing weary designs and inviting unpleasant reactions from our teachers.  Those wooden desks with a provision for keeping the ink bottle and still pens have disappeared from the class rooms now.  Then came the fountain pens in various designs. We never had a chance to own a new pen and was satisfied with those used by our elders. Parker, Blackbird or Waterman with platinum point nibs were elusive in our student life. But there were a few students who enjoyed the elite status of owning the glittering pens.

        Yesterday once again I ventured to purchase a fountain pen in order to be a part of discarding plastics. A trend our community is now pursuing after enduring the damage for the last many years. The sales girl showed me many types, even a ‘Parker’ with a disposable ink cartridge!!. Then I thought about my school days and the elite club, but manged to resist the temptation and choose an ordinary brand so that it will remain with me as a  reminder of the distant past, the rest of my life.

   Dum…dum…dum…pee…pee…pi…..

Nurungukal..2  contd…

      For the last few years I did not venture to cultivate paddy as it was a loosing venture. But this year once again I decided to give a try, mainly to revive a nostalgia of my childhood experience. I am now over seventy five, yet when I feel the various scents emanating during the many stages of cultivation, takes me to a distant past and it reveals a vivid canvas of the activities I used to participate.

       To any body I believe, a scent relates to a place or an individual or an incident etc. As you walk on the street any passerby leaves a charecterestic smell. It can be a scent of a perfume or a smell of sweat. Similarly different places have individual identity recognised by their fragrance.For instance,as you climb the Nilgiri hills slowly  your nostrils receive the smell of eucalyptus. In Sabarimala a mixture of camphor, agar bathi and burning coconut prevails.  The first drizzle enchants you with a fragrance of the Mother Earth. When the coffee blooms it is the fragrance of jasmine. The sweat droplets on the neck of your beloved can trigger your senses. Were as the upholstery of your new car gives you a different feeling. Inside a hospital it is the smell of cheap disinfectants. A court room emanates the smell of pet up feelings and bundles of old documents.You can feel the scent of life when you hold a stuggling and skidding new born calf.

          Now when I stand knee deep in the middle of a muddy paddy field, and as the scent of mud slowly creeps into me, I feel my  adolescence. Gradually the sound of splash made by many pairs of  robust feet of buffaloes  as they move around in circles and the folk songs sung in chorus by a set of village damsels describimg the story of the heroes of North Malabar warriors reverberates in me as ever before.

       Un mind full of the clattering of the gauge wheels of the power tiller or the hoarse sound of its engine,now I used to sit in the shade of a nearby coffee plant deeply immersed and sublimated in my nostalgic memories. It is for this heavenly moments I ventured to revive paddy cultivation. But lo  the real claimants for the fruits of my labour took me in surprise to reap the harvest before me. They were none other than a few hundreds of sparrows and a family of wild bore. In olden days many acres were under paddy crop. Now the area has shrunk forcing the sparrows and bores to grab what ever is available. I have no regrets and appreciates their claim.  I am thank full that In gratitude they left for me at least a few bundles of hey and of course my NOSTALGIA as bonus.

     Dum… dum… dum…pee…pee…pi..

      

        

Nurungukal..2..conyd..

       They visit your house once in a way and never the same person repeat it  . That too in the afternoon, when we are refreshed after a siesta and open to receive visitors. The other day my door bell rang at about 3pm.I was just from bed. When I opened the door a girl of about twenty greeted me with a broad smile and introduced as a sales trainee of a marketing company. My first reaction was to excuse her and shut the door. She might have guessed my intention and softly said that she wanted only to introduce some new items which will be of use to the kitchen and started opening a big black bag which she was with much difficulty balancing on her slender shoulder. As I was about to refuse her offer my wife appeared at the door which gave the girl a ray of hope and spread out one or two items which she claimed as new in the market. She sat on the veranda and started a mock demonstration of the products claimed to be essential items in a modern kitchen. Her presentation, I could see had gradualy influenced my wife, simultaneously alerting me the impending danger of upsetting my monthly budget. As the dialogue between the two proceeded she pulled out more items from the bag and I was convinced that she was about to prevail upon my wife. I made one or two attempts to dissuade my wife from a deal with feeble arguments, which the girl cunningly over came. As I was about to leave the scene accepting defeat, wife came out with a bunch of hundred rupee notes and as a triumphant trader  marched off with two pieces of the so called new gadgets.  But I was sure that they will soon find a place in our dust bin like most of the former ones.

       As I came back to occupy the easy chair the girl had reached our gate, throwing me a smile, she left confidently looking for her next customer. I leaned back to the comforts of my chair thinking about her smart trainer.

       Dum dum dum pee pee pi !!!