The preparation for dinner

Ann was particularly thrilled yesterday after school when she learned that we would have a guest from the US coming over for dinner.  We had talked to Ann about Molley Chechie, who had been a great host to us when we travelled to the US and why we would never match her wonderful hospitality. 

On the way back, Emili mentioned that we would not cook anything at home as we would be late after Ann’s guitar lessons.  Ann instantly grabbed the opportunity and assured me that we wouldn't be embarrassed if we leave the details of the party to her.  She added, “I know that you are not confident because you don’t trust me.”   “I have eaten more stuff from the restaurants in Kottayam than you, so would you let me choose the menu for today’s dinner?”  

Without waiting for our consent, she immediately started with the dessert, and suggested ‘Skillet’, her favourite place for pastries, cheese rolls, tarts and cakes.  

“Are you crazy?” Emili reacted sharply.  “I didn't ask you to order the dinner for you.”

I intervened before more emotions were let loose, “Would you be quiet for a moment.”   

I knew how intolerant Emili was to Ann’s subtle schemes to enjoy her savoury delights.  Before Ann could suggest places like KFC or Pizza Max in Kanjikuzhi, we stopped the car at the Barbecue Inn, long after Ann had rolled out of Amma’s lap to the backseat.

The morning blues

I wanted to wake up Ann quite early this morning, but she screamed, 

"Wouldn't you let me sleep a little late even on a weekend? 

Don't you know that I had a headache in school, for sleeping late on my project work?  I've had enough trouble with this school already and I don't want my teacher question me again on this?" 

I relented to her drowsy reasoning and withdrew. Emili was furious that I let her, but she wouldn't take the risk of interfering in it either.  And she conveniently blamed it on her morning chores.

I went back to the computer upstairs for some idling and face-booking after the breakfast. A short while later, I heard my brother-in-law (who lives in the neighbourhood) on the ground-floor talking at a high pitch to Ann. I thought she was up out of embarrassment, but only when I came down at noon, realised that she had no such feeble feelings, and did not compromise on her rights, on a weekend morning.  You know, she has this rare ability to carry on a logical conversation even half asleep.

Sitting on the edge of the cot she sighed, "After a long time I've had some decent rest, except for Joe uncle's shriek."  She complemented me for the rare display of common sense and respect for kids.

I am a 'Ten ways to be a Great Dad?' father, especially in the early hours of the morning when I need to shake my daughter ready for the 6.30 school bus. May be, I have settled into such a mode, after more natural methods have failed. To be frank, I have ample practical material for a good book on the 'difficulties of parenting'.

When I was a little absent-minded she always reminded me of her cousins struggling into the 8 O' clock Jeep, to the nearby school, and lets me know how disciplined and sacrificing her life has been.

Kalyani the Fishmonger

Kalyani was a fishmonger woman, who sold fish by the merit of her destiny and the obligation of her caste. She moved along the streets like an inevitable organ of the lifeline of the village.

When she first came home, her hair had already grayed and been loosely tied into a drooping ponytail with an elastic band. It was a sunny afternoon and she came round the house to the backyard, and cast a smile at the suspecting frown of my mother.

Her perspiring face gleamed with expectation as my mother mellowed down, and she let her fish basket lower on the kitchen veranda. She sat by the side, and lifted the loose plastic sheet that exposed the slithering catfish.

“Oh, this is small”, my mother frowned again.
Kalyani thrust her fingers carefully, and lifted a few big ones that slid in her hands.
“Get me the pan; I will give you the bigger ones.”
“the price?.” my mother insisted.
“Don’t bother, I will give it you cheap, get me the pan.”

Kalayni emptied the whole basket into the pan and affirmed, “This is only two kilos; I will scale it for you. Where is the knife?”
My mother wanted to say ‘no’ but she ended up saying this,
“Don’t ask me too much money. I will not give you.”

