Nurungukal: Nurungukal: Nurungukal….. By now since lasty...

Nurungukal: Nurungukal:  Nurungukal…..      By now since lasty...: Nurungukal:  Nurungukal…..      By now since lastyear, reels a... :   Nurungukal…..       By now since last year, reels and reels of news ...

 

Nurungukal

    Many a season has rolled by since our marriage. Still 1970  September is a special month to us.  It was in this month we were married. Waynad, nestled in the slopes of Western Ghats, a land which resisted the plunder of Tippu, a land which nurtured the adventures of Pazhashi, a land which breaths as the lungs of Nilgiri biosphere and beats as the heart of the Gods Own Country, was shy as always like a bride, draped in a veil of mist, welcomed us on our maiden trip after marriage. As we reached the top, the sun was struggling to peep through a thick sheet of fog. 

     Nurungukal

    Many a season has rolled by since our marriage. Still 1970  September is a special month to us.  It was in this month we were married. Waynad nestled in the slopes of Western Ghats, a land which resisted the plunder of Tippu, a land which nurtured the adventures of Pazhashi, a land which breaths as the lungs of Nilgiri biosphere and beats as the heart of the Gods Own Country, was shy as always like a bride, draped in a veil of mist, welcomed us on our maiden trip after marriage. As we reached the top, the sun was struggling to peep through a thick sheet of fog. A chill pierced through me when my bare feet came in touch with the earth, which archived many stories of historical events. At the door step of the house, an abode of divinity,  merged with the back drop serenely, three ladies were poised with all accompaniments, ready to welcome the newly wedded. One of them was Ammayi and her sisters in law. Her real name was Sharada, which I came to know much later. She was shy and soft spoken as her name indicated. Moreover it related with the Autumn, the season in which I met her for the first and last time.

       

          She was the first and last Ammayi in my life for I had never met the wife of my maternal uncle. Because she had met with the destiny long before I was born. So I purposefully adopted or rather elevated her to that position, just because she was among the lot the eligible one, in my perspective. To my wife she was next to her mother and elder sister. She used to be strangely vociferous, while narrating her childhood days under the care of Ammayi and about many funny situations with her, along with other kids in the family. Children in those days were enjoying the nectar of a joint family grooming which was  full of fun and frolics and Ammayi always took the roll of a matriarch protecting them from the wrath of others on many occasions and came as a saviour of sparing the stick from other elders. Very rarely we can come across such a mellowing character. In a crowd she stood apart elegantly in her traditional Kerala attire.

       The other day when my wife expressed her desire to visit the ailing Ammayi, an intense and impulsive inner call prompted me to dash to her without an iota of hesitation. She was frail and struggling to respond. We returned with a sense of humility, but never sensed that it would be the last. When the news about her heavenly abode came, we consoled each other and thanked the Almighty for triggering our prudence in responding to our conscience.

   She was the last to pass, from that family chain as if like the setting of a full moon, leaving a legacy of humility, love and affection. Adieu Ammayi. Our Pranamam.

     Nurungukal

    Many a season has rolled by since our marriage. Still 1970  September is a special month to us.  It was in this month we were married. Waynad nestled in the slopes of Western Ghats, a land which resisted the plunder of Tippu, a land which nurtured the adventures of Pazhashi, a land which breaths as the lungs of Nilgiri biosphere and beats as the heart of the Gods Own Country, was shy as always like a bride, draped in a veil of mist, welcomed us on our maiden trip after marriage. As we reached the top, the sun was struggling to peep through a thick sheet of fog. A chill pierced through me when my bare feet came in touch with the earth, which archived many stories of historical events. At the door step of the house, an abode of divinity,  merged with the back drop serenely, three ladies were poised with all accompaniments, ready to welcome the newly wedded. One of them was Ammayi and her sisters in law. Her real name was Sharada, which I came to know much later. She was shy and soft spoken as her name indicated. Moreover it related with the Autumn, the season in which I met her for the first and last time.

       

          She was the first and last Ammayi in my life for I had never met the wife of my maternal uncle. Because she had met with the destiny long before I was born. So I purposefully adopted or rather elevated her to that position, just because she was among the lot the eligible one, in my perspective. To my wife she was next to her mother and elder sister. She used to be strangely vociferous, while narrating her childhood days under the care of Ammayi and about many funny situations with her, along with other kids in the family. Children in those days were enjoying the nectar of a joint family grooming which was  full of fun and frolics and Ammayi always took the roll of a matriarch protecting them from the wrath of others on many occasions and came as a saviour of sparing the stick from other elders. Very rarely we can come across such a mellowing character. In a crowd she stood apart elegantly in her traditional Kerala attire.

