Visakhapatnam -3: Some feeble memories

Just opposite the restaurant, there was an oil mill. Two bulls blind folded and tied to a pole used to walked round and round for hours. We used to sit in front of the restaurant looking at those bulls. Those bulls would have walked hundreds of kilometers in their life time. At last, when they were no longer able to work, they would have been unceremoniously bundled up into a truck that would have transported the bulls to Keralam!!

Ramesh Cafe, that was the name of the restaurant. It was named after our eldest brother. Our grandma used to describe as "Vadakku" that means North when she referred to Visakhapatnam. For her, Visakhapatnam was somewhere in the North and perhaps her imagination about north had extended only upto Visakhapatnam!

When our parents return from Kerala, they sent telegram to home informing their safe arrival in Vizag. That brought a big relief to everyone at home. The news would have come after four days of their setting out from home. As our mom and dad board the wooden boat to Kuthiathode, from where they took bus to Ernakulam, the flood gates of sadness opened up and we were left unconsoled. Still, people like our grandparents and of course, our Babuchettan (the eldest brother) made everything feel at ease.

For the next few months, there followed letters and money orders. The postman, the brisk walking old man from Poochakkal, was a usual visitor to our home like to many other houses. In one of the letters, amma informed that a bicycle was being sent as a parcel through the railways. It was certainly not a BMW car to be so excited about the parcel, but our anxiety had no limit.

We spent sleepless nights to see the cycle in front of our home. By that time, we learnt cycling by hiring small bicycles on rent. That was called "half cycle." Learning bicycle was so entertaining. At least once, everyone fell from the two wheeler and made extensive bruises. We took this as the license to ride a bicycle. Guys took turns to ride as the others run after the cycle to prevent the rider from falling down. After several hours of rides, everyone became expert in cycle riding

The wait for the coveted prize was too long. It had to be transported by the coal locomotive those days. Those were the days, like the government departments in our country, the Railways put the public in the last of their priority. A consignment booked in railways might take days or weeks together to reach the destination. The letters posted in Visakhapatnam reached home after a minimum of ten days. The contents of the letters usually were all about well being there and enquiring after the well being here. Each one in the family was asked about in the letters. Reply too will be filled with well being here and equiring well being there.

The news about a birth or a death in the village, rain on the previous day, number of coconuts harvested for the month, start of cultivation in the paddy field... the letter turned out to be a treasure trove of information. The funny thing was that our grandma and grandpa wrote separate letters to Visakhapatnam as they were at loggerheads for years together due to the reasons best known them. Grandpa could read and write and he wrote his own letters. For the illiterate grandma, her younger daughter wrote and many other times, we did it.

" Priyapetta Radha ariyuvaan...." grandma dictated the words. Radha was the name of my mom whom my grandma affectionately called thus. A well written letter those days was like a poem. That was the power of mother tongue. We could flawlessly express our feelings as our thinking was in our own mother tongue. In the age of emails, the art of letter writing in mother tongue is dead. Even if we venture into writing a letter, more than half the words in it will be English.

At last, the cycle has come but it did not come to our house. To our utter shock we heard that this cycle was meant for another person who was also a member of our team in Vizag. It was heart breaking. We all felt so angry with our parents. Money orders from the "north" would have kept usin good humour always. We could meet our reasonable demands with ease everythime. But still, the Bicycle episode left us sulking for a long time.

It took an year or two more to get our own bicycle. That was a modern looking one with a stylish handle, and wheels. By the time it had come, we were good riders. The owner of this luxury vehicle was our eldest brother. He used it to reach the nearest bus stop, around three kilometers away on this cycle. The first cycle was not so good looking. It was good that we did not get the first cycle as it was not so fashionable too. But, still the happiness those "half cycles" gifted us on several occasions including on Onam eves could never be repeated by any substitues.

The villages were less polluted and the life was still in harmony with the nature. Slowly but steadily, the cycles gave way to luxury cars and motor bikes. Now, on the single narrow road in our village, many bikes and cars are running at high speeds. The road has become unsafe for children and old people to venture out. In this insecure world, kids are confined to the four walls around our homes. There, these kids happily spend their blissful time in front of the internet, video games and television. The worried parents look out for their children straying into forbidden pastures....

 

 

Utsavam- celebrating a childhood



A typical scene from a Temple festival in Keralam

The limping Elephant was a painful scene to look at. The God has been taking rounds of his abode, mounted on the four legged animal. The animal could hardly walk, as one of the front legs was permenantly deformed due to an accident he met with, But, whatever His Majesty does, it needs to be royal. God needs the best and His devotees know everything about his likes and dislikes.


They offer flowers, milk, gold, money, animals and what not? O God, are you not the owner of everything in the universe? Why do You need such material things as offerings to please Yourself? Sadly, Your devotees who do not undertsnd this truth are even ready to lay down their lives to please You. For them, keeping the creator of the universe in good humor is of paramount importance. It is all right if the jumbo is inconvenienced a bit. Never mind if the tusker finds it difficult to walk with his broken leg. I am sure, the God would never have liked this, but He has no choice! Who decides about such things? Certainly not Him.

O God, do't you see those eyes??

Elephant is a wild animal. That is what everyone learns in the primary school. The wild animal is trapped and after inflicting hellish pain, transforms it into a domesticated animal.


A domesticated elephant is a symbol of extreme pain and helplessness. I only wish, sooner or later, god's managers will realise this and do away with elephants in the festivals. A mighty animal of the wild shall never be paraded in front of the devotees this way. The beleaguered quadraped has nothing but a story of agony and distress to share with all who turn up to see the gala. O dear eyes, never let me see such disturbing scenes in future

Once upon a time, we did have festivals in our village temple without elephants. A tame fastival involving a very few villagers was all that we had. All rituals connected with a festival was always there but without much fanfare. There were not many people to come forward and  lead from the front. That was the main reason for such low key festivals in our temple besides the God being "poor". Even for the evening pooja that is the most imporant ritual in a temple, only a handfull of people turned up. On normal days, only our group of children were present to share the evenings with the god. Remember, that was a time when the invasion of TV sops were yet to happen.

The only positive thing that this years festival presented was a get together of a few of the childhood buddies. Many guys and gals who are struggling to build a secured life for their children in the present phase of their life, make it a point to visit the temple once during the festival days. Perhaps, I am a defaulter, as I found myself far away from the arena during these important days of my village. 

All of us met at the temple premises and recollected a lot about the past. After the deeparadhana -  the customery evening pooja, a lady who looked in her early forties, came to me and asked after me if I recognised her. Sensing my discomfiture, she volantarily revealed her identity. It was Manikutty, our neighbour. That was really embarassing. A neighbour had to introduce herself to another neighbour. That was when I realised how much cut off I am from my beloved village. Manikutty is our guru Kunjamma's youngest of the daughters. We learnt Malayalam letters from Kunjamma, sitting along with Manikutty and her other siblings.

