Roots and Rituals

Sifting through the past couple of entries, I realise I have been gravitating towards traditions and rituals. Which is ironic because, I am not particularly ritualistic. But I think it is because of this that I find it necessary to talk about the few rituals I do follow. They feel so singular. And the thing about rituals in my family is that they are largely coloured by personal preference. Consequently, the symbolic gravitas of the ritual is largely submerged in the family bonding. This is best captured in a tradition that is unique to my family-- the biannual Devi Pooja.

Twice a year, the ancestral abode hosts a two-day event of piety and devotion, which doubles as an unofficial family reunion. This tradition is close to the heart because it was my grandparents who initiated me into it. The pooja was there before them, obviously. But it was in their time that the doors were truly flung open. Everyone who could would come. It was in their time that the trust was formed to conduct the pooja.  And when they passed on, the rest of the family realised that the Pooja didn't happen just by itself. Then, of course, the whole thing became a semi-formal affair with sponsors, and a second maintenance fund, and a whole lot of paperwork. But all that doesn't stop it from having its unique brand of familial strangeness.

The pooja is technically about paying respects to the Goddess, but for us I believe it is more about paying respects to a great grandmother.

Legend has it that the earliest forbearers of the family were childless and the resident Namboothiri was in danger of being kicked out of the Menon household in favour of a more fecund gentleman(check out the Nair matriarchal system for clarifications). In desperation, the couple set out to pray for children to the benevolent Mookambika Devi and began a journey to Kollur. Given that this was 500 years ago, give or take a few decades, the trek was an arduous one, to say the least. Several miles into the journey the Mister and Missus paused in their trudge to partake of refreshments.

Look! A young girl on the wayside! Such a radiant child! She doesn't seem like an ordinary sort of girl. Hello. Oh look, you have hurt your foot! Poor dear! Where did you come from? What? You have no family? Oh you poor thing ... Wait-- perhaps you are the answer to our prayers.We have no children, why don't you come with us, little one? 

The girl murmured an assent and she was hoisted into the caravan. (This was, of course, long before randomly picking up children off the pavement became a criminal offence.)The couple returned home in high spirits. They were thrilled with their foundling. Mother and father ushered her into an antechamber, the machu,  to freshen up and went about preparing a hot meal to welcome their new daughter.

The banana leaf was laid, the payasam prepared, but the girl was yet to come out of her room.  Maybe she was feeling shy? Mother went up to her door and called out, but received no reply. Once again she called her, only to be greeted with more silence. The reticence did not seem normal. The mother entered the room and promptly fainted.

For in the place of the little girl, there now remained a short sword and shield and a long length of blood red silk.

What could this mean?

That night the Goddess appeared in the elder's dream,. She was pleased with the love that the couple had offered her in her guise of a child (pedantic aside-- 'Durga' can also mean nine year old). To reward their kindness, She declared that no woman born of the line will ever be childless, and that She will stay on in their house, fulfilling the role of their adopted family. In return, all She required was that a daughter of the house keep a lamp burning for Her. 

'Muthashi' is the malayalam word for grandmother. Muthashiyar is what my family calls the Goddess. 

The house has been around for 500 years or so. Before you archeological hair-splitters get on my case let me clarify, it has had it's fair share of renovations. It's present state is largely the work of the Madras grandfather-- the  head of the household two-three generations past. After the inevitable property divisions and such, the original ettukettu had turned into a naalukettu with a single open courtyard called the nadumittam in the middle of the house rather than two. Madras grandfather took it upon himself to rebuild the partitioned property into a habitable dwelling.

When my grandparents moved there, the house had no electricity, running water was possible only in a couple of rooms, the entrance from the road was perched at the peak of steep steep steps that no car could navigate, and a kingdom of bats ruled the mysterious attic. They poured their meagre savings and their love into making the house habitable again, and getting Muthashiyar's pooja back on the calendar. It is the pattern they put into place that is still being followed now.

