Flying Kisses, Flying Time

It started innocently enough..and like most rituals, I can’t put a date to it. She was a tiny kiddy then, by comparison. We played catching the flying kiss at home from time to time..I would blow her a kiss and she would run around the house trying to catch it. She would blow me one..and show fake horror and exclaim that it was stuck on the door , or had fallen on ground..or some such thing, and I would need to retrieve it and tuck it away carefully..She would respond with the brightest giggle and a twinkle in her eye. 
I don’t know when, but we started exchanging flying kisses after she got on the school bus every morning. She would hold my hand at the school bus stop and her height, barely to my chest. She would run in to the bus, to her favorite seat : the 2nd last row corner window seat, and she would turn around and look at me and as the bus started to leave..I would blow her a kiss. She would catch it and then she would blow me one and I would catch it. She will throw me her brightest smile. 
Slowly the years have rolled by..she has grown taller, bigger, wiser. She is almost my height now and she says big things ., and writes about success and patience, and pain, and awkwardness..Words too wise for a soon to be 13 year old. Is her childhood all gone I wonder.. is she all adult now ? But then our childhood ritual of blowing kisses remains - for now..Yesterday, for the first time in a very very long time, she was distracted in the bus..She turned back well after it had left and I don’t know if my kiss reached her or got stuck on the bus somewhere...and it felt strange. I know the tables are turning when I caught myself telling her today ‘Remember to see here today’. I blew her that kiss and she blew one back. ‘She is my baby still’ my heart danced..’ 
How much longer...Time will tell

Navratri

Navratri : Literally..9 nights. In celebration : the 9 days to celebrate the Goddess.
Navratri is a very wistful time this year. A time when memories come flooding...of me as a 3 year old walking with my dad to the society Garba in Red Flats - our 1st home in Baroda..of Amma buying ‘chaniya cholis’ for me each year..of Amma and Appa dropping me off and picking me up late late nights after my Garba (how did they stay occupied keeping up till 1-2 am, waiting to pick up their 10-11 year old ? How did it never strike them to refuse me ?) , of Amma celebrating ‘Vethlai Paaku’ : inviting married women and giving them betel leaves and tobacco (she didn’t differentiate caste or creed. If you were married, and you were her friend, she invited you) of visiting other South Indian homes in Baroda to see their ‘Golus’ ; of going with Amma, much much later in life, to Jatujak market in Bangkok, to pick out cute gifts for her to give out during Navratri : tiny change purses one year, a colourful ‘kumkum’ Dabba another year... of eating the many varieties of ‘Sundal.’ Navratri is also about Saraswati pujai each year....putting away books on ‘Ashtami’ ..All our books, Amma’s Veenai, and then our laptops too. Saying ‘Saraswati Namastubhyam’ aprayer on Navami, and then starting Dussehra with writing ‘ABCD’ and for some reason, the Hindi alphabet too ! 
Festivals and Amma are inextricably linked. She celebrated each one, in full pomp and fare, every single year. There is no time that reminds me of her more, than the festival season...
She is a Goddess now, isn’t she ? Like the ones she celebrated each year, during Navratri.

Pattu Pavadai

‘Amma I found the ‘pattu pavadai’ material you were asking me about for months’ - I want to call Amma and say. She would have called me ‘ekkalapichcham’ or irresponsible, and scolded me. And I would have told her ‘atleast it is there.’ She would have had reiterated my ekkalapichchamness, and asserted that ‘I told you I had given it to you’. Amma had bought this this silk pavadai (ghagra/long skirt) material, God knows when, and gifted it to Trayi. It needed tailoring, so I thought I hadn’t brought it with me to Pune. Amma would ask me about it on every call. I would tell her it is likely with her. Truth be told, I had no memory of what the fabric was or how it looked like. Amma would describe it to me in great detail ‘Don’t you remember? It was in multicolour checks’ and I would squint trying to remember and still draw a blank. I asked Amma to check with Ajit’s mom if it was in their home in Bangalore. It really bothered Amma that this fabric was not traceable. And it bothered her that I was so forgetful and so nonchalant about it. ‘It was expensive you know’ she kept telling me. My immediate reaction on finding this during a cleaning spree of my saree cupboard, was to want to dial Amma. Wherever she is, will she know her ekkalapichcham daughter has found the pavadai material ? I sure hope so. Will she relax ? I don’t think so

