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.
