Memoirs from Mom's

My uncle’s body glistened with sweat and sun. He was squeezing the water content out of raw rubber sheets. It’s an elaborate process, this rubber making.

Achaachan collects the sap that trickles out of the rubber tree. Small furrows are shaved into this soft-wooded tree to stream out the milky substance. This is collected in coconut shells that are fastened onto the tree. The collected sap is then poured out into Aluminium dishes. Diluted acid is poured into this to allow coagulation. The mixture is allowed to stand overnight. The next day, we kids inspect the dishes before Achaachan does. It looks like a huge piece of rectangular-shaped cheese, with water collected on top of it. Achaachan never allowed us to touch the rubber until he had washed them with water. He used huge squeezers to take out the last bit of water from these rectangular pieces of rubber. While squeezing, it is flattened out into huge white sheets that are then dried in the sun. The yellowed sheets are then packed off to the market. We never knew what became of it, after that. This was just one of the mysteries about my Achaachan’s profession.

There were others too. He had a plantation of Cocoa plants. The fruit, when pried open, would reveal stony seeds encased in fleshy white pulp. Achaachan passed on the fleshy white to us. It tasted sweet and together, with four of my cousins, we cleaned out a whole basket full of them! As we kids lay on the grass, we wondered about how this tropical fruits transformed into the cosmopolitan chocolates we gorged.

What a name we call him… Achaachan, I thought. He is my mother’s elder brother. She would ideally be the one who calls him “Achaachan”, which means ‘elder brother’ in those parts of Kerala. We grew up hearing her address this huge man Achaachan, and so the naming convention was tweaked and the word stuck. Wonder if they ever squabbled as kids.

One of them raced uphill. He yelled something about meeting under the Tamarind tree (kudam puli). We city folks puffed and panted all the way up to meet him. There he sat, feasting on a bright orange fruit. It looked like an orange that had just been peeled. The juice from the fruit escaped from the corner of him mouth and landed on his pristine shirt. I looked on with water filling in my mouth. I imagined the yellow fruit to have a pulpy sweet taste. At least that is what I thought it would be, from the expression the boy wore. I dislike tangy flavoured fruits. This, I soon figured out, was one of them. With a grimace, I walked further uphill. We were not allowed to go any further without the grown-ups. There were the ruins of an old house out there.

The soft muddy floor felt glorious beneath my bare feet. If you took the efforts, you could actually drive hard twigs into the floor. So soft, this was. The gaps on the dilapidated roof reminded me of my own mouth, with some of my milk teeth missing. You could see the sky through the roof. Cool! I ventured into one of the darker areas of the house that was. I did have some not so old memories of spending a vacation fortnight in this house. I remembered sitting in the porch that was, and staring at my grandfather’s shiny hairless head. We have sat together, him piously perched on the slab, while I dangled and swung my short legs. Drinking sweet water from tender coconuts. He rarely spoke. Sometimes, he would tie a homemade swing for me and motion me to go have fun… Funny how many memories you can stash away in the back of your head, for ages. And then, one fine day, after fifteen to twenty years, it all comes flooding back to you.

My mother called him ‘Appan’ (Father, in Malayalam). We also called him the same, not aware of the meaning of the word, in the beginning. Later on, just like Achaachan, the name stuck. For us, these Malayalam terms functioned like sweet sounding first names. I don’t remember many things about Appan. Like, I don’t know the exact date when he died. I just know that it was in April 1991. His lips looked so alive and pink that day. I don’t remember the stories he must have told me. But I do remember his chequered blue lungi. I remember the endless moments I spent sitting with him under the Badam tree, watching autumned leaves fall. I remember him descending into the family well to clean it. I remember how, even till the end, he preferred an icy cold bath. I remember how his daughter—my mother—would sit and discuss old distant relatives. Most of all, I remember the distinct smell he and everything he owned, had.

As is usual, such entries will always remain incomplete. I am never too sure how to end them.

