My parents often worked in other districts when I was a child. My brothers, since they were older, usually moved with one or both of them. Just a few months before we moved to Trivandrum, I was taken from my grandfather's house. At that time, my father was working in Trivandrum, and I stayed in Calicut with my mother and brothers.
I didn't really give a thought about the changes happening in and around. I missed the old house and people, but as the house was still accessible and the people were not far off, I tried to make the best of both worlds. We stayed in a Govt quarters and I played all the time with the kids in the neighbourhood. We would go on expeditions on our own, climb all the trees, have picnics in the ground eating raw mangoes and guavas. We plucked flowers together for Onam and faithfully followed the tradition of 'not touching a book' during puja. During festivals, we would walk up hill as a group, early in the morning to the Durga Temple. It was beautiful up there, the temple, the hilly terrain, the cave...
I had to take a bus to school. I didn't mind, as it gave me some extra time to dream. On the way to the bus stop, there was a small colony of tribal folks. I loved walking past that one row building. Each family, had a small veranda and a room. The children would be playing together in the small yard and the elderly women would be sitting on the pavement weaving baskets out of bamboo strips. Manohariechi, our maid, had told me scary stories about them, so every time I saw a pot and smoke, I looked at it suspiciously. But my inquisitiveness to their life could not easily be put to rest.
They looked happy, a little annoyed, perhaps by the city, but they smiled and laughed revealing their stained teeth. The children seemed to be having a lot of fun all the time huddling together in groups. I would imagine the life in their one room homes. Sometimes I felt strangely guilty, even a little ashamed of my clean clothes. I would remember my life in the old house, when I had the whole outhouse to myself. I would toy with the idea of letting those people live in the outhouse. The outhouse did not belong to me anymore, but I never really accepted that fact.
A year later, when I came back from Trivandrum on summer vacation, we went by that place. The early 90s were a period when the city went through major architectural and structural changes. I couldn't find the colony there. It was gone, with out a trace. What would have happened to all those lives, all those toothy grins and greasy little faces which huddled together plotting new games?
I didn't really give a thought about the changes happening in and around. I missed the old house and people, but as the house was still accessible and the people were not far off, I tried to make the best of both worlds. We stayed in a Govt quarters and I played all the time with the kids in the neighbourhood. We would go on expeditions on our own, climb all the trees, have picnics in the ground eating raw mangoes and guavas. We plucked flowers together for Onam and faithfully followed the tradition of 'not touching a book' during puja. During festivals, we would walk up hill as a group, early in the morning to the Durga Temple. It was beautiful up there, the temple, the hilly terrain, the cave...
I had to take a bus to school. I didn't mind, as it gave me some extra time to dream. On the way to the bus stop, there was a small colony of tribal folks. I loved walking past that one row building. Each family, had a small veranda and a room. The children would be playing together in the small yard and the elderly women would be sitting on the pavement weaving baskets out of bamboo strips. Manohariechi, our maid, had told me scary stories about them, so every time I saw a pot and smoke, I looked at it suspiciously. But my inquisitiveness to their life could not easily be put to rest.
They looked happy, a little annoyed, perhaps by the city, but they smiled and laughed revealing their stained teeth. The children seemed to be having a lot of fun all the time huddling together in groups. I would imagine the life in their one room homes. Sometimes I felt strangely guilty, even a little ashamed of my clean clothes. I would remember my life in the old house, when I had the whole outhouse to myself. I would toy with the idea of letting those people live in the outhouse. The outhouse did not belong to me anymore, but I never really accepted that fact.
A year later, when I came back from Trivandrum on summer vacation, we went by that place. The early 90s were a period when the city went through major architectural and structural changes. I couldn't find the colony there. It was gone, with out a trace. What would have happened to all those lives, all those toothy grins and greasy little faces which huddled together plotting new games?
