Yesterday I dreamt about Kerala;
possibly because we are traveling to Cochin next week. I dreamt about
the family, the aromas, the loud, happy conversations and the food.
As a child though, I always looked upon our yearly holidays to Kerala
with trepedition. We were always welcomed by a sea of happy faces.
They laughed, spoke loudly, kissed, pinched my cheeks, forced food
onto our plates, and enquired if I knew who they were. Over time I
began to dread this question of whether I knew who they were. While I
had the answers, I dreaded the sudden quiet that filled the room,
while they waited for my response. “Yes”, I would mutter shyly
and rattle out all their names in quick succession. They would all
then smile and go about their chatter. Shy and inhibited, I would
then retreat back into my shell.
Decades later, I'm nostalgic, as I
remember those holidays with a sort of yearning. I think about my Dad
and his brothers, who sat around my grandmother, sipping cups of
black coffee and talking. While we kids were always engaged in some
game or the other, we looked forward to the promise of hearing my
grandmother's stories. And when she was free, she obliged. Looking
happily at the big group of grandchildren huddled around her, as she
would then narrate tales we'd heard several times earlier. As kids we
would play, fight, buy little treats from a neighboring store, and
listen in on all the conversations that the elders engaged in. I
didn't always understand the jokes in malayalam, but I enjoyed the
loud, uninhibited laughter that followed.
While we were having fun, the women
would be busy chatting and cutting vegetables. The table was always
filled with food that the aunts made with precision. The beans and
cabbage were perfectly cut, and the curry always had the right amount
of spices. My grandmother was a stickler for perfection and her
daughters-in-law made sure she never had anything to complain about.
So if the main meals were being cooked in the kitchen, trays filled
with glasses of coffee and snacks were being passed around. They
always thought I was a bit strange though, as I didn't take the
jackfruit halwa or the little laddoos made with avalose podi. I
prefered to take refuge in the loaves of bread that were bought
specially for us. “Why would you eat dried bread, when you could
get some halwa”, said an amused aunt. We sadly didn't appreciate
any of the food; not even the tapioca with fish curry , the fried
beef, and the turmeric infused butter milk poured generously over a
heap of boiled red rice. We didn't enjoy the appam with stew or fill
up our tummies with bananas either. Incidentally, I developed a taste
for all of that (except the halwa that I still cannot stomach) as I
grew up. If she'd been alive, my grandmother would have been proud of
the appams I churn out in my kitchen today.
I remember Kerala being all about
visits. We visited aunts and uncles and their families, before it was
time to head back. And of all the homes we visited, the household I
remember most is my uncle's. Tucked away in lush, green Alwaye, my
uncle and family lived in a modest little home, that exuded the most
warmth and joy. We were always greeted to the sound of my excitable
cousin who bounced around excitedly, generously giving us all hugs
and kisses. I was always shy at the beginning. So I would hide behind
my mom, while everyone urged me to come forward. “Let's see how
much you've grown”, my aunt would encourage me gently. My other
cousin would then attempt to befriend me by making funny faces, while
the grownups went in to catch up on all the news. My mom helped my
aunt who moved swiftly in her kitchen, churning out some of the
biggest spreads. Meanwhile my uncle and Dad would catch up on family
news and Kerala politics. My uncle and aunt kept open house, where
they welcomed everyone with open arms. The house was always swarming
with activity. Relatives poured in from everywhere. While the men
talked loudly amidst card games, the women gathered in the kitchen to
help and chat. Meanwhile the kids played all kinds of games. There
was never a quiet moment, and when it was time to sleep, there was
always enough place for everyone, just as there was always enough
food for everyone.
My uncle, my dad's oldest brother, was
a man of extremes. If he never shied away from expressing his
irritation, he also never stopped himself from tearing up every time
someone or something moved him. Dressed in resplendent white, with
neatly combed hair that was never out of place, he was a picture of
dignity. He laughed as easily as he wept, and was forever willing to
help. My aunt, his partner of many years, was the kind and gentle
presence that completed him. She lived by her deep faith in God, and
took care of the family with undying patience and love. As a child
though I only remembered seeing her in the kitchen. She cooked and
cooked, ensuring the table was never empty. She'd look away at
regular intervals to ask us about our lives in Assam, and whether we
wanted something to munch on. One of the best hosts I've known, they
both lived a way of life that is so impossible in today's hectic
world. Warm and welcoming, to them it didn't
matter if you weren't immediate family. You could be a distant
relative, a friend of the family or a friend of a distant relative,
and still be privy to their hospitality.
Last
year, we lost them both. My uncle passed away after a brief illness,
and my aunt followed quietly, months later. Though I missed my aunt's
funeral, I was there for my uncle's, and what a grand funeral it was.
We got a glimpse into the man that he was, when we witnessed the
outpouring of grief. Friends and family gathered from allover, to say
goodbye to the man who had helped so many. I heard tales of his
generosity and his big heart, alongside tales of his childlike
temper. While people grieved, his widow sat by his body, looking
frail and jaundiced. She consoled all those around her, assuring them
that he was in a better place. She missed him terribly, but her faith
assured her that they would be reunited eventually. Months later, she
followed, leaving behind a huge void.
Going
back to the house will now feel strange. It is a house that still
reverberates with the sound of laughter and relentless chatter.
However, it is a house that definitely misses two important figures.
Nonetheless, I'm excited about spending time there. The deaths in the
last year have only reminded me that life is too short. So while
Kerala promises to be hot, humid and hectic, finally relationships
matter most!
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