Wanderlust at home

“ദോശ വൃത്തം ഒത്തില്ല*”

If a girl who was just entering her teens could have killed her grandmother, she would have done it then and there. The old lady was a task master and a perfectionist at that. The girl, almost always lost in her dreamland, couldn’t understand why it had to a perfect round, it would lose its shape the moment it entered your mouth, wouldn’t it? Oh no, the food had to be savored with your eyes before being devoured in your mouth.

Grating coconut was another nightmare. The shell had to be perfectly clean with no trace of white and the coconut in the plate, not a trace of brown. The girl would have rebelled saying it is impossible, if the grandmother hadn’t shown it could be done. Not once, but again and then again, many times over.

She was my mother’s mother, ammachi to her children and grandchildren. A rare beauty, with perfect porcelain skin and a classy demeanor to match. Clad in starched, pristine white chatta and mundu she lorded over the kitchen, her home and in more senses than one, over the entire family too.

Summer holidays were always looked forward to. The day after school closed, someone would be promptly present at hour home in Alleppey, to take us all there. Those were days of dread and frustration too. For her, holidays were not meant to be enjoyed, but to learn things that would hold you in good stead as ‘girls from good families.’ My paternal grandmother was a miniature rowdy and I had inherited more of her genes. It was but natural then that each such admonition was begrudged, though silently. I wouldn’t have dared to voice my opinions outside though. Before she could have done so, our grandfather would have shut us up. For theirs was a love that was strange. Or so we thought.

I still remember one evening at the dinner table. Not sure where the conversation started or what the context was. She blurted out, “you always loved your mother more than me.” In place of a typical strong admonition that would have silenced her, he said in resignation, with a tinge of sadness “that’s true. She was widowed at a very young age. I considered it my duty to keep her happy.” Children understand quite a few nuances that adults normally ignore. There was no question in our mind about his love for her. Else, how did she have the latest household appliances even forty years ago in that village surrounded by water? Those exquisite cutleries that came out only on special occasions, the perfect bed linen that only esteemed guests could even sit on, the lovely lace curtains that adorned the numerous windows of that lovely old home. Love for us was quite material at that age. It took more than a few years and some distance to realize what their love for each other and for us was.

She was a legendary hostess. If guests were expected, the table had to be full, irrespective of which meal it was. If it was breakfast, appam, stew, steamed bananas, boiled eggs and a plate of sliced cake was the minimum you could expect. Lunch was a tale that had no parallels, a centerpiece of a whole duck roasted brown to perfection, a plate of carved vegetables adding colour at one end, karimeen fry, chicken roast surrounded by perfectly fried potato pieces, red hot fish curry, cabbage thoran, beef ularthu, cutlets and moru curry were the bare essentials.

Her sense of dressing was something to behold, it kept me captive even as a child. The white pieces of dress had to be soaked in boiling water mixed with some alkalic concoction, then dipped oh so perfectly in Robin Blue mixed in cold water in perfect proportion and dried in hot sun. The kavini was another story altogether. Once or twice a year, her favorite wandering salesman would arrive with two suitcases full of sepia toned pieces handloom pieces of cloth weaved so thin, you could fold it to fit in your palm. Only the ones with the most exquisite and authentic kasavu for her. Washing it was a ritual by itself. Gently cleaned by hand in lukewarm water, it wouldn’t be allowed to touch the ground. Two people would hold on to the ends and wave it up and down softly in the shade until it was almost dry. The edges rolled up perfectly, it had to ironed before completely dry. All these would go into the rosewood chest, and one set would be selected very diligently for the Sunday morning mass. Her collection of brooches was another source of wonder for me. She had the most exquisite ones of gold, diamond and other assorted stones. Wonder how and why I, her eldest granddaughter who got all the life lessons from her firsthand turned out to be so careless in this department. Some questions do not have answers, need not even be asked, I guess. Sigh!

The immense love that she had for us was camouflaged in those lessons of childhood, it was her way of teaching us to be prepared for life. It took us ages and our own trials and tribulations in life to understand where our fortitude and stoicism originated from. She was a mother who had lost three of her children in their childhood. Her livelihood depended on the vagaries of nature. A year’s crop that sustained the family could be wiped away in a single day of rain or a flash flood. Faith and love stood her through and faith and love she passed on to us.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, they say. But then mere sincerity doesn’t beget art, isn’t it? We could only aspire to her level of perfection. To attain it is a mirage that is always at a distance. While baking cake after cake, presenting a table covered with dishes of all kinds for guests, collecting the best linen and crockery for the house, I was trying to live up to her I know, subconsciously and sometimes consciously too. It is my sister that spent her some of her growing up years with her that has inherited most of her charm and traits. It is no wonder then that it is to her and her perfectly maintained homestead all of us tend to gravitate to now.

Ten years after she moved on to follow her eldest daughter and husband, the gap she has left in our hearts and souls are still deep. We know it is filled with her love and care. Each of us have our own special memories of her. If it was the guavas that she fiercely guarded from bats for me, it would be the perfect recipe and practice of the exquisite pineapple pudding that she made, for my sister. For yet another grandchild it would be the triangle shaped pooris that he used to take to school day after day after day, or the deep mauve pazham jam in old Horlicks bottles for another. For her children she was home, in all possible ways that one could think of. And I am sure all of us can feel the warmth from the skin of her palms tenderly caressing our cheeks, the scent of her loving embrace and the comfort of her voice even now. For she was pure gold, Thankamma.

And by the way, my doshas turn out perfectly round now. Well, almost.

*the doshas haven’t turned out perfect round