We had a lot to recollect. Most of them revolving around the temple itself. Those beautiful evenings we spent together in the temple premises were subject of our talk. It was not all about devotion but more than that it was about playing in the sand. We specially played a game called 'choodu pandhu', that is traslated to English as 'Hot Ball'. This ball was a cube shaped object, weaved out of a leaflets of a coconut tree. While weaving it, a small stone is kept inside to make it heavy. This ball is thrown at each other as everyone runs all over to dodge it. When it hits, it really pained the guys. That was the thrill in it- enjoy the distress. That was how we had a ball those days...

The guys turned up shirtless but like odd ones out, we two brothers in shirts. We too fought bitterly with our elder brother to avoid shirts , but at last gave in. A freedom fight for the right  not to cover the chest bit the dust, without making any mark in the history! As another oddity, we had boxes to carry books to school. Our frieds still remember those Aluminium boxes.In fact, the first thing they remember about us is these boxes. During this get together too, all of us talked about this box.

Our happiest evenings were on the occassion of 'Pradosha Vratham". We fondly called it "pradosham". (http://www.hindu-blog.com/2008/07/how-to-do-or-observe-pradosham-or.html)

The Ulavaipe Mahadevar Temple

Once in a month, Pradosham was observed in our temple. Whatever was the importance of this, we liked to see everyday Pradosham. This gifted us an extended evening in the company of so many boys and girls. Every evenings after the deeparadhana, we usually return home and prepare for the next morning's school. On pradosham day, after deeparadhana, there is another pooja and at the end of it, the poojari distrubutes payasam. We all wait for the poojari to turn up after the special pooja. He calls out our house names and we kids, one by one go in front of him. He drops a block of payasam on a plantain leaf into our little hands. As it falls on our hands, the warmth of payasam gives a burning sensation for a moment. That marks the end of a happy evening.

Our gang walks back home, accompanied by the elders. We were escorted by our grandfather -the never smiling serious stuff. I do not remember him pulling us to his side, keeping on his laps and caressing us. We never complained about it In fact, he was instrumental in encouraging and invloving us in all our traditional rituals, be it Onam, Vishu or reading Ramayanam in the month of Karkitakom. He gifted us a lot to cherish and a lot to follow in the on going saga called life. He did his duties sincerely as a local guardian.

One funny incident connected with him was his superstitious belief about calling from behind a person when he/she sets out for some work. This happens whenever our father was home and he was about to go out. As he is about to leave, we never failed to call him from his back. The moment we open our mouth, the grandfather, as if he was waiting, shouts at us. "How many times I told you, never call from behind when he is leaving for a purpose?" As usual, he would be sitting in his room. He hardly walks around in our house.

This non smiling rustic patriarch, though brooked no nonsense at any given time, was so liberal in allowing us to stay back in the Pradosham evenings in the temple.


 While walking back after the evening pooja this time, thousand elephants stood in a row in my mind with the presiding diety on the top of the most musculine tusker in a majestic display of a pompous village  festival. Long live the festivals, sans the elephants.

A village bungalow

The half a kilometer stretch of road between the temple and my home is now flanked by a number of imposing villas, a few of them are even qualified to be called bungalows. Although not much has changed in my village Olavaipe, people are a happier lot now. Lucky are the ones who enjoy it to the fullest of their satisfaction. I did come across a handfull of people there, who dare to speak in terms of  Lacs. I promise, none of them are VPs or Country Managers. I don't think they check their bank balance through the internet banking everyday. I could only envy them. For me, alas, happiness looks to be like an undefined object and I often search for it passionately in god-forsaken deserts and the maddening cities.

This time, I conciously tied a swing on one the branches of a mango tree. I wanted my kid to play in that. Somehow, for a few minutes I succeeded in my efforts. As he swung up and down, I slipped into another bout of nostalgia. Oh, those days...Within a few moments, my kid started feeling so uncofortable in this crude swing. Why not a modern, cushioned one in the air-conditioned drawing room in front of a 42 inch LED TV? Like any other kid of the modern days, my kid too tend to spend more time with the play staions and cartoon channels rather than rubbing with the remnants of a "boring" past....I only pity him. What will he be writing in his memoirs sometime down the line ? One thing is sure, he will never forget to mention those colourful plastic cards in his papa's vallet....

Manikandan

Human Rights behind the bars. I was so disturbed. Wherever I went in Keralam during my last month's vacation, every wall on the road sides bore so many posters proclaiming this. The Human Rights is serving a jail term in a Bangalore in connection with the serial bomb blasts that jolted Bangalore a few years back. Right now, the Human Rights is getting treated in one of Bangalore's high tech hospitals.

The government there says it is giving him the best possible treatment. I am not sure, if the injured ones in those blasts were getting any treatment sponsored by the government. The sole woman who was killed at the bus stop in one of the blasts did not have any human rights. She is gone. Died like an ordinary human being. The government declared five lakh rupees to her family. Everyone condemned the crime. After that all have forgotten that woman and  also the many others who suffered injuries in the blasts. They all suffer in silence, fully aware that they are not entitled to any kind of human rights.

http://news.oneindia.in/2008/07/25/serial-bomb-blasts-rocks-bangalore.html

I have been to my village  this time to attend the temple
festival there. The other day, I have been to another temple also in the nearby village. There I spotted a male lamb tied to a pole right in front of the temple. One of the devotees of the Devi might have offered this lamb as a mark of his/her gratitude in return to some favours She doled out to him/her. It looked very young and I am sure he had been detached from his mother to please the Devi. The little lamb's cries were surely an indication towards his anxiety to get back to the warmth of its mother's care as early as possible. The lamb's helplessness remained  a small pain in my mind for long. Animals do not have rights, anyway. This lamb would have become delicious mutton biriyani on the next day. This is how Devi's offerings are treated by Her "managers".

My grandma too used to make such offerings to our village's presiding diety, Lord Siva - Ulavaippil Thevar, as He was respectfully called by our villagers. Our grandma had a habit of maintaining a cow at our home. The first one had come to our home as a calf long time back. It grew into a cow and eventually bacame pregnant.

