Enchanting Tales From Munnar, Kerala

Last traveler

2009-11-28T19:03:00.000-08:00

Last traveler

It was a narrow road winding down the hill. To the new traveler the road never seemed promising about a good place that will be reached in the end; yet he chose to travel. All journeys are like this, he thought. There are new terrains, new experiences and new flavors. His vehicle sounded of strain against the ancient tarred road and the wind slapped his cheeks. Suddenly he thought about featuring this kind of land in the next version of the game he planned as his next project. He was scared of heights and his office was on the thirty first floor where he never bothered to see the outside world through the open blinds. Anyway did he have time to go and stand near the window during his working hours?. His window to the world was his computer and he created strange worlds for the young ones all over the world where they would willingly spent hours together traveling rough terrains and climate armed with whatever imaginable weapons to strike at the enemy forces. He never came across such a place in his imagination. This place would be wonderful, he thought. When he was a student at MIT he awakened in the night with dreams of roads falling apart and plummeting through collapsed mountain rails and later he worked out his fierce dreams in his graphics that provided immense thrill to the gamers over the world. He designed spaces within no spaces.

Omana Talkies

2008-01-08T08:45:00.000-08:00

This was the only cinema hall in the village. Every body was so enthusiastic about it. And there was an inaugural show on invitation.

The people who were in the first class had wicker chairs and overhead a smoky beam came out of little square holes in the wall. The square tunnel of white smoke widened as it reached the snowy big screen. That screen was vellithira. It must be made of silver..but it was not silvery.

It was all very mysterious for the little girl.

No questions were ever asked about that screen, so it remained unreal. Often the girl looked up to see whether pictures were visible inside the white smoke traveling towards the screen. May be the specks of sparkles seen inside the square tunnel may be some form of pictures!

It was a movie made for children. In the darkness of the talkies an eerie looking box of red light shone above the door. Something was scribbled on that box. What is that e ex ai tee?

The little girl knew only Malayalam, but she did not ask anybody.

Ravanan and Scorpion

2008-01-04T07:26:00.000-08:00

The wind was rather strong that night. Through the howling wind we heard a shrill squeeking sound from the kitchen backyard. No it is not the wind. Father took his big 8 cell torch and went out.

The sound was coming from behind the rose bush. There was a tiny clearing behind the rose bush just in front of the chrysanthemum patch. Ravanan, our cat was sitting there wagging his tail very fiercely. He was hissing like a snake and staring with wide black eyes.

Father aimed the beam at him. Oh it is a scorpion ! How could he catch such a dangerous thing. Ravanan looked up so happy being recognized by father for his esteemed services.

The furious scorpion was waiting for the moment and it suddenly slashed it venomous tail aiming at Ravanan’s nose. Luckily Ravanan moved back hissing.

I do not think he will be able to handle this creature alone. It is too dangerous for him. Father asked brother to take away Ravanan. Brother with some effort carried the seething Ravanan in his hands and took him inside the house.

Using an iron pipe, father killed the scorpion and he dug a small but deep pit to bury it.

Escaping from brother’s hands, Ravanan rushed to the scene, but by that time everything was over.

Come here Ravana, tsu, tsu…mother called out with a rice ball mixed in milk for him. What a rather soft diet for such a fierce cat!

Tables

2008-01-03T19:26:00.000-08:00

These are not ordinary tables. These are mathematical.

The tables are keys for addition and multiplication. No school going kid can grow up without these tables. May be now things have changed. But a kid studying in any of the schools in Munnar inevitably learned all the tables by heart.

I might have written them hundreds of times. Often our teachers used that time to gossip. I do not remember much about them

Muthuvan

2008-01-03T07:11:00.000-08:00

That was his tribe’s name, and nobody knew his real name.

He was always called Muthuvan and he spoke a language which was a combination of Malayalam and Tamil. Every two months Muthuvan came down to the village to buy salt, chilly, and rice.
He bartered honey and herbs for his supplies.

