Memories of long ago...

The view outside looked just as it did all those years ago. For hours all I saw were the dry fields of the Deccan Plateau, scorched by the merciless summer sun of the Tropics. The railway tracks were lined by those wild, thorny bushes that are so common in the area- it’s prickly branches shooting out in every possible direction, like the hair of some murderous monster. The fields were lined by a few stunted palm trees. Occasionally, a scraggy shepherd could be spotted- wrinkled dry, clad in a dhoti and a turban, with a stick in hand, leading a few emaciated sheep. As I child I always wondered where he’d find good, nourishing grass for his flock, for in summer, all the greens were dried to death. Perhaps things were better during other seasons, but I never could witness that, for it was only during the summer holidays that we visited our relatives in Kerala.

                                                  When the oppressive heat became unbearable, Amma would soak her dupatta in water and hang it on the bars of the moving train’s window. That really made a difference. Not that I really minded the heat. A boisterous and careless girl of six didn’t care whether the heat made her dark or whatever. Especially when she had her sister and cousins about, always on the lookout for mischief.

                                                   When we kids were sure Amma and Ilayamma (our aunt) were asleep, we’d run across the train’s compartments doing whatever our naughty heads told us to do- only to return to see Amma’s angry, anxious face, and face her wrath. Gosh! How different things were then! Even though we always refused our meals and had our ribs protruding out, we had an endless supply of energy. And now, as a college-going-young-adult, when my heavy eye-lids struggle to stay open to complete one more paragraph of my textbook, I can’t help but wonder where all that energy has vanished…

                                                      I distinctly remember how, at night, when all the passengers were lulled to sleep, my mind would drift back to that spot in Hyderabad Railway Station, where, just that afternoon, I watched Appa become smaller and smaller as the Sabari Express left the platform. His job never granted him the luxury of going on a long holiday.

                                                   And as I listened to the chugging of the train in the silence of the night, I’d remember Appa’s words as the Sabari slowly crept along, “ Call me when you reach. Have fun.” I was his little girl. I knew I’d miss him soon enough, and so, before we left home for the station, I’d run to his cupboard and steal one of his handkerchiefs. And that served as a memento for the next month or two. I would presently take out that handkerchief from my pocket and hold it close to my heart. Before long, I was lulled to sleep.

                                                   In all those trips, we ( my cousins, sister and I) always awoke when the train was at rest either in Salem or E-Road junction. We woke up to the cries of the newspaper boys and the coffee boys. Appa and Andhra Pradesh were left far behind and the Orange sun will have been rising over Tamil Nadu…

                                                   As soon as breakfast was thrust down our throats, we were ready to begin scampering again. But the elders would play spoilt sport by banning any kind of movement except trips to the loo.

                                                   The moment we spot hills in the far- off horizon, we become restless with excitement and can no longer sit still. Before long, we would be invaded by a magical whiff of fresh air only to look out and gaze in wide-eyed awe at the mighty Western Ghats. A newly painted board declares, “Welcome to Kerala State.”

                                                    Smiles are writ over the faces of everybody- the thin nurse-chechis, the highly eligible chetas and the old contented amoomas. People of every size and sort become one in their joy of arriving. Home… And though the rich greenery everywhere is proof enough that we’ve made it there, we kids press our faces against the window bars to spot what we’re looking for. And there it is. Amongst the green backdrop, the train hurries past the first station Wayanad… Malayalam script for the first time. No words could explain our joy.

                                                   With every passing station the train get emptier. We bid goodbye to our cousins at Aluva. Ours, ofcourse, was the last station, Ernakulam.  Our Grandfather was the one who always received us. There he’d be looking out for us, just like he did the previous year- tall, lean and balding, with  his trademark pencil thin  moustache and spectacles and smile. We called him Pappa because our mother and almost everyone in the family called him Pappa. The moment he saw me, he would ruffle my hair and bend down and say, “ There you are. Your Ammachi is waiting to see you.”

                                                              Even now, after all these years, the image that comes to my mind whenever I hear the word Kerala is my Granny’s home. She brought me up when I was a little infant, and the bond has remained strong ever since. As our Ambassador finally drove down the drive-way of our house, I’d stick my head out in excitement and expectation.

                                                               There she’d stand- as she stood the previous year- beaming near the entrance door. And when I’d run into her arms for a mighty hug, all I would be sensible of was that my cuddly little Granny smelt of Pears Soap and Cuticura powder, just like the previous year…

                                                               … And once again, as the Sabari Express heaved into Ernakulam Junction, my mind was crowded with a countless memories and emotions. I was returning home after quite a while. My cousins and sister have all become young men and women, living their lives in different corners of the world.

                                                                   It would certainly be absurd if a city-bred young lady of 20 carelessly pressed her face against the bars of the window. Yet as I looked out, it was with the same eagerness of the six year old I once was to spot Pappa. But this time it wasn’t Pappa, but an uncle who came to receive me. I was jolted back to the present times and to reality.

“Good to see you. Was the journey comfortable?”

                                                                  After exchanging the usual pleasantries, I lapsed into silence. As we drove along, I looked at the endless coconut trees, the streams, the greenery everywhere… It all seemed the same. But my mind’s eye gazed at the old rustic cottage, perched upon a hillock and surrounded by   plantations- rubber, banana and spices. Where the dew-drops sparkled,  as it welcomed the sun-beams every morning. Where the air was fresh, the water sweet, and the earth, well, my own.  Where Amachi and Pappa lived years before.

                                                          As we approached Perappa’s house, I could see her smiling at the entrance. Greyed. Stout. Smiling. Innocent. And as I sank into her embrace, I once again caught the fragrance of Pears Soap and Cuticura Powder. Home.

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