       The other day when my wife expressed her desire to visit the ailing Ammayi, an intense and impulsive inner call prompted me to dash to her without an iota of hesitation. She was frail and struggling to respond. We returned with a sense of humility, but never sensed that it would be the last. When the news about her heavenly abode came, we consoled each other and thanked the Almighty for triggering our prudence in responding to our conscience.

   She was the last to pass, from that family chain as if like the setting of a full moon, leaving a legacy of humility, love and affection. Adieu Ammayi. Our Pranamam.

     A chill pierced through me when my bare feet came in touch with the earth, which archived many stories of historical events. At the door step of the house, an abode of divinity,  merged with the back drop serenely, three ladies were poised with all accompaniments, ready to welcome the newly wedded. One of them was Ammayi and her sisters in law. Her real name was Sharada, which I came to know much later. She was shy and soft spoken as her name indicated. Moreover it related with the Autumn, the season in which I met her for the first and last time.

       

          She was the first and last Ammayi in my life for I had never met the wife of my maternal uncle. Because she had met with the destiny long before I was born. So I purposefully adopted or rather elevated her to that position, just because she was among the lot the eligible one, in my perspective. To my wife she was next to her mother and elder sister. She used to be strangely vociferous, while narrating her childhood days under the care of Ammayi and about many funny situations with her, along with other kids in the family. Children in those days were enjoying the nectar of a joint family grooming which was  full of fun and frolics and Ammayi always took the roll of a matriarch protecting them from the wrath of others on many occasions and came as a saviour of sparing the stick from other elders. Very rarely we can come across such a mellowing character. In a crowd she stood apart elegantly in her traditional Kerala attire.

       The other day when my wife expressed her desire to visit the ailing Ammayi, an intense and impulsive inner call prompted me to dash to her without an iota of hesitation. She was frail and struggling to respond. We returned with a sense of humility, but never sensed that it would be the last. When the news about her heavenly abode came, we consoled each other and thanked the Almighty for triggering our prudence in responding to our conscience.

   She was the last to pass, from that family chain as if like the setting of a full moon, leaving a legacy of humility, love and affection. Adieu Ammayi. Our Pranamam.

     

Nurungukal: Nurungukal….. By now since lastyear, reels a...

Nurungukal:  Nurungukal…..      By now since lastyear, reels a...:   Nurungukal…..       By now since last year, reels and reels of news print have been used to dwell upon the various aspects about the   p...

 

Nurungukal…..

      By now since last year, reels and reels of news print have been used to dwell upon the various aspects about the  pandemic. Humanity has been adequately informed about the pros and cons of any lacunae in its handling. And all of us are well aware of the consequences of default. Still the invisible predator is prowling in our neighborhood undaunted. Our movements have been curbed. Social life is virtually converted into a gimmick of the internet world. Students take advise through an alien voice very often through a lifeless and masked image on the screen, denying any emotional pungency.  Death or birth goes without rippling our sentiments. So is any other function which were part and parcel of our social outfit. Show of divinity has been limited to a silent prayer in our heart. No more hustle tussle in the serpentine queue. Lock down, containment, jab, vax etc have found a special status in our daily vocabulary.

       Many a couple have tied their nuptials without the presence of their distant near and dear. So is the departure of many souls on their heavenly abode. The empty and silent streets in the morning and evening without the boisterous parading of uniformed children, pulls down a dark curtain in our mind. And now we try to find solace in hearing the wakeup calls and chattering of the roosting birds.

      The silent killer has snatched away many, prematurely from our midst not to speak of those who left us to escape from the misery forced upon them. As a good number of the society desperately thrive for their livelihood, alas there is a few, who has grabbed honour from us by way of winning a place in our legislature, bent upon squandering their responsibility in disrupting the proceeding of the houses. This ignominious behaviour of the elected in both the houses of parliament has caused an aggregate loss of 130 cr. rupees to the exchequer, taxpayers  hard earned money. The news paper further reports that out of 107 hours, our parliament has functioned only for just 18 hours.  The actual loss may be much higher, considering the other perks. I wonder why our supreme court is not initiating a suo motu case, if the legal provisions permit, against the entire house for causing a cognisable offence for inflicting a loss on our exchequer.

