Where history cannot rest

Last week the announcement came. House no. 55, 1A main, Stbed, 4th Block, Koramangala is going to get vacated by the end of April 2007. Dishkans are finally leaving the house to, possibly, a younger crowd of bachelors. Its been five long years since the first set of dishkans stepped into it. But the end was not unexpected. It was being made inevitable as, one by one, we chose to take the risk of plunging into marriage and move their lives forward (or whatever direction that is).

The dust. The mosquitoes and the bed bugs (the latter calls for s separate blog!). The drain flowing behind, which Bijunu so lovingly named "Kaalindhi". The paint fall (or snow fall as it was called) from the ceiling when there's rain. The pile of clothes and books on the (supposed-to-be) dining table. The collection of footwear near the entrance. The air or rather the lack of it. Masthan's old scooter and the rats that play with it. The front door lock which taught us many a lesson. The TV that has has spent a good part of its in repair shops and now resting in peace. The stress-tested washing machine that jumps and jerks. The kitchen where many a rat has become a martyr, sometimes after surviving many a war. Well, there are a lot of things that we are leaving behind for. hopefully, the better.

And there is many a thing which is going to be missed dearly. The joy of living together and sharing the experiences. Watching each other's lives curiously as they took their turns and jumps and changed in pace, sometimes trying to influence, support, or interfere with, them. Understanding and accepting how different each of us was, and was becoming, in spite of all the commonalities. The general good-will for each other. The discussions and the debates. The jokes and the laughs. The constant vigil for the next opportunity for a friendly paara. The magnification of even the smallest incidents where the presence of a member of the opposite sex was detected. The nostalgia of our college days. The emotional moments. The occasional flare-ups and restlessness. The games played and matches watched together. The movies (of so much variety) watched and talked about, the music enjoyed, the stories shared. The birthdays celebrated. The photos clicked. Those lazy holiday mornings where the only major activity was eating a good malayalee breakfast. Cook chechi's sambar. Santhachee's midnight tea and biscuits which he made with so much passion (some of us wait till this tea to sleep, while others wake from sleep to have it). The list goes on.

The memories of stbed cannot fade. The stories, which it was never short of, cannot be lost. At the least, as long as we continue to be stbians in spirit. For as stbians we never allow our tiny personal history to take rest. Now and then it was being made and recorded. And when it was not being made its chapters were invoked and re-invoked with joy, interpreted and re-interpreted with interest, and sometimes twisted and re-twisted with malice.

Or perhaps it is the reverse. As long as we preserve these memories, we'll continue to be stbians. For when we recollect we'll smile, and in that smile there's the hint of that often-silent love we have for each other.

Well, there was one emotional proclamation
"Enikku ningalodu sneham maathrame ullu" - Prasanth A.G to roommates. Nov 2001

From school days - 1

Upper Kindergarten
I picked up a fight and, we;l, was victorious. I pushed my opponent so hard that he fell over the bench, much to my own surprise. As he admitted defeat with tears, I stood proud and happy but not without a sense of guilt. And then he swore that he would come back with his big brother and take revenge on me. The audience (our classmates) started talking about how big his brother really was. I put up a brave and cool face but the threat had actually penetrated deep within.

Many days later. I'm sitting on a staircase and having lunch. I see my enemy-of-that-day walking towards me and alongside him a fat, tall fellow. From their looks i conclude that they are coming for the promised revenge. I try to summon all courage to keep my spirits afloat holding on to the twigs of hope. They whisper something to each other and i guess that it can be nothing but their plan of action and their pledge to succeed in revenge. I did not want to run away, perhaps i was just too curious, or proud, or optimistic, or maybe there was a feeling of this inevitability that a crime has to meet with its punishment

Below the staircase the small one parts ways while the big one continues walking towards me., My heart beat increases with each step he climbs. I stand up breathless as he reaches two steps below me, preparing for any eventuality. As he takes the next step, he raises his face and our eyes meet. At that moment I lose all my grip and sink. My guilt and my fear start flowing out in the form of tears. The big boy looks surprised and asks some questions, but i just run away.