Kalyani smiled with the warm authority of an insider, and started talking about other things. Her fingers skilfully toyed with the wriggling fish and my mother leaned against the door and watched. She spoke, as she cleaned fish, about the virtuous people of the households she frequented. She opened her tiny folder-wallet and pulled out photographs of children of her favourite families.

On that day, she stayed long enough until she cooked fish, had her lunch and afternoon siesta. When she left home, in the evening we knew that it was the beginning of a lifelong relationship with an extraordinary human being, who sold fish and walked into our hearts.

During the long summer school vacation, when village children threw stones at mango trees laden with huge bunches of the fruit, Kalayni walked through lanes, alleys and tarred roads. When her frail figure, garbed in her customary white dhoti and jumper, emerged in the distance, they waited for her, dropping the stones aimed at mangoes. The bolder ones would stealthily walk behind her and would make sniffing noises to mock her, expelling the odour of fish heavily through their nose rills. Kalyani would, in a fitful rage, would pick up handful of little pebbles and chase them. That was always enough to send the little scoundrels to run for cover behind laterite walls and wild hedges. Kalyani mumbled words of disapproval that nobody could ever here and walked away.

Ever since the fishmonger descended on us with a hearty pressure sale, she frequented our household, and after the initial wrangling with my mother, would settle into her normal business with ease. She sliced fish, rolled the grinding stone over red chilly and grated coconut for the marinating paste and cooked it with rich and spicy gravy.

In the afternoon hours, she sat on an uncushioned plastic chair reading the newspaper softly, close to my mother, who would soon snooze off in the coir woven cot. Then Kalyani would spread her customary frayed palm mat on the floor and follow suit and their gentle snores blended into the warmth of the summer afternoon breeze.

When the breeze grew and broke the twigs from the drying ends of rubber trees all around the house, Kalyani would rise to her feet and walk out of the house. She would pick them all and heap them up in the corner of the kitchen veranda.

She then had a reason to wake my mother up, “I’ve got them all here. The pickers would have pounced on them now. We wouldn’t get a piece to put in the stove. Why do you let people hang around the yard?” Then the usual business commenced again. Kalyani lit the fire and made coffee, very strong, for her and my mother. Sipping the hot liquid she would let her words travel through the lingering memories of her childhood. She would talk about a time when goodness prevailed in every heart and every household.

It was time to go. She picked up her basket, walked away down the flight of steps into the green paddy field and disappeared through the ridges. When she left, a gentle breeze followed guarding her from all ills of men.
 
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The fishmonger woman II

(Continued from the previous blog)

During the long summer school vacation, when village children threw stones at mango trees laden with huge bunches of the fruit, Kalayni walked through lanes, alleys and tarred roads. When her frail figure, garbed in her customary white dhoti and jumper, emerged in the distance, they waited for her, dropping the stones aimed at mangoes. The bolder ones would stealthily walk behind her and would make sniffing noises to mock her, expelling the odour of fish heavily through their nose rills. Kalyani would, in a fitful rage, would pick up handful of little pebbles and chase them. That was always enough to send the little scoundrels to run for cover behind laterite walls and wild hedges. Kalyani mumbled words of disapproval that nobody could ever here and walked away.

Ever since the fishmonger descended on us with a hearty pressure sale, she frequented our household, and after the initial wrangling with my mother, would settle into her normal business with ease. She sliced fish, rolled the grinding stone over red chilly and grated coconut for the marinating paste and cooked it with rich and spicy gravy.

In the afternoon hours, she sat on an uncushioned plastic chair reading the newspaper softly, close to my mother, who would soon snooze off in the coir woven cot. Then Kalyani would spread her customary frayed palm mat on the floor and follow suit and their gentle snores blended into the warmth of the summer afternoon breeze.

When the breeze grew and broke the twigs from the drying ends of rubber trees all around the house, Kalyani would rise to her feet and walk out of the house. She would pick them all and heap them up in the corner of the kitchen veranda.