When the cows were on heat, people sent for a bull. Those days, there were bulls maintained by some people somewhere in the near by village. My grandma depended on a neighbour who could trek or cycle a few kilometers to convey the message to the owner of the bull. The bull was made to walk kilometers together wherever his "customers" were in need of him. The cow in turn walks restlessly around the coconut tree to which it was tied to, from the early morning itself. She moos continuously as she walks. Upon sighting her mate by the late afternoon, she calms down. The relief was seen in her looming eyes so brightly. It was a man with a horn-like moustache who used to bring a bull to our home. That face is still so clearly etched in my mind's canvass
 

As the cow's pregnancy advances, my grandma too gets so anxious. She loses sleep in the nights over this pregnancy. Taking care of the expectant mother becomes a priority over we kids. One night, as she was deep asleep, she heard a cow and her calf crying. Suddenly she wriggled out of her bed, woke up her assistant Meenakshiyamma and forced to her to go to the cattle shed to check if the cow had delivered the baby.

Meenkshiyamma returned with no good news. The sound was from the radio. This sound is a part of the popular song in the super hit movie "Aval Oru Thudarkathai" starred by Kamal Hassan. The All India Radio's Renjini programme was on air that time. My grandmother narrated this story several times after this incident. Thereafter, whenever the cow was carrying, she remembered this song and whenever she heard this song, she remembered this mistaken delivery. Now, whenever I hear this song, I remember my beloved grandmother

 

Our cow gave birth to male calfs in most of her deliveries. At times we got chance to witness the delivery. At the end of a few anxious moments, the baby comes out . A bundle of dirt from the womb follows the baby. This afterbirth was supposed to be consumed by the mother cow, but she was never allowed to do so. This bundle was disposed of in the nearby backwaters. The baby, within a few moments of its arrival, is at its feet. We the kids watched all these happenings with great awe. The baby straightaway reaches out to the nipples and there started another life.

The calf celebrated its arrival in style. We too played with it. It ran all around as much as it pleased and then drunk milk as much as it wanted. Very soon, the day has come. Grandma prepared a soft rope with a knot to tie the calf. This was a very simple function. Along with the knot around the neck, the calf got a name too - Manikandan. The first few days' milk is preserved as curd and this is distributed among the neighbours. This is a custom followed in the villages whenever a cow gives birth. Meenakshiyamma went to the paddy fields on the east side of our house to cut grass everyday. I helped her carry the bundles of grass from the paddy field.

Manikandan lived for a few more months. Perhaps till the mother cow stopped yielding milk. We got a share of the milk and the remaining was sold off as milk and curd. My grandma, along with her assistants, mixed water with the milk. I guess, it was an accepted practice in the small time milk business. This milk was dispatched to nearby tea shop and the rest to the neighbours who came with small vessels to buy milk. It was a small time business for her.

Remember this bottle? I am sure many of the kids of the villages in the
yester-years carried these bottles full of milk (and water) to the nearby chayakkadas (tea shops). The tea shop owner, as usual, would have told them to inform his/her mother that the milk was full of water

 As the milk source drains up, grandmother takes Manikandan to the temple and ties him to the tree in front of it. I am not sure if the God was pleased at this act but grandma was relieved and the god's "manager" was very happy. The next day, the manager sells off the littile thing to somebody. The proceeds of the auction would never have gone to the temple fund however. That was how the temple administration went about the God's property in our village. 

 Manikandan was taken away straight over to a butchery. Soon, he would have appeared as mouthwatering beef biriyani in a few restaurants and homes in the locality. His skin would have turned into shoes and bags later on. There ended his story. A sad end to a humble living thing. Was the God really pleased with my grandma's offering? Can't believe so. Another helpless animal dies to facilitate our comforts. Many years later, after another delivery, the cow was packed up along with another Manikandan to another cattle shed. Perhaps, this Manikandan and later on, his mother too would have met with the same fate of the first Manikandan. Here is a drop of tear for that  bovine family. I am sorry, you are not entitled to any Animal Rights please....

All India Radio -2

When Keralam won the Santhosh trophy for the first time, the entire state burst into celebrations. The government declared holiday to all the educational institutions on the following day. That was a huge achievement for the people of a state. Trivial while comparing with the international happenings, but in our humble lettile circle of football, that was a great feat. It was in 1973. The captain of the team was TKS Mani and he scored a hat trick in the final. Anyway, I was too young to remember all those sequences

The excitation and the nerve wracking tensions all through the final match was never brought to us by the televison channels. Where were all these televison channels? We missed the ultimate pleasure of watching a final that would have been compared to a World cup encounter. But still, the commentator of the All India Radio did no less than an excellant job. His discriptions of the game always gave us a feeling that we were watching the match right over there at the stadium. The beautiful language he used in simple terms was always made the running commentary so enjoyable. Running commentaries were however available only for the semi finals and final matches.

We only heard the world cup 1986. The magic of the God of Football was still elusive to our eyes. The televions sets were yet to make its appearance in our desolate village. That was, in a way helped us a lot. We the children had a lot of time to spend together. No one were worried about missing a Tom&Jerry episode or the live telecast of an India Pakistan test cricket match. Nobody took excuse in such television events to avoid playing in the open grounds. We had a lot of time and a lot of space to play

Radio gave us enough stuff to enjoy. Though the high voltage running commenteries were very rare, the "Katha Prasangams" were abundantly available on air and were equally entertaining as a football match. The story teller accompanied by simple musical instruments was a treat to our ears. Remember those clarinets and harmoniums? The simple tunes emenated from these instruments always soohted the souls of a community called Malayalees once upon a time. All India Radio regularly beamed "katha prasangams" on prime time slots. Prominent stories that always caught listeners interest were Aayisha, Shakespear Novels and many stories adopted from Ramayanam and Maha Bharatham.  V Sambasivan was one of the greatest "Kathikans" of those days. His mesmerising way of story telling had no parallels. The Akasavani always banked on his talent to entertain its listeners. 

 

Kathaprasangam was mainly a Temple dependent art form. Its survival mostly hinged on temple festivals. Not even a temple festival was complete without a Kathaprasangam. Kathikans always got a stage to presnet his story in its enchanting beauty the during a temple festivals. The combination of Clarinet, harmonium and Tabala had the capacity to set the stage on fire hands down. An artist with the gift of the gab could easily take his audiance to a fantastic world escorted by sweet music. That was the beauty of Kathaprasangam. People were willing to walk kilometers together to reach temples to have a few hours of blissful, soul soothing pure entertainment.

Interested to listen V Sambasivan's Aayisha? Click the link if you are in a mood to enjoy a Kathaprasangam : http://www.devaragam.com/vbscript/WimpyPlayer_ext.aspx?ord=d&var=5066,5067,5068,5069,5070,5071,5065

"Ini njan Urangatte" was one of the most popular Kathaprasangams those days. The story was adopted from a novel with the same title authored by P K Balakrishnan. The story is all about the happenings in Mahabharatham. Cherthala Balachandran did a commendable job in rendering a beautiful story in the form of a Kathaprasangam. He introduces first : The story that I am going to tell you all is "Ini Njan Urangatte..." the thundering of the title is follwed by deafening noice of cymbals and other musical instruments.