Some more days pass by. I meet this big fellow again in the same staircase but this time i feel no fear. He asks me why i broke down the last time we met. I just smile and walk away without even bothering to enquire whether he was indeed the big brother who was supposed to size me up. I observe my classmate for any signs of new victorious delight but find none. In fact he seemed to have forgotten even the original episode. No pride, no guilt, no fear, not even the shame of original defeat. I felt jealous.

Needless to say, dear friends, that was the last physical encounter i'd been in as I lost all faith in violence as a means to acheive glory. Ha ha!


First Standard
It was the time when the magnet was the hottest thing in class. It had overtaken the pencil, the rubber, the box and even the bag as the most valuable possession to have. Magnets of different sizes and shapes appeared day after day and their proud owners showed off their magic on window bars, on boxes, and on every other piece of iron we could discover. One day i reach home and talk about it. and my father gets me one from his workplace. It was bigger and stronger than most others I'd seen and also had a nice read paint on it.

The next day at school, I wait eagerly for the morning interval break. The time finally arrives and i take out the magnet from my bag and display it proudly. It becomes an instant hit and the buzz of the class. It passes on from hand to hand and i hear my name mentioned here and there as the lucky owner of this most wonderful material thing. I become the hero of the interval accepting adoration and jealousy and returning pride. I was fast moving towards the peak of glory, when the bell rings loud. Our teacher, Sister Colombus walks in almost immediately. I feel sad - this interval was much too shorter than usual.

I get to my seat and i realize that the magnet is not with me. I look around and spot it in a classmate's hand at the back. I try to signal him but he does not understand, The class begins but i cannot concentrate. Nothing can go into my head until the magnet is recovered safe. I wait for a chance to turn around again. The teacher turns around to write on the black board and i turn and realize that the magnet has moved to another hand. I grow more tense and try to track the magnet's trajectory making use of even the smallest opportunity that the teacher provided. After a painfully long period when the teacher had her attention fixed on us, I turn back again but there is no trace of the magnet. I desperately send my eye to every nook and corner of the class, to every bench and desk, to many a classmate's hand.

Suddenly i hear Sister Colombo's loud question "who brought this magnet to class?". I feel like being hit by a thunder and turn around quickly. I see the magnet in her hand. She had confiscated it from one of the front benches. I stand up with mixed emotions of fear and relief. I get scolded really hard but i do not feel hurt. I believed that i can get the magnet back after the class is over. I see her put the magnet away on top of the cupboard. The class ends and i rush to the cupboard and search for it but does not find it. I feel disappointed and sad but i did not lose hope. I wait for Sister Colombo's class on the next day same hour. Perhaps she has the magnet with her. The interval was long and ardours and the teacher was a bit late. She comes, takes the class and leaves leaving me depressed.

Just a week later I realized that i was no longer sad about the loss for it made no difference to my daily life, though i was self-critical of my carelessness that led up to it. Also the magnet lost its number one position in class, for all it could attract was iron. Unlike the double-decker pencil box with an in-built cutter which attracted every one of us. It even had a misckey-mouse picture on it. Wow!

Poothappaattu

Today morning it came back to me. And it made me feel good and light yet again. It is still there in my mind as a song and is occasionally flowing over to my lips. And it will be with me until i go to sleep tonight. perhaps even tomorrow. That's how it usually is. When it comes, i dont feel like letting it go very soon. I feel like a kid who wants to eat the chocolate in his hand but does not want it to get over, and so slowly bites the smallest possible pieces from it, enjoying every bit of its sweetness.

I do not remember when exactly it first came to me. My sister and I were children beginning to discover that this world is made of people. lamguage, music, stories, ghosts and so many other interesting things. One day our father brought an audio cassette with him. On the front was a photo of an old man with spectacles and a serious face. Father told us that he is Edassery Govindan Nair, the famous Malayalam poet And that the cassette has in it his most wonderful poem. We listened it to it. And we fell in love with it. We listened to it again and again. And we loved it more and more.

Poothappaattu. The Ballad of Pootham.

