Onam in my memories

I do not remember what day, date, or month it was. I do not clearly remember how old I was too, maybe 5 or 6, but I do remember the events of that day and its succeeding day very clearly.

It was a rainy day, and on our way back from the school bus stop to our house, I had removed my raincoat hood off and splashed muck all over my sisters’ socks. The events that followed included an unceremonious welcome into the house, coupled with a lengthy and severe reprimand in Malayalam (most of which we did not understand) from Amma, especially for my elder sisters who had not taken care of their little brother while in transit. As my sisters stood in the corner making gestures at me which suggested ‘Let Amma move aside, we will make you pay for all this’, Amma  vigorously patted my head dry using a traditional Kerala thorthu, the intensity of which kept modulating in tantamount to the intensity of her reprimands. By the end of the head-drying project, my sisters were burning with vengeance and my neck ached terribly, but I smelt good. Amma had just applied a pinch of rasnadi podi on my scalp, neatly combed my hair and left for her chores as she grounded us for the day, and punished my sisters to read out loudly from their school textbooks. I kept myself posited on the kitchen window within safe distance of Amma as she cooked lunch, lest my sisters would find me alone, and hand out their retribution, which usually ended up with pinch marks on my thighs and arms.

Later, my sisters chanted out loudly from their textbooks, while intermittently checking for a leeway to vent out their revenge, I kept sulking, yet smiling as I gazed out of the kitchen window of our third floor apartment.  Down below, my local Gujarati friends were playing Chain Tag, skidding, sliding and rolling in the slushy, puddled ground strewn with cow dung here and there. That is when I saw Pappa zip in in his bicycle with the acrobatic alacrity of a professional bicycle stuntman.

It was just noon, and Pappa never came home from work so early. Usually by the time he came back, after his full day at office, followed by his part time work elsewhere, we kids would be sound asleep. The only time I saw my Pappa during those days was in the early mornings and on the weekends. That day, his speedy arrival, which comprised of deft maneuvering of his bicycle to avoid the potholes and dungs, followed by a skillful parking stint, a hop off the bicycle, swift locking and quick dash into the staircase well told me that he was today, a man on a mission. For a moment, I kept staring agape and wide eyed at the Hercules bicycle that he had just parked and then jumped off the kitchen window proclaiming loudly ‘Pappa came’ .

My sisters threw off their books on the bed, unlocked the main door and the outer steel grille with marked dexterity and rushed out of the house to be ahead of me in order to present their case about my misdemeanors and appeal against Amma’s biased judgment. I ran out too; all I wanted to know was, why is home so early?

Pappa rushed in, and informed Amma ‘The stuff has arrived. Pilla had sent a message. I need to rush now. You go get me the big vegetable bag’ he said and rushed into the bedroom leaving a pair of very dejected sisters on the main door.  I followed him monitoring his moves closely. He quickly opened the cupboard, and removed some cash from under the cloths in the top shelf, tucked it into the secret pocket in his pants and darted out of the bedroom, grabbed the bag from Amma’s hand and ran out. I wore my slippers and ran behind him.

As he was about to hop on to his bicycle, I begged ‘’Pappa, I want to come too’, in return of which he gave me a stern look that seemed to say: Move away kid, I am on an important mission. No time for kiddