Coming Home
I can smell the change in the air.Its hardly being six hours back in this state and already i feel better. Or maybe it's just the coconut oil.
A sensation one gets when you prise open the ancient door and the windows after you come home after a long long time. The windows refuse to open and it takes effort to coax them to let the sunlight through their defences. The door takes more effort, creaking its stubborness loud to its masters. After all, it has been there longer than any of these new people crossing its threshold. The children enter and anounce their presence by jumping on the sofa covered by a blanket, moth eaten and mouldy. The sofa replies by emitting a cloud of dust so thick the children dissappear in it. They emerge shrieking and overjoyed to be in this strange place, the one that their parents used to say so much about all the time; a place where the sounds of the cars and buses have been replaced by cows and crows. There's no early morning rush to get ready for school, no hurried gulping down of the bread jam sandwiches, no one to tell them to stand in lines and behave like 'a lady' and be a 'proper gentleman'. Their parents have told them that for the next two weeks they are free to do what they want.
To a couple of 11 year olds just having escaped the repressions of a antiquated schooling system, nothing could be better.
The mother stands in the middle of the drawing room, she doesnt call it a 'living room', itwill always be the drawing room to her. Many humid afternoons ago, this is where she used to lie on the cool stone floor in her white cotton frock, drawing misshapen animals, fat glossy leaves and wrinkled trees, chubby gods and grumpy demons, frowning clouds and smiling suns on sheets of brown paper that her father used to get from the printing press run by her uncle across the lake.
Her husband steps outside, stretching his limbs, cramped after the long journey in the train all through the night. The journey has been worth it, he thinks. He looks around at the unrelenting greenery, the seemingly disorganised mish mash of trees, creepers and ferns that have taken up every single available inch of the fertile land. He listens carefully to the tok-tok of a distant woodpecker, the constant neverending drone of a thousand crickets. Here in this eden, these are the only sounds he can hear. Then there's the wind whispering the news of the arrival of these strangers to the rubber trees all around the house. The pigeons cock their grey topped heads, trying to place the new visitors, cooing to each other catiously.
He opens the gate, smiling at the creaky sound of the rusty joints. He steps on to the road, "well this looks new..hmm when was this road laid ?" he looks up and down the road thinking, hoping to see a familiar face. All he can see is a dirty white cow down the road near the junction they had got down at, looking at him curiosly while chewing thoughtfully at the grass.
He turns back towards the house when he hears shrieks coming from the house, sounds of happiness and dicovery, the sounds of childhood being freed of the shackles of discipline and rules. He is glad that the kids are being able to expreience this. "They need to be a part of this land, this is where they belong". Bangalore seems so far away. All the deadlines, the constant pings on the messenger, the mails and memos, the commute to the office and back home, all that seems an oddity here. I can actually hear my own breathing here, he thinks. Ok, time to unpack and meet our assorted appas and ammas..can't have them calling up to ask where we are. Old men, walking and muttering to themselves and toothy ancient women walking on the road. They see him and the usual question follows, "when did you come..." answer followed by the second question " all ok na?" and they are on their way. Not that they actually need an answer to thier questions, its just how it is . This place is healthy, no wonder these people look so healthy even at this age, he thinks. No wonder kerala has the largest grey population in the country.
Later in the evening, the children are scrubbed and dressed in their best temple worthy dresses. The strains of some yesudas ayyapan song wafts over the treetops, seemingly out of place and at the same time, totally in sync with this tranquility of the hour. The parents and the children walk on to the dharma sastha temple. The children keep asking their parents about the temple, considering that this is only the second time they are going to see it. The last time being almost five years ago. "will there be elephants there, mummy?" she asks. Passing villagers, some of them who still remember the couple from earlier, stop by and ask the ritualistic questions. The family looks happy and in a way, free. Free from work schedules and school timetables. They smile more readily and naturally, their actions are more relaxed.
The children are amazed into silence at the temple, they look around wonderously at the pillars, at the huge brass lamps hanging from the iron beams high up. And yes, there is a elephant, a small one but still a elephant no less.
