Nurungukal….2…

      Post harvest festivals are commonly celebrated in Kerala as part of an offering to various Gods or Goddesses. Most of them are in the form of rituals which have set patterns. Besides an expression of obeisance to the Deity, these festivals are part of joy and happiness that reflects the essentials of respective social fabric where each community have predefined functions. Although in the past most of them were conducted to enjoy the fruits of a good harvest. But now they are  merely routine rituals providing a chance to be hilarious in the company of a joyous crowd. The committees who organise such rituals make sure that the programme includes such ingredients in the name of divinity which can trigger not only a chance to worship but also for abundant pleasure.It can be either a colourful procession by parading a set of caparisoned elephants, in the company of many types of musical percussions. Folklore artists are an inevitable part of this galore. They have an ancestral right to perform. The art forms  are diversified from place to place and are related to the class of the main Deity of a temple.

      A few years ago I had a an opportunity to head a temple festival committee. I felt it as a privileged post. Because  during the performance of the theyyams and thiras I was addressed as the karthav  which means the creator. Thus I became an inevitable part of many ceremonies. At the end of each performance the oracle or theyyam or thira addressed me in a trance. I had to accept their commands and agree for compliance. In the process they used to give holy water [ undiluted brandy !!!] or a few pieces of burning charcoal or some time pulled me to and fro on the fire pit. Each such moments gave me an opportunity to test my belief or agility. But above all what I appreciated and enjoyed most in such rituals is the welcome prayer [thottam pattu], so melodious, stimulating your senses, when its crescendo reaches in high notes breaking the silence of a dead night and the entry of the enigmatic figure, colourful and fierce looking. The glow of the flames of many oil lamps reflecting on the surrounding mass, eagerly watching the proceedings can make you spell bound. I have witnessed in their face anxiety,sorrow, expectation,happiness, quest for consolation above all a confidence for being a part of a Devine togetherness. At the end when you are drenched by the turmeric water from the burning cauldrons by a sprinkling with the areca nut fronts one attains the satisfaction of being purified externally also. Can you visualise any other function which can cleanse simultaneously your mind and body at a time?........

Nurungukal…2….

    I always enjoyed the calls in high pitch of the hawkers, irrespective of the location viz, streets, beach, railway stations etc.. each has its own identity enabling you to easily recognise the location. If it is the chorus shouting of chai chai chai in the morning hours it is certain you have reached Malabar. At break fast time the tune is different dosai dosai. Then it is Shornoor. in Tamilnadu  you will be awakened  by melodious calls of flower sellers, mallige, kanagambaram or December.While enjoying an evening in Marina or Pondy beach it is the fragrance of cooked bengal gram[chundal] attracts you by a crisp sound. And one can never resist to taste a combination of masala gram and mango bits served in paper cones. In front of Mambalam railway station it is the rhythmic shouting of mango vendors, announcing the number and rate , 20-10 ,10-20 in repetition.If you happened to see a line of laddies selling vegetables drawing your attention by calling amma, ayya  on the side of a railway track you can be sure that you are passing through a village in the suburbs of Coimbatore or Erode, where the train driver invariabily obliges the hawkers by stopping for a while in exchange of a basket of farm fresh vegetables. The arrival of Avadi station can be easily  recognised if you hear the hooting of sirens in different pitch and tunes. In Lal Bagh garden it is the chirping of birds when they come to roost at dusk.The appeal of the women fish vendors in different markets in Kerala can force any one to make a deal.

    In every call, irrespective of the tune and pitch there is one thing in common.A struggle for survival and self reliance and expression of respective social culture.

Nurungukal…2….

