A Taste of the Mallu

In the banana-republic of Kerala- whose name translates to 'land of coconuts'- the banana-ness and the nutty-ness feature stridently in its cultural and often physical make up. The very shape of the state itself can be likened to an elongated pazhampori (fried banana fritters- a singularly unglamorous, but uniquely yummy dish). The natives unconsciously try to emulate their beloved banana and coconut trees: They look like the former and smell like the latter. Or vice-versa. We mallus either come in the soft, stocky variety or the inevitable tall, swaying type. In both cases the hair is large and scarily bouffant. And if it is not these two fruits, then we mallus generally come along the lines of the other superstar of mallu cuisine- Jackfruit. Mallus of this variety are large,prickly and cause a lot of damage if they come down on your head. But open them up and they are golden, honey-sweet and very messy to handle. Mango mallus on the other hand are deceptively benign. Sweet, effusive and fat with health and good will, they look benevolent enough to make one forget about the stinging sap and the inevitable stomach upset from over indulgence. Cut too close to their core and things can and will turn sour. And then of course there is the tsundere mangosteen of the bright, strong rind and soft melting insides with just the right amount of snap to keep you on your toes.


But don't let all this fruit-talk fool you into thinking we are healthy company.. 

Another elucidation of the mallu reflection in food is the plethora of chips that we have managed to create. We mallus have managed to turn the most un-fry-eristic entities into chips or fry-ums. Jackfruit, bitter-gourd, ladiesfinger, beans, chillies, bananas- you name it we fry it. And what we can't fry we turn into fiery pickles that leave your stomach lining charred, as the famous kadumanga, which looks as deadly as it tastes, will attest. Our pickling penchant is all inclusive, making provisions for not only our flora but also our fauna. No hostel would be complete without someone pulling out Ammachi's  homemade fish pickle or Amma's special prawn pickle. Think of the last thing you would ever think of pickling/ chipsing/ turning into jam and I can present you with a packet. Perhaps  the most astonishing fact about the Mallu palate is that we are omnivores in the truest sense. While no occasion is complete without the all-vegetarian feast menu of the sadhya, the non-vegetarian mallus are almost obscenely accommodating to anything that breathes. Fish, fowl or amphibian we make room for you on our plate.

Our protean diet makes its way into our social make-up turning the general mallu into a wonderfully adaptive creature with multiple avatars and an overblown sense of confidence and self importance in a world which does not know of half the favorites that stemmed from their land (ever heard of 'lubika'? It's a fruit.) and does not care. But it is perhaps this tepid social response that challenges the mallu to take the world in hand and show it how its done. We love the world and are determined that it enjoys what we do. We are a little autocratic that way, but it all comes from the best intentions. After all, how can a generous mallu allow their beloved brethen to go on in life without enjoying the universally yummy taste of kappa-meenkari. We are resilient and hardy- much like our famed rubber (which has resisted every attempt at edibilisation). We are like our metamorphic menus- we change to taste and acquire additions and renovations with few reservations. Which, strangely, does embody the spirit of globalisation and therefore is a perfect explanation for why Mallus are taking over the world. Besides of  course the simple fact that once we decide to stay you can't get rid of us- much like jackfruit gum (the connection endures).

We are wholly unexpected. Yet strangely wholesome. And very often unholy strange. And yes the multiple use of 'strange' is perfectly apt. In either case, I am told we are an acquired taste- you may feel the urge to spit us out, but we are always a memorable ride for the adventurous palate. Would you like to try?

Chip off the old Banana. Extended version.

Republished after additions. Hope this is an improvement.


We mallus are inherently fruity. Hence, the incredible loneliness of the soul faced by a fruitless Mallu is self-evident. This deep angst surfaces in the deprived mallu's desperate delight in the face of such seemingly unimportant items such as coconut chutney and banana-chips. And this is all the more intense when the mallu is transplanted into a dry arid desert lands of that other Mallu-land lovingly referred to as 'the Gelf'.

Every year, the Keralite home-base faces a sharp shortage of the non-perishable edibles and snack-like as non-resident mallus flock back to their homeland. Stores are ransacked of their savories and looted of their lip-smackers; the state suffers from an acute drought of tea-snacks for months to come.But though the mixtures may go missing and the diamond-cuts kidnapped no other snack variety suffers as greatly as the banana-chip. The fruits quiver in fear as the shadow of the Gelf-returned fall upon their pliant green stalks. Bunch upon bunch of barely ripe bananas are deep-fried in coconut oil with salt to create a taste of Kerala in your desert living room. The bright gold of these gilded treats drew the marauding migrators like the doubloons that incited the plundering conquistadors.


But there are looters and bounty-hunters. The first indiscriminately haul every available flake of every available banana. The latter however are the connoisseurs who quest for that perfect, crisp, delicious chip and savor it as it aught to be. My family falls in the second category. And so our clan are receptacles of that deep race memory that flows through every mallu- the Chip hierarchy. For example, anybody knows that big bakeries never sell you the best chips. The true finds are always in the back alley shanties or in the seedy tin shops near railway/bus stations. And besides,no discerning mallu with their inherent anti-capitalist stance will ever trust a big brand. The last time I was in Mallu-land I heard a Hot Chips franchise was starting out there. I pity them. Another instance of Mallu general knowledge is that every fastidious mallu knows that Calicut is the Mecca of the Banana Chip. The crispiest, tastiest and most scrumptilicious chips are from beloved Calicut. Even my father- who hails from Trichur, and believes everything Trichurian is automatically exemplary- agrees to this. But my father was never one to bend his knees before the insolent tasty-ness of a non-Trichur chip. Besides, he had a special supplier.

The return trip from our frenetic vacations was usually a weighty affair. More than anything because of the constant worry of weight issues. The airlines being a rather fussy institution demanded that all the travelers carried only a limited amount of weight. This of course resulted in a series of weighing, tearful half-hearted unpacking, offloading of much loved items and reweighing. In our household it is imperative that every member be present at the packing arena: mostly so that my father will have enough people to order around. But in all honesty he did a great job (both at ordering and packing)- there wasn't an inch of space in those two boxes that wasn't utilised. Be that as it may, neither the airlines nor my father's edicts could deter our beloved aunt from buying half a bakery store for her darling brother to munch on far far away.
While my father- who is a big softy under all the bluster- may manage to leave behind some of these tokens, he could never say no to his mother. His mother who always had chronic knee pains.His mother who despite said knee pains would stand for hours at the old fashioned stove and fry handful after handful of raw bananas in searing hot coconut oil,bananas which she'd painstakingly sliced for the entire morning so that her youngest son can have the freshest batch.It was almost a tradition- My father would have just finished stuffing in the last maligned item and squashed the box shut when my grandmother would send up the tins of banana chips. My father would get the haunted look of a man who really really wants to say no, and then he would proceed to unzip the stuffed box and take out some of the previously unavoidable items and loving wrap up the new bulky presents.

Oh he would grumble of course. He would scowl and bluster. But funnily enough he would never tie up the box until the tins came through. And when we'd get back the first phone call would be greatly comprised of praising the chips. And the truth is, no one could make banana chips like her. Even the blessed Calicut varieties had salt issues. My grandmother's chips were perfect.