I was in Bangalore KGA airport, awaiting my flight back to Pune, earlier today. The airport was filled with ads for a shopping festival for Father’s Day : ‘My Dad, my Hero’. There are discounts to buy your dad stuff. The ‘stuff’ my 79 year old dad would really like to have - his partner of 51 years - I am helpless to give him. 
As I walked away from him, into the departure gate, he looked forlorn, lonely, lost. Eyes moist, but determined not to break down, lest it impede my will to leave. For the first time in the 3 weeks since Amma left us suddenly, he is going to be mostly alone. Yes, my brother lives close by and my aunt lives in the same apartment complex, yet, for much of his time, he will be alone. 
Appa, like Amma was, is a very simple person. A man whose life revolved around keeping Amma and us, happy, ensuring, there was not just bread on the table, but butter, cheese and marmalade. Providing for my brother and me, the best education money and hardwork could provide. 
Along the way, he taught himself spoken English (he was educated in Tamil medium) by reading every book he could lay his hands on as he figured, that to grow his career in an MNC, language was his big barrier. In his job, he reinvented himself as a Total Quality Management expert, reading every book on the topic he could lay his hands on, with little formal training. He used to be an aggressive short tempered young man he says, and my brother recollects. But by the time I came along ( I was born when Appa was 37, 9 years after their marriage ) he had worked on his temper through meditation and become so even tempered, I have had a hard time believing he used to be otherwise. After Appa retired, he dedicated a decade of his life, learning the intricacies of technical based trading ( with mixed outcomes, admittedly), again reading voraciously on the topic and trying to implement it. In the last 18 months, Appa has become a bonafide Health nut - learning more about nutrition than most nutritionists, and has lost 15 kgs of weight and reversed his diabetes completely. The one thing I have seen about Appa is that anything he takes on, he gives himself to with resolute mental strength and with completeness. 
Today, on Father’s day, Appa took to the first tentative steps to reconstruct his life without Amma. He signed up as a volunteer at the Satya Sai Baba, super specialty hospital, where he plans to go a few times a week. Anybody that knows Appa, that he is actually an intellectual, and that volunteering is way out his comfort zone. But knowing Appa, he will surprise us yet again, by giving volunteering all he has to give, and emerging as a fervent advocate of volunteering. While all of us around Amma have struggled in the past few weeks, Appa, has been the beacon I have learnt to look up to. 
He is vulnerable, I can see. He is emotional I can see. Lost sometimes, like when I called this evening and he was wondering what he should tell the cook to cook. Forlorn too, like when I saw him at the airport. And yet, his iron will to pull through, to come out strong, is bigger than any of this. He stands taller than ever in my eyes. My gentle, yet strong dad. My dad, my hero.

Stealing your Mom's clothes

My 12 year old daughter started stealing my night dresses a couple of years ago.She raids my cupboard and steals one every night, drowning herself in long oversized flowy cotton night gowns. 'These are so big for you', baby' I still say. 'I like them like this' She insists. She even steals the ones that are beginning to tear. Especially those ones. 'These are sooo soft' She says. I've now bought extra. Free Sized cotton night dresses that both a 12 year old and a 42 year old can fit into. I can stock hers in her cupboard. But she prefers the pleasure of raiding mine. There is an unspoken joy in wearing your Mama's clothes for a little girl, I guess. She is trying to grow up, I guess. 'Mama, I am so big, I can share your clothes' she seems to say. 

Like Trayi, I used to wear Amma's night dresses many many years ago. Raided from her cupboard. Amma's were always floral prints, in mixed synthetic with a little lace. 
Over the years, I discovered the shops in Elco market, Bandra, and moved to block printed, kaftan styled, pure cotton night dresses. I updated my style, I grew up. 
Each time I visited Amma, she would offer, - nah, Amma never offered - insist actually, that I wear hers. 'Why do you bring so many night dresses. Use mine.' She would always insist. 
'Become my little girl again', Maybe she was imploring ?