He once came to our village temple too. As he thundered the name of his story on stage, Meenakshiyamma fell on the ground. She had already started dozing off since the programme started very late in the night. This was a regular practice by artists and their troupes to reach late at the venue and come to the stage only after testing the patience of the predominantly rural audiances. While sitting on the sandy ground in front of the temple to watch the Kathaprasangam, Meenakshiyamma could not control her sleep. Her fall and the announcement of the name Ini Njan Urangatte happend simultaneously. Even now, this octogenarian, amidst a heartfull laughter, recollects that incident. For people like a rustic old lady,such little incidents only make them ticking. They coould find immense pleasure in such seemingly silly incidents.

Great kathaprasangams like Aayisha and Othallo were part and parcel of the radio entertainments. They never disappointed. In a way, the role played by All India Radio in shapping up our charecters was so big. It showed more social responsibilty too. Programmes like kandathum kettathum, ranjini, ezhuthupetti, narma prabhashanam and drama were all received by the public with both hands, to be more precise, with both the ears. The week long Radio Drama Festival once in a year brought the best from the cultural spectrum of those days. There was a Cinema Sound Track festival too for a week in an year

Our elder brothers had a Radio Listeners club. They used to listen the programmes and send their opinions to the Akasavani. When the letter is read along with the names of the persons in the Ezhuthupetti section, everyone's face used to bloom like lotus. AIR's broadcasts on Agricultural based programmes were very helpful and informative. It helped my eldest brother get an opportunity to go around India at the cost of the government.This weekly sequel had a few questions to answer. Those who participated in all the sequels and answered the questions were selcted for an all India tour by the Akashvani.

Such great things were happening in the villages too. Where has the Akashavani gone? It will be more apt if I asked where has the radio gone? Will we ever hear those words "Akashavani, pradesika varthakal, vayikkunnathu Ramachandran" again? Pradesika varthakal was so beautiful because of the reader called Ramachandran. Of course, with the dawn of FM era, the lovable transistor radio got a re-birth. But, the FM radio was virtually hijacked by the film based programmes and all is sunk in the overdose of advertisements. The beauty of radio listening is further hampered by the Manglish speaking jokeys. No escape. Just layback and enjoy the new era's radio broadcasting trends. But, let us behold the good old Akashavani's memories....

My friend Kapish

Remember Kapish? How can anyone who read 'Poompatta' forget him? He was the hero of a generation. His adventures always sent the young minds into a tizzy. The magic tail appeared whenever the good souls were in distress. The magic tail appeared whenever we the kids were at the edge of the seat. The tail brought cheers to the kids. Kapish ignited our imagination always. In fact we often waited impatiently to see the next edition of the Poompatta. Whenever the teacher was absent in the class, we celebrated it with the latest adventures of Kapish. He was like the then tinsel world's super hero Jayan. He too appeared in the scene when our loved ones were in trouble. Sadly, Kapish lost out to the supernatural charecters of the modern day media

Kapish - A clever, helpful monkey who lives in the jungle of Kadu along with his friends, Baboocha the bear, Bundila the elephant, Pintu the fawn, Motu the rabbit and Panja the eagle. His arch enemies are Sigal the jackal, Peelu the tiger and Dopaya the hunter. Kapish has supernatural powers, which help him to extend and shrink his tail at will. This ability and his quick thinking help him save his friends from Peelu, Sigal and some hunters along with Dopaya.
 

Kapish had another name. Sasikumar. We called him Sasi Chettan. He was a late runner. Sasi chettan started off his school with our elder brothers and sisters, but nothing went well with him. Slowly but steadily he had started lagging behind. Teachers detained him at various classes and at last he waited for me at Class 9. Though he already spent two years there, nothing much had changed for him. He showed no emotions even when he saw his younger brothers and sisters barged into 9B on the first day. That was Sasi Chettan. He took everything as it came to him. God had already programmed everything for him and no one could alter it. He knew, nothing can change and the only thing he could do was to move along God's program!

I do not remember how the name Kapish stuck to him. Of course, he was not a handsome guy but not that bad looking. Certainly he never looked like Kapish. If he were to be named after a monkey, then we the cronies of his, were never less qualified for such decorative names! It was someone's brainwave to deride a simple hearted teen ager. Sadly Sasi Chettan was a point of derision for all the boys who knew him. The name Kapish went viral. Everyone loved to call him Kapish even as he vehemently tried to hush it up. He fretted, fumed then even abused at the guys. Everything was in vain. Perhaps his loath to this name prompted the boys to make it more popular.

He was called by many other names too. His father who was the least impressed at his performance in school called him 'chappan'. It is a very demeaning word in Malayalam that was commonly used by the ruthless fathers of the yesteryears. This is a slang which has no specific meaning, but is used to discribe a person of no use. His father, like any other fathers, would have wanted to see his son perform a little better in school. But, for Sasi chettan, academics was not his cup of tea. His academic perfoemance was excruciatingly miderable and his teachers' attitude was deplorable. The dejected father's approach towards him more painful

In my class, he was the boy who got the maximum number of cane charging. Teachers used to beat him as they pleased. Not even a single day in 9B passed without a teacher or the other admonishing Sasi chettan.  The scene of a lean boy standing in front of a furious teacher with his right hand stretched and taking the strokes of the stick is still flashing in my mind so vividly. He showed no expression of sadness or anger at any point of such punishment sessions. After every examinations, he used to declare " I have answered all the questions, but all will be wrong". His prophesys never went wrong!

We all return home from school together eveyday. In the morning, our gang minus Sasichettan leaves very early and he reaches the school a little late but before the third bell. The walk back from school was really enternaining. The favourite subject of course, was Sasi chettan. Boys always found some fun in whatever Sasichettan said or did. Till the end of our three kilometer walk, we enjoyed it, though, at this age,  I realsie that we did it at the cost of the hurt feelings of an individual. Now, I understand with a sense of guilt that his struggle against all those taunts on him was to save his self esteem.

I must mention about an incident that makes  him different from other guys. Everyday we had to cross a ferry to go and come back from school. This ferry was operated by the panchayat and the boatman was an old man who could hardly walk due to heavy elephantisasis on both his limbs. This ferry during monsoon days used to get disrupted, thanks to water weeds. We call it "payal" in Malayalam. This is the season for the water weeds to multiply and occuppy the entire expanses of the backwaters. During the high tide, water flows from sea to backwaters and so do these floating plants. This makes clogging of the water surface. Water transportation becomes impossible at this time. Still, if we try hard, we can make way for the boat. This old man could never do it. We used to take a detour and resch home very late on such days.