It's been more than five years since we've tasted her chips. The stroke paralysed her right-hand-side and she hasn't walked by herself since, let alone stepped into the kitchen. I remember the day my father and my uncle, his older brother, got the phone call. It is a strange moment when you realise that the adults had always been children. Their mother's stroke, coming so close on the heels of their father's demise, was the turning point where childhood living finally ended. The brothers left immediately and we followed soon after. The shock of seeing my ever active grandmother prone was quickly repressed, partly so that we could look after her well and partly because we didn't want her to think about it and mostly because we didn't want to think about it. The irony was that life,in the strangest and simplest of ways, went on.The leave ran out and the exiled had to return to their work place. And the charade of normalcy carried forward into the packing ritual. As always the boxes were packed, only this time there was little fear that they would be heavy. After all, we had other things on our mind. The last of the clothes were put in, the mandatory space check done and all was ready for the final tying up, when my aunt climbed up the stairs weighed down by parcel after parcel of chips. "Amma didn't want you to go without the chips.", she said.

We Mallus are made like our favorite food items. We are either soft and sentimental and sometimes diabetes inducing or crisp and salty going off with a loud crunch. But every part of us- from husk to flesh is stubbornly resilient. We take all the jokes thrown at us and make up several of them too. And regardless of what life throws at us, we believe that everything can be fixed or at the very least reconciled with. All we need is a cup of tea and banana chips.

Wedding Chronicles 2: Pre-Wedding and Post-Wedding Stress

Disclaimer: Long Post dead ahead

The Wedding is supposed to be one of the most important days of your life. Probably because it takes off several years out of your life in the process. The Wedding Day is the culmination of several mini-madnesses. While the locus of all the Wedding madness is the bride and groom, they are greatly exempted from the background drama. The minor characters have the responsibility of bringing together the various aspects of the giant chaos called The Wedding.

It begins with the Inviter-Invitee tussle, kicked off by the Invites. The design of the invite takes on as much importance as the blueprints for the newest space-shuttle. Prototypes are selected and rejected. Blood pressures ping pong off the walls and stress levels hit the roof. The family is driven to the brink of insanity, haunted by the memory of the nasty comments they had hurled at other invites and are spurred on to avoid a similar fate. Just when the design gets finalised, the extended family decides to give their 'constructive criticism', successfully destroying any previously established consensus. And when the invites are finally decided there comes the task of actual invitation. Armed with packets of murkus and laddoos (chips and jalebi is another favorite combination) the inviters trudge along to do their dreary duty. The Murphy's Law of Wedding invitations states that regardless of how hard you try to remember everyone, you will always end up forgetting someone. And that someone is most often the most cantankerous kin in the fold. The appeasement process is penance for all the sins you might have committed in your past life.(Come to think of it, the Wedding as a whole is like that.) Finally, when everyone has been more or less mollified, the process of clothes shopping is initiated.

The Shopping Saga is an epic tale in itself. And it is a painstaking process not just for the females. In fact it easier for us women because we have the advantage of choice. Men have it harder because there simply isn't enough variety. There are only so many decent borders for mundus or colours for kurtas. And one must remember that in the drama that is the Wedding, everything is a topic of gossip. Insignificant details like where the bride/groom's clothes were bought, how the sari bought for aunty A is the same colour as aunty B's, how cousin X's dress was not of the same quality as cousin Y's, uncle P's mundu has more kasavu that uncle Q's- become hot news and are discussed at length. In the course of the Wedding there is always going to be at least one member of the family bursting into tears for reasons that barely brush against reason. As you can see, drama is an integral part of The Great Indian Wedding. Another caucus race is the process of housing all the migrating family members. Unknown aunts, uncles, cousins, cousins of cousins, the friends of said cousins etc. congregate for the wedding relying on the family for domicile. And Dubai uncle and family cannot sleep without an AC, Madras Aunty must have dinner at 6:30 because she is diabetic, crusty Calicut uncle wants his dinner piping hot even if he comes late, Bangalore cousin has an army of brats that need to be baby-sat and Delhi grand-uncle wants fresh milk in the middle of the night. Suddenly the unpredictable bouts of crying make a lot of sense. But all this is worth it- After all, they are all here to celebrate the joining of two individuals in a hopefully life-long relationship.

Speaking of the two individuals, the wedding preps guarantee that the couple do not get an undisturbed moment together. If it's not aunts barging in to feed them sweets then it's uncles cracking dirty jokes with complementary whacks on the back or other parts of the anatomy. And then of course there are the annoying cousins who have a habit of walking in at exactly the wrong time with an unrepentant 'oops' and to drag either one of the parties in question for some interminable errand. It's enough to make the lucky couple want to elope to the nearest register office and get it over with. But then again I guess abstinence is good for the soul. Or perhaps they their eagle-eyed guardians detain them from making an escape. Either way, by the time the preparations end the couple are pretty much worn out and decide there is no point in resistance.

The wedding itself is, as previously discussed, madness. The lunacy of this program is underscored by the fact that the female members are necessarily dressed in saris/dressy salwar kameezes or churidars and most often are shod in high-heels. Between all the thalam carrying, the errand-running and engaging in the general obstacle race that is a wedding, your lower limbs begin to hate you, your feet decide that you are the devil and your toes will never be the same again. Besides this physical pain there is also mental trauma. One is constantly waylaid by unknown kin who demand that you recognise them. It does not matter that you only saw thrice when you were still in your diapers. It is a curious trait that the regular attendees of the weddings circuit always remember each other. This feat of memory is accomplished by keeping track of wardrobes. Observe the logic:"Oh yes she is XYZ, PQR's sister's husband's cousin's grand-aunt's neighbour. Remember? she was wearing the same red sari for LMN's wedding as well..."
The wedding arena is also the scene for the planning of prospective weddings as well.Single individuals within the age range of 19 to 30yrs are subjected to painful matchmaking. The popular "you're next" makes its rounds. The 'you're next'-at-funerals routine fails miserably because most of these spiritually inclined matrimony.moms (and dads too, mind you) will only smilingly reply, "And then we shall bless you from above" It is enough to drive one to distraction. Thankfully they are easily distracted by the story of a distant cousin who got divorced or another one who refuses to marry.