     Majority being forced into locked-up doors, a recent study has revealed that cyber crimes are on the rise. It clearly indicates that the locked-up atmosphere induces the devil in you. Not only such crimes, other atrocities, on children and women have become rampant. People have been forced into a virtual recluse, which has no doubt turned them into be mentally fragile. The situation if not handled professionally, the pandemic can lead us into more acerbic levels which may cause irreparable social chaos. The govt. machinery, especially the law enforcing police force should handout to the common public, instead of becoming obdurate on puerile lapses. At the same time general public also should take cognisance of the gravity of danger from the prowler virus.

         On the other hand the inflicted austerity has taught us the adverse lessons of extravaganza. A sense of nature friendly perceptions have erupted to support a sustainable living style. The virtual meets have helped us to reach even the unreachable and gather knowledge from its exponents itself. The infodemic has in a way helped to evolve a global village or rather accelerated it.

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…..!!

 

       

       

Nurungukal: Nurungukal… I have not experiencedever befo...

Nurungukal:  Nurungukal…       I have not experiencedever befo...:   Nurungukal…        I have not experienced ever before in my life a lacklustre election campaign as the one now in progress. The simmerin...

 

Nurungukal…

       I have not experienced ever before in my life a lacklustre election campaign as the one now in progress. The simmering summer or the pandemic dynamics or both have taken the toll of an otherwise active  proceedings. Which has no doubt denied the ever hungry Malayalee’s crave for an adipoli  celebration of such events. At least in this part of the state the usual hustle tussle is lacking. May be that ours is not an A+ seat as in the case of some in the capitol. Devoid of an expected mega entertainment at the cost of our already depleted exchequer, we are now eying on the freebies and kits. Unfortunately even our right to access to such baits is being questioned. Thanks to the cost consciousness and constant awareness of election protocol of our ever vigilant fronts in the fray !!.

     Gone are the days of colourful processions and jabbing of fists into the air and the eye catching wall paintings. Even though it has stalled defacing of our surroundings and saved meters and meters of cloth and other sheets many petty artisans have lost their livelihood..

      Since independence the election milieu have undergone many a metamorphosis and refinement. Started with individual ballot box for each candidate with their symbols on them. It obviously reflected our literary standards of those days. Also in certain cases the positioning of the box in the alphabetical order resulted in facing defeat, as the majority preferred to insert their ballot paper in the nearest box.. I know one such case in which he had to accept defeat despite of his popularity and credibility in the constituency. We have attained an envious position among other democracies due to strenuous journey from a primitive stage to today’s enlightened and envious status. Thanks to the meticulous logistics enforced by the conductors and infusion of technology to ensure a precision par excellence like that of a military operation.

        Now the real gainers of the present situation is the visual media. Day in and day out they are exploiting the addiction mania of the mass who have already been influenced by imaginary  situations fed with each episodes of soap operas. There are a given set of television birds who are genetically trained to assimilate concocted political history and blurt at the appropriate instance, in order to outsmart their counterparts from the opposition party.  I used to be dumbfounded on hearing some of their salvos, hurling at each other without any iota of hesitation, knowing pretty well the statements are utterly untenable and far from the truth. To me many of them, except a few, carry only biased and partial views or just pretensions. The biggest danger of such arguments is its influence on an innocent viewer in molding an opinion on such baseless premises.

       Ever since the start of the present imbroglio no tangible or sensible proposal has been chalked out by the contenders on how to implement a sustainable development for augmenting the depleted cash bags and to meet the challenge for providing a number of free services without touching the tax payer’s pocket or loiter around with a begging bowl or demolish all public edifices!!. No meaningful debate is on, how the fronts are going to address the issues viz,

1.  Climate change, managing panchbhoothams

2.  Effective resilience

3.  Sustainable agri production, value addition etc,

4.  Self sufficient villages

5.  Bio diversity conservation

6.  Employment generation

7.  Location specific growth targets

8.  Gender equality

9.  Tribal welfare

10.                      Trance gender status

11.                      Job oriented education reforms

12.                      Sports and games infrastructures in villages

13.                      Uplift of the down trodden to the main stream.

14.                      Cultural nourishment

………and many more to solve. Not to speak of other cosmetic projects like town planning, tourism schemes, IT facilities etc. etc. also how and when and the priorities within our wherewithal are missing.

    The voter or common man is only an onlooker of the stage managed drama in the election arena. He has no participation in the process worth counting except to cast a vote.

