Non-Fiction
Memories of Kerala
artwork by amina
The completely different way of life practiced in a matrilineal taravad of Kerala became the foundation of childhood memories that defined my identity. It was embodied in many things; mukkeri, the gritty black tooth powder wrapped in small squares of newspaper, wedged between ierkalas, finely-stripped, split lengths of flexible cane used as tongue cleaners. They were laid out on the edge of the veranda with shining brass water containers for us to brush our teeth every morning. The elders and young ones lined up together to brush their teeth and clean their tongues with these home-made toiletries. The tart flavour of kadugu manga pickle with crisp dosas and freshly set curd, or white spongy idlis dipped in podi and melted ghee for breakfast, the delicious soft mush sucked out of the murungyakaya in the sambar, with chunky unpolished red rice, raw banana vegetable, and finally tomato rasam and small puffy papadams crumbled into slightly warm, slightly sweet curd at the end of the meal, mapped out my taste buds forever. The waxy feel of the two foot-long banana leaves on which we ate, the clang of the brass tumbler being put down on a stone parapet, the sweet smell of dark-green body oils and the rasping sound of gas lanterns being pumped to life at dusk to light up the long corridors flanked with huge teakwood pillars, deep-red floors and elaborately carved doorways over thresholds that were a foot-and-a-half wide, are those special markers of Malayali memory. Vengunad Palace in Kollengode, or the imposing Kollengode House on Museum Road, next to the zoo in Chembukavu in Thrissur became the worlds in which I gathered my memories of belonging rather than of transition. On summer afternoons at Kollengode, as we children played, the elders slept. So did the older servants; out of sight, so that no one would conjure up work for them. Sleepy and lethargic after lunch, they would otherwise be called to press the legs of some of the fatter aunts and uncles who needed to be soothed to sleep. They would do so lackadaisically, often nodding off themselves until they were poked awake by an aunt's toes. At this quiet time, we would commandeer the younger servants to play with us. The boys would play badminton or cycle off somewhere with the young menservants, armed with catapults in search of squirrels or birds. They played in the rice fields and sometimes, unknown to the elders, took a bus to nearby Palghat to eat mutton or chicken curry at a 'Military Hotel' since the food in the household under Brahmin traditions was strictly vegetarian. Shakuntala was our special playmate. She was a pert, pretty, fair-skinned maid, full of fun and stories and so brisk at her work that all the aunts called for her to oil their bodies and pour water on them in the bath house. We too would insist that she help with out baths, which for us was often the main event of the day. There were often elaborate two-hour affairs with time for swimming in the women's side of the water tank with just our knickers on - and torthu mundus wrapped around the upper halves of those who had begun to develop contours. It was a time to be rubbed down with the sweet-smelling neelibhringadi, garnet-red medicinal kuzhambus or pale yellow coconut oil, each with its own distinctive aroma. This was followed by a good scrub with kadalamavu which we loved to mix into a paste ourselves. For those under ten, Shakuntala did the scrubbing. We hated it when it was done by the crabby elder maids who put oil in our eyes. Ugly dark green Hamam, melon-red Lifebuoy, or Mysore sandal soaps, only for the elders, were kept there in case any one wanted fashionable toiletries. We had to oil and wash our hair every day; otherwise it was not a proper kuli - the Malayalam word for bath that meant a hair-wash was included. The evening bath, which did not require a hair wash, was melgaruga, which translates into 'a wash of the body.' Malayalam is full of these subtle definitions. We were allowed to avoid a kuli only if we were sick. We considered each other filthy pigs unless we had a bath in the morning and a melgaruga in the evening every single day. When the priest came around to everyone after dusk with the oil lamp from the family deity for the ritual obeisance, we all had to have finished our melgaruga and settle down to more contemplative play for the evening. Baths gave us plenty of time to chat and tell stories. Sometimes, wrapped in torthu mundus, we would practice dance steps or enact plays in the bath house in which the king and queen were given large-sized 'english' towels to wear as capes. Bathing was an almost complete past-time. One dull summer afternoon, while the elders were napping, Shakuntala introduced us to the Ouija board. She told us that if we wrote out the alphabet with chalk in a circle on the floor, upturned a glass at the central point, put our fingertip on the glass very, very lightly, decided on a question for which we wanted an answer, closed our eyes tight and concentrated on a dead person, the spirit of that person would come to tell us the answer. We were enthralled. It was scary, mysterious, and fun. It also made us fight raucously, accusing each other of pushing the glass and cheating. That made it even better. "Did Gopalan steal Venu Mama's pen?" we asked the spirit of Napoleon. There had been a big commotion in the morning about an uncle's lost pen. "No," replied Napoleon through the Ouija board. "Who did, then?" we wanted to know. "Ammalu Amma," the glass spelled out. "Will Ettamma allow us to stay up all night at Aaraat?" "Yes," assured the Ouija board. "Where is June's achan going to be posted next?" "Burma." Of course, we already knew that, and had only asked the Ouija board