And of course, the great Sadhya discussions. Every minute detail ranging from the degree of green-ness of the banana leaf on which the food is served to the over sweetness of the perfect payasam comes under the microscope and God help you if there is a shortage. A Mallu wedding, as discussed earlier, revolves around the food. Considering this, one would think that eating wouldn't be too difficult a task to manage. But for the close members of the Family getting a taste of the Sadhya is a formidable goal. For one thing, there is the general edict that you get to eat only after the guests. But then again the human body is programmed to handle only so much hunger. The Murphy's Law of lunch eaters states that even if you spent the entire afternoon waiting around, it is only when you put the first morsel of food in your mouth that they call you for the family photo. The photo session itself is fraught with pitfalls. Someone is always left out, or someone else is convinced that the photographer deliberately clicked when they were in their least flattering avatars. And once the album comes out, an unending stream of shrieks and humphs follow in the wake of every leaf turned. The photos are always an entire skeleton of contention.Be that as it may, the one thing one must always remember about Indian weddings- and the South Indian Wedding in particular- is that everyone is too full to hold a grudge. "So what if I look like a zombie in that pic," muses aunty M "at least I look better than Aunty N! Orange?? What was she thinking?!" And aunty N thinks " Ah Orange was always my colour. But what is wrong with M? I think she forgot her medication..." And then their thoughts blend as they sigh in unison ".. let's get some betel leaf and head home." And this is where everyone heaves out a sigh of relief.This does not apply to immediate family of course. They are most likely scrambling to get the harassed bride into her nth sari and matching accessories while simultaneously organising the welcome ceremony back home. The mobile phone is a wonderful thing.

The sun finally sets on the Wedding day and the bride and groom are ushered into their private scented chamber- where they probably sleep like the dead considering how exhausted the wedding left them. And the other players in the drama exit stage wherever to get some of their own much needed rest. The rest, as they say, is history.

Next up- the Tam-Brahm wedding.

Wedding Chronicles1: The Mallu Wedding

Disclaimer: Much like it's subject, this post is going to be very long.

The inimitable and ever-aged Clint Eastwood once commented that "Marriages are made in heaven. But so are thunder and lightning." I myself completely affirm this view. However I am but a minuscule minority. This fact is confirmed by the fact that I had the opportunity to witness two weddings in the short span of the last two weeks and will be at another one in September. The Indian Wedding is a dazzling experience. Not just because of the blinding amounts of bling and flash photography, but also for the sheer spectacle of the whole program. Unlike the sedate and neatly packaged concept of popular weddings, the Indian Wedding-and more specifically the South Indian Wedding- is a riot of happy chaos which relies on anarchy for successful execution. Furthermore there is a marked sadistic trait within these functions that will prove curious to the budding anthropologist. The following accounts will substantiate the previous generalisation.

To follow chronology, we will start with the Malayalee Wedding. As a disclaimer I state that my presence at this spectacle was entirely my mothers fault. The Mallu wedding is perhaps the shortest variety, lasting all of ten minutes with the main attraction being the sadhya that follows. But one must keep in mind the Mallu propensity for extension (a passing glance at any Mallu serial will affirm this). After all,where's the drama in a quickie ceremony? And we Mallus love Drama. Our politics is proof enough. And so in a hasty bid to add some masala to the bland molakushyam we split this simple ceremony into three parts- the Thalikettu, the Kalyanam and the Sadhya+photo-session.The first part more or less adheres to the original scheme and consists mostly of praying in the temple of choice and tying the thali. But the fact that it is conducted in an ungodly hour on the lines of 4:30 am makes it the most painful part of the entire program. Just this small detail ensures anarchy. Imagine, if you will, the bawling of irritated woken up babies, the gurgle of reluctant taps followed by the badaboom of banged doors as time flies and delayed bathers become desperate. Added to this is the fact that females in attendance must necessarily be decked out in Saris or at the very least an incredibly itchy salwar-kameez/churidar. The donning of these are by themselves chaotic to say the least. Any sari draper will be acquainted with the Murphy's Law of Sari wearing. No matter how many there are and how many you saved, the pins are always missing. Furthermore, negotiating sari pleats when you'd much rather be dallying in dreamland only adds to the pain. And when one is as determinedly nocturnal as the author, the morning Muhurtham is nothing short of excruciating.The knowledge that all this pain is merely to catch a barely noted tying of a thali, which even an untimely sneeze would render unnoticed only makes it more frustrating. Thankfully, this time I merely had to attend the second half- the more showy Kalynanam.

This consists of four parts: 1.Escorting the Groom, 2.Escorting the Bride 3.Exchanging garlands 4.Lots of blinding photographs. All this escorting means a lot of escorters. Again it is the womenfolk who have to do all the work. Females within the age group 8-30yrs are rounded up and armed with thalams- plates carrying flowers, rice, a small lamp and other such items. The lasses are lassoed into two parallel queues flanking the escorted- probably to stop them from making a last minute bolt for freedom. All this seems very neat and orderly. Ah if only... These processions are notorious not just for the fact that it kills your feet, but also because your hair is constantly in danger of catching fire what with a plate with a lamp right behind you. It's true. It happened to me. And at the wedding that I went to it happened to my cousin. I prudently showed up only afterwards. The thalam girls carefully accompany the groom and later the bride to the dais where there is always a traffic jam. Inevitably something is knocked down and everyone is praying that it wont be a lamp.

The wedding that I attended featured a silk clad groom who looked cheerful and happy- probably because he was reminded of his reassuring comfort whenever he chanced to glance at his mate whose face one could barely make out from within the crown of jasmine and the shield of jewelery. It is my firm belief that if one were to shoot a Mallu bride in the chest her multitudinous gold chains would save her with nary a smudgy bruise to show for it. This particular bride was encased in a sheath of gold which swayed with her uncomfortable movements to reveal even more gold in the form of the zari on her Kancheepuram Sari. The poor lady literally creaked as she walked(a feat of great strength and endurance), what with all the metal she had on. But it truly is a tribute to the marriage impulse that despite such obvious difficulties she still looked very happy.

Somewhere in the time that it takes the bride to lumber up the stage and lumber down to sitting position, most of the audience rush to the dining hall.This is the scene for several almost-riots. Mallus love their Sadhya. And anyone who comes in the way is at risk of being trampled. Several jaws and joints have borne the brunt of particularly zealous eaters kept away from their mouth-watering goal. And once there, they make it a point to vocalise their demands as well as loudly declaim/proclaim the quality of the food/servers/the serving/anything remotely food related. So while the crowd mills around the dining hall the bride and groom are abandoned to exchanging their garlands in the face of an indifferent trickle of individuals who decided to wait for lunch or carry on conversations. Following the exchange of garlands the couple are subjected to a stream of relatives who feed them bananas and milk.It is a custom guaranteed to render anyone lactose intolerant. After several gulps of milk interspersed with banana morsels (... is there a metaphor here?...) the bride and groom raise themselves to stand in the glare of several camera flashes as the guests, burping and satisfied after their hard-fought lunches,make their way towards the duo to give them gifts and grin for the cameras.The groom has it better- at least he is not weighed down by his apparel. But the bride gives meaning to the phrase 'grin and bear it'. Several hours of photography later the bride and groom finally get a bite to eat. This too is monitored by the cameramen who vie with the paparazzis on the intrusion scale. So instead of eating ravenously, as they most likely would be by then, the bride and groom are forced to take delicate, pretty bites. Ah poor souls.

At long last they are released from their wedding. Breathing a sigh of relief they make a break for freedom only to be waylaid by relatives who say a million good byes over and over again without actually leaving. The last I saw as I left the venue was the tableau of the groom and bride with frozen smiles bidding the fiftieth farewell to the same aunty who had circled them two minutes ago. Ah marriage is a difficult prospect- but the wedding is the actual killer.