A sensation one gets when you prise open the ancient door and the windows after you come home after a long long time. The windows refuse to open and it takes effort to coax them to let the sunlight through their defences. The door takes more effort, creaking its stubborness loud to its masters. After all, it has been there longer than any of these new people crossing its threshold. The children enter and anounce their presence by jumping on the sofa covered by a blanket, moth eaten and mouldy. The sofa replies by emitting a cloud of dust so thick the children dissappear in it. They emerge shrieking and overjoyed to be in this strange place, the one that their parents used to say so much about all the time; a place where the sounds of the cars and buses have been replaced by cows and crows. There's no early morning rush to get ready for school, no hurried gulping down of the bread jam sandwiches, no one to tell them to stand in lines and behave like 'a lady' and be a 'proper gentleman'. Their parents have told them that for the next two weeks they are free to do what they want.
To a couple of 11 year olds just having escaped the repressions of a antiquated schooling system, nothing could be better.
The mother stands in the middle of the drawing room, she doesnt call it a 'living room', itwill always be the drawing room to her. Many humid afternoons ago, this is where she used to lie on the cool stone floor in her white cotton frock, drawing misshapen animals, fat glossy leaves and wrinkled trees, chubby gods and grumpy demons, frowning clouds and smiling suns on sheets of brown paper that her father used to get from the printing press run by her uncle across the lake.
Her husband steps outside, stretching his limbs, cramped after the long journey in the train all through the night. The journey has been worth it, he thinks. He looks around at the unrelenting greenery, the seemingly disorganised mish mash of trees, creepers and ferns that have taken up every single available inch of the fertile land. He listens carefully to the tok-tok of a distant woodpecker, the constant neverending drone of a thousand crickets. Here in this eden, these are the only sounds he can hear. Then there's the wind whispering the news of the arrival of these strangers to the rubber trees all around the house. The pigeons cock their grey topped heads, trying to place the new visitors, cooing to each other catiously.
He opens the gate, smiling at the creaky sound of the rusty joints. He steps on to the road, "well this looks new..hmm when was this road laid ?" he looks up and down the road thinking, hoping to see a familiar face. All he can see is a dirty white cow down the road near the junction they had got down at, looking at him curiosly while chewing thoughtfully at the grass.
He turns back towards the house when he hears shrieks coming from the house, sounds of happiness and dicovery, the sounds of childhood being freed of the shackles of discipline and rules. He is glad that the kids are being able to expreience this. "They need to be a part of this land, this is where they belong". Bangalore seems so far away. All the deadlines, the constant pings on the messenger, the mails and memos, the commute to the office and back home, all that seems an oddity here. I can actually hear my own breathing here, he thinks. Ok, time to unpack and meet our assorted appas and ammas..can't have them calling up to ask where we are. Old men, walking and muttering to themselves and toothy ancient women walking on the road. They see him and the usual question follows, "when did you come..." answer followed by the second question " all ok na?" and they are on their way. Not that they actually need an answer to thier questions, its just how it is . This place is healthy, no wonder these people look so healthy even at this age, he thinks. No wonder kerala has the largest grey population in the country.
Later in the evening, the children are scrubbed and dressed in their best temple worthy dresses. The strains of some yesudas ayyapan song wafts over the treetops, seemingly out of place and at the same time, totally in sync with this tranquility of the hour. The parents and the children walk on to the dharma sastha temple. The children keep asking their parents about the temple, considering that this is only the second time they are going to see it. The last time being almost five years ago. "will there be elephants there, mummy?" she asks. Passing villagers, some of them who still remember the couple from earlier, stop by and ask the ritualistic questions. The family looks happy and in a way, free. Free from work schedules and school timetables. They smile more readily and naturally, their actions are more relaxed.
The children are amazed into silence at the temple, they look around wonderously at the pillars, at the huge brass lamps hanging from the iron beams high up. And yes, there is a elephant, a small one but still a elephant no less.
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