She then had a reason to wake my mother up, “I’ve got them all here. The pickers would have pounced on them now. We wouldn’t get a piece to put in the stove. Why do you let people hang around the yard?” Then the usual business commenced again. Kalyani lit the fire and made coffee, very strong, for her and my mother. Sipping the hot liquid she would let her words travel through the lingering memories of her childhood. She would talk about a time when goodness prevailed in every heart and every household.

It was time to go. She picked up her basket, walked away down the flight of steps into the green paddy field and disappeared through the ridges. When she left, a gentle breeze followed guarding her from all ills of men.

The fishmonger woman

Kalyani was a fishmonger woman, who sold fish by the merit of her destiny and the obligation of her caste. She moved along the streets like an inevitable organ of the lifeline of the village.

When she first came home, her hair had already grayed and been loosely tied into a drooping ponytail with an elastic band. It was a sunny afternoon and she came round the house to the backyard, and cast a smile at the suspecting frown of my mother.

Her perspiring face gleamed with expectation as my mother mellowed down, and she let her fish basket lower on the kitchen veranda. She sat by the side, and lifted the loose plastic sheet that exposed the slithering catfish.

“Oh, this is small”, my mother frowned again.
Kalyani thrust her fingers carefully, and lifted a few big ones that slid in her hands.
“Get me the pan; I will give you the bigger ones.”
“the price?.” my mother insisted.
“Don’t bother, I will give it you cheap, get me the pan.”

Kalayni emptied the whole basket into the pan and affirmed, “This is only two kilos; I will scale it for you. Where is the knife?”
My mother wanted to say ‘no’ but she ended up saying this,
“Don’t ask me too much money. I will not give you.”

Kalyani smiled with the warm authority of an insider, and started talking about other things. Her fingers skilfully toyed with the wriggling fish and my mother leaned against the door and watched. She spoke, as she cleaned fish, about the virtuous people of the households she frequented. She opened her tiny folder-wallet and pulled out photographs of children of her favourite families.

On that day, she stayed long enough until she cooked fish, had her lunch and afternoon siesta. When she left home, in the evening we knew that it was the beginning of a lifelong relationship with an extraordinary human being, who sold fish and walked into our hearts.

Keep reading....

Son of late M. J. Andrews

This morning I sat in front of a piece of white paper, preparing an affidavit; George Andrews, son of M. J. Andrews. My friend pointed out to me that I had made a serious error.  He corrected, George Andrews, son of ‘late’ M. J. Andrews’. The last time there was no ‘late’ preceding my father’s name. He had died 24 months ago, and even the affidavit ruthlessly corrected itself to pronounce his death.

Even as my father was building up his young life, he was known to most people in the town for his friendly ways and a decently run dry fish auction business, which fetched him sufficient resources to own the house and property that we lived in, and a few other small fortunes. He didn’t inherit his business from his father, as was the case with most other fish auctioneers.

Just into a similarly successful business, my grandfather died in his youthful enterprise, at the tender age of 30, while my father, a six month old infant whimpered unawares, on his wailing mother’s shoulders. My grandfather neither inherited nor could leave behind sufficient means to see through the difficult years that would soon follow, for his young wife and three little kids.

Returning from a party, my grandfather puked up blood stained food. Even the English medications brought from the city of Kochi couldn’t loosen the tightened noose of fate that befell on the young family. His life and youthful dreams came to a sudden halt, eight days later. A gramophone he had dearly owned mournfully played the funeral chant. People grieved for his death, and mumbled pitiful words, filled with anxiety about the survivors’ grim future. Ironically, the sympathisers soon threw them out of their mind, when they actually needed them.

My grandmother, who gathered great resilience and guts, would later say, “I had lived in the homely comfort of blowing the cinders in the earthen hearth, and boiling rice and curry for my husband and children. I discovered the initial helping words and hands were growing less consistent and the emptied provision baskets soon forced me out of the kitchen.”

