Nurungukal: Nurungukal… This is the eighty first year, ...

Nurungukal:  Nurungukal…       This is the eighty first year, ...:   Nurungukal…         This is the eighty first year, I am celebrating Vishu. Always with variant degrees of flamboyancy. As a kid I was an...

 

Nurungukal…

       This is the eighty first year, I am celebrating Vishu. Always with variant degrees of flamboyancy. As a kid I was an exuberant spectator. In my teens I was an exhilarating participator, while in adolescence a matured organiser. Parenthood made me a level headed manager.  Now, as I hold the baton to cover the last lap, has once again slipped into square one, as a silent onlooker. But in none of the previous episodes I have experienced the stress and strain of a looming threat as of this time. My daughter is held back at a distant place, although my son managed to join us with his family. The dynamics of the pandemic have once again silenced and doomed the proceedings. The atmosphere is silent and dark. No crackers, no sparklers. While the women folk are trying to satisfy our culinary demands, children are busy with their little gadgets.  The air is devoid of any sound, except for the occasional clang of the utensils from the kitchen and the hush hush conversation. I am like a dog in the manger, a misfit to any company. In order to kill my time once again I tried to scan through the news paper. It was full of reports on curbs, curfew and covid 19, debauchery and political activism, a mishap in the deep sea and the loss of some fishermen who were on their livelihood hunt. Then as a solace, a true story of an eight year old girl who found a novel way to pool a substantial fund by selling kani konna flowers, to give a helping hand to a kidney patient.  Gradually the boredom dragged me into a deep slumber, propelled by the diabetes.

         ………Holding a skeleton key stolen from the key bunch of my mother I was busy trying to fix its bow on a piece of bamboo.  An iron nail tied on rope was inserted into its hollow barrel. My younger brother was busy in scraping the bud of a match stick. I hurriedly filled the barrel of the key with the chemical. Inserted the nail and gave a hard hit to the wall. There was a loud cracking sound. From nowhere mother appeared and held me, snatching the improvised implement and the regular smack followed.  My brother as always escaped the punitive action as he had already deserted the scene, anticipating the consequences……..

         A tap on my shoulder and I woke up from the nap, much to my dismay. I very much longed to prevail in that dream longer because past is always a nostalgia..The lunch was ready, a mini feast with the customary menu and followed by a siesta would down the curtain of this year’s Vishu celebrations. A long wait for the next, then next, then another……hope never ends….

Nurungukal: Nurungukal… Off late mymemory is fading, m...

Nurungukal:  Nurungukal…        Off late mymemory is fading, m...:   Nurungukal…         Off late my memory is fading, may be due to the grip of the dreadful diabetes which has subdued most of my vital fac...

Nurungukal: Nurungukal… Off late mymemory is fading, m...

Nurungukal:  Nurungukal…        Off late mymemory is fading, m...:   Nurungukal…         Off late my memory is fading, may be due to the grip of the dreadful diabetes which has subdued most of my vital fac...

 

Nurungukal…

        Off late my memory is fading, may be due to the grip of the dreadful diabetes which has subdued most of my vital faculties and caused a general debility. I had to face many embarrassing situations because of the inherent absent mindedness. Even during my school days my memory failed to support me to score good marks. Yet I managed somehow to mug up paragraphs by burning midnight oil and spew them in my answer papers. I envied always my friends who effortlessly recited stanza after stanza of Malayalam poetry, whereas on several occasions I had to draw a blank ,when my memory failed to remember a crucial link word. The excruciating pain which I had to endure and the agony to contain my tears before the entire class, especially the girls, when the Malayalam munshi twisted my ear with the help of a chalk piece is still haunting me.

       Nowadays I am in the grip of absentmindedness, which very often pushes me into embarrassing predicaments. Very often I am at the mercy of my wife to retrieve vital objects and documents. During my hay days when I was in the service there was a place for everything and everything was in its place. It was so a spic and span situation. Now things are in disarray. Not a day passes without a few hours spent on search. If today it was for locating the car key, yesterday it would have been for a revenue documents. My adhaar card, driving license, prescriptions etc are always like vanishing wonders. And as we both grapple to retrieve a doc., another one which was elusive a few days ago surfaces to our surprise from nowhere. I have seen that she has all the patience on earth to scan through each and every source, as the old saying goes, “ kuntham poyal kutathilun therayanam “.

       I had seen my mother tying a knot on the corner edge of her cloth to work as a reminder. She believed that as the knot touches your hand it would trigger an alarm in your memory about the purpose for which it was intended for. She was right too. We often relate our forgetfulness to that of skinks ( arana ). It is believed that this creature seldom bites us, as it forgets its intention just before it reaches you. I have seen often they stop abruptly and turning away without doing any harm. But it is also well known that once it succeeds in inflicting the venom there is no remedy, only sudden death.