The nearest family representative,  and others who can make it  earlier, arrive a day or two before the big day. To them falls the task of organising whirlwind clean up, making sure the resident civet cat (which has ousted the bats to great extent) has not strayed from it's domain in the attic, delegating the acquisition of the pooja items to the ever-smiling and hard of hearing Kanakkarai, picking up groceries and back up items for the next  three days, ordering pedestal fans for the sweltering May sessions, managing last minute repairs to the house, and clearing the yard to construct the make shift shamiana where lunch is served on the two days of Pooja.My grandparents-- grandmother in particular-- were famous for their hospitality and went out of the way to make sure anyone who attended the pooja felt welcome and well fed. (Our family believes the clearest way to make some one know they are loved is to feed them silly.)  The food was so systematically supplied that for the longest time, the attendees actually thought that their hundi donations went into the funding of the meal. In reality it was the fruit of our the hosts' painful budgeting and stringent economies. At times my grandparents had to forego food to serve the guests. Thankfully now it is taken up by another branch of the family.That said, the organisers need to eat. The uber-efficient Karthyani is a cook of superlative skill (it is ironic that the only thing she consistently fails at is coffee/tea brewing and maggi making) Under her care, we are always one step away from a food coma. Menu planning is a special part of the pooja run up.

Sleeping arrangements are another interesting quirk of the pooja process. Mattress airing (sometimes repairing) and pillow location are tasks specific to the pooja preps. Then, there is room allocation. The older people, the recently injured (yes, this is a usual category), and  little children too spooked to go upstairs, are put in the ground floor bedrooms (the ones with actual beds). The rest of the able-bodied folk fight for the privilege of sleeping on the thekinithara. Everyone loves the TT. Why? It's cool even in the most scorching summer, the open nadumittam just across guarantees ventilation. (Unfortunately, it also lets in mosquitoes, but what are tortoise coils for?) The new sons or daughters in law, and the menfolk who can climb stairs/lost out on the thekinithara are shifted to upstairs bedroom. And once the bedroomers retire, the mattresses are spread out on the TT, the lights turned off and every one lies down... and talks, and talks, and talks. By the time the talking finally moves into a symphony of snores, it is time to wake up. The bathrooms-- which are always case studies for the Law of Marginal Utility-- need to be negotiated so that everyone is bathed brushed by the time the sun is out. 

As Pooja day dawns, the first task is getting the prasasadam of  the Ganapati homam at the Kaavu near by. Meanwhile, the hanging lamps and flowers are added to the sanctum sanctorum. By 7:30-8:00 the first guests begin to arrive and the bad-tea service begins. Socialising has to be carried out while keeping an eagle eye on the door way for the arrival of the priest. This is an actual task because by the time the gentleman arrives, the house will be chock a block full of people. Once he enters the pooja is officially begun. The interim is punctuated by standard exchanges and sights like 
-Everyone telling everybody else that they have grown fatter or greyer (apparently offensive personal statements are favourite ice breakers)
-Older people accosting younger ones with demands to recall their name ("Hello XYZ! You have grown so fat! Do you know me?" *Awkward pause*)
-Young people being recruited for lamp lighting, prasadam distribution, errand running purposes,
-Little children risking death by trampling
-People getting up to date with each others lives. 
Through all of this, is the running theme of returning home to Muthashiyar.