More on weddings at a later date.

Ambassador of Car-tastrophe

Our vacations were characterised not by rest and relaxation but by visits. There were aunts, uncles, aunts of uncles, relations whose relations were lost in the tangled branches of the family tree... And all of them needed to be visited and plied with the customary laddoo and jalebi package ( pakodas and murukkus for the diabetic). Naturally these travels had to be done in the trusted chariot of all mallus- the Ambassador, the car for all occasions,the one non-four wheel drive that can house eight adults and several tiers of young ones and still move at comfortable 80 plus. Besides being most accommodating, it is also built like a truck ( I suppose that explains the load-pulling capacity). Come rain, storm, terrible roads or mindless traffic- the Ambassador will prevail.
Of course we are talking about the general Ambassador. Our favored vehicle was a little... different.
My father doesn't like to drive on congested roads. Generally given to road-rage even in sane traffic circumstances, my father would be courting hypertension if he spent three months driving in India. Hence, most of our motoring was conducted through the smiling, furry-faced, bespectacled services of Unni uncle. Unni uncle himself was rather normal, unremarkable even. It is his car that gives him the questionable honor of appearing here. An ancient Ambassador that seemed to hold itself together through sheer will, it was a traveler's nightmare. Incapable of going beyond the snail-pace of perhaps 50-60 km/hr, the car was always in constant danger of having its parts blown away. And travel in the Parakkum Thaliga{translation: 'flying saucer' (Any mallu worth her/his pop-culture salt will know the reference[ and if you're not mallu, there'll probably be one about three paces away more than willing to explain])} was far from comfortable. Let's just say that a 4hr airplane travel still leaves you with some energy, but one hour in the P.T and you are half dead and limp as a boned fish. The logical of course would just not hire the services of Unni uncle and his trusted ( to fall apart) car. But the loyal stick it out. Unni uncle had been a family associate since my father's younger days. And thus every vacation we trundled on in the rickety car, which- though it gave us a really bad backache, among others- also gave us several anecdotes.

The best one perhaps, is the one on the rainy night.

It had been a long day, sullen and gray and threatening rain at any moment. Which is to be expected at the peak of the monsoons. It was humid and muggy and it did not help that the
family had spent most of the day in the P.T . Of course Unni uncle was cheerful as a daisy and cracking jokes that none of us could find the energy to laugh at. Somewhere towards late evening we stopped by at our cousins' place where lengthy chai based discussions later it was decided they would come along with us to the ancestral home.
This meant nine people - excluding the one at the steering wheel- squeezed into the back, front and middle of the car (The boot was already occupied by the luggage.). The prospective travelers shot wary glances and murmured something on the lines of "...may be we should take an auto..." But Unni uncle bluffly waved away all the doubts and ushered...er.... pushed and maneuvered the people into ( or at least, more or less into) the car. Several squashed minutes later Unni uncle crunched himself in and started the car. The car let out a tortured groan and stayed put refusing to be put through more agony.
"No problem!" yelled Unni uncle over the groans of both car and customers. "It'll start up just now!" He accompanied this patently over optimistic statement with a grin that was eaten up by his facial hair.
The car did eventually start. But not before an entire antakshari session, a minor squabble between two of the cousins, the passing of a mangled packet of banana chips some one managed to extract from between the levels of people, the finishing of said packet and not of course before the rain decided to make its presence felt. Very very strongly. Which is when we found out the windows could not be rolled up completely.
" No problem!" Unni uncle yelled again." just take the plastic covers from the back and put it in the side!"He grinned again and this time the tempestuous wind blew the hair back so we could glimpse a bit of teeth. Teeth alternately gritted and clattering the passengers grimly held on to flapping plastic covers and proceeded to ignore the rain splattering on either side. En route we decided to stop at cousin number two's abode where we were promised vehicular back up. Surprisingly enough we got there in one piece. We waited desperately for the car to putter into the garage before spilling out in an uncoordinated tangle of limbs. In the midst of stretching our cramped joints we noticed Unni uncle hovering around holding the car door open.
" No need to keep the door open, Unni," said my father with no little relief." We'll be a while."
While we chatted and played tag with the batch number two cousins, the rain decided that it'll take a break. Seeing this as a sign the batch number two decided to come along as well.

We'll never learn.

Batch number one and two were redivided. The weaker, frailer ones piled into the shiny,top condition, sturdy ambassador and we were left to P.T ( reminds one of the allocation of life-boats on a sinking ship). No sooner had batch one left in a cloud of exhaust, than the rain decided we must have missed it a lot. We the stragglers scrambled up to the unpromising hunk-of-junk unsuccessfully dodging droplets the size of golf balls. Unni uncle, ever chivalrous, was holding the door open for us. We quickly piled in (literally) and got ready to get on the road again... and realised that Unni uncle was still holding the door open.
"Unni, we've all gotten in. Now let's go!" my father yelled over the racket of the rain. Unni uncle nodded back in acknowledgment. The grin was missing... a bad sign that...

Unni uncle swung the door shut...
WHAP!
SHWAAANGGG! it swung right back at him.

There was a moment of silence...
"The door isn't shutting." chimed little brother unhelpfully.
While we were unproductively gaping in shock, Unni uncle had been thinking.
"No problem! Just a minute I'l be back."he hollered as he shkwapped through the rain towards the boot. The grin was back... a very bad sign that...

Unni uncle shlopped back bearing two rags that you wouldn't touch with a barge-pole.
"No problem!" he said,"We'll just tie the door to the frame with these and you can hold on to the doors as well" he grinned happily at our frustrated faces and proceeded to shoo us out for better tying access and then hurry us in, strategically placing able-bodied individuals on the door side(all the better to hold it closed.)

So there we were- about six of us in a rickety ambassador with all its four wheels in the scrap-shop, hanging on to the back-doors for dear life and simultaneously getting drenched by the gleeful rain flying in through the stuck windows. And of course the car was being driven extra slow now so that the doors don't get blown away. It suffices to say that a general urge to bury Unni uncle under the cantankerous vehicle warmed the soggy ambiance of the party.

An interminable age and several "re-tying" stops later, the car and its captives trundled into the hallowed courtyard of our destination. The passengers all but passed out from relief. While we stumbled out ignoring the pouring rain (we were wet anyway) from the purgatory of the P.T, Unni uncle cheerfully asked my father-
" So... We'll go out again tomorrow morning?"

For a moment, just a fleeting moment, we could see denial, desperation and the urge to murder war with each other in my father's tortured glance. Then he inhaled deeply and said:
"We'll give you a call."
Unni uncle grinned, his face turning into a mass of fur and broad forehead. "No problem."

Incidentally, the car is, was and always will be problem. And yes, it's still going not so strong or steady, but it's definitely going.

Grand Exit

Here is another story from the heart of malluland. I extend my humble thanks to my father for supplying me with this one.