Snippets - I

Pa caught hold of me online and gently dropped the idea into my head. Now, it simply isn’t going away. He said that we could spend this Onam in Kerala. Now, I fail to recollect everything that had rushed into my mind when he mentioned the word “Kerala”. But, some of the thoughts have managed to linger on.

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The earliest distinct memory about Kerala, for me, is the airport in Cochin. There would be the sudden sticky feeling all over my body as soon as we stepped out of the aircraft. The result of air-conditioning inside the aircraft and the humidity outside. The harsh raindrops on me, like a tired girl plopping on a settee at the end of the day. Roaring giant machines, flags waving, and the uniformed personnel. Then there was the endless queue at the counters and Pa filling forms and Ma taking care of the baggage and us. We children were impatient because we knew somewhere in the premises of this airport, there stood a couple of men who bore striking resemblance to my father—his brothers. The trip home in an ancient yet sturdy Ambassador, with we three kids struggling for the window seats. Windows ensured wetting your face in the rain and also lapping up the green that sped by. However, all hopes were thwarted when the driver, in white mundu and white shirt, would wrap our luggage with waterproof canvas and then would tightly shut all the windows, except his.
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Ma’s house is very far from Pa’s. It takes a little more than five hours by road, to get there. We would leave from Thrissur after breakfast. The same white-clad driver would be there. The drive was uncomfortable for some of us, especially because we were squished together with the luggage in the backseat, while my podgy brother royally sat with Pa and the driver. I envied the front view he got from his seat. The car went past brilliant green paddy fields with tender saplings in waterlogged squares of earth. It was as though God was trying to make a green patchwork quilt. The tassels of this quilt were made out of the tall coconut and areacanut trees. These trees had white and yellow painted strips across their barks. Ma never knew the explanation for this mystery. The car stereo belted out the latest Malayalam songs with Pa singing along, in spite of hearing them for the first time. I squabbled with my sister for something or the other until Ma would intervene and draw comparisons about how well behaved the little boy in the front seat was. My brother would preen with pride for a second or two, before returning back to picking his nose, silently.

I liked to gaze into the ochre-coloured water that made puddles in collaboration with potholes on the road. This view was best observed when the car was stopped for refuelling, or for a break. If we were at a filling station, the muddy puddle would have a shiny layer of oil that could trap all the colours of the rainbow. I would drop a piece of paper, or spit into it when Ma wasn’t looking, to form the ripples in the tiny brown lake.
“Pataambi-Manchery-Areacode-Mukkam!” Ma declared.
“What’s that?”
“That’s how I can reach home from your Pa’s!”
To me, Ma looked like a child for just that one second.
~~~

Twilight. We have completed a fortnight in Ma’s home. In spite of living a fairly modernized life, my mother’s family still follow quite a few routines that are more apt for times when there was no electricity in the region. It was only 7pm and the early dark had just begun to enclose the front yard. Dinner preparations were well on the way and the television was switched off. The day got over by 8.30 out here. I don’t remember a time when it has never rained while I have stayed at Ma’s place. Rains in the hilly region are heavy. It can sometimes present a scary sight to a child. The trees sway violently and the water drops fall with some unknown vengeance. And when the rain finally stops, countless tiny winged insects fly towards the light bulb that glowered beneath the picture of the Last Supper. The lizards followed suit in search of the multitudes of insects that had gathered. The open porch was wet with rivulets of rainwater draining off into the lawn. Our dog, Jimmy, dozed in the only dry spot. My brother was meddling with its tail.

“Monae, athu kadikkum!” (Roughly translated as: It’s gonna bite you)
“No Ma. He is my pet. Pets don’t bite!”
“Come inside and wash your hands with soap. Do you know what is for dinner? Kappa!”
Fresh yam mashed and served with meat… He salivated. The dog was left alone and the boy pleased his mother.

I was not interested to have dinner, I informed them. I was taking revenge for not giving me extra attention. That day, I remember, I was sulking about not having a special pet name like my friends. I said I was glad that Pa would be coming tomorrow to take us back to Thrissur where our other cousins awaited.
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