There is something about old houses, that only a person who lived in one of them can understand. They are not just lifeless structures of concrete and wood, they have history, they have stories to tell, its almost like they have souls.
I grew up in a soulful old house, in a quiet, laid back corner of Calicut city. Even in the eighties, while the city was reaching for new horizons , we remained in a place, where the old two and three story buildings of typical Malabar architecture, stood proudly in half an acre of greenery around them..There were narrow lanes between these large compounds, lanes which were not intended for motor cars, lanes where children ran fearlessly, what happened of them, I wonder.
I have lived in different countries, seen exotic sights, but nothing can replace my love for that old city, those beaten down lanes and that old house with trees all around. I am thirty four years old, and even today, when I try to write something, I probe the memories of those first eleven years of my life, the time when I was just a fearless child, running through those lanes, unwary of silt and soil under my feet.
Getting over the pain and guilt associated with those years, probably was the most difficult thing I had to do in my life, now I can say that I relish the memories with out dwelling in the pain, worship the images with out reliving the horror and I can be just grateful, to that city, to that house and to those people. Just grateful.
Even as young as 6 or 7 years old, I was perfectly aware of the possibilities of the house, the dusty dark corners called out to me with their stories, the stacks of old magazines in the upstairs corridor told me of different times, the books, oh the books with their hand-written notes told me of their owners, and of course there were toys , not the toys my parents presented me once in a while, not the ones handed down by my brothers, the abandoned broken toys which I sometimes found in the attic, in the unused store room or in the outhouse. I always wondered about those toys, about the child who played with it, an older cousin, an uncle or an aunt or even my mother, just another child from another decade.
I remember the time I was sick with back to back episodes of mumps and measles. I was confined to a room, completely cut off from friends and all the things I loved, I had to lay my inquisitiveness to rest and give away to boredom, which I did not like at all. I complained about not having enough reading material for getting through my feverish loneliness. Valyamma had somebody bring out a big stack of children's magazines from the attic, all from 50s and 60s. What a treasure it was! I still remember those black and white cover pictures of weirdly dressed children.
I remember the trees, I remember them well as I used to climb most of them, especially the three guava trees, I could just sit on one of the branches, for hours, and imagine a castle around me. Sometimes when elders did not agree to my whims, I would plan on living in a tree, the guavas, the mangoes and the gooseberries would feed me and I could always resort to the outhouse if it rained! I do not remember why that plan did not materialize.
Even today the house has the same effect on me, it still marvels me with mysteries. Somehow I feel that I am still a child when I go there, I would look for the old trees, though most of them are dead, I would moan them and their soothing shades, tall branches and abundance of smiling green in the sun. I would take strolls through the old lanes, now all broadened and tarred, and look for the signs of familiarity. Just like Sreedharan in the last chapter of 'Oru desathinte kadha'.
Often when I write something based on my childhood, I write about a mango orchard, which I have never seen. I write about being torn away from a childhood love, which never happened. But I cannot stop blending these with facts, in a way that even I, sometimes believe that it really happened. May be in another life.
I have been told by many friends not to dwell in mysteries, but somehow 'the uncanny' keep happening around me. Last few times I stayed in the house I have been terribly sick on the last day, I would burn up with mysterious fevers or spend the night vomiting. I like to believe that the house did not want me to leave
:-) There had never been a child since me in that house, I hope that curse breaks soon.