One evening, it was already very late and our gang wes sitting on the other end of the ferry without knowing what to do. The boys and girls were so scared and their face told everything about the mood then. Sasi chettan then jumped into the water and started swimming. He made way through the thick layer of the weeds, swam for around 200 meters and reached the boat. He then, using all the force in his frill body's command, rowed the boat to our end and then took us all to the other side. This, I still believe, was one of the most adventerous acts a teenaged boy could ever do. If he got stranded in the waters on that day, no one would have saved him. 

No doubt he could be called Kapish. Not for his looks but for the heroism he exhibited. He had no supernatural powers, but certainly had some steely nerves and a noble heart. While reminiscing this incident, even now in my mind, he stands taller than many of the 'achievers, among us. I can only offer a salute to my dear friend Kapish. You are still my hero. Long live dear Kapish...

All India Radio : My Childhood friend (part-1)

Grandpa could brook any nonsense but the English news broadcast. As soon as the announcer says "within a shortwhile, you can listen to Englsih News - Delhi relay", our grandpa's index finger will be on the switch. The beep sounds before the news starts, somehow sounded so bad to the grandfather. He never allowed the beep sounds to complete. Still, we could here, at times, the first sentence by the news reader - This is all India Radio, The news, Read by...Grandpa's intention was clear - he shall not allow any of our family members to be exposed to a language that sounded just like Greek and Latin!

Those days, having a radio in a house was a luxury. It is just a good surprise to know that the radios needed licence. We had to pay a small amount to the Panchayat for owning a 'modern gadget' like a valve radio. Transitor radios were yet to make their presence. A radio was like A big box becasue all the components were based on electrical principle rater than electronics. Radios were called Valve radios thoses days. I still remember, employees from the panchayat roam around in our village to collect tax for the radio and issue licence. It was a source of income for the panchayats. 

Hold your breath, to receive another surprise. Bicycles too needed licence! Bicycles were a rare commodity when we were going to schools. Not even a single kid came to school on a cycle. We trekked more than three kilometers everyday to reach school. Several others too did walk from farther places to the schools. Licence for a cycle too was aimed  at augmenting money for the panchayat. Cycle owners always feared police if they did not have licence. It may look so strange now. We learnt cycling by hiring 'half cycles' from the nearby town Poochakkal.  People in our village may not turn their heads even a BMW car rolls along our road in the present days!

Let me come back to the humble valve radio. This Murphy radio was brought by our father from Visakhapatnam. Along with this, he brought a gramaphone too. We had a number of discs that contained so many hit songs of yesteryears. The most important programmes in the radio was film songs, dramas, "katha prasangam" and of course Kathakali music recitals. Grandpa always relished the kathakali music. Most of the time, English news followed his favorite programme. So, he never wanted to spoil the mood with something alien to all of us. Even if he allowed the radio to tell the news in Englsih, none of us would have undestood a single sentence. Honestly, I never could make out anything the news readers told, till I reached the professional college. So pathetic was our knoledge in English those days. Remember those epic battles with the usages like 'not only...but also; so that...not; no sooner...than' ? At least a few of the readers of this story will definitely identify with this.  Most of time we fell down with bloody noses!

Renjini was a one hour programme that broadcasted super hit film songs based on demand by the listeners. It was a real entertainer and we usually waited anxiously for the next Ranjini day. I learnt most of those old golden songs, memories of which still soothe my soul, through such programmes. 

The most remarkable part of the radio listening experience was Light Music. As the name indicates, these were simple lyrics,  closer to a poem, rendered by mostly amature singers accompanied by simple music instruments. Of course, the most famous among the light music songs were sung by none other than K J Yesudas. "Ghana Shyama Sandhya Hrudayam" is one of the best light music songs that was ever made. This song still lingers on even after several years of its birth. This song was invariably sung in any competition and every music teacher in every school attempted to teach this song to the children. Such was the beauty of this song. 

Lalithaganam (light music) had seperate time slots and there were even music classes on air those days. Broadcast of light music classes taken by renouned music directors were an integral part of raio listening. My eldest brother had a habit of writing down these songs. As soon as the announcement comes about the begining of light music songs, he will be ready with papers and pen. He writes the lyrics with lightning speed, though it looked too vague to read. He then copied to a book in good hand writing. There was a big collection of such songs in his possession.




Now, the valve radio is gone. So is the 'Lalitha gaanam', the light music. Still, the sweet memories of both still linger on in the hearts that were touched the most, in their every day lives once upon a time....

The Steamy memories

Steam has already started emenating from the cylinder, heralding the readiness of the "wheat puttu". This time we tried puttu with wheat powder instead of rice powder. It was raining cat and dogs outside. The ambience was nothing different from a monsoon day in the month of Karkidakom . 

The smell, the steam carried had already floored me. The wheat flouor was home made and it did carry the natural flavour. I was slowly melting. Melting into the sweet memories of yesteryears. No stopping. Even the slightest provocation like the smell of puttu, takes me over to those innocent days we happily spent like butterfles.

Kamalakshi's chayakkada had everything that needed for a rustic tea shop. The woodden almarah with glass doors always had Vadas, Idlis, Dosa and of course puttu. Shelf life of the items displayed there need not be disclosed. No one wanted to know that. Manorama, Kerala Kaumudi and Desabhimani dailies were always present on the benches of the tea shop. 

The wooden benches always had customers. Sipping a glassfull of tea - some times kattanchaya, the black tea- or crushing a full length of puttu and mixing it with a banana by the visiting down to earth customers was a daily routine there. Not only the smoke from the kitchen but the beedi smoke too filled the entire ambience. As a practice, high tempered political discussions accompanied the act of taking food. Everyone had his own views on every happenings in the world. Every newspaper had its own politacal colours to paint in its columns

Wheat Puttu from Kamalakshi's chayakkada was a very tasty item. Though we were not allowed to take food from this chayakkada, that was located just a few meters from our home, we surely had a taste of it at times. Whenever, I get an opportunity to eat "wheat puttu" the nostalgia takes me to that unassuming Kamalakshi's  chayakkada in my village. This tea shop had her adjoining little house, where she along with her husband and five children lived. Now the chayakkada no longer exists in its place, but the house, reminding of an interesting humble past stands there unattended by anyone.

Kamalakshi's wheat puttu was very tasty. For me, wheat puttu always hooks me up to that old lady. But, come "Karkidaka vaavu" - the new moon day in the month of Malayalam calender Karkidakam. This is the day when the living souls pay their respects to the dead ones. Memories of the ancestors were renewed on this occassion, at least symbolically, through different kinds of rituals. One among them is the feast offered to the dead ones in the night.

