From: "Paul C. Chemmanoor" <tstpcc@gwunix1.gwu.edu>
Newsgroups: soc.culture.indian
Subject: Smoke in my eyes --[Kerala -IV]-[Nostalgia]--Icarus.
Date: 4 Jan 1993 14:22:04 -0600
Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway
NNTP-Posting-Host: cs.utexas.edu


            Smoke in my eyes -- [ Kerala - IV] -- [ Nostalgia ] -- Icarus.
	    --------------------------------------------------------------

When I remember times past in kerala, I see fleeting images of smoke
turned blue, in the house kitchen, when the shafts of bright sunlight
pierced the spaces between the ventilator shafts and lit the dust that
arose from the firewood. And each time I see that colored smoke I smell
"Adas", a kind of cake made from flour and coconut flakes laced with sugar
and all things nice, baked over these wooden fires, and sealed in banana
leaves instead of plates. The heat would release the sweet sweet smell of the
leaves into the "Ada" and combine with the heady taste of coconut with sugar
in the mid-morning. 

My grandfather loved me more than I deserved to be loved, I am ashamed to
admit now. I do not remember my fathers father, but my mothers father made
up for it

"Paul mone! naale vaadanapullynine ende vedikanamm ?"
	"Paul! what do you want me to but from vadannapully tommorrow ?"

I was his favourite child and I would ask for anything, anything at all and 
I would get what I asked for.

In those days my lethargic imagination could see no further than jackfruits.
I dreamt jackfruits. The smell of jackfruits would wake me from sleep.
So I asked everytime for jackfruits. And my grandfather went through the 
futile exercise of trying to persuade me to see the better things in life.

"Appappan nalla oru shirt vangichu tharam."
	"Ill buy you a nice shirt."

	Sometimes, it was a watch, sometimes a bicycle.
	He would try. But I wouldnt listen.

When evening fell, he would sit me down next to him and give the order
to start the feast. I would sit next to him and he would order me to eat
this or to eat that.

The years passed and I grew older and I could no longer understand 
my grandfather, I saw and lived another world, far, far away from his
snowhite mundu and his passion for fishing and his childishness.
Until it was too late. And I had to pass a monsoon, when the sky turns
dark grey and thunder rolls and the oceans poured from above and the 
sandy soil of engandiyoor, sent forth another generation of green grass,
without him. I had to wait till I watched alone the drops of rain dripping from
above tapping into the sand: 

"plip-plip-plip-plop" 

as they exposed the little pieces of rock that lay underneath the soil. Then
I felt the awesome silence that fell over the place, and the empty chair.
At church, my mother looked at my eyes through her tears. And there were 
none in mine. But I grieve for him each time I walk alone to church from 
Anjaam kallu to engandiyoor town. And perhaps that is enough.


Once when I stepped out of the bus at anjaam kallu and looked around,
I saw a pretty girl who smiled at me, along with someone who seemed
to be her elder sister. Since this was a very rare event I was pleasantly
surprised. 

"Appo paul-chetan ividekko endo onnu vekkyan karrithiyuthu ? Njangalle 
marannu poyyo ? " 

"Oh, its Paul, so how is it that you decided to come to these parts ?
 Have you completely forgotten us ?"

 the younger of the two teased me.

 Maybe I am biased, but there is a certain simplicity and innocence attached
 to keralite women dressed in long skirts, with flowers in their hair, and 
 freshly scrubbed faces. 

 They were both smiling at me, waiting for me to say something.

 "Ningalle enganne marakanna ? "

 "How will I forget you two." 

 I said automatically, although I had no clue as to their identities.
 They seemed to know everything about me, where I studied and where I 
 was living at the time and everything else.

And then in a flash, I realized that they were my nieghbours at my moms
place. I had a small crush on the younger kid at one time
-- such perfect white teeth, such a pretty voice, such long hair and so
intelligent.
And there she was still fresh as the morning dew, but so grown.
The girl had grown into a woman and I found it strange like Yuri, that
a girl would become a woman. From being a torment of my mind she had
graduated to being a torment of the body as well as of the mind.

Slowly the firewood burning fireplaces dissapeared, taken over, first by 
gravity driven kerosene stoves, and finally by gas-cylinder driven        
cooking ranges. Adas made on a gas-stove dont taste as good.
But there is no blue smoke in your eyes while you blow at the cinders
with a blowpipe to make the "chavri" -- the cocnut husk to burst into
flames.


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.    ~ ~                                                                  .
.    o o         signito ergo sum.                                        .
.     |       i sign therefore i am.               paul chemmanoor        .
.     =                                            washington d.c.        .
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