He was dressed in a brown loin cloth and a black shawl around his shoulders. He wore a head dress of old wool and on his head he carried a bundle of herbs. He had a backpack full of honeycombs. He squatted on the veranda and smiled. His teeth were strong and had the reddish black stains of tobacco and betel juice.

The forest air surrounded him spreading the aroma of herbs and honey.

Muthuvan began to squeeze the honeycombs one by one through a muslin cloth placed on the mouth of an earthen jar. The honey was thick and golden brown.

Come on little baby, Muthuvan called the girl and squeezed a few drops in her palm. The honey was warm. Its sharp sweetness bit into her tongue. She thought her tongue was stung by a sweet bee. She stuck out her tongue against the wind from the hills. The honey felt like snow. Sitting on the window sill she imagined about the small hut perched on the faraway mountainside from where Muthuvan came.

No forest fire should touch my friend Muthuvan’s hut, she prayed.

The night was black and the wind was strong. One could hear the splutter of green grass and small tree branches while burning in the wild fire. The mountain was wearing a fiery red garland which grew with the night.

Wild fire danced and swayed fiercely.

Watching through the night sitting still for a long time, her cheek began to burn. Mother, it is so hot here. She called out to her mother. Don’t be so stupid daughter. The fire is so far. How can you feel the heat sitting here?

But I am feeling, she protested. Her cheeks were pink and hot.

May be you have fever, mother said. Come inside and rest. But she sat there eyes and ears reaching out to the fire. The wind from the mountain carried the smell of burnt leaves and wood. Her eyes began to burn from the smoke and tears trickled down. Mother was singing a song and she fell asleep in her lap.

Merry Christmas from the hills

2007-12-26T04:36:00.001-08:00

A traditional Christmas star made of bamboo and white rice paper, seen in a remote village near Munnar. Made the same way it was made for centuries.

Wait till the evening stars come up in the sky and a small candle is lit and placed on a wooden plank. inside the star. The gentle, soothing light of the candle brings back the calmness of yet another Christmas.

Some things never change. Happy Holidays!

Golden Earrings.

2007-12-19T09:47:00.000-08:00

"How can a girl grow up without ear rings. A girl child should have her ears pierced and should wear ear rings. That is the tradition" - Mother was complaining. But the little girl could not wear ear rings. Her father did not want his daughter to go through such a painful process for the sake of beauty. She was too precious for him to do that, but mother kept on complaining.

A little later, the little girl also began to think about adorning her ears with pretty ornaments. Some times mother bought her earrings made of glittering plastic which can be worn with clips. They were so pretty with their sparkling small ringlets, but she could not wear it for a long time, because it bit into her soft young flesh. Her ears became so red and painful wearing them. Those days she began to yearn for real golden ones, the ones which can be worn permanently by piercing the ears.

"Father I want to wear golden ear rings." One day she told her father.

Why?.this idea is very unlady like for a girl like you, I am not bringing you up for these frivolous yearnings in life. Father tried to explain, but the little girl's mind was so fixed on golden earrings that she would not listen to any thing else.

"Let us wait for some more time, and then I will decide". Finally father said thinking that some day the little girl will change her mind.

Now the girl was in her 6th standard, and every other girl in the class sported beautiful tiny ear drops. The little girl wanted to dance and dress up like others and one of the important things she wanted was to wear ear rings.

So that is it. Any way if you wish so, we will do that, but I will do that myself, father said, I can not trust a goldsmith. He ordered a new pair of ear rings with a special design. After a week, one evening father came home with a tiny packet in his pocket. It was a beautiful shiny pair designed like star shaped flowers. It glittered against the purple rice paper in which it was packed. Along with that father also borrowed the gold needles from the goldsmith.

It was early morning. The girl was ready. Father picked her up and placed her on his big teak table and put marks on her ears with mother’s pen. Now shut your eyes, I am going to do it ,father said.

Now mother was very worried and afraid. She did not want her daughter to feel pain afterall. One, two, three.. every thing was over in a minute, before the little girl start thinking of crying.

Everything is just fine and beautiful. Mother said. Only one problem. You made the markings unevenly. See, one is very high than the other. Now nothing can be done.