Our excitement starts on the fisrt day of the month itself. This is the month we read Ramayanam in our home. So, for us, it was a month of happenings. This is the month our grandpa takes the centre stage.Normally he keeps low profile, leaving everything to our beloved Grandma.  He sits quietly in his room, listening to our Ramayanam recital and corrects whereever we go wrong.Though we could not read in the rhythm in which the Holy Text is to be read, we could surely read it with less mistakes. Ramayanam is read in front of a nilavilakku - the traditional lamp. This lamp gave more light than the incandecent lamp invented by Edison.

Pankiyamma, the elderly woman who lived opposite our house could read it with good rhythm. We could hear her voice sitting from our house. Sadly, now, that house is in a deserted condition. It is almost gone. Memories of the blissful past cries for "moksha" there. Some one listening? No way, all needs only Gandhi. All are on the run.

Pankiyamma's three out of four children were our cronies. We always enjoyed the loud noise coming out from their home every day while Vinod and Cinimol fought. Minikumari was my classmate till secondary school. Now, we hardly meet each other. We have no time to sit up and reminisce those exhilerating memories. Memories do not fetch e-class sedans, high end mobiles, air-conditioners, elegant furniture, club memberships, world tours. They simply weave a web of illusions around us. 

Back to the Karkidakavavu. On this day our grandpa takes the lead in offering food to the dead ones. Preparations start in the morning itself. Meenakshiyamma under the stewardship of grandma starts making rice powder. No machine is used. From the husked rice grains to the powder, every process is manually done by Meenakshiyamma. The puttu made of this powder is the one our ancestors "devored" for long. No doubt, they were all very happy through out the year.

 By evening, rice powder is fried and is ready for the final process. As the cycliderical magic is slowly being unvailed, the tasty "kadalakkarry" (channa masala) will be getting ready in another stove. Grandma makes this using black grams. Coconut with coriander and other masala items are fried in a little bit of coconut oil and then ground to paste. Along with this, small pieces of coconut, fried in ghee were also added. The Kadalkary is ready.It was really a big task to keep the temptations under control till grandpa finished the rituals. 

Another Karkidakom is round the corner. I hardly get a chance to be a part of all these rituals now a days, as I will be roaming around in some part of the world. The relics from the past still follow me. I have no life without these memories. May the simple smell of puttu floor me, the tiny thumpappoo make me so nostalgic, the notice of the Jayan movie pump adrenalin to my veins. I enjoy every bit of it

Vishu - The Crackers of Sweetness -2

In Chandran's house, olappadakkam bursts with a metallic sound always. They use an aluminium pot to create this sound. Crakers after igniting are thrown into this pot that bursts with a different noise. We really did not enjoy the sound however.

Whenever our father was home , he buys crackers a few days before the big day. All fireworks for the eve of the Vishu will be stocked well in advance. On one such ocassion faher bought a plastic bag with a lot of things filled in it.

Out of curiosity we asked him what they were. He simply replied it was dry chillies. We have not believed it, but never tried to dig deep into finding the truth. For hardly two hundred rupees, it was possible to creat a gala of fire works those days. Whatever father bought on that day may not have costed even hundred rupees.

In the morning of the Vishu day, our forecourt will be filled with the remnants of crackers - some fully torn apart , some lying without serving their purpose.These left outs were swept to a corner and burnt along with dry leaves. It was very pleasing to watch bursting crackers in the fire that was lit. That brought curtains to a glorious event associated with Vishu.

For a change, our 'bosom friend' Nanu takes his lunch from his home this day. At the end of all sound and light for over a fortnight, it is feast time. We enjoyed every moment of a thrilling Vishu in the company of Nanu.  Narayananakutty who is famously known as Nanu is our cousine and neighbour. On school days Nanu eats lunch from our home.



The kitty of crackers invariably consisted of busrting ones and sparklers . It was not only the olappadakkam that made noise. There were some powerful bombs too. Though we were so scared to use them, somehow we managed to lit them. On one such occassion, an attempt to set a bomb on fire landed in a near miss.

The bomb was lit and we ran away. But realising that fire has not started in the bomb we quikly approached the bomb to re-ignite. The bomb busted with a deafening noice as we were about to bring the source of fire near it. The jolt we received on that day is still fresh in mind. Whenever I remember Nanu, essentially I must remember this incident. We however escaped unscathed on that day.

The "Vishu Kanji" is prepared by Nanu's mother. Nanu's mother is our maternal aunt. The tastiest Vishu Kanji I ever had was prepared by this aunt. Vishu Kanji is a customary gruel, prepared on the Vishu day using rice, coconut milk, grated coconut and jeera. On this Vishu day too, we prepared Vishu Kanji. Probably it also did have all the ingadients as mentioned above, but it could never match with the taste of those preparations. May the taste of everything that was enjoyed in the innocent childhood linger on till the last breath.


Let us celebrate all festivals, be it Vishu, Onam,  Christmas, Easter or Ramzan, in its tradinational ways. Let the younger generations know the true spirit of our civilizations and what values they represent. Above all, the younger ones too need something to write about when they have nothing else to do!!

"Vishu Kanji – vishu special Recipe

Ingredients for Vishu Kanji

Raw rice – 1 cup

Grated coconut – 1

Cumin seeds – 1/2 [coarsely powdered]

Salt to taste

Method of Preparing Vishu Kanji

Add 3 tbsp warm water in to the grated coconut and extract the thick milk

Grind the grated coconut in a mixer grinder by adding 1-2 cups of water. Strain the milk in a strainer, approximately 2 cups of coconut milk. Add the coarsely powdered cumin seeds in to the coconut milk.

Heat a thick bottomed pan, add the coconut milk and bring to boil. Wash the rice and keep aside. When the coconut milk began to boil then add the rice and salt.

Stir well and close the lid. Cook for 15 minutes on low flame. Open the lid and add the thick coconut milk and stir continuously until the rice is cooked and the mixture become thick. When done, pour into a plate and allow to cool. Cut into pieces and serve"

Victory Sports Club

Victory Sports Club was nothing less than Rial Madrid. What if we had no Cristiano Ronaldo? We had Ravanan . Our team was a star studded entity - one of the two football clubs our village had those days. The other was Nehru Sports Club, our arch rival.


Most of our friends tie their knickers to the waist because the knickers did not have buttons. Buttons fall as the cloth gets old. They could afford to only old cloths. Still their spirit could never be dampened. They were as cheered up as any one of us. Guys make a knot with the two sides of the front part of the knickers to make it tight around the waist. This exercise, like we do with our dhothi, had to be repeated several times. In fact, keeping the knickers at the right place was really a tough task for most of them.


Even with these uncooperative knickers, we all celebrated our childhood. No worry about first rank in the class. No worry about learning English and flaunt the fluency of our English in front of the visiting aunties and uncles. We found no qualms in speaking to them in our own mother tongue. 