The Keralite family,with its ridiculously hypocritical system of matriarchy(a bigger hoax there never was), granted all the power to the maternal uncle or the Ammaaman of the family. Thiruvazhuthaan was one such ammaaman. And in the after life he would give serious competition to the Devil. Besides being a natural despotic tyrant and a bigotted sadist, Thiruvazhuthaan also took pleasure in driving away all his family members and anyone who dared to be at harassing distance. And even after they left, he rejoiced in thinking up and executing elaborate plans which managed to trouble and hassle them regardless of distance. Yes: you could run, you could hide, but you can't escape his abuse.

Several interminable years of torture later, to the joy and relief of his family, Thiruvazhuthaan finally ended up on his death bed. Him being the head of the family, the entire family was obligated to turn up. Mumbling, grumbling, cursing and scowling at the inconvenience, they came to offer their last respects(hah!) to the dying man. Bent and crooked, a mere waif of his evil self, Thiruvazhuthaan summoned the eldest brother of the second generation to his side. The brother grudgingly agreed and shuffled off to the beside, manfully disguising his elation at his uncle's dying state.

Thiruvazhuthaan raised his shrivelled, puckered lips in a semblance of a smile and coughed a frail cough. Anyone with a heart would have felt a faint tremor of sympathy for him. The nephew unbent enough to smile back and hold his uncle's hand.
"I have been very cruel to you,nephew; to all of you...." he rasped.
The nephew demurred completely, but respectfully kept quiet.
"... And I deserved to punished ten fold for it..."
The nephew was tempted to agree vigorously, but held his tongue again.
" And so I have thought of something good to give all of you satisfaction."
Here is where the nephew sat bolt upright and became wary. The nephew had good reason to be cautious- His uncle had never thought anything remotely good or helpful in his entire life.
A short fit of dry coughing later, Thiruvazhuthaan outlined his plan. He instructed the nephew to find a fine bamboo growing in the backyard, cut down a sizable portion, and, following his uncle's death, to sharpen one end of the pole and(here's the climax) shove it up his dead a**.
Ignoring the flabbergastred stare his nephew was levelling at him, Thiruvazhuthaan continued, "Only the family must do it. And it must be done. It is the only way my soul will find solace..."
"But I ca-"
"Say the truth! You have to admit that I deserve to be impaled."
"Well...that's tr-"
"You have to do this for me! It's my dying wish!
" But Ammaava how can-"
"You must! My soul will never find peace if you don't! You must make sure I'm impaled! Otherwise, my spirit will haunt this realm and never go away."

It was probably the thought of the prolonged existence of his Uncle in any form,anywhere near him that made the decision for the nephew. He agreed to carry out the request and communicated the developments to the rest of the family. For some reason,they were very enthusiastic about carrying it out...

At long last the old gargoyle breathed his last and the family breathed a sigh of relief (they were probably worried that he'd stay alive just to spite them). His final request was carried out with unwonted happiness and his spitted body was laid out for people to pay their respects. The mangled state of the corpse raised scandal and suspicion amongst the guests at the funeral. 'The family did him in!' they exclaimed. 'What brutal beasts! They actually impaled the poor old man!', decried the good folk.

To cut to the chase, the action oriented townsfolk called in the police and the smilingly impaled corpse earned the family an arrest and murder charges. You see, there was no document certifying that the uncle actually requested the procedure. There was only the nephew's word for it. And the entire place knew about the bad blood between the uncle and the rest of the family. The poor family was embroiled in scandal, entrenched in a convoluted legal case, black marked, and had to go into hiding. That poor nephew is probably slapping himself over and over again for believing his scheming uncle.

Well, in Thiruvazhuthaan's defence, he had spoken the truth. I'm sure his soul wouldn't have found solace if he hadn't made sure his family would be mired in trouble even after his death. And he never once said he was sorry. In his mind, I'm sure, he'd died the perfect death- One stick in the right place ended up ensuring more strife than anyone could have imagined. His life was fulfilled. For him a stick up his a** in no way detracted from the dignity of his death; in fact it made it a grand exit!

Payasam Penchant

My grandfather was the consummate storyteller. You could have heard the same story a million times from a million other people. But no rendition could hold a candle to my grandfather's. In fact most of these renditions did happen by candle-light. The load-shedding hours were Prime time at Vellat House. But then, being the fount of all knowledge that he was, my grandfather was never deterred by something as silly as time when it came to telling a story. Besides, no story is as good as a spur-of-the-moment one. It was through such a moment that my brother and I got to hear this one.

Somewhere in the misty reaches of time,it had been lunch-time. Which meant my poor mother was busy trying to herd my brother and me to the dining table. Well you couldn't really blame us.We were young. We were on vacation.There was so much field and fallow to explore. And great food is a lovely thing, but in those pre-hostel days it wasn't that much of a bait. With some quick maneuvering and deft use of the one-eye-brow-up routine (she made us shiver with that one), she actually got us to sit still and placed a plate in front of us before we escaped. And since my grandmother was the greatest cook since since cooking was discovered, we weren't complaining much. We enthusiastically piled our plates and had made some headway into our attack,when my brother whiffed a whiff of something delectable.

"Mmmmmmmmm... what's that smell..." He slurped.
My grandmother swelled imperceptibly with pride.
"Chakka payasam." she smiled. The smile died a quick death and was resurrected as a frown when it was greeted with a loud chorus of "EEEEEEWWW!"

Chakka- jackfruit- is one of the superstars of mallu cooking. It can be eaten as fruit, morph into curry, transmogrify itself into sabzi, and even reappear as dessert in the form of payasam or chakkavaratti. And later in the evening, it will return as chips, or back as fruit again. You can't escape the chakka. My brother and I were not really averse to it in most forms. But we were a wee bit dubious to the payasam. And hence the "EEEEEEW!"

Wincing at the double glares we were getting, my brother and I were preparing to face the wrath of the furies, when my grandfather saved us.
"Ah you shouldn't say that," He said between a bite of succulent ladiesfinger,"Chakka payasam is the king of payasams."

Apparently our disbelieving expressions were expressive.

"Really!" he insisted, eyes twinkling behind his thick rimmed glasses as he swallowed another morsel of food, "It's true. It was my father's favorite. But he didn't like it in the beginning either."

Our ears pricked up, and my mother let out a silent groan. The prospects of our finishing our meal anytime soon diminished considerably under the ensnaring influence of my grandfather's story telling.

"Yes..." he said, pouring more sambar onto his rice, settling into his story. "When my father was very young, he had to go for a wedding. At sadhya that followed he was a little distressed to find that one of the payasams was chakka payasam. But it wasn't such a great problem. After all, all he had to do was to tell the server to not pour it.

"It was a great sadhya. Everything was perfect. He was enjoying himself thoroughly. He had just finished cleaning off his third helping when, before he could say a word, the passing server dolloped a slop of chakka payasam right in the middle of his leaf!"

Here he paused dramatically and slurped on some drumstick while my brother and I let out enraged gasps. Yes, he knew how to work up the drama factor really well. He let us go on in the indignant vein for while and then got back to the story.