to check whether Napoleon really knew the correct answer. He seemed to understand Malayalam and no one else knew French except me. For many afternoons we frowned, concentrated, shushed each other and asked the Ouija board many things. The favourite ones were about the love affairs of the servants or famous movie stars. Shakuntala would feed us the questions. She loved to tell us about who said what to whom in the kitchen or bath house. She also told us how she and Gopalan, who, according to the Ouija board, was the one who had not, repeat, not, stolen Venu Mama's pen, were, well…going to get married. They had to save up some money first. That got us so excited that we ogled and giggled knowingly at Gopalan every time he walked past us on his way to the Uncles' quarters. He seemed not to notice us at all. For almost two months we were totally engrossed in this delicious and mystical journey into the unknown, spirit world with Shakuntala as the driving force. Then suddenly things changed. Shakuntala began to make excuses to stay away from the game. "Where are you going?" "Why are you not playing with us?" "Are you going to meet Gopalan on the sly?" "Have you fixed the date of your wedding?" "What is keeping you so busy?" We interrogated her ceaselessly. Her answer was always a vague smile. She would promise to be back in a minute but not return. Sometimes her excuses did not ring true. Now we saw her only at bath time or cleaning utensils and mopping floors. She seemed to be looking downwards in all these chores and not at us. Her spare time was no longer ours. The fun and laughter seemed to have gone from her. Yet we noticed that she put more kohl around her eyes and a couple of extra gold bangles on her arms. Her blouses were getting too tight. The elder cousins speculated. Was her romance with Gopalon so 'hot' that she could not play Ouija with us any more? She's just too fat and getting lazy, we younger lot offered. But by then the game had captured us so greatly that we were lost among an eclectic set of ghosts like Subhash Chandra Bose, Queen Victoria, the mahout of the old family elephant, Kesavan, who had died two years ago, a distant uncle's first wife who had died at childbirth, and anyone else we could think of. The very idea of a glass that lurched a few inches this way or that was enough to make us believe we were in a special world of spirits who would be at our beck and call if we concentrated hard enough. The thrill was often all-permeating. In the evenings I would be scared to go alone up the main staircase to our sleeping quarters in case one of the spirits had decided to stay back and follow me. One afternoon, during our Ouija session, a cousin went off to the toilet, taking a little-used route through the long outer corridor rather than the usual inside one. She returned, agog. She had just spotted Shakuntala slipping through the half open door, looking about to ensure that no one had seen her. We speculated on this for a bit but it did not hold our interest for long since we were busy coaxing the Ouija board to give us our exam results. As usual, the glass was moving in various directions and giving garbled replies that spelt nothing. When she was around the answers had come quickly and clearly, despite everyone swearing-on-god that they were not moving the glass themselves. A few weeks later we heard raised voices from the main verandah where the aunts usually gathered in the evenings to socialize and discuss public problems, family news and administrative matters relating to the retinue of servants. Today they sounded very angry. We crept up along the low parapet wall to see what was going on, but kept out of sight. To our amazement, the objects of our aunts' ire were Shakuntala, standing teary-eyed, and Gopalan, looking sullen as he usually did, and slightly defiant. "Useless woman! No time for work? Only time to spread your legs?" This was a common accusation hurled at the young maids from time to time, in which the older maids often joined in. "I haven't done anything wrong. Gopalan and I are getting married." Shakuntala's voice quivered but she was trying hard to defend her dignity. "So, Gopala, when do you intend to marry her?" asked aunt Radha. "Why should I marry her? I do not know for sure that she is carrying my child." Gopalan became more distant and surly. Shock among the aunts. "Girl, what do you have to say to that?" asked aunt Thangam. Quietly, Shakuntala replied, "Thamburati, this is his child. He is refusing to own it. It was he who told me to earn more money so that we could set up our home sooner. Ask more superior menfolk why they call me to their rooms in the afternoon," she spat out bitterly. Deathly silence among the aunts. "Who will touch her?" asked Gopalan quietly, with a sneer, and no change in his sullen expression as he walked away. Shakuntala was ordered to leave immediately. Gopalan stayed. The elders never discussed the subject in front of us. There were only a few days of that holiday remaining before my mother and I set off for Burma to join my father and a new school. "There was a letter from Kollengode today," my mother said some weeks later as we sat at the end of the veranda of the Indian Embassy residence in Rangoon. I was in the midst of doing my homework. "Remember that poor and young maid Shakuntala? They say she hanged herself from a tree outside town." The next summer holidays we gathered at Kollengode again. One afternoon, a cousin remembered the Ouija sessions. Someone thought we should call Shakuntala's spirit. After all, she taught us the game; surely she would return to play with us. But the glass refused to move and we soon lost interest. We were also a year older.
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