No one pushed us to study. Perhaps lack of push was the reason, many of our cronies could not make to the higher strata of the society. Anyway, I don’t think anyone of us regret about it. Being happy in life is important; no matter how much is the bank balance


Victory sports club was founded by our seniors. They had a football. They used to play football at our LP school play ground. The Governmant Lower Primary school and an Ayurveda clinic were the two public institutions we had in Olavaipe. Now, in 2009 too, the situation is no different.


Those days, every one of us had our primary education from this LP school. The nearby Aurvada clinic did have many patents that time. Now, like the LP school, this clinic too is a crow scare in this village. The students of the yesteryears of this LP school take extra pain to send their children to English medium schools far away from Olavaipe.


Victory sports had a B team too, consisted mostly of the younger brothers of the senior team. Ramachandran aka Ravanan was our star striker. He dribbles with the ball with dexterity. To our standard, he was just like Maradona. I too was a striker! Our team had a conspicuous difference from the senior team. We could not afford to a football in the beginning. Most of the time, we played with a round thing made of rag. We then graduated to rubber ball of late.


For a long period, we played football without a football. Even with the rubber ball, we never thought we played anything less than a European League. To buy a rubber ball, we had to collect paltry sums from every guy and then go to Poochakkal. Rubber ball often gets burst. This was a great cause for concern for us as, we never had any source of income. The concept of pocket money was not existent those days. We had never handled any big money in the denominations of fives and tens.


Our play ground was the premises of our houses or any other vacant lands. Playing around the coconut and mango trees on the ground was fun. We enjoyed it. We organized matches with the Nehru Sports Club many times. These matches used to raise the temperature like in an India Pak cricket match. Prestige was at stake. We could never afford to loose to our arch rival. Still we had to concede many a match, though our captain Ravanan presented several glorious occasions to us too. Though the matches produce high voltage competition, we never quarreled each other.


Perhaps our upbringing has helped us a lot. We never learnt to hate or look down upon others. With a great sense of pride let me say one more thing. Despite the strong undercurrent of caste system that was (is) prevalent in the villages of Keralam, we were above all that, well, to a great extent. We lived together, shared our happiness irrespective of our caste lineages. No barriers kept us apart. Sadly the sectarian mindset will disappear from our society only when the much awaited big deluge occurs.

The coconut chutney...

No one can resist the temptation of having a couple of hot idlis drowned in delicious sambar. Imagine coconut chutney (thenga chammandi) is accompanying this heart stopping combination! A ship can easily float in the mouth now, isn’t it? I can see it from here, from this desert.

The homesick, expats of India always long for this. In their yearning for being in the company of their much cherished traditions, they definitely recreate whatever they followed in their beloved home in India. Many a time, these acts of re-building the tradition do not go beyond symbolism, to put it with a little displeasure.

I have a very funny story to tell about the coconut chutney or otherwise called in Malayalam “ thenga chammandi”. Let me take you to an innocent childhood. A childhood that has been cared and showered with affection by a rustic, down to earth old woman with the help of another equally old woman.

Grandma is the best thing on the earth that was ever created by God. Like everyone else, I too had a woderful grandma. She was very sincere in her love and very serious in our up bringing. Of course, the ignorance and innocence of a village grown woman was evident in her too.

She could never help us in our home work. She could never even read a word in Malayalam, because she was illiterate. Interestingly, the only home work I used to do in my lower classes were copy writing. Malayalam copy writing in two lined book and English in the four lined book. But, still, luckily, we had a good Brother to compliment grandma’s ignorance. He took over the responsibility of educating us well. He did his job the way a brother is expected to do. Not even a day passes by in my life without remembering him.

Ask no more. These were the words the care- taker of the orphanage used to tell the inmates in the famous Dickens story  Oliver Twist, while disbursing the gruel. Oliver twist recollects those stories so vividly in his “memoirs”. I can never draw a parallel with any of the incidents that happened to Oliver Twist in my childhood days.

I just quoted those infamous words, only to tell you that my grandma too used to utter these words in disgust when she runs out of our favourite thenga chammandi. But for the similarity of the words, there is no comparison possible between any of the people in the strory and my grandma.

We two brothers, ie the one who is just elder to me and myself used to consume a lot of chutney while eating idlis and dosas. We sit together always for the food sessions. Laced with a lot of love and affection, grandma serves us idlis with delicious chutney. But, she innocently utters the words ‘ask no more’. She receives an immediate response from both of us. We needed a lot of chutney to eat each idlis. Making a big quantity of chutney was very difficult, because we did not have a mixer at our home. Meenakshiyamma makes the chutney on the crushing stone. She could make it for us. She never gets tired of serving us. Even a half part of a coconut was not enough to satisfy our needs.

We two never left her. We sit at the table itself, making all types of nuisance to her. Disgusted grandma shouts the same words many times - ask no more. We are unmoved. I tap the plate with spoon or hit the plate on the table. My brother even turns violent sometimes. He throws the plates and spoons. We have some bent spoons at our home even now! Still she had never beaten us nor even uttered a word that might hurt us.

She used to wake up at 4 in the morning along with her aide, and prepare all our breakfast and lunch by the time we get ready for school. She considered it her solemn duty. This spirit deserves a salute indeed. The commitment was unconditional. The attitude was unmatched. The love was no holds barred.

After a long battle of nerves between grandma and the two of her grandsons, grandma surrenders. Coconut is ground, made chutney and served. Meenakshiyamma never complained about the extra efforts for our sake. It could be very difficult for the two elderly women to cook food as they have to depend on crushing stone to crush the coconut and cook in primitive wood stove. We had no gas stove or a mixie at that time. We quietly consume the extra chutney and leave the scene quietly. This was a regular scene in our house for a long time.

Recaling those events now makes us a little embarrassed, though it evokes laughter at times. Whenever we remember our grandma, we could never help reminiscing these incidents. With a sense of apologies to our loved grandma, may I offer a few petals of gratitude in her memory

This story taught us a lesson too. Never say no to a child. Whenever little Govind demands something, which I can not meet, still I say yes and then, slowly divert his attention from his objective. This saves a lot of our energy. We need not fight with him, make him cry and then patch up with him.

I get another opportunity to remember my beloved grandma and of course our Meenakshiamma when Govind fights for the things he needs! Perhaps, while enjoying the best facilities at the Heaven, grandma must be rejoicing the events that unfold here. The hunter is now hunted!

Monsoon Memories-1

Monsoon sets in in God’s own country on first day of June every year. Lightning, thunder and heavy wind accompanied by heavy rains mark monsoon in Keralam. It starts with a heavy cloud somewhere on the western part of the horizon- a huge dark cloud suddenly appears there. Within a few minutes, we hear a roar. The roar starts sometimes from the north, sometimes from west and sometimes from a corner.