" Yes, he was furious!And he showed it!
'What have you done!'He shouted.
Apparently the server was a rather slow person.
'What sir?' he smiled benignly and dumped another ladle-full onto his leaf. The fact that the person on the other side of the leaf was squeaking indignant squawks seemed to have lit a candle wick somewhere in the server's cobweb ridden mind.'You don't like it?'
'No I don't like it!And now you've gone and put such a lot on my leaf!You mggfyffiuggg...' And the rest were sputters of rage.
The server scratched his head apologetically and said 'Oops.'
Which naturally sent the already irate guest into a whole new planet of rage.
'Well... don't worry' he continued, looking vaguely troubled at the rather scarily angry person in front of him. 'Just move it off to one side of the leaf and take whatever else you want.'
This rather simple solution,which had skipped my father's mind, took most of the wind out of his angry sails. He scowled and did as suggested and found the idea quite plausible. Except-
'Now it's on my hand!' he huffed at the server who was still standing by to see the effect of his advice.
'Well...' the server drawled, scratching his head again. 'Just lick it off.' At that moment he was called off to another side of the hall, leaving my father grimacing at his payasam coated palm.
Since it was already on his hand, and since he was planning on eating some more food, my father decided he might as well lick it off and get on with his gastronomical exploits. Taking a deep breath and steeling his tastebuds,my father licked off the payasam."

At this point my grandfather decided to prolong our suspense by leaning over his plate and cleaning off the last pools of sambar from his plate. We of course, obligingly chorused demands for him to continue. Satisfied that his plate was curry free, he leaned back and picked up where he stopped.

"He licked off the payasam, and realised it didn't really taste all that bad. But he wasn't in the mood to to follow up on that. Now that his sullied hand was taken care of, he looked down at his leaf- and was not happy. The pool of payasam was too close to the aviyal. He moved it off to another corner, and licked off the offending payasam. But now it was too close to the pappadam and pickles. So he moved it off to the other side and licked off his palm. Ah that's better. But look the inji thair is flowing into it! Oops! And he quickly moved it off to a safer location.

As it turned out, by the time he was done manouevering the payasam around his leaf- there was no payasam left. And, he had to admit it to himself, he was rather sad that it had gotten over. As if on cue, he espied the erring server passing by under a cloud of sweet aroma. He gestured madly at the man. The server caught sight of him and quickly came to his leaf. My father squirmed uncomfortably in his seat and cleared his throat a lot and finally mumbled at the server 'Couldeyehevsumore?'

The server blinked slowly and smiled a smile that he quickly hid. 'Here you go sir' He said, as he poured a ladle full of payasam and then darted off to another end of the hall.
And that is how my father first fell in love with chakka payasam."

Just then Karthyayani our grandmother's woman Friday walked in with a vessel wafting the distinct perfume of payasam. After a story like that it was difficult for us curious children to keep away from the stuff! My grandfather smiled indulgently at us as we slurped off several ladles of payasam. Our grandmother beamed with pride and my mother let out a sigh of relief.

Chakka payasam has remained one of our favorites ever since. Even now when we go back to Kerala for vacations Karthyayani makes it a point to make it for us if there is jackfruit around. May be she thinks that would make us miss our grand parents less. It doesn't, but it helps soothe the hurt to remember good times like those. And I'm sure they serve chakka payasam in heaven.

I aam a Malayalee...

You can take the mallu out of Kerala, but you can't take the Kerala out of the mallu.

I'm what is generally known as a 'fraud mallu'. True, I'm not lost in the abyss of non-mallu-mallu-ness. But I'm close. I've only stayed a couple of months in good old Gods own country. I speak passably good Mallu. But I read and write it at the pace that makes a snail look like a speeding ferrari. I don't like coconut water and prefer tapioca chips to banana chips (which is the complete antithesis of standard mallu behaviour). I have no natural obsession with gold. Neither with coconut oil. The only mallu cliche I actually adhere to is that I do have the 'gelf connection'. Obviously I am truly not the example of a dedicated, mundu-swishing mallu.

Or so I thought.

One evening two fellow mallu hostellites and I began to reminisce. The topic veered towards movies and consequently to music. And then, naturally to all out singing. The kinship and the happiness experienced was immense! It was like being back home! And that's when it hit me. Despite the beauty of all those lovely evenings jamming with Gunther(in beautiful Chennai days) or with Firestone at the stone bench,the satisfaction I obtained from singing plain malayalam songs- regardless of how banal- was several times more. Simply because the songs were malayalam! It brought to mind those lovely lines by the poet Vallathol, roughly transalated as,

"All other languages are merely secondary,it is my language that stands as king."

That shared musical evening was enough to leave me nostalgic and sighing for several days to come. I recall those early days in Chennai when I'd yearn to hear malayalam being spoken. Of course now it's both Tamil as well as Malayalam (oh joy..)

Thetruth is that we humans all of us are intrinsically clannish. Regardless of how many times we try to declare ourselves nomadic or perhaps universal, at the end of the day we still have a hearth that our heart yearns for. And for the average Mallu (even the fraud one, apparently), this is more so since we tend to do things in extremes. No matter how fraud a mallu might be,s/he will always be a true blue mallu at heart. You never know when this trait will manifest itself, but be warned it does when you least expect it. Which brings to mind another verse from one of Vallathol's poems,(which I'm loathe to translate since I'll only make a mash of it)

"Ethu videshathu ponnu vasichaalum, ekaamba putrar naam- Keraliar."

Wherever we go we Mallus will always be Mallus.
On that note I'll get hold of my "ping lungi" and break into "I am a Malayalee". :D

Dr. Pepper

This is another story from the heartland of family lore.
My mother’s paternal grandfather, Manaveda Raja, was royalty. This of course meant he had to survey and maintain acres and acres of property as well as commandeer a formidable regiment of stewards, caretakers etc. This story is about one of those myriad figures that formed the cogs in his system. Once again the name eludes me in misty mazes of memory; however we shall not leave this figure nameless. Let’s call him Appu Nair (for the uninitiated, some of the commonest names in the uncommonly varied terrain of Keralite nomenclature are either ‘Unni’ or ‘Appu’). Appu Nair was a dedicated servant. His employer’s word was law. He followed instructions to the last syllable. Sadly, he was a little literal minded. As we will see in the following incident.

Kerala in the monsoon season is wetter than a fish. And so it wasn’t unusual to see people nursing snuffling nose, cattarhing coughs and throbbing heads. Appu Nair had got it bad. He let out regular bouts of sneezing and coughing and sniffing while shuffling miserably behind my great grandfather. The latter took pity on him and made the terrible mistake of suggesting a remedy.
“Appu Nair, why don’t you take some pepper? It brings the cold down very fast. “
A light shone in the bleary eyes.
“Really sir?”
“Absolutely! It’s worked for me several times.”
“How much should I take?”
“A pinch per meal should cure you in two days.”

When the master himself had such confidence in the cure how could the servant think twice? During his midday break Appu Nair sought out his store of pepper. Rejoicing at the thought of a mucus free nose and clear head he proceeded to take his dose. Sadly, in his eagerness to be rid of the ailment, Appu Nair over reached himself. Squeezing his ham sized hand into the tin he pulled out a pound of pepper and shoved the whole lot into his mouth. The shock of the impact lead to the swallowing of all that potent powder. Please remember this is pure pepper- none of your adulterated, processed namby- pamby stuff. When the master said a pinch- he was actually recommending a double dose.