      State boasts of effective institutions like three tiered Grama Sabhas and Peoples planning. Yet none has been taken into confidence before the onset of a democratic process, to sensitize the aspirations of the voter. He/she has been denied of any roll to play to mould his or her destiny. In other words what ever that has been enacted in this battle of ballot papers is one sided and lack seriousness or forethought. While we are struggling to do away with human idols, and uphold the spirit of democracy, shift in our paradigms pave an easy path for identifying new ones unknowingly. This is a dangerous trend which we have to shun on first priority. This may be the reason in some pockets a new model of governing is experimented and favoured.

          As things stands now the fulcrum of the choice rests on the induced euphoria by our political stalwarts….I am reminded of the famous satire of our all time entertainer kunchan nambiar …deepasthambam mahaschryam………..!!

       

Nurungukal: Nurungukal… Of all the fruit bearing trees I ha...

Nurungukal:  Nurungukal…   Of all the fruit bearing trees I ha...:   Nurungukal…     Of all the fruit bearing trees I have a special affinity towards the mango tree, especially a granny. Because whenever I...

 

Nurungukal…

    Of all the fruit bearing trees I have a special affinity towards the mango tree, especially a granny. Because whenever I come across a fairly old mango tree, unknowingly mind wanders into a past, which is now blurred and hard to draw contours. There was once upon a time one such tree, a few feet south of our naalukettu. Many a rendezvous, clandestine or otherwise had taken place under its cover. Many a drama had been enacted under its shade. Not to speak of the fights and village games. The swing descending from its sturdy branches had taken many a pair to soar the heights of rhythm and love, while the fairy like jezebel butterflies probe for honey from the fathoms of the slender, violet flowers of the parasite plants ithikkanni harboring on its branches. It would remind me about oonhaal [swing] the heart rendering love story of the novelist vilasini [ jezebel ].

       Although such nostalgic visuals appear in my mind when I see a mango tree, the one that still persists in me is the care and caution our mother used to take while preparing a mango pickle. It’s a long procedure. There are some stipulated specifications to be complied with. Otherwise the end product will fail to pass the mark. There is an unwritten recipe. The details of which is transferred from mouth to mouth, generation to the other, or by close observation, most probably the later. There are certain specific varieties of mango suitable for preparing different types of pickles, from kadumanga to vadamanga or uppumanga and each have its own entity and purpose to claim. While kadumanga can kindle your taste buds to swallow yet another handful of rice, uppumanga can reactivate them when you are convalescing and supplement your sodium level. Similarly vadamanga squeezed with a little curd could catalyze and help digestion.

         Mother’s search starts at the very beginning of the flowering season usually, early February, followed by a daily appraisal of the fruit development. Many a season I had experienced her despair when the flowers whither and fail to set fruits due to the increase in atmospheric temperature preceding heavy rain bearing summer clouds. When once the fruits are ready, the entire house is in a frenzy, plucking, grading, washing, mixing etc. etc. The curtain would be down only after the filled up earthen jars are secured in a dark corner of our store room kalavara or vadekkera.

      But I happened to witness a deferent feel in my wife’s house. Her eldest sister and her mother’s younger sister were the exponents of the highest order of preparing mango pickle recipes. When our mother was content with a jar or two for the season, this duo had insurmountable desire for hoarding jars and jars of kadumanga each year. They derived a hidden pleasure in their collection piled up in the dark chambers of their wooden bins (pathayam ) like blended scotch whisky preservations for years and years. To be frank theirs are the best I have tasted, although mother’s excelled in certain parameters.

        As the old performers had vacated the stage a few years ago, fresh hands in the family are fervently trying to step into their shoes. My wife is one among them. She is slowly and steadily proving to be a worthy successor to the bygones. But alas this year none of our trees are bearing fruits. May be due to the effect of global warming, an alibi commonly heard in our sitting rooms.

       Whenever I visit my native place and retrace the paths we used to tread, in our school days, my heart miss one or two beats as I cross the spot where the granny tree was majestically posing once upon a time.  The only earthly one which had been volunteered to accompany our mother to her heavenly abode….

 

Nurungukal: Nurungukal…. A loud tweet fromour sitting room...

Nurungukal:  Nurungukal….    A loud tweet fromour sitting room...:   Nurungukal….     A loud tweet from our sitting room window made me to drag my attention forcibly from the book I was deeply engrossed in...

 

Nurungukal….