The most attractive sight of monsoon in my memory was the swinging of the tall coconut trees in the heavy wind. Tall coconut trees swing from one end to another like a pendulum. At the back drop of an over cast sky and incessant rains, this gives an enchanting view, although my wild imaginations at times end up in the tree falling right on our house!

I feared monsoon because of its fury. The heavy winds and the deadly lightnings and thunders had all made a heady blend of a furious South-West monsoon. This always made my monsoon days very uncomfortable. Honestly, even at this age, I avoid being in Keralam because of my fear of monsoon- the fear I could not yet conquer.

Exactly on June first, schools are opened. After a no holds barred enjoyment for two months in the summer, it is time we must confine ourselves to the diktats of a few wise individuals whose technical name is teachers.

Every year, when the school examination results come out and the new admission starts, Antony sir from SMSJHS Thykattuserry sits with Mathai sir, the headmaster of Government LP School, Olavaipe to take away all the kids to his school. Our village school had only upto fourth standard. This is an age old practice. Almost all our elder brothers and sisters studied in SMSJHS and we had no other way but to follow them suit.

We never knew why our parents used to push us to all these hardships to endure. Not even a single day, even on the day one, they accompanied us to school. Of late, when we were past our innocence, we could understand the selfish motive of the school management. This exercise they did every year was in order to show adequate students in all divisions of the classes to the visiting AEO or DEO. This AEO babu visited our school once in a year largely as a ritual. Teachers were a bundle of nerves when this event happened every year

At a tender age of 9, unaccompanied by parents, not protected but supported by our seniors, we had to undertake a journey of around three kilometers on foot to reach the high school. A walk through the paddy fields, walkways, premises of many houses , roads and a ferry in between complete the journey.

Hardships never ended there. The headmaster of the school was a terror. Achuthan Nair was a hot headed and short tempered headmaster. He was always likened to Yahya Khan the erstwhile dictator of Pakistan. True to his nick name, he was never helped us find a home away from home in that school. The funny thing about our high school was that almost all the male teachers and a few famale teachers had nick names. Respectful pupils paid rich tributes to the teachers this way

Our gang consisting of around eight kids starts to school early in the morning.I mean, we started everyday at eight. In the present scenario, kids are seen on the road with heavy back-packs even at six in the morning. None of us took Boost, Horlicks or Complan before setting out for such an expedition at eight o clock every morning. As a matter of fact many of the kids would have started from home taking previous night’s remnants. No one complained about it. They all knew, their parents could never bring moon to them. We all were content with what we had but we were lavishly spending our time enjoying the childhood. No burdens of heavy syllabus ever forced us to sacrifice our childhood.

I shall honestly thank my parents for not sending us to English medium schools. Thanks to their ignorance, I can now speak, read and write my sweet mother tongue fluently. I don't care if I do not know English. I am sure if I were sent to an English Medium school, I would have ended up knowing neither English nor my mother tongue fluently. That's the way languages are handled in most of the English Medium schools

Heavy rains always accompany our trekking. The ferry was the most feared part of the journey. The ferry across the back waters of width around 200 meters used to send shivers down the spine. The small wooden boat owned by the Panchayat and commandeered by the old man named Thevi constituted the ferry. This crossing on our way to the school used to test our guts almost every day. The reason for us starting early to school was to avoid crowd in the boat during the peak time.

Thevi was an old infirm man with filariasis in both the limbs. He rows the boat using a bamboo pole. This pole, he occasionally used to kick the kids who do not sit properly in the boat. Though he ferried us everyday sincerely, we felt unsecured in the boat. He was the most hated man at that time. We kids had no other way but bear with this old man.

Rain at its furious worst strikes precisely at 4 in the evening- the time we were released from the strangle holds of the wise men and women. Many of the kids had never owned an umbrella. They could never afford to one those days. They take the help of others- owning an umbrella. Many others took the help of plantain leaves or polythene sheets to avoid drenching.

Those days, books were not carried in bags. I do not remember to have seen a bag those days. Books were carried on the shoulder. The bunch of books was bound by a rubber band or an elastic strip around it. We never carried all the books to school every day. Instead, we strictly followed the time table. Interestingly, I was one of the very few lucky kids who possessed an aluminum box to carry the books – thanks to the urban connection we had had at that time. My father was working in Visakhapatnam and all our study gears used to come from Vizag.

While talking about carrying books on the shoulder, I must write about the lunch box too. A humble small cylindrical shaped steel vessel with a round handle was our lunch box. As we hold the books on the shoulder, this lunch carrier hangs from the folded hand. The lunch box invariably contained rice and ‘thenga chammandi’ ( coconut chutney) – the chutney that was crushed manually in a grinder made of stone . I do not remember to have carried anything other than this to school those days. Interestingly, in our village, ‘thengachammandi’ is still made using stone grinder, including at my home

Many times, we get stuck up on the shores of the back waters as the adverse weather prevents the boat to sail. Heavy wind kicks up big waves. Boat gets tossed in the wave that may even sink if the children in it panic. Remember, the commander was an old man who could not even stand up properly. We had to take shelter in the nearby huts or shops to save ourselves from the fury of the nature



One such shelter was a soda lime manufacturing unit. It was owned by the parents of my friend Udayan. Soda lime is produced by heating up the shells collected from the back waters. The flesh in the shells is used as a delicious dish. Many times, this raw manufacturing plant had heat in it that kept us warm. Remember we were just kids of 8 to 15 years who braved all these vagaries of the weather. By the way, my dear friend Udayan passed away recently after being diagnosed cancer.

One such shelter was a soda lime manufacturing unit. It was owned by the parents of my friend Udayan. Soda lime is produced by heating up the shells collected from the back waters. The flesh in the shells is used as a delicious dish. Many times, this raw manufacturing plant had heat in it that kept us warm. Remember we were just kids of 8 to 15 years who braved all these vagaries of the weather. By the way, my dear friend Udayan passed away recently after being diagnosed cancer.

Did the paths that we treaded religiously everyday for five long years in our life help us someway? Probably yes. It certainly helped us learn how to take rough patches in life in our stead. Now, looking from my old house, I cannot spot a tall coconut tree in our land. All those tall ones were either cut for wood or destroyed due to various diseases. There are no big trees living in our land now. We had a few big mango tress once upon a time. Even the rustic lots like us learnt the hollowness of the argument that trees are essential for the environment!

I must add this much too...my eight years old son carries books in a bag that weighs anything around three kilos. No time tables to be followed. He brings back a lot of home work. In fact those home works are meant for his parents.