First there was sneezing, then there was coughing. And it was all a blur. His head on fire, Appu Nair ran out of his house screaming in agony. Grazing cows stopped their chomping to watch the burly figure running down the slope like a mad man. Roosting pheasants took off in indignant flutters at the bellowing disturbance. At least four people were unceremoniously pushed out of the way, and often into the slush, when they made the mistake of being in his path. Appu Nair’s maddened run culminated into him jumping into the stream. Which would have been alright.
Had he known how to swim.
Glugging and glogging, he was swept away by the strong current.

Meanwhile, my great grandfather was taking a routine stroll around the irrigation bunds along with a couple of his other stewards. He was placidly walking along thinking how nice a neat set of paddy fields looked with a strong unpolluted stream running through them…hey wait a minute, there’s someone in the stream. He must be a very god swimmer. Oh look he’s waving. Hello to you too. He looks remarkably like Appu Nair. Oh my god it is Appu Nair!

Being an unhesitating person, he quickly had a few strong laborers to jump in and pull out the poor man. Following the plying of the safe solid comforts of a towel, blanket and a hot cup of tea, the entire story tumbled out of the now cooled mouth of the unfortunate. Perhaps it was astonishment that kept my great grandfather from laughing or from throwing the stupid man into the stream again.

But in all truth, you couldn’t fault his logic- if a pinch would cure him in two days; a handful should have cured him in a couple of hours. And the funniest part is- at the end of his pepper escapade he didn’t have a cold anymore. So maybe he wasn’t such a Suppandi after all.

Karuppan's Father

Karuppan, like most people, had a father. This was long back in the past of course, which is why I cannot recall his name at all. But the tales of his enterprises are perhaps more entertaining than his offspring's. But the most memorable among his considerable repertoire was the episode with the dog.

Karuppan's father loved a challenge and was always stretching his limits. At least that is the only thing that can explain why a person with a capacity for liquor that surpassed even Karuppan's was mostly tottering about smashed like a glass at a toddy shop. It was during such a drunken spell,late one night,weaving doggedly down the dancing tarmac road bordered by a hazy blur of verdant bamboo, coconut and jack fruit, that this story unfolds.

It was a fine December night, with just the right amount of chill in the air to make the liquor feel like a warm hug. And Karuppan's father had received a lot of hugs that night. The mist that swept in from the fields and the moonlight that painted the path gilded the night with a fairytale loveliness. All was bliss and at peace. Except for Karuppan's dad who expressed his happiness with loud discordant singing and unintentional ballet.

On the  climax note of his midnight serenade to nobody, Karuppan's father rounded the corner, reeled around from the inertia and came face to face with the Dog. The healthy flow of energizing spirits in his system had put him into a benevolent frame of mind regarding the whole world - even if it was twirling like a ballerina. He extended his swaying arm towards the dog in the middle (since that one was the only one with a single head and so seemed the real thing). With an encouraging,endearing grin, perfect for winning the heart of any average dog he reached for his new comrade. But this was no average dog. This was a canine which used to be dedicated to the alcoholics anonymous cause in it's past life. Or may be it just got a brush off from the local hot pattikutty. Anyway,one look at the inebriated figure in it's wake and Dog decided it was time to live up to the name "canine" by applying its canines. On the leg of the figure in front of it.

"YEOOWWWCH!"

Karuppan's father then went on to perform the ancient Indian rain dance. Of course he wasn't aware of the heritage of his paroxysms. All the while the Dog, mission accomplished, sat on its haunches and watched with the avid attention of a dance connoisseur. Fifteen minutes of intense hopping and language that cannot be recreated or repeated later,the pater finally noticed the enragingly calm canine gazing at him with Dalai Lama-like equanimity. This naturally set his blood boiling. Letting go of the maligned leg, he stalked..er...limped up to the insufferable dog. Breathing harshly, his bloodshot eyes rolling with menace, he placed his hands on his hips and thundered-

"You Godforsaken lowlife chokli(mongrel),mutt!"
The Dog stared.
"I'll beat you up and feed you to the dogs,you dog!"
The dog scratched an itch behind it's ear.
"Who do you think you are! You think you're so great or what!"
The dog yawned.
This show of nonchalance by the dratted dog drew the enraged man into a fever pitch of fury.
"You sit there like you've swallowed a spear you stupid thing! If you have no fear then I dare you to bite my other leg you son of a bitch!"
The dog cocked it's head.
"Hah hah! Don't seem so smug now do you, you disgrace to dogdom! Hah hah hah spineless, sore ridden do- YEOOOOOOWWWWWWCH!!!!!!

There followed a reenactment of the rain dance only more violent and colourful- and that's not just the language. It didn't help that sometime during the hopping the poor man fell into a road side ditch. The dog meanwhile finally decided that discretion is the better part of valor, or may be the local hot pattikutty came along again. Whatever be the case, by the time Karuppan's dad pulled himself out, along with a variety of flora, fauna, thorns in uncomfortable places and other materials that one would not like to mull over, there wasn't a trace of the dog on the road. Life can be a bitch sometimes. The poor man had to satisfy himself with flinging a few stones into the dark, and shouting obscenities to the heavens. He tottered back to his shack with a few extra holes and the firm resolution to never tempt fate. Especially when it comes to dogs.

Name Shame, follow up.

I rarely if ever post any forwards, but this one seemed permissable. I am a red blooded Mallu myself. But I cannot deny the truth of the following email. I extend my thanks to the venerable Pyne for this valuable insight into the shrouded realms of impossibly impossible names.

The Science Behind Christening Mallu Christians

It has been a well kept secret for eons, shrouded in mystery and mazes of deceit, but finally Itty Boben Jacob Elias Kuruvilla from Pazhookaville, near Thelmasherry, Kerala has consented to let us publish this classified mallu formula, on the naming of mallu christian kids.

1. Select a combination of both the mother and fathers names. Eg: Suresh and Sharon = Susha or Joseph and Beena = Jobi.
2. The addition of a 'mon' (meaning son) or 'mol' (meaning daughter) is optional. eg: Sushamol, Jobimon
3. To attach a modern anglicised feel to the names, the mol or mon can be replaced with boy or girl. eg: Jobiboy, Sushagirl.
4. For the politically correct keralite family, mol and mon can be replaced by the universal 'kutty'(child), which can be used for both boys and girls! Eg: Jokutty, Susikutty

Even parents having combination names can still give their children suitable names eg: Libi and Jobi = Lijo

However, in the scenario where the parents already have combination names that cannot form more comprehensible child names. Eg: Itty and Amukutty, would produce only Itam (which doesn't even sound like a name) or Amit (which is like Northie and stuff!!!!), then

a. use an English word like Baby, Merry, Titty, Pearly, Smiley, Anarchy, Innocent, Infant etc.
b. use a combination of two English names that you think sound cool (but never cool enough) like Meredith + Gina = Megi, or Sharon + Darlene = Sharlene
c. Use a name from the Bible (and not Nebuchadnezzar! Use one that even velliammachi can pronounce!) like Jacob, Sam, John, Joseph, Mathew, or Jijo!
d. Use a name that sounds like a cuss word but isn't. Eg: Boben, Prussy, Shagi, JustinTimberlake etc.

