Nurungukal: NURUNGUKAL…. There is many a slip be...

Nurungukal:  NURUNGUKAL….             There is many a slip be...:   NURUNGUKAL….             There is many a slip between the cup and the lip…     It was very many years ago that I had watched a cricket...

 

NURUNGUKAL….

            There is many a slip between the cup and the lip…

    It was very many years ago that I had watched a cricket world cup. But this time I had an urge to feel the thrill, because of the unchallenged series of victory by the Indian players. More over I was enchanted by the sight of the mammoth stadium complex, spread over a vast area of more than 60 acres. The welcome roar, reverberated the precincts of the stadium, which resembled the call of 100 lion prides, in the African jungle. It was enough to glue me on to the little screen in our drawing room.

        Aussies won the toss and pushed the opponents to bat, which many misinterpreted as a wrong move, although proved otherwise later. In the first ten over we saw a galore of fluttering flags, claps and cheers, as the pair in the middle entertained the crowd with long shots and lifting. But alas an aggressive shot by Rohit, lifting the ball to soar high up in the sky, and when the crescendo touched the top, it dissented safely into the outstretched hands of a resolute Travis Head, which according to me sealed the fate of the game in favour of the Aussies. There after we witnessed a pack,who never ventured to open their shoulders, nor felt the sand was slipping under their feet, and remained contended to hold on to the crease to satisfy some bench marks in their carrier. It was so dismal to see the wickets fall one after another in regular intervals. We had to wait more than twenty over to see our flag flutter in the stands when a stray ball touched the fence. A gloom was slowly dissenting amidst the crowd as if it felt the impending defeat. I was more or less restless to see such a passive reaction, because the need of the hour was an unshaken backing from the audience to impart a revival and vibrancy on the score board. Instead I witnessed slow moments of despair when they opted for leaving the arena. Desperately I was scanning the gallery to have a glimpse of my nephew’s reaction, who had air dashed to India from USA, to witness this historical fight, but in vain.

           As if to console myself, visualized some random scenes from my memory when we fought tooth and nail, refusing to succumb, hitting sixes in the last over etc and ultimately lifting the trophy, like an immortal Phoenix bird. Only experts can verdict why or how we missed the goal.

Was it that critical catch ?, or was it the dew and chill in the stadium ?, was it the lack of ground support at the crucial moments ? or was it a slip…a slip….a slip……???

Let us wait till 2027  friends……   

 

         About our doctor

        Since last few years I have been regularly consulting Dr. Aboobecker, a well known diabetologist of Fathima Matha Hospital, Kalpetta, in Wayanad district. Before him I used to take the advice of late Dr, Ramamoorthy, who was a retired HOD of Calicut Medical college. I have noticed lot of similarities between the two, especially in the case of maintaining a rapport with their patients. One such was their capacity to know the patient in totality.  Dr Aboobecker has a unique technique of understanding the patient’s personality as he progressed in the diagnostic process, besides exploring the pathology. I feel this is a must quality for a medical practitioner , in fully knowing his/her patient. Probably he might have imbibed this quality from his parents, whom as I understand are accomplished medical practitioners. Alleviating ailments to the best satisfaction of the patient is a challenge before any doctor. In order to accomplish it, the first and for most is to reach a one to one feeling. For this, it is imperative that the doctor should engage in conversation and attain the confidence of his client. It’s a two way experience. In our first meeting itself he could manage to wander into different areas of my interests and to exchange his likings other than his profession. I could understand that he is an ardent student of history. That was a beginning to both of us to engage in some meaningful dialogues thereafter.  

       On one or two occasions I had to be hospitalized.  Being  chronic diabetes type three patients, me and wife had to meet him periodically to address the fluctuations in our sugar levels and related complications. Each time he helped us to sail through the complexities, like a captain of a ship in troubled waters. In such instances I could easily understand that he, apart from his medical proficiency was a good leader in utilizing the nursing staff to their maximum efficiency. In other words he is a good manager too.

     There is no doubt that the spurt in the list of his patients day by day, would justify my observations. My family is now wholly depended on his care and services. We pray, let the Almighty shower on him and his family lots of blessings as he treads miles and miles in his profession.

Nurungukal: Nurungukal…… A licensed Medical Practitione...

Nurungukal:  Nurungukal……      A licensed Medical Practitione...:   Nurungukal……      A licensed Medical Practitioner, a Judge, a few advocates, some Gujarati merchants, traders, teachers, a church etc an...