Father was angry. It is okay she is my daughter and let her be like that and there is no rule that the ear drops should be worn only evenly!.

Kumbhakonam

2007-12-16T20:44:00.000-08:00

The night was surrealistic in kumbhakonam.

Old buildings and places always radiate energy. It might have something to do with the past, the people, their lives, their memories... it is a special feeling that somebody trying to communicate something to you. Something trying to engulf you. You are transported to some other time. May be if I have developed my meditation skills I could have felt or seen something similar to what Dr Paul Brunton experienced in Egypt.

The music is divine and inspires the spirit within. Mind is filled with an unusual emotion which is so overpowering, struggling to get free from an unidentifiable bondage. Is this devotion ?

The darkness of the night is cool and peaceful. There is bright crescent moon overlooking the world. The face of the moon reflects the optimistic vision of the world, and a blissful feeling remains.

The making of Ravanan

2006-11-12T01:55:00.000-08:00

There was a big commotion the kitchen. The plate contained morning breakfast of dosas was lying on the floor. Mother was taking her bath. The kitchen floor was laced with the remainder of a grand breakfast. The cat was sitting by the fire-side, licking his paws.

You are going to die today! screamed my brother, dragging him by the neck outside. The cat suddenly went limp. Mother came running. "Do not kill him. it is not good to kill a cat".

But everything was over. The cat was lying on the grass dead. Everyone was so shocked.

Suddenly the cat stirred. "Mother please come and see this ! He is not dead."

The cat was standing up and licking his furry brown coat as if nothing has happened!. He must be Ravanan himself, mother said and carried him inside the kitchen, placing him lovingly by the fireside. "Thank god you are not dead!"

Bulbuls are making so much noise.

The morning sun has not really showed up, but the bulbuls were already up chattering. What was so strange today, father opened the front door. On door step , a big bulbul was lying dead. Its feathers were strewn around. With proud marching steps came Ravanan, eager to show off his game.

"So it is you..."

What do you think of this ? Ravanan wagged his question

What …mother rushed in to see if the bird was still alive.

I just wanted to show it to you before making a good meal out of it…Ravanan the hefty cat was circling around the bird. Somewhere behind the dense green leaves of the red gum trees, the bulbuls were still cackling loudly. This is so bad.. so bad... they told each other.

Brother was amazed. Such a brave cat. We will keep him - he decided.

But it was more like Ravanan keeping us. He was a cat who lived his days only according to his rules. He usually took midnight dinner, slept through the day and went hunting for bulbuls or other small birds in the evening. He loved butterflies. In the mornings he shined his golden fur and sitting by the crysanthemum bed, appreciated the beautiful butterflies. One of them even dared to sit on his forehead!

Footprints on the road

2006-11-12T01:45:00.000-08:00

Winter days are damp and short.

Every weekend I wait here, on an old stone bench, watching my grandson play in the sprawling ground. A big ground with a huge banyan tree in the middle. How long has it been there?.

Children are playing in the ground.

The road was always lonely, waiting for the distant thump of foot steps. Waiting for the flow of life against the winding pathways. The foot prints were so much a part of the road and inseparable. I knew even mine is not mine. It belonged to the pathway .

I keep my ears and eyes sharp and alert. I try to listen to the sound of loneliness. It was slowly emerging from behind the mist, behind dark tall trees and beneath the stillness of the pool in the rocky path. My body was slowly filled with a silence which was colorful and penetrating.

In dreams I wander through pathless paths, dangerous treks and deep waters. Why do I always loose my trail ?

Half of the lifetime is spent searching for what I am destined to do. May be it was not a useful or prudent search. Otherwise why did I loose so much time ?

Perumal and vishukanji

2006-10-31T23:28:00.000-08:00

Perumal was our porter.

He was a short stocky man, dark in color. Once in a week he used to carry a large bag of "Angadi Marunnu" and groceries to our home.

Perumal was hunch backed. On vishu day he came in the morning to have Vishu Kanji and Kaineetam.