I didnt tell Amma ,but secretly, I didnt quite dig her nightgowns anymore. I would use them once every now and then, but usually, I just stuck to mine. 'I am my own person now. My taste is not like yours anymore'. Maybe I was trying to say...
The night after Amma died, I raided her cupboard and stole all her nightgowns. I wear them every single night now. 

Isnt there vast unexplainable joy in wearing your Amma's clothes ?

Amma : Day 7

Today is day 7 since Amma left us. At this time last week, we (Appa, my chittis Mangalam (mom's younger sisters) and Indira, my Periamma Loknayaki (Mom's older sister),and Chittappa (my chitti's husband) were sitting around the dinner table, having, what turned out to be Amma's last meal. My brother (Ravi) had left for Bangalore just a couple of hours earlier. Everybody was in Pune for a family wedding- one that my mom had been excitedly looking forward to for months. She had called me a dozen times before coming - had I figured where all her sisters would go ? Where will go first ? Was the cab booked ? The wedding got over and the sisters and their spouses had a hectic sight seeing schedule lined up. Last Friday had been day 1 of schedule. 
There was Puran Poli with Amti on the menu and Sabudana Khichdi, and Pani puri too..and mangoes. I watched on as Amma gorged (silently scolding her for eating too much). The table conversation was lively, and chatty, as is when siblings get together. There was laughter, and stories, and more stories. But none of us guessed, that these were our last moments with Amma.. 

I want to hold time still at that moment right now. Knowing what I know now, I want to warn Amma 'dont go to sleep tonight...'. I want to tell Ravi, 'stay back in Pune, dont go to Banglore' (Would she have lived, had he been around ? she loved him so so much..) I want tell Appa, wake her up at 5.00 am (would she have lived if she was awake, not asleep ?) I want to hug her tight and tell her I love her (did she know I loved her ?). 

This last week has been surreal, strange..We- all of us who loved amma deeply- have suddenly been inducted into this silent tribe..This tribe of people that have lost a chunk of their Heart to that wretched thing called Death and are walking around with a large Gash that refuses to heal. A wound, that at the slightly opportunity becomes raw again. I know this tribe from the messages they send, from the calls they make. We are all kindred spirits, and every time somebody we know loses somebody deeply loved, we live our pain one more time...

Adios Amma...I never got to say my goodbye to you last week. Did I tell you, you were loved by so so many ?

Badam

Do you remember this ?? 

Walking on the streets of Domlur, I found these scattered on the road. Most were damagad from the fall but thankfully, a couple of fully ripened ones had fallen into a pile of sand nearby. 

These Badam fruits brought back memories of a carefree childhood. Growing up in Vadodara, Gujarat, the very first home I remember living in were a set of 4 apartments in an exposed brick building, known in the neighbourhood as ‘Red Flats or Lal Bunglow’. Across the street from my home were our friendly Neighbours- the Patel’s. The Patel Home had a compound, and in corner was a very large badam tree. 

My very first neighbourhood girl friend was a girl my age - Patel uncle’s youngest daughter ( there were 5 daughters in that Home). Playing on the road or inside the Patel compound was something I did often. I must have been 5 or 6 then, or younger still. It was a simpler time , and parents did not supervise play and there were no ‘play dates’. You just ran across the street (or trooped into a neighbours’s home) and started to play. 

So much of our play involved pickup up the fallen fruit and eating it. Yes it would be slightly damaged, but who cared!! We rarely washed it before eating either. 

I washed and ate 2 intact ones today. I haven’t tasted one in atleast 3 decades. I have never seen it sold anywhere and have never seen anybody else eat it either. But I still love it. Bright red on the inside - so red, it stains your tongue. It’s taste a mix of sweet, sour and a tad bitter. 

The joy didn’t end when you finished eating the pulp. You took a large stone and cracked the seed open. Messy business that - as the fibrous red covering of the seed would splatter red stain on your dress - a stain that wouldn’t wash away easy and Amma would give me a sound firing. But the scolding was always worth it , as inside the cracked seed was badam - almond. 

Wonder how many of you have eaten this fruit too ? 

Happy 70th Amma

Ma, when I look back on my childhood, I always remember you as somebody who was constantly doing something : be it taking tuitions, or selling embroidered stuff or cutting edge plastics or sarees. From you I learnt that I needed to be a working woman myself. I remember you changing 2 buses to go learn the Veena in Baroda, and then going for music classes in Bangalore well into your fifties. You learnt how to use a smart phone 2 years ago and how to use facebook and whatsapp last year. I looked at you and learnt that we never stop learning and growing. I always remember how quickly you made friends with people of all stripes and types - both men and women, and never stopped me from doing the same as well. From you I learnt that friendship knows no color, religion or gender. Over the years, I have seen you help people less fortunate than yourself - people who work for you would never ever leave you inspite of the frequent tongue lashing you gave them, bcoz you ensured tgey had a hot meal everyday, or their child was educated or their driving lessons paid for. I learnt from you that you dont need to donate to distant charities, that charity truly begins at home. I have seen you extend yourself time and time again to help a friend, a neighbour, a relative, without expecting anything in return. From you I have learnt true generosity of spirit. All through childhood, any food that came home was divided equally 4 ways. You always insisted on it. There was never any partiality. I dont know if you realise it, but you taught me fairness. Over the years, I have seen you and Appa, cope with life's challenges with resilience and faith- doing what you have to, day after day, never getting dejected, never losing hope. You have taught me how to cope with my own difficulties. Through all of it, ma, you have always been yourself. There are no facades, no layers. And you are the same when you talk to RadhaAmma, the maid, or a CEO's wife. People say I am bold, I am independent, that I am friendly, transparent and generous. All I say is I am but a shadow of my beautiful, strong, independent mother. Love you ma. Happy 70th.

Kizhakke Madom-My Grandfather's House

Kizhakke Madom. Mankompu. P.O.  Alleppey District. Kerala.  

My grandfather’s house. The house my mother called Home. My mother and her nine sisters. And before that, my grandfather and his siblings. The house that has stood for over a hundred years. The home where ‘The Sisters’ met with their three dozen offspring. And their kids too. The Family Home that tied the family together.  

Kizhakke Madom. Mankombu. In the middle of the ‘50 places to see before you die’ Backwaters. In ‘God’s Own Country’, Kerala. Serene, Idyllic; Sleepy, Idle.

Kizhakke Madom. The House on the East End. A house that was an Address by itself.  The house with countless mango trees, coconut trees, banana trees, jackfruit trees, guava trees and many other nameless trees. The house with its own private pond, private boat, two dozen rooms, hidden corners, dark alleys, attics, secrets. The house where every part had a name. Tekkamuri, Maramadi, Madaperra, Maditazhai, Puthacheri, Kittaam.

Kizhakke Madom. The house that the Sarpam (snake god) loved. The home that Sarpam would not leave. A house where the Sarpam is feared as much as He is worshipped. Every Day. Even Today.

A visit to Kizhakke Madom was an annual ritual in my life from the year I was born. A ritual, I had no say in, but did not initially look forward to. You see, we didn’t just visit Mankompu each year. We relocated there every summer. For the entire summer vacation of two + months. Every single year. From where I lived in Gujarat in the west of India, going to Mankompu was not unlike a trip to Timbuktu. It took around 3 -4 days to get there. One way.  First by Train. Then again by Train. Then by Car. And finally by Boat.

Mankompu was a little island with no tarred roads, no vehicles. The only way to get there was by boat. The ‘Row, row, row, your boat’ kind, mostly. Or by motor boat if you came from Alleppey.  Everybody on the island got around on foot. Literally. No shoes please. Atleast not usually. It may have been only an hour away from the nearest city, but it was almost as if it was forgotten by time.