We loved the story which was simple, touching. mythical and magical. Father told us the summary of the story. It is about the mischievous and cruel Pootham (s supernatural being) who feels fondness for Unni (a child) and tries to keep him with her. And how Nangeli (the mother) gets back her son from Pootham. And how Pootham mends its ways and tries to find Unni's home just to see him. Father also told us that Poothams used to visit his home, when he was a child, every year during Makaram (month in the malayalam calendar which starts around Jan 15). He used to join others in asking the Pootham "Unniye veno (do u want Unni?) " without knowing the myth behind it. Until he came across this poem.

Repeated hearing helped us pick up the details. The words were simple and understable, to a good extent, even to children. We were sour with Pootham for her mischief and cruelty. We were as happy as the mother when she heaped love and care upon her thankakudam (dear child). We were along side Unni when he walked to school enjoying the scenery around. We were suspicious about Pootham's fondness-at-first-sight for the child. We were amazed at how cunningly she got Unni to throw away his ezhuthaani (iron pen). We sympathized with and prayed for the mother when she set out in search for her child. We stood by her in her courageous confrontation with Pootham. We despised Pootham's cruel and dirty attempts to ward her off. We cried at the sacrifice that the mother offered to Pootham. We joined her in her rage when the Pootham tries to give her a duplicate child. We adored her for her strength, persistence and will power. We rejoiced at her eventual victory and Pootham's defeat. We were almost in happy tears when the mother kissed her son again and again when she got him back. And then when we were about to feel the good-defeated-evil joy, we felt sympathy for the fallen Pootham. Her love for the child suddenly seemed genuine. Her conversion to a non-harmful, despondent being and her desperate and continuing search for finding Unni's home to see him, and the humiliation she faces during the search washed away every bit of hate and despise we had for her. At the end of the poem what was left was just tenderness and love.

We loved the musical and soulful rendering of it by V.K. Sasidharan. His voice defined the mood, the feelings, the the expressions of the characters as much as the lines did. His voice was soft and tender when he described affection and love, high and pounding when he described anger and indignation and so on. There was good melody and it was non-repetitive. And to add to it that heart-reaching sound of the idakka (a hour-glass shaped drum) in the background. One day at the Kollam Railway Station, we see a man in jubba and mundu, and with a sanji, lying on one of the benches. Father identifies him to be Sasidharan sir himself. Was it the Poothappaattu on his lips? We go and greet him and tell him that we simply love the poem.

We loved the imagery too. The village setting. The big house near the river. Parayan's hill, the rocks, the slopes. Cows, cowherds and shades of trees . Red thechi flower popping out from amongst the greenery and smiling. The owls who come out of the nests and ask what the matter is. The moon which comes lazily dancing. The forms that Pootham take to drive away the mother. We knew our father identified more with it because he himself had grown up in a village where he had to walk long to reach school and with its own myths. But we also had a small connection. Just like Nangeli who stands at the padippura (entrance) looking at her son walking to school until he was completely out of sight, we also had a mother who stood at our gate looking at us go to school until our rickshaw was out of sight.

Years later. My first stay away from home. REC Calicut. There was many a thing about home that i missed in those days. And in that list among the top there was this cassette. The words came back to me time and again and i began to realize how much i loved it. One day as i was roaming around near Palayam bus stand, i entered a cassette shop. And i saw Edassery's again ona cassette. The face had a certain degree of compassion in it. I felt. I brought poothappaattu to my hostel but had to wait for some time to hear it as i had no player. One day i was in a friend's room where there was a player, and there was no one there so i thought no one would be disturbed and i listened to it. And woke up the north indian neighbour who came and asked"yeh kya gaana hai bhai, thoda volume kam karo na?".

I reached Bangalore without the cassette, for it had not lasted long. But the poem continued to visit me often. Not a single Onam, a vishu, a kerala formation day passed without it. Whenever i think deep of my mother tongue and land, it comes to me. It has come to symbolize simplicity, good heart, motherly love. and a lot more. It is nostalgic and inviting. Whenever it comes i feel that the world has just become simpler and more beautiful/

Now it is there on the Internet as well. Check out if interested or curious.

Full story
http://www.edasseri.org/english/poothapattu_story_a.htm

Poem text
http://www.harithakam.com/html/Edasseri_Poothappattu.htm

Listen
http://www.malayalavedhi.com/Music/Music.php?q=s&s=pootha+paatte

Download
http://www.coolgoose.com/music/song.php?id=117192