         There was a friend of mine in Pondichery who used to tell a very interesting incident in his life, attributed to his absentmindedness. It is the worst than the ones I had seen in the film about a professor. My friend and his wife went to partake in a wedding function. As usual it was a get together of his old friends and relatives. Being a never satiating conversationalist he got engaged in rewinding old stories with a childhood friend and after the feast accompanied the friend to pay a courtesy call to his family. When the friend’s wife enquired him why he did not bring his wife he bitterly remembered about his lapse. He had forgotten to pick his wife from the hall. When he returned to pick her up she was as usual sitting in the porch throwing a mischievous smile at him as if it was yet another unintentional lapse from him.  

          Many years ago I had to face a situation in which my forgetfulness was the main villain. We had the habit of saving the one rupee coins that came to us. These coins were an offering to Lord Krishna of Guruvayoor. We had to attend a function related with the choroon of the child of one of the relatives of my wife. As usual we had taken our collection of coins for offering. There was a huge crowd in the temple as there were a number of marriages. So our function was delayed unduly. Somehow we managed to reach the sanctum sanctoram and in a hurry was inserting our coins one by one into the huge Bandaram .  From nowhere a priest came to us and told me to empty the bag through the opening at the top of the Bandaram . Without a second thought I did as per his wish. With a loud sound the contents descended into the fathoms of the Bandar while as an electric wave shocked me about the loss of my purse and car key etc. I had before entering the temple as an abundant caution put my purse and keys in the same bag in which the coins were also kept. My appeal to the authorities to retrieve my belongings was gently denied and I had to leave the temple like a squirrel who had lost a mango.(andi poya annan ). Never ever again I had taken my purse and other things to a temple...

        One of my brothers in law was another person who was never sure whether he had locked all the doors securely. He would check and recheck each and every one again and again. Not once, many times.  Not satisfied with this exercise he will return to the house from the bus stop to ensure the safety once again.

          Nowadays the beep and tinkle of my mobile reminds about my daily routine from dawn to dusk although its punctuality irks me at times. The recent pandemic has very often compelled me to return home to pick up a mask. There are some good aspects also in being forgetful. I could conveniently scrape out many bad events from our life, which otherwise would dent our mental equilibrium. Friendships and even family relationships sustain effectively depending on our ability to erase unwanted and unpleasant events. That is the first lesson I have learned from my parents. On the contrary if they were not on forget and forgive mode, many an issue might have marred the cordial atmosphere of our family. The present shortfall in my mental faculty is a blessing in disguise and I really enjoy it…

           Perhaps if I had not resisted my mother to swallow the bitter juice of that little leaf known as bhrahmi …  my memory chip would be vibrant even now. It’s too late …eh….

      

        

         

   

Nurungukal: Nurungukal…. There was a petty thief in our ...

Nurungukal:  Nurungukal….      There was a petty thief in our ...:   Nurungukal….       There was a petty thief in our locality. He was stout and short and hunch backed. He was a familiar character in the ...

 

Nurungukal….

      There was a petty thief in our locality. He was stout and short and hunch backed. He was a familiar character in the area and everyone knew pretty well about his nocturnal activities. Local jail was his second home. Police used to book him against thefts carried out by elusive culprits in order to close the case file. Thus his sporadic intervals in jail denied him a family life, since no body was willing to offer their girls for a jail bird. He never ventured to loot. He was satisfied with a few coconuts or a banana bunch, which he could dispose off in the nearby market before the owners come to know about the robbery. Gradually he acquired a nick name kallan kunhan. But he had no regrets, because he had his own reasons in pursuing such a profession. He was an expert coconut tree climber and with his bare hands used to pluck deftly a few nuts in no time. He was an adept dodger. Even to an expert pursuer he was an enigma like an otiyan. He would disappear like thin air into darkness without leaving no trace. My father who was very keen to catch him red- handed had to draw blank many a time. By the time he reached the spot kunhan  might have eluded and escaped with his loot. After a few attempts my father depressingly abandoned the pursuit . This small man continued to prevail in the society unabated, despite shouldering the stigma, because he had no other ability worth depending to earn a living. Unfortunately circumstances might have made him a thief. In those post independent days, agrarian economy was gasping against a galloping inflation. Employment was very scarce. Many from middle income group migrated into cities in search of better pastures. Less fortunate, with no adequate educational qualification had to be contended with what petty jobs were locally available. Perhaps kunhan might have turned into his undesirable avocation as a last resort for supporting his aged parents and other family members.

                As days rolled into months and months into years kunhan stood his ground unabated and thrived on his profession. Gradually as he became old there was no talk about him. I finished my degree and was in search of a job. One day after dinner when we were all enjoying the eloquent narration of our mother about her brave encounter with a retinue of police, including British officers, to stall their attempt to search for her brothers who were involved in the freedom movement in 1921, we were alerted by a hustle tussle happening in the neighbourhood. I was taken aback by witnessing the ghastly seen. A few youngsters of the vicinity had overcome kunhan and managed to tie him to a coconut tree.  His puny body was virtually hanging on the rope, his head drooped in shame and the crowd was jeering at him mercilessly as if they have won a war. Two coconuts lay nearby as silent spectators of the ordeal.  Fortunately one or two social workers came from nowhere and managed to rescue the culprit from the bonds. But at the insistence of a few he was handed over to the police. That was the last time I have seen him.