Note: The use of the letter 'j' is useful in the naming of sibling where names that sound alike are a novelty. Eg: Ajji, Sajji, Majji, Bhajji and Nimajji, or Sijo, Lijo, Jijo, Anjo, Panjo, Banjo.

Karuppan the gardener.

My parents' hometowns are home to several interesting characters. Their quirks and mannerisms can rival any Wodehousian peer. One such one is Karuppan.

Karuppan is an honorable man. He works as a gardner and general Man-Friday at my father's sprawling farm home. He lives a simple life. Work in the fields in the morning, get his wages in the evening, proceed to go get sloshed, go back home and beat up his two wives and enjoy a peaceful slumber. Yes, Karuppan is a good, ordinary man.

But Karuppan has a unique and fatal power. - he possesses the binary opposite of a green thumb. If you don't want something to grow- call Karuppan. All he has to do is trim a tiny leaf from the farthest branch of the unfortunate plant, and its growth would be blighted for life.

My father,sadly, discovered this fact through first hand experience.

Being a man of a pioneering aspect, my father was determined to bring order to the "pretty
wilderness" that adorned the premises.

"The yard is a terrible mess,we've got to do something about it."
"Hmm?Yes. Do you want some tea?"
Yes. But I am serious-- All the trees need a little pruning and the bushes need to be replanted."
"Hein? Looks fine to me."
"What fine?! You can't see the road from here!"
"Not from there, but if you bend down and twist your neck and peer from between the jackfruit tree and the mango--"
"That's it! I am going to fix it."
"But you can't do all that alone."
"Of course not." scoffed my father, "I've asked Karuppan to come."
A furitive and fearful glance passed between the rest of us. "Do you really want to do that...?"
"Yes,I do. He's handy and nimble."

"You know," said my oldest uncle. "That backyard mango tree was never quite the same again."
"And the left side sapota. Took five years for it to bear fruits again."
 "All nonsense! I'm calling him tomorrow and clearing up this mess."

He didn't notice the rest of the family shooting each other dubious glances.

At the appointed hour Karuppan turned up and the work commenced. Discarding his shirt of an indiscriminate dirt shade, Karuppan quickly shimmied up and began to unceremoniously lob off random branches of the big mango tree that stood in the yard.To the uninitiated, the mango tree is a very special part of any Mallu family lore. It gets the full brunt of sentiment. Especially when it is a very fruitful kind as this one definitely was. And Karuppan besides having the blackest thumb in this part of the world (both literally and figuratively) was of a rather chop-happy nature.

Suppressing a moan of horror, my  father rushed to curb the carnage.

"What are you doing?!" shouted my father at the figure swinging on a branch like a monkey."Get down."
Karuppan obligingly descended and stood respectfully scratching his armpit.
"What?"
"What were you doing!"my father bellowed.
"Cutting branches."
"All of them????"
"Oh no,no,no- I was going to leave a few. On the top. "
For a moment my father actually seemed to contemplate shaking the man but restrained himself admirably. "The trunk doesn't really count as a branch." he said.
"Hahaha! Very funny sir!" Karuppan grinned, displaying rows of betel stained teeth."Don't worry,I've been doing this for ages. You need to cut them so they will grow more." With that, he took up his tools, scurried up the tree and continued to chop.

My father, though always confident and and rarely cowed, couldn't help feeling a little bit of doubt at this declaration. May be they would grow back. And the man is a farmer and a gardener, he ought to know. But some deeper instinct warned him to keep an eye on Karuppan. Following this altercation my father concentrated his efforts on restraining Karuppan. With each branch lobbed off Karuppan seemed to grow more zealous. In fact, it can be safely surmised that he resented my father's insistence on leaving some more branches on the tree than he felt necessary.

By evening our yard was filled with denuded trees and their branches. Karuppan still in attendance cheerfully helped move the latter while splattering the ground with betel juice at steady intervals. Before Karupan left for his evening entertainment, my father asked him with ill concealed anxiety, "The branches... they will grow..?"
" Definitely!" Assured the able gardener, busy counting his wages," They'll be full of mangoes when you come next vacation."

Next vacation came- but there were no new branches. The next vacation came, and there were branches but no fruits.Several vacations passed with no fruition. It was only last year that we finally got a few mangoes from the tree Karuppan attacked that morning.

A few years back we'd made our house. My father, having still retained his pioneering nature, decided there must be a garden. The pots and seedlings were duly bought. And once again Karuppan was pressed into service- to dig and nothing else. He kept shooting wistful glances at the saplings and finally my father relented and let him plant a few.

Unsurprisingly- every other plant except his took root.

Recently,he'd come to our place to help with something--nothing to do with plants. During his break, armed with tea and biscuits he lounged near the garden. Mid-sip he turned to my father and said "See all my plants have grown so well!"
My father choked lightly on his tea "What? Where?"
"There, that one, between the bluebells and the cosmos."
"Isn't that just grass?"
"They are so strong and healthy."
My father took a long sip.
"You know, a lot of people say things about me."
My father took another long sip.
"And they are right. I've got magic fingers" he grinned proudly waggling his fingers.

I don't think my father had the heart to correct him.

Talking in tongues.

My mother tongue is malayalam.
Therefore,logically, that would be the language spoken at home.However- showing evidence of strong familial similarity to the author- logic is thrown out the window. The common linguistic scene that greets the eye-the ear, perhaps would be more appropriate- is a a sea of languages sloshing together like spirits in a cocktail.Something on the lines of "Athu ko vaha leavekar vekum kalambaffy karo."(simple transalation: 'Leave that and get going', number of languages used 4)is as common as day in our residential premises. And this is a simple example.
Trissur Malayalam flows into cheri Tamil and that mixture is splashed with a dash of some tapori Hindi and then heated with some rapper lingo and shudh, school-tought-Hindi. To this is added a smattering of French a breath of Arabic along with a brand of English that is unique to this family , and Voila! That's our language. It is surprising that any of us understand each other. Even my father,being the only comparatively sane person among a horde of confirmed lunatics (sorry,ma),does. Yet people who come home and chance upon one of our informal conversations will most definitely be at sea.

Forget the languages themselves, the various allusions-intertextual and otherwise-the quotes (from books,movies, relatives etc.), the mannerisms to go with each of these and of course the accents... Hmm.. maybe we should declare what we speak a different language as a whole.

The point being that there are more things than the tenets of the Mendelian Theory that bind family members together. And no,not all that sentimental stuff either- though that's definitely an aspect. Families connected,and each member made uniquely a part of that family through the bonds of language. No one family- no matter how alike- can speak like any other. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is another reason why language must always be respected.
Go Linguists!

God's own country...