There are three poojas per  day-- two in the morning and one at night. And each pooja's completion is signal by series of three bells. At the third bell, the devotees line up to pay their respects to the deity,  pass the camphor lamp to each other and partake of the prasadam. Disband and reassemble when the next set of bells ring, and then the big lunch with the prasadam paayasam as dessert . The family members take turns to serve each other and make sure the older people who cannot negotiate steps are served inside. There is a short lull after the lunch break where the tired nap, the reunited chatter, and the industrious infrequent visitor make quick jaunts to other places they haven't been to in ages. The organisers meanwhile take this opportunity to take stock, check finances and quickly pick up missing essentials to meet the needs or demands of the later arrivals, and arrange transport for return trips for those who need it. The evening pooja begins with the lighting of small earthen lamps all around the house to mark the Karthika star. The morning's rituals are now carried out to the background score of bhajans being sung and the chanting of the Lalitasahasranamam--The Thousand Names of the Goddess. Disbanding happens faster because there's no group dinner on offer , plus it's late and everyone wants to get home. Once this happens, we regroup, discuss the days events. We share the myriad changes in the regular pooja goers, pooja highlights and eat ourselves into a stupor. But the stupor will have to be put aside, in favour of  accounts. Expenses and donations need to be tallied, and bills organised. Inevitably we end up with a ludicrous figure that defies mathematics. Eventually we put it aside and all fall asleep. 

Day two follows the same pattern only we now include a trip to the bank to keep aside whatever was collected in the donation box in the Trusts account along with the few donations to the scrawny maintenance fund. Everyone is busy gathering phone numbers, talking about how they really have to get back, how it's such a shame the house is shut up for the rest of the year. By the end of the afternoon pooja most of the out-of-towners would have left and the evening pooja will be very sparsely attended. That evening's prayers have a quieter tone, everyone is aware that we have to leave and the talk is tinged with regret and distraction.Inevitably, it all winds down. The accounts are finally tallied. The donation and payment amounts put into their respective envelopes, the mattresses piled away. The fans returned, the cooking vessels put away, the lamps dismantled, and an unsettling, sombre quietness curls arounds the walls... the house knows it's going to be alone again, forgotten again, waiting again. 

Work's crazy! Holidays are sparse and saved for that special trip to some exotic place. The kids feel so awkward in Kerala. There is this other thing that's happening at that place. The bathrooms in the house are so old! October-November? Ooh Thanksgiving!  

Everyone's got somewhere to be. Even me. Somewhere inside me there is a nine year old girl who knows there is another unaging nine year old girl who waits in the Machu, for someone to light a lamp. And I can't face either of them. And that's why I am writing this. Muthashiyare, I miss you. I am sorry I can't be there to light you your lamp. And as I sit alone in this lonely world, I wish I could have you hold my hand across the rungs of the machu door as I have so often imagined you doing. You must feel lonely too.

But I am thinking like a mortal. God is not confined to a room. And Muthashiyar is above such pettiness. But I am glad I have a ritual that gives me a grandmother to go back to, long after my mortal one passed on. Insufferably human as it is, it makes me feel better. And I imagine that Muthashiyar , indulgent and tender, finds our games and little dramas entertaining enough to not grudge us our human fallibility. Thank you for being there.

I will come home soon.

Recommended Aside-

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1KUXGRxjPNQ

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.

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.

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.

Hairy Tale

I think it started with Rapunzel and Sohrab&Rustam.

This fascination with a feminine head of flowing,glossy locks has endured and even grown through the ages. And now it's transferred to the masculine head as well- pioneered by Mahendra Singh Dhoni,Vikram and for a while Amir Khan to name a few. My family has always had issues with my hair. Especially my father and brother. Coming from a stock of Class A Mallus, they maintain that long flowing tresses are an essential for the enhancement of female beauty. And no argument- reasonable or otherwise- can ever convince them otherwise. It's all my mother's fault of course! She's the one who set the precedent. Whenever I passionately champion the wonders of un-long hair, they merely turn and point to her.But surprisingly, or perhaps unsurprisingly,she had always been my staunchest supporter in the cause of manageable short hair. But that reprieve didn't last long.The number of things done to my poor tresses outnumber the number of things done to my face(refer to previous posts).But like my face it has remained firmly untamed. In fact, my mother actually had plans of taking me along while she tought Shelley's Ode to The West Wind. She wanted to give them a clear picture of "maenad's hair" (for the ignorant- go read the poem).