 

Nurungukal……

     A licensed Medical Practitioner, a Judge, a few advocates, some Gujarati merchants, traders, teachers, a church etc and the schools in which I had the education were all that I could claim as part of my childhood social fabric of Ponnani, my native place, during 1940s and 1960s. Among them our doctor, a family friend stood apart on several counts to me. He was gentle, soft spoken and very humane. Even a mere touch or caress by his feather like fingers soothed you and kept the illness at bay. Every day on our way to school he would be seen negotiating the country roads in his black car with dexterity and pride. He was on his usual schedule of visiting some of the elite families. The black framed spectacles balanced down on his nose, could catch any ones attention against the background of a rosy face. He was one of the few who wore pants and shirt those days, apart from a few advocates, who preferred to be in their drab black and white.  Whenever somebody fell ill we used to go early in the morning to his house to request him for extending his morning visit to our house. Simultaneously we have to request a rickshaw puller to bring him, as there was no motorable road in those days to our house. We used to wait for him at our gate, casting our eyes on the other end of a paddy field . As soon as he was sighted we rushed to carry his bag in which there used to be some essential medicines and stethoscope, thermometer, torch, etc.

          I very vividly remember the way he conducted the examination.  A look at the protruded tongue, then a peep into the throat with the help of the torch light, reading the temperature by inserting the thermometer below the tongue while counting your pulse rate were his usual symptoms analysis. Then one or two taps with a folded forefinger on the back side of the palm, placed on the stomach and back at vital points.

          Our mother will be going on narrating the illness lucidly, often distracting the attention of the doctor. In the case of our father, he will answer in mono syllables to the queries of the doctor.  Once his observations are  over, he would take down a yellow pad and scribble one or two medicines after a subdued briefing. On several occasions I had struggled hard to make out the contents of what he had written but in vain. It was a coded communication between him and the dispenser. He would then excuse himself without waiting for mother to complete her narration, with a nod to my father, who by that time might have adequately compensated the expenditure of his advice.

      It was our duty then to rush on foot to the only medical store which was a few miles away. The compounder on seeing the prescription would without any hesitation disappear into the next room, in which were wooden racks full of big bottles and clay jars, containing basic chemicals. He would come back with one or two green cut glass bottles with full of colourfull medicinal mixtures. On reaching home it was our duty to paste strips of paper in order to apportion the contents according to the prescribed doses.        

             Looking back now, I wonder how he managed to arrive at his choice of cure, by a mere tap or touch. In fact the other day when I was hospitalized with a fever and body pain, the doctor’s decision to arrive at the treatment came after an analysis of the functioning of my whole system. It was a safe and sure procedure. It reveals the extent of advance which the medical science has progressed over a few decades. The young doctor and his enthusiastic team who attended me worked like a well oiled engine, leaving nothing to be over looked before arriving at the correct decisions. I always keep their services in high esteem, considering the volume and variety of diverse cases requiring a large amount of comprehension and understanding to maintain a level of balance before arriving at the course of action in each case to be adopted. Comparing its challenges, it’s a service par excellent. To acquire a degree of acceptance among their stake holders requires perseverance and tenacity of purpose clubbed with cost consciousness and constant awareness of their commitment to the society.  I offer a big salute to the medical fraternity.

        Then it was kaipunnyam

         Now it is  Naipunnyam

   

            

Nurungukal: Nurungukal……… ...

Nurungukal:  Nurungukal………                                   ...:   Nurungukal………                                        A miniature easy chair sent to me by my daughter a few days ago rekindled my memori...

 

Nurungukal………

                                      A miniature easy chair sent to me by my daughter a few days ago rekindled my memories about a bigger version, which was adorning the front portico of our majestic Naalukettu. Of all the names we have given for a seat, like “stool”, “sofa” or “chair”, I think the most apt one was “easy chair”, when we consider its purpose and utility. Although it has disappeared nowadays from the list of essential piece of furniture, to a few like me it still holds a covetable place, because it was in such a one my father enjoyed to spend most of his day time, either reading a news paper or in conversation with others. It remained proudly in our front portico for many years till recently a plastic chair replaced it, to my utmost despair.

     An easy chair, left alone is not an attractive piece of art.   It is a folding type wooden chair, with an armrest which can be elongated to keep the legs while intending to take a deliberate sleep. It may not even capture a position in the list of an antique. Yet it attains a pinnacle of glory depending on its occupier. Many writers have opted for its comfort to roll out their best creations. So were many political leaders. I have seen my father reclining on it to devourer the “Hindu” news paper or in a deep siesta. I can even today visualize how he used to rest his head on the thump and little finger and forking the nose with the middle and pointing fingers. None of the youngsters in the house usually ventured to rest on it when our father is in the house. It was his exclusive abode, revered, sanctified and proud status symbol. The positioning of the chair enabled him to police any movements and nobody could pass the portico without his notice.