    I always enjoyed the calls in high pitch of the hawkers, irrespective of the location viz, streets, beach, railway stations etc.. each has its own identity enabling you to easily recognise the location. If it is the chorus shouting of chai chai chai in the morning hours it is certain the train has  reached Malabar. At break fast time the tune is different dosai dosai. Then it is Shornoor. in Tamilnadu  you will be awakened  by melodious calls of flower sellers, mallige, kanagambaram or December.While enjoying an evening in Marina or Pondy beach it is the fragrance of cooked bengal gram[chundal] which attracts you followed by a repeated crisp sound. And one can never resist to taste a combination of masala gram and mango bits served in paper cones. In front of Mambalam railway station it is the rhythmic shouting of mango vendors, announcing the number and rate , 20-10 ,10-20 in repetition.If you happened to see a line of laddies selling vegetables drawing your attention by calling amma, ayya  on the side of a railway track you can be sure that you are passing through a village in the suburbs of Coimbatore or Erode, where the train driver invariably obliges the hawkers by stopping for a while in exchange of a basket of farm fresh vegetables. The arrival of Avadi station can be easily  recognised if you hear the hooting of sirens in different pitch and tunes. In Lal Bagh garden it is the chirping of birds when they come to roost at dusk.The appeal of the women fish vendors in different markets in Kerala can force any one to make a deal.

    In every call, irrespective of the tune and pitch there is one thing in common.A struggle for survival and self reliance and expression of respective social culture.

Nurungukal…2..contd..

When the telephone ring awoke me at 2am today, several thoughts passed through me, as usual. The voice on the other side had a shiver, which intensified my apprehension all the more. It was sad and cracking, and conveyed the message that my sister-in-law Padminieduthy is no more. I gasped and ventured to get in the details. It took me a little more time than usual to become normal.

  She had stepped into our family first time as a sprightly young teenager, as result of my sister marrying her uncle. Then as a bride to my elder brother and later on as a scholarly sanskrit teacher and mentor.

   Children of both our families had enjoyed many a vacation exchanging our visits, frolicking in the village arena, either swinging on a rope sling, licking mangoes or a swimming competition in a pond etc. etc. And as time passed she proved her supremacy in competitions like andakshini, akshara slokams , among us. When ever we met during family get together it was laughter and fun.

  Today we have lost a link connecting a glorious past and in me she will remain always as a beacon, rendering a bunch of rays , leading and blessing………

                                                                                                                                                

Nurungukal..2…contd…

      I do not remember exactly when I started using ball point pens discarding the fountain pen. It can be probably in the early part of nineteen sixty's. Because I am sure in the primary school we were allowed to use only slate and pencil. The pencil was just a piece of soft stone, which came in different colours and texture. Some were very hard which refused to make impressions on the slate, instead made deep etchings, damaging the surface of the slate. We used to clean the slate  every morning using the leaves of hibiscus before going to school. A few cuttings of a grass which store water in its stems for cleaning the slate, would be always available in the jute bag in which we carried our books, slate etc.We managed to get the jute or very rarely a cloth bag from mother after a prolonged pleading. Invariably our request would be considered only after producing the one in use and confirming that it is in an irreparable condition. These bags are used to hold packets of LG brand of asafoetida [kaayam] which is popular even now.  Where as now children get costly back packs just for a song, new in every academic year.

       As we reached higher class, slate and pencil were replaced by still pens along with an ink bottle, which we precariously balanced in our left hand while running to school. Very often we came back from school smearing the ink on our dress and of course inviting painful smacks from mother. I remember that often the ink used to either drop or flow in excess forcing us to blot with dry sand collected from the class room floor.Blotting paper was unreachable then to kids. If the quality of the paper is poor the ink will spread, drawing weary designs and inviting unpleasant reactions from our teachers.  Those wooden desks with a provision for keeping the ink bottle and still pens have disappeared from the class rooms now.  Then came the fountain pens in various designs. We never had a chance to own a new pen and was satisfied with those used by our elders. Parker, Blackbird or Waterman with platinum point nibs were elusive in our student life. But there were a few students who enjoyed the elite status of owning the glittering pens.

        Yesterday once again I ventured to purchase a fountain pen in order to be a part of discarding plastics. A trend our community is now pursuing after enduring the damage for the last many years. The sales girl showed me many types, even a ‘Parker’ with a disposable ink cartridge!!. Then I thought about my school days and the elite club, but manged to resist the temptation and choose an ordinary brand so that it will remain with me as a  reminder of the distant past, the rest of my life.