One afternoon Perumal came home with a small brown box. It was a gift from my father. There was a small kitten in the box, curiously looking at me with blue eyes! It was snow white in color and soft and smooth to touch.

She was standing there from the morning . she was alone at home. Mother had gone to school. Father was at his clinic. Every day he use to leave at 8 : 30 in the morning. He never took a Holiday. The only day he was at home was on Thiruvonam day. After the Sadya he used to sleep on his herbal mat till evening.

Onam sadya was a one man show. Only by father. On the eve of the festival Perumal would come home with a big sack full of supplies. A lot of things came from father’s patients - Vegetables, fruits, etc.

2006-10-29T19:03:00.000-08:00

Vishu

Vishu has the smell of Nalumanipoov and Jasmine. And of course there was Kanikkonna.

At 3’o clock in the morning I could hear the devotional song by P Leela from our Ayyappa temple. The temple was far down the valley on the banks of Chenkulam lake. The wind carried the songs to my home. Bhavayami every evening, and Suprabhatham in the morning.

Occasionally in the night I could hear the droning sound of a truck carrying logs from the forest or the last trip of KSRTC bus coming from faraway Kochi at 9 ‘ o clock.

Let me come back to vishu. Unlike the other families we never got up and walked to the pooja to see the kani, because mother used to carry kani in her hands to our bedside. The kani smelt so good, and it was beautiful.

We had a picture of unnikrishnan especially kept for the occasion. Another special picture was Sarawathi’s . this was a big one used for vidyarambham

2006-10-27T08:07:00.000-07:00

Mother is making Sambar in the night

It was a very cold winter night. But our kitchen was warm and comfortable with nice smells and the hissing sound of firewood burning.

"No one is bothered about how hard it is for me!" Mother was complaining.

The problem was the firewood. It was difficult to start a fire because the wood was not dry enough. The new load of wood came in just a week back.

Cutting firewood was my father’s job. He will start chopping wood early in the morning and then would leave them in the sun to dry.

Warming the wood is a tricky hide and seek game during winter months. Even at school while teaching kids mother would be worried - "oh my god my firewood! What will I do tomorrow morning ?" and she would run at once the teaching is over, and both of us would pick and stalk the wood in the storeroom.

Father used to cut only the big logs. It was my brothers' work to make little slivers that is very important for starting the fire. Usually embers would be there hiding in the ashes but if they go out mother had to start fire afresh. And for that she used the wood slivers.

Sambar. A very tasty curry. I do not know how to prepare it the way she used to make it. Even the taste of potato is different .

We call it everyday sambar. Almost 7 days a week it was there . Sambar was prepared with home grown ladie's finger and drum stick. Those days green banana was a rare delicacy in Munnar. Sometimes mother will put an whole one in the Sambar and gave it to me. I ate it with dosas or rice. Those cold misty nights with freshly cooked Sambar and rice was …..frankly I do not know what to say. Can you imagine the picture of a little girl who sitting in her father’s lap and eating dinner along with him. His plate was quite big and I ate from one side . The soothing light of our big Nilavilakku and ‘ Ranthal’.

In the kitchen mother had her own custom made kerosene lamp which always shined like gold. It had a name given by her- ‘Sankari’. Unlike the other lamps of this kind it bore some designs over its bud shaped tank.

2006-10-21T22:55:00.000-07:00

Our Dhoby (washerman)

He was actually father’s washerman, living a little far from our home.

He was short and very dark, always chewed betel leaves and talked through his nose. Father used to wear only hand woven khadi. Those clothes were very rough and coarse to touch. They had the trademark borders lining the dothis.

The shirts called jubba was usually white or with very soft stripes in white. Father never trusted my mother washing them. He wanted them to be sparkling white, and starched stiff. A days dress would be dothi, jubba, and a shawl.. everything so white and shiny. His dresses had that typical washerman’s mark on each piece. in the inner side corner a reddish brown exclamation mark!