    A loud tweet from our sitting room window made me to drag my attention forcibly from the book I was deeply engrossed in. As I raised my head and looked at the direction from where the call has come, I saw them perched on the grills, the familiar pair of bulbuls, whom I considered as the harbingers of spring. Year after year they have not broken the schedule and their life long partnership.  It was as if their right to encroach each year and celebrate their courtship with us. Or by a vow of destiny they keep their annual promise under our care. Because we know their visit has a purpose, and far sighted too. To rear their progeny, a compulsive purpose of the nature. But ironically this year it happened to be, while I was wandering through a situation , meticulously narrated by a young author on her journey to motherhood.

       I knew that it was their pre-visit to assess the suitability of the site for setting up of their would be cradle. Which should be secure from predators, vagaries of nature, abundant food and materials for building a nest. Many such visits are to be completed before it is finally approved by the pair as a prelude to their courtship. As I have been a silent spectator of their pranks for the last few years, each and every movement and calls can be deciphered easily. Some times it is a scary blurred sound indicating a caution about our movements in the room.  Or incessant chirping and huddle together, love making in progress.  Flight and swoops  from one object to other to examine the adequacy of the parameters.  Their  vociferous presence will persist for short periods , then would suddenly  vanish from the scene. Next moment would perch on the blade of the ceiling fan and would peep down to take an aerial view. This exercise in solo or in company of the partner will continue for a day or two, or until they settle on an apt choice. As I am familiar with their requirements, usually by securing a suitable shallow object on the wall or window will help them to take a quick decision. And once they arrive at a consensus, the architect in them is sensitised. From there on, like self propelled machines, together they finish setting up a cute little nest of immaculate precision. The mission is accomplished devoid of any tool or text. The ingenuity and instinct are their guiding force. In them I felt the Unknown. Call it Nature, God or Omnipotent. A spark of life well defined and destined. Why such tiny mechanisms prevail on this planet is a myth. What is there ultimate goal to lesser creatures like humans. They live for a while accomplishing an un-inked mission. No rewards, no complaints. Not seeking mercy or merit…..

         As I tap the key board, the pair is busy feeding, tendering and readying their progeny to full fill an unknown accomplishment. At each flap of the wings three fledglings are flipping open their red mouths for the energy food suitable for each stages of their growth from their mentor and mother.  More than twenty days are over since we heard the harbinger tweet. The seasonal sojourn of the family would be over in a day or two, leaving us once again in waiting till next spring.

        While thanking the family for presenting us a few moments of pleasure and escape from the monotony of a pandemic induced isolation  ….wish them Adieu…….

 

 

Nurungukal: Nurungukal…..I was eagerly waiting for the parcel ...

Nurungukal: Nurungukal…..I was eagerly waiting for the parcel ...: Nurungukal….. I was eagerly waiting for the parcel to be delivered. My sister in law had a few days ago triggered a desire in me about a mai...

Nurungukal….. I was eagerly waiting for the parcel to be delivered. My sister in law had a few days ago triggered a desire in me about a maiden attempt by her grand daughter to author a book. I know very well Rohini had a flair for literary creations . In fact I had read one or two of her earlier couplets. The book reached me a few days ago. From the very layout of the cover and the title “What’s a lemon squeezer doing in my vagina”, I could figure out the complexity of the content and guessed it was something beyond my horizon. So I purposefully embarked on a cautious voyage. Unlike the author, although I was a science graduate my comprehension failed to enthuse any affinity on scientific premises now. Ironically in my case also the subject was thrust on me in order to fair in the job market. As I waded through the alien waters slowly and steadily got engrossed in serious reading, contrary to my usual approach of hop step and jump. She has effortlessly managed to crochet a fabric intertwining intrinsically the threads of emotions and scientific truths. Her lucidity of command on scientific acumen has been well expressed throughout, by sheer clairvoyance and clarity of purpose. Each event has been stuffed with her exclusive flavours like her favourite grilled sandwich. Above all her insistence to explain each and every clinical procedure without depending on a doctor’s version expressed her intense control of the situation and grasp of events. Her stoic fight to surmount the bali kera mala using each and every weapon in the medical arsenal depicts the resolute intention, which should sensitize many aspirants. The arrival of Advait was so abrupt as if she has moored an aircraft at the dead end of the runway with a thud, denying her readers the leisure to dwell on the ecstatic of child bearing. While extolling her command on the language and brave efforts to narrate a transparent and true episode from her personal life, without any inhibitions of revealing the identity of the players, let me from the bottom of my heart wish dear Rohini an event full literary journey.