It's not that I don't like my hair- I love my hair ,I really do. It's distinctive and very like me: messy, notorious and a not a little scary. Since it's so much like me, isn't it the natural course of things that I carry forward the similarity and keep it short? I remember that glorious time when the hair-lady had made a mistake and bobbed off my mid-back trail.I didn't have to really comb it for ages! A lazy girl's dream. But then it grew...sigh. But all said and done, my hair does look nicer long. When it's short I look more like a hobbit than ever. But then it's such a bother... It seems my hairytale has no happy ends-they are all split.

And why am I writing about this? I've been charged with getting a haircut. Why am I not rejoicing, you ask? Simple- there are instructions. Left to my own devices I'd just take a pair of scissors and snip away. But noooooo. It has to be done in a system. I should go to a stylist and get a trim as opposed to a chop. And I have to make sure that it swings just so and that the "volume" (isn't that something in stereos?) is maintained and GAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!The physics, and lately the chemistry, of hairstyling-especially female hairstyling- is hair raising. The names itself require a hundred page glossary. The prospect of journeying into the tangled lands of beautiful hair makes my hair stand on end. Ah why oh why are we put to such tests!? Is it not bad enough that we have a facial hair ripped off to appease beauty. Must we bow our heads to these edicts as well?

May be I'll just make a trip to Tirupathi, what say?

I'm a good sport

"When did you ever play badminton? Do you know which end of the racket to hold?"

Yours truly is a self professed spectator. But I must have professed a lot if my mother couldn't remember my badminton phase.Sure,I'm at my element in a cheering squad and far away from the field. But that doesn't mean that I never ventured into it. I distinctly remember entering a hopping race and walking half way through during my second standard. And I also remember falling on my behind while trying to throw a javelin (don't even think of asking how),thankfully my behind is very well padded. But seriously, I did take part in sports- I had no choice. We had a games period and a teacher who used to hound us into playing.

I'm a peaceful soul and therefore took up the path of least resistance. I tried my hand at basketball. But the small problem of negligible height and no aim was a slight impediment. So I resorted to running all around the court yelling like banshee- that way everyone thought you were playing. However, this gambit turned out to be a little tiring- not to mention annoying to the fellow players who were actually playing (losers).

Hence, I had to shift base. Me, being the smart genius that I am (yes,you should get your autographs before-hand), took up a sport that seemed to be the one with least exertion necessary-badminton. A simple game it seemed to me. All you needed to do was thwack the cock (hmm...may be it was the first signs of the radical feminist I'd become.)It was so much fun I actually got interested in the thing. (No, no, not enough to go look at rules or anything[what do you think I am? Hard working?]) It got so much so that we of the Badminton Enthusiasts Association used to have earth shaking fights with the boys over the rackets.(It was not for nothing I was called "bulldozer" in my younger days.) For you see, our school was rather Gandhian in it's approach. It believed in training students in making do with whatever was available. Sometimes even less. Hence it was not an unusual sight to see shuttle enthusiasts playing with frayed rackets and, as time progressed and rackets grew stringless, tennis rackets.I didn't know this actually made a difference, until I went to Kodaikanal with the redoubtable Charlie.

And we come to the incident that actually triggerred this pile of dingo's kidney(Term,courtesy Gunther). In the picturesque locale of Kodaikanal,'mountain princess', I was obliged once again to pick up a badminton racket.It was like going back home! The same frustrated looks when I missed, the same jokes when I'd flail the racket like a maniac and hit thin air, the same guffaws at my service... sigh... I wonder why I stopped playing. :D

Two, three rounds of the game and I was actually getting a hang of it. Which is when Charlie's sibling asked me whether I'd ever played tennis looking at the way I swung the poor instrument in my hands. And at the end of the 6th match, I actually won! Needing someone to boast about this feat to I called my mother. And then we know what she said.

Ah well,I may not be good at sports; but I'm definitely a good sport, eh what?

