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….