                         On that night I saw in him a vague reflection of the compelling situations which pushed him into an ignoble profession and remembered about Jean Val Jean the famous character in Les Miserables by Victor Hugo . But alas in his case there was no Bishop to mend him. He lived and left as a petty thief in ignominy…..!  

                         But now when I read about the day light treacherous robberies in unimaginable proportions and moral turpitude of the society, bygones like kunhan  deserves a posthumous acclamation and pardon…

             

              

Nurungukal: Nurungukal… The other day while glancing throu...

Nurungukal:  Nurungukal…    The other day while glancing throu...:   Nurungukal…     The other day while glancing through the Yu tube, I came across a pair’s innovative style of selling sherbet, a favorite...

 

Nurungukal…

    The other day while glancing through the Yu tube, I came across a pair’s innovative style of selling sherbet, a favorite drink of the Keralites during summer. They have given a fancy name to their not so popular recipe, kutam kalakki and mola sherbet. When one is served in an earthen pitcher the other in a piece of bamboo, attractively chiseled and polished. To give a Midas touch, they ventured to mix all and sundry spices, mangoes etc. and claimed it as a wonder drink !!.

       This reminded me of the taste of a drink served when the thatching of the third floor of our house(ullendemukal ) is finished during every summer. It is commonly known as panakam, basically a concoction of jaggory (karippetti ), ginger and coconut scaling in water. Tastes well when served in palm leaf kumbil. We used to wait patiently to grab our share till the last leaf is fixed and the coconut is broken. It’s a wait, from the previous day when the old and brittle leaves are removed from the roof, usually carried out on a full moon day, and a sound slumber looking at the glittering sky and the cascading moon through the bamboo frame, while our mother in her husky voice unravel the puranas, in her own inimitable style.

        Over the years sherbet has acquired a special position among others. It is a common man’s delicacy, freely available as you wish for it, at any nook and corner, claiming reasonable consistency in taste and quantity and economical in terms of utility. These are some of the plus ticks I prefer. Like any other product, sherbet has also undergone changes in many ways. Kulukki sherbet is one such.You may ask me a Shakespearean question “what is in a name?” Once you see the process of fixing it, you will be convinced. Similarly in the case of the two drinks mentioned earlier, their distinct identity is hidden in their names.

                 There is a shops in Kozhikode where people line up for hours to enjoy a sherbet, even during rainy days. Patrons queue up there, just to enjoy the exclusive taste. The legacy of it was set by the father is now carried forward by the son in a greater magnitude. Another such drink which has hit the market is the sugar cane juice. As you navigate through the national highways, at critical intervals you can hear the metallic sound of a motor, squeezing rolls of sugar cane, pieces of lemon and ginger. A pair of hands will be busy in inserting the cane sticks through the roller umpteen times to squeeze out even the last drop of juice and  serving the lemony juice to satiate the thirst of the patiently waiting customers. When electrical energy is used here to operate the machine, I was told that in Poona –Mumbai high way there are many ox driven chucks for extracting the juice.. This traditional system while ensuring zero pollution also provides the waiting public a chance to enjoy witnessing the rhythm of the churning process.

                  During my journey to distant places, a break to taste a hot tea and a short intimacy with the shopper, used to provide me with an intense feeling of togetherness and refreshment. Perhaps such bits of exchanges to have a peep into their pathos and struggle gave me immense satisfaction much more  than what I used to enjoy, behind the wheels, while wading through the vast landscape.

                 On the Ooty road there is a small tea shop run by an old couple. It is a must stop for us. A cup of hot tea along with a double egg omelette and a gossip with them nourish me than a five course dinner from a star hotel. To be frank, such relationships always facilitate me to resonate with divinity, because I feel the ‘x’ factor in their existence and efforts. Unknowingly they permeate or reflect a feel of happiness and contentment to others. I have come across with many such relief spots, which have over the years earned a special tag and patronage. Another one that comes to my mind is the breakfast stop, on the way to Thirunelli temple. They serve you hot idlis and sambar under a thatched shed. The unniyappam , which they sell in great numbers daily, have found an entry in some book of records. Deep fried in pure homemade coconut oil, their appams are simply a delicacy. I always used to wonder how they are able to maintain such consistent parameters of their products. May be the result of high standards of ethics they adhere to in the production chain. Not only at the roadside, very often we used to enjoy a traditional drink from some of our friend’s house also. One such drink that I always relished is the tharikanhi, a delicacy served during Ramzan days. Especially the one fondly offered by the ummuma of my college mate which had a very special taste and satiating level. Similarly the best ever filter coffee I enjoyed is the one prepared by the maamy of my Brahmin friend.

              Yes, my culinary tastes are deeply imbibed in a traditional upbringing. Being a gourmet of ethnic style, I am a sure misfit in a modern cafeteria. Yet I am proud of my preferences…..!!