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...