   Dum…dum…dum…pee…pee…pi…..

Nurungukal..2  contd…

      For the last few years I did not venture to cultivate paddy as it was a loosing venture. But this year once again I decided to give a try, mainly to revive a nostalgia of my childhood experience. I am now over seventy five, yet when I feel the various scents emanating during the many stages of cultivation, takes me to a distant past and it reveals a vivid canvas of the activities I used to participate.

       To any body I believe, a scent relates to a place or an individual or an incident etc. As you walk on the street any passerby leaves a charecterestic smell. It can be a scent of a perfume or a smell of sweat. Similarly different places have individual identity recognised by their fragrance.For instance,as you climb the Nilgiri hills slowly  your nostrils receive the smell of eucalyptus. In Sabarimala a mixture of camphor, agar bathi and burning coconut prevails.  The first drizzle enchants you with a fragrance of the Mother Earth. When the coffee blooms it is the fragrance of jasmine. The sweat droplets on the neck of your beloved can trigger your senses. Were as the upholstery of your new car gives you a different feeling. Inside a hospital it is the smell of cheap disinfectants. A court room emanates the smell of pet up feelings and bundles of old documents.You can feel the scent of life when you hold a stuggling and skidding new born calf.

          Now when I stand knee deep in the middle of a muddy paddy field, and as the scent of mud slowly creeps into me, I feel my  adolescence. Gradually the sound of splash made by many pairs of  robust feet of buffaloes  as they move around in circles and the folk songs sung in chorus by a set of village damsels describimg the story of the heroes of North Malabar warriors reverberates in me as ever before.

       Un mind full of the clattering of the gauge wheels of the power tiller or the hoarse sound of its engine,now I used to sit in the shade of a nearby coffee plant deeply immersed and sublimated in my nostalgic memories. It is for this heavenly moments I ventured to revive paddy cultivation. But lo  the real claimants for the fruits of my labour took me in surprise to reap the harvest before me. They were none other than a few hundreds of sparrows and a family of wild bore. In olden days many acres were under paddy crop. Now the area has shrunk forcing the sparrows and bores to grab what ever is available. I have no regrets and appreciates their claim.  I am thank full that In gratitude they left for me at least a few bundles of hey and of course my NOSTALGIA as bonus.

     Dum… dum… dum…pee…pee…pi..

      

        

Nurungukal..2..conyd..

       They visit your house once in a way and never the same person repeat it  . That too in the afternoon, when we are refreshed after a siesta and open to receive visitors. The other day my door bell rang at about 3pm.I was just from bed. When I opened the door a girl of about twenty greeted me with a broad smile and introduced as a sales trainee of a marketing company. My first reaction was to excuse her and shut the door. She might have guessed my intention and softly said that she wanted only to introduce some new items which will be of use to the kitchen and started opening a big black bag which she was with much difficulty balancing on her slender shoulder. As I was about to refuse her offer my wife appeared at the door which gave the girl a ray of hope and spread out one or two items which she claimed as new in the market. She sat on the veranda and started a mock demonstration of the products claimed to be essential items in a modern kitchen. Her presentation, I could see had gradualy influenced my wife, simultaneously alerting me the impending danger of upsetting my monthly budget. As the dialogue between the two proceeded she pulled out more items from the bag and I was convinced that she was about to prevail upon my wife. I made one or two attempts to dissuade my wife from a deal with feeble arguments, which the girl cunningly over came. As I was about to leave the scene accepting defeat, wife came out with a bunch of hundred rupee notes and as a triumphant trader  marched off with two pieces of the so called new gadgets.  But I was sure that they will soon find a place in our dust bin like most of the former ones.

       As I came back to occupy the easy chair the girl had reached our gate, throwing me a smile, she left confidently looking for her next customer. I leaned back to the comforts of my chair thinking about her smart trainer.

       Dum dum dum pee pee pi !!!