There were very few shops there that sold just the essentials – soaps, some grocery, Parle biscuits and a little candy. Knicks and knacks could only be bought at the Sunday weekend market. The only outing was going to the village Temple. Morning and evening. Eating out was eating in the courtyard instead of indoors. The telephone was likely one of Graham Bell’s early pieces. It served more as an adornment than as a means of communication. You only got a Phone Call if there was Bad News. Otherwise, you communicated by telepathy. Toys consisted of handmade fans – made by Balan or Aiyyappan-my grandfather’s faithful men. There were no movie theatres to go to;no libraries either. When televisions finally came to the village, everybody else had one- except Thatha (my grand-dad). I remember talking with him and trying to negotiate buying a T.V. He just chuckled indulgently. And never bought a T.V. anyway. So we ran to neighbours houses to watch Ramayana or Mahabharata. My grand-father never bought a refrigerator either. Who wanted to eat stale food anyway? Milk came home –fresh off the cow- twice a day. Vegetables plucked off their sources and cooked every day. On wood-fired stoves.

A visit to the Loo was one that needed much preparation. It had its own name. Kittaam. Like it was another town. It almost was. You walked around 200 meters off the main house into a dark un-lit, tumbling structure that was the Loo. You had to prepare yourself to commune with the spiders while there. And the lizards and the cockroaches. After sunset, you Held It All In.

My other ‘luckier’ cousins visited Kizhakke Madom in short bursts. A fortnight maybe. Sometimes a month. I was there to receive them and send them off. Besides, only a few of them were even around my age group. Time went quickly when there was company- doing the things kids usually do-climbing trees, going on ‘discovery’ trips to unused portions of the house, fighting, playing games in the compound. But that was not always. And I had enough Time to rave, rant, complain, get bored, dream, laze, enjoy and eventually, Fall in Love. Over 15 years. With my grand-father’s house. Kizhakke Madom.  

When I was in my teens, my grandfather passed on. And my summer vacations stopped. Suddenly there was No Where to go. Because Kizhakke Madom was now no longer ours. It belonged to my grandfather’s brother-we shall call him Uncle. You see, my grandfather –not for the lack of effort- had produced no Sons. No Heir, No House. As per The Law.

Many times, we cousins considered asking for the house. Or buying it back. Many of my older cousins grew up in Mankompu, went to primary school there. So have even deeper bonds than I with Kizhakke Madom. But The Sisters intervened. Who would take care of the Sarpam(snake god) ?. For the Sarpam was a demanding God. He had to be worshipped every day. Fed with milk every day. And if you invited His Ire, He would Curse. So nobody asked Uncle. They said ‘Let Uncle take care of Kizhakke Madom’. And he did. But we could never go and live there again. We visited the temple every few years-the family deity. And if Uncle was around, we could stay overnight. Else, we would sit in the courtyard of the house and have a meal. Reminisce about old times, and head back to the city the same day.

A few years ago -the time came when uncle could no longer take care of Kizhakke Madom anymore. Under him, the house had changed a lot. Parcels of land around the main house had been sold off. And old teak structures had been dismantled and sold piece by piece. But the core of the house still remained.

Again, we considered asking Uncle about it. Again the Snake God raised His Head. So, we dropped the topic. And the house. Uncle did not want it to fall into the wrong hands. People with no respect for its legacy and history. So he donated it to A Mutt (a religious organization) far away. He extracted a promise that they would use it well. Build a Veda School. And soon after, he passed away.

I last visited Kizhakke Madom 2 years ago. To show my daughter and my husband where I had spent 15 summer holidays. The house was vacant. Nobody lived there. Nobody had cleaned it in a while. The Mutt has too many properties to handle apparently. And No-Man’s Land Mankompu is apparently too far for a Veda School. The courtyard was filled with deep puddles, with little tadpoles swimming all around. My daughter refused to enter. My mother and I dodged the tadpoles and went up to the small temple of Snake God. He now owned all of Kizhakke Madom. The house that had cradled scores of babies, raised dozens of kids, held hundreds of stories within its walls, fed several thousand meals in its lifetime, stood abandoned, neglected, alone.

There is a fresh round of discussions among the cousins. Should we approach the Mutt for the house? Should we buy it back?  The Snake God will rear His Head again.