Beauty-fool

Back in the days when my mother had hopes for turning me into a beauty, we used to have lovely back-and-forths on the virtues of slathering the face with a variety of unidentified gooey objects. The major contention was gettin it applied. Seriously, how can you expect a healthy..er..hyperactive twelve year old to sit still for something as silly as a face pack? Of course once it was done, my brother and I had great times enacting monster attacks( no points for guessing who the monster was.)
Perhaps it's because of this traiing that face paint never bothered me. Niether did having to go on stage as a monster. Hmm...

Ah well, moving on- my mother's efforts slackened in between the school years, probably because she couldn't get her hands on me long enough. I thought I'd seen the end of it.But I was much mistaken. I left home to college with two containers of beauty powders pressed into a nook in my stuffed box. I admit I did apply them for a few days. I didn't have much of a choice- I used to be "reminded" to do it everyday. When the phone bills intervened, the reminding stopped, but then there was the guilt factor. So i kept at it for a while. Human nature saved me from falling into the clutches of beauty- plain laziness put an end to my beauty treatments.

The days turned to months, the months into years. The skin tanned, the hair mussed, but I continued uninterested. That is until the NoseRing Girl intervened. NRG is a babe of the first order. And she takes it as a personal offence to find someone not interested in personal grooming. Pretty soon I had to listen to blistering set downs for standing in the sun, not using cream, bla bla bla (Sorry NRG). And it's not just NRG. The aunties and uncles, not to mention cousins (traitors!), joined in. Every college break was punctuated with comments on the lines of- "Oh you used to be so fair! What happened?" or "Your hair!!..(shocked, tactful silence)". Still the human spirit in all it's resillience refused to be converted. I remained a slob. After a while the "advice" began to die down. They had finally given up at the sight of my unrepentantly unpretty face.

Or so I thought.

I return home for the brief space before the race restarts-A few weeks of relaxation while the rest of the family slogs (hah hah hah!). I get woken up in the morning by a mother who in the middle of rushing to work remembers to tell me- "Oh and put that thing on your face alright, it's good for your skin."

And here I sit in front of the computer looking like something from some B grade alien movie. Life has a distinctly ironic way of saying things never change.

Turkey Travails

Every Christmas, my mother is faced with a huge problem. Literally and figuratively. My father's effervenscent gourmet friends lovingly and regularly present us with a large turkey the size of Australia. This wouldn't really be a problem if my mother knew what to do with it. As wide as my mother's culinary expertise is, the turkey is beyond her. Whether she curries it or fries it or even puts it in biryani, the result still falls short of that Elysium of "yummy".
Well, this time she was ready for the battle.
As always the turkey made it's solid presence felt in the freezer by the 23rd and amma had recruited excellent reinforcements. Jalaja Aunty. Second in command to Amma, she was the one who executed. Where Amma was the Crusoe, Jalaja was the Friday. The battle was set- the women vs the turkey.The dynamic duo confered.
BANG BANG BANG!!!!
This brought the family into the kitchen-to find Jalaja aunty fearlessly battering the monstrous unyielding turkey into pieces. Chunks. Parts?
The result of the bloody tug of war between tendons and tenacity, was a triumph of human spirit. The turkey was chopped up!
But what to do with it?
Another heated discussion.The decision was to boil some of the pieces, then shred the meat and add it to either soup, rice or make sandwich filling out of it. The very fact that my mother was going to such complicated ends to get rid of the thing reflected her desperation.
They boiled it and they shredded it.At this crucial juncture, Amma lost her trusted ally to the forces of getting-back-home. Now it was just her and the turkey.
She put all her skills to it. She painstakingly cooked the meat with varied spices, added lemon and pepper and God knows what to it. She'd have done Sanjeev Kapoor proud.
Finally the end result arrived at the table. She waited with bated breath for the consensus.

"Amma...why is it slightly sweet?"

The treacherous turkey had done it again. Maybe it was the taste. Maybe it was the sheer quantity.But the turkey became leftovers.And Amma beat her breast in frustration. But the gleam of stubborn determination shines in her eyes. She WILL rid her kitchen of the foul fowl! The question is how?.....I guess it's bird watching time at the table.