Village of Chelannur was perhaps a 20 km from the city , only a half an hour drive from the house I grew up in. But in my childhood it was an exciting half a day bus tour. I still remember the names of the bus stops in the village, oddly, they were announced by numbers instead of names. 7-2, 7-8,8-4 etc.. It was in 8-4 that we had to get off. We had a 15 minutes walk from the bus stop through the lush greenery of the paddy fields.
And on the other side of the fields was the mountains. I would never forget the mountains, Of course they were always there, but I could never get enough of them.
It was Valyachan's village, he had an old house there amidst acres of greenery. I don't quite remember the first time I went there. But that place was always there in the back ground, as the alternate reality. Valyachan was deeply attached to his small refuge- the village, the two acres that was actually his', the small house with an usually large veranda and all the trees around it. From time to time he would make plans to move back there. He was getting tired of the city, the city was getting tired of him too. In the late 80s when the mass agitation was going against 'the big fabric factory', he was on the front line of the protest, while one of my uncles was a senior manager in the company.
But no body actually thought, that one day, he would just do what he had said. When I came back from Trivandrum when I was 12, I went to the village to spend my vacation with them there. Only one of my cousins was married off then. Valiachan had stopped practicing law completely, though he wrote articles (even books) and did radio talks. Miniechi, the homeo doctor, had set up a small clinic in the village. As for the other two, the lawyer and the nobody, they were yet to make any sense out of their life.
Valyachan busied himself with new agricultural ventures (and toddy shop picketing). There were new tree saplings and seeds. There were mangoes, tamarind, jack fruit, and banana. I still remember a young tree which he was sure, was a variety of apple. He called it the golden apple. But to my knowledge no fruit ever came in it. That 'exotic apple tree' always remained fruitless.
Even at 12, I couldn't resist the temptation of climbing a few trees. I made friends with the children in the neighbourhood, Ramla, Rehna, Imbi and Gafoor. They took me to other parts of the village, the cashew groves in the valley had a indescribable serenity, every breeze smelt of ripe cashew apples. Every child I knew in the village had their own portion of the grove, they tended to it, the money that came from those trees, made sure that they had new books for the next school year. They fought over the trees like cats and dogs.
Up in the valley was a huge rock, which in no way resembled an elephant, but still bore the name Anappara - the elephant rock. We would sit there and watch the world below. The sweet smell of lemon grass lingered in the air there. I would never forget the haziness of those afternoons up there.
The kitchen in the house had a different theme. Valiamma had toned her dishes with the ingredients available in the garden. But everything tasted heavenly. She never uttered a word of complaint.
I wish the village had brought the kind of peace in their life, that they had then hoped for. But of course, there was no way of knowing.
When you look back, somehow, everything becomes a story.
Even after everything, I still believe in love.
And on the other side of the fields was the mountains. I would never forget the mountains, Of course they were always there, but I could never get enough of them.
It was Valyachan's village, he had an old house there amidst acres of greenery. I don't quite remember the first time I went there. But that place was always there in the back ground, as the alternate reality. Valyachan was deeply attached to his small refuge- the village, the two acres that was actually his', the small house with an usually large veranda and all the trees around it. From time to time he would make plans to move back there. He was getting tired of the city, the city was getting tired of him too. In the late 80s when the mass agitation was going against 'the big fabric factory', he was on the front line of the protest, while one of my uncles was a senior manager in the company.
But no body actually thought, that one day, he would just do what he had said. When I came back from Trivandrum when I was 12, I went to the village to spend my vacation with them there. Only one of my cousins was married off then. Valiachan had stopped practicing law completely, though he wrote articles (even books) and did radio talks. Miniechi, the homeo doctor, had set up a small clinic in the village. As for the other two, the lawyer and the nobody, they were yet to make any sense out of their life.
Valyachan busied himself with new agricultural ventures (and toddy shop picketing). There were new tree saplings and seeds. There were mangoes, tamarind, jack fruit, and banana. I still remember a young tree which he was sure, was a variety of apple. He called it the golden apple. But to my knowledge no fruit ever came in it. That 'exotic apple tree' always remained fruitless.
Even at 12, I couldn't resist the temptation of climbing a few trees. I made friends with the children in the neighbourhood, Ramla, Rehna, Imbi and Gafoor. They took me to other parts of the village, the cashew groves in the valley had a indescribable serenity, every breeze smelt of ripe cashew apples. Every child I knew in the village had their own portion of the grove, they tended to it, the money that came from those trees, made sure that they had new books for the next school year. They fought over the trees like cats and dogs.
Up in the valley was a huge rock, which in no way resembled an elephant, but still bore the name Anappara - the elephant rock. We would sit there and watch the world below. The sweet smell of lemon grass lingered in the air there. I would never forget the haziness of those afternoons up there.
The kitchen in the house had a different theme. Valiamma had toned her dishes with the ingredients available in the garden. But everything tasted heavenly. She never uttered a word of complaint.
I wish the village had brought the kind of peace in their life, that they had then hoped for. But of course, there was no way of knowing.
When you look back, somehow, everything becomes a story.
Even after everything, I still believe in love.