      Its position would change as the sun lowers down in the Arabian Sea. For him, its time to rest a while under the old tamarind tree in the courtyard, whistling a few stanzas of Kathakali Padams. By dusk, he will once again move up to share the company of mother and Chathettan, our neighbor and a distant relative of mother to sip a glass of warm soup. On rare occasions we used to squeeze into their company. Relaxing on the arm chair father would occasionally make some harmless and sarcastic comments about the proceedings in which mother and her relative would be the active participants.

        A cry of the mottled wood owl from the nearby sacred grove would alert father to call it a day and the trio would slowly disperse gently to meet again next day. These sessions made a great imprint in us to take stock of the important national and local events which I feel has contributed much to mould our character and social commitments. Thanks to the easy chair and the one who had designed it.

          

Nurungukal: Nurungukal A shriek and vibrationfrom my mobile...

Nurungukal:  Nurungukal   A shriek and vibrationfrom my mobile...:   Nurungukal    A shriek and vibration from my mobile phone, which is an   inseparable companion, since a few years, disturbed my attempt ...

 

Nurungukal

   A shriek and vibration from my mobile phone, which is an  inseparable companion, since a few years, disturbed my attempt to fix a drop of medicine into my eyes. I reluctantly withdrew from my attempt and reached for the instrument. It was my nephew, reminding me about the importance of the day. It is my Birth day in Christian era. Several other calls came, all wishing me many more happy years to be on this earth with health. Unfortunately nobody was bothered about my wealth ! which over the years was depleting at an alarming rate. An equal number of colourful messages with much more sentiments  bloated the columns of my flat box. As usual I shared each one of the expressions with my wife, who with a silent nod dismissed them, indicating that she had already celebrated the day with a sumptuous meal a few days ago i.e in Malayalam era. That deluged my hope of enjoying a fair Sadhya  once again. After a pause I tried again to drop the medicine. Each attempt was interrupted one by one. After a while my perseverance enabled me to soothe my tired eyes.

     It was noon and after a frugal lunch I slowly slipped into my usual siesta. Gradually an unusual dream seized me.

               “My mother in an attire and hairdo akin to Karalite style, awakened me early in the morning and persuaded me to go to temple as it was my birth day. It was the only day in the year we are made to feel a celebrity status. Most importantly we can enjoy a self declared holiday and, sometimes a set of new cloths depending on the fiscal health of the family. But surely an enjoyable Sadhya with sweet and savory items is a must to my mother. I accompanied by my kid  brother dashed to the temple after a hurried dip in the pond. Our enthusiasm for the trip was to enjoy the Thrimadhuram  which the old poojari prepared to with a unique taste.

          The lunch was serverd in the traditional system. There were no tables and chairs .We had to squat on the grass mat. Today I had the privilege to occupy the first place in the row next to our father. On the top of the row were placed a lighted bronze lamp, water and rice in respective containers and thulasi leaves and incense sticks.. Before the feast, mother with all reverence blessed me with thulasi and rice in the traditional manner by placing a little of them on the knees, shoulders and head. As always it was a wonderful delight to enjoy her preparations.  She served each item to her satisfaction and I, without any reservations enjoyed them.  My tummy was full. ……….”

       Once again the shriek and vibration. It is time for the next drop. The illusion slowly mellowed, awakening me    to the woods…………….……….

Nurungukal: Nurungukal Burmah Shell reminds me about two t...

Nurungukal:   Nurungukal   Burmah Shell reminds me about two t...:   Nurungukal    Burmah Shell reminds me about two things. At first about the escape of my father from the war torn Burma, now known as Myama...

 

Nurungukal

   Burmah Shell reminds me about two things. At first about the escape of my father from the war torn Burma, now known as Myamar, in disguise in a Shell sponsored ship. Secondly about Balettan….. to us , Bala to many, Balan to a few and Balagangadharan to yet another few. Perhaps his father, a freedom fighter might have wished his eldest son to be remembered in the name of the world renounced nationalist.

        Not many from our family have scaled such adorable heights in their professional career. He acquired the silver spoon, not by birth, but through hard work and perseverance. He was a worthy model to all of us to be emulated, although he remained as a distant beacon unattainable.

      Not many a time we have met after our school days, except on a few family gatherings and once at his villa on the tranquil banks of Periyar. But whenever it happened, I always felt a transfer of energy in his presence and mellowed chat.

      It is still fresh in me, the silhouette of the old couple, climbing the winding steps of the manicured lawns of his brother’s villa in Wayanad , supporting each other, on a salubrious morning. Let me preserve that scene in the fathoms of my heart among many other such clips.

Pranamam

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….