She braved her way to the western paddy fields, and traded in rice and eked out a meagre income and fed her children. During the World War when rice trade was banned, she transported rice sacks hidden under the blanket of foul smelling dry fish and warded off approaching policemen. When suspecting cops moved in to pull out fish bundles, she would volunteer and show them safer areas. A widow in her 20s, my grandmother, defied unfriendly orthodoxies of a pre-independent rural India. My father toddled and rose to his feet without the surveillance of a father and scraped through a difficult childhood.

In the initial years, he relentlessly fought his way through the hostilities of men and deficiencies of material resources. Starting low as a retailer, walked his way steadily forward, and soon began auctioning fish like his father. Those who favoured his rise connected his enthusiasm to the unfulfilled dreams of his father.

The heavy stench of salted dry fish swelled around the market place and boat-fulls and truckloads of fish in coconut palm bundles arrived. My father, with great gusto, stood in the middle and auctioned. There were still the older folk who listened to his thundering voice and murmured, “His father can now smile in his grave”. They were minor traders from the hills who bought fish from him, out of concern for his father.

Ice factories were not established and so fresh fish went stale, and dry fish climbed the high ranges and distant plains and people bought them in plenty to go with rice and cassava.

From various parts of the coastal plains, a labyrinth of canals that branched out like the centre nervous system of the vast paddy fields, widened to a large rectangular pool called ‘chanthakkulam’ in Athirampuzha. It docked about forty to fifty large carrier-boats and canoes in motion. And around this lively water-body and beyond, the market in Athirampuzha teemed with men in motion, buying, selling, transporting or merely jostling in the crowd.

Good Walls make Good Neighbours....a nostalgic not...

Part of the old house still exist today.....the upper portion from the front 40 years later.!

Steps to upstairs from the outside! Today (40 years later)

Covered corridor to the backyard, connected to the next house.  

Today (40 years later)

Till I was eight years old, we lived in the town of Athirampuzha, in a high, steeply tiled, two storied house, rich in wood. The floor of the second storey, which lay in two heights, had smooth floors of wooden planks, with a dusty dark attic above it that housed old books and heaps of tattered papers. Each of the floors, except the attic, let sufficient air and light, through many wooden windows on all sides. In commercial towns, most houses huddled together. Mostly, two houses shared one or more common walls and a closer relationship with the other side. They were all strong and good walls and as the saying goes, good walls made good neighbours. May be, good neighbours made good walls.

My brothers and I could walk into all those houses and expect a door-less entry from the kitchen yard and run around with the young members of the household. One day, my two year old younger brother Justin lifted a tin of mustard seed from a neighbour’s kitchen cupboard and threw them all around the soft and watery backyards. A few days later, mustards sprouted, with tender green leaves in the rich monsoon rains. Everybody enjoyed the childish prank and such incidents never had any negative impact on the open door policy of the neighbourhood kitchens. Today Justin has grown up from that sprouted mustard seed to become a senior executive in a premier software firm in the United States.

‘Ding ding’, the bells of bullock carts sounded, and woke us up on Mondays, the market day in Athirampuzha. In the early hours of the morning, slumber still in our eyes, we would open the front door of our house and sit on the downward steps and gaze at the sea of activities in an otherwise peaceful road. Never ending chains of bullock carts moved along, in a slow jerky motion, laden with vegetables, spices, fish, coir or rice. The beasts wearily stamped their worn-out shoes on the sun burned bitumen and created painful patterns, while cart-men lashed their merciless whips and pushed them forward.

Men pulled handcarts faster than animals, with huge piles of banana bunches on them, as streams of sweat ran profusely from their bare necks and muscles and disappeared into the tightly wrapped dhotis around their waist. Groups of men and women walked happily home with provisions, balanced in cane baskets, for their homes.

Today, thirty five years later, as I sit on the steps of our old wooden house (a part of it still exist), all of those bullocks and most of those men stand still, like murals in the old walls of my memory. Athirampuzha wears a new face, with wider roads, modern buildings and automobiles rushing and jamming the town, a place where bullocks and neighbourhood walls once ruled.

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