That was the identity mark of my father’s dress. Two weeks after my father’s death his dhobi came to see my mother. He was drunken and he was crying. In fact for some time back father had not given his dresses as frequently as he used to. Those days he himself washed his dresses. Rarely starched and the shining whiteness was a little bit faded.

That dhobi was sitting there crying. He had seen father’s glorious days! A man with such a grace and knowledge.

Stop crying ! mother came out and said. In her hands she was carrying all the good cloths of my father. When the washerman left I asked mom why she gave away father’ s dresses. She said that was the traditional custom. Those dresses belong to him! May be she was right I do not know.

Sometime during my teenage days I stopped talking to my father. I was a typical teenager whose life is complicated with dreams, wishes, and infatuations. Somewhere in between I forgot to ‘see’ my father as I used to.

My father was full of spiritual wisdom but he was so old fashioned in my point of view to understand the intricate patterns of present day life. That was what I thought at that time!. When I matured I realized he was the most modern fellow I ever knew.

He too kept his distance. Most of the time he spent his time learning more about ayurvedic treatment and medicines.

Veena Devi

2006-08-22T20:09:00.000-07:00

Memories of Munnar

One cool Saturday morning I landed in Bangalore.

What was in my mind ? The total newness was awfully exciting as it was always with me. When I was a little girl I often thought of my life as never changing.

Every morning the same ways, the same faces, the same dialogues, school friends, teachers. The mountains that are ever so silent with winds and misty nights. I wanted a break. But my mind was strange, once I left my place. I wanted to go back!

In my dreams I always walked through unknown places and visited extraordinary places and people. When I wake up from these visions I wanted them to be real. It was like living in dreams. This was the life I used to live.

Yes. Now I know. Everything exists in the conscious world. My conscious world was a dream world. Like a creature from some other planet .

In my thoughts, I am always wandering. Sometimes through pathways in forest seeing flowers and wilderness; and I could smell flowers.

I wanted to be traditional, modern, outrageous, self centered, always concentrating on something that is going around me. Now I live the life of a medical transcriptionist. I thought this work was a sensitive one dealing with the lives of people. But sometimes I find that in totality every work losses that sensitivity with its routineness and familiarity. They are just voices. Never remember about the people behind the voices.

As a little girl, I thought my life was very good. I never bothered about making comparisons. My world was so fulfilled. With very small worries, and small wishes like getting an ice stick or sneaking inside home just after sunset. The evenings were always bright with the light of an oil lamp.

In a little girl’s world everything was big. The light of the nilavilakku was so bright and warm. My mother was forcing me to pray. When she began to sing devotional songs I got up and danced. Mother was happy, I thought Srikrishna and Yashoda are my ancestors. I felt they were just there sometime back before I was born. I ardently believed all the stories my mother told me.

The stories came through different paths , when grinding batter for idlis , or cutting vegetables for sambar, and of course before going to sleep. Still fresh in my memories ...those sounds of stories… sinking in with your sleep. This girl was sensitive to sounds. Images came with sounds. So much different in many ways .

This was how I became a story teller and wanted to be a story writer. My mind is full of stories and l lose the link with the present, living in stories. That makes me moody and depressed. I am in love with nature and nature gave all those stories. Once I thought I will not be able to experience the world. I wanted to see places and experience things. I imagined about places, people, and new things. One of my favourite past times was to go on an imaginary travel looking at pictures!

A hand drawn picture in ambiliammavan was exciting enough!. Sitting on the step of our veranda I used to dream about the world behind the clouds and beyond the mountain range. Those dreams never ended. I was carried away with this imagination.

Sometimes I and brother used to eat together. We did not have a dining table and chairs. That idea was not even there. On special occasions we used to sit on the grass mat , but the regular thing was wooden planks.

They were custom made for each one in the family. Mine was the smallest. It was made from the wood of mango tree. While eating , we used to share imaginary things about being the biggest farmers in the world. Usually it would start with a question from me “ Have you planted paddy ?" Then he would tell his stories about vast paddy fields, vegetable gardens….every possible simple dreams.

Mother never stopped us from talking like that . she use to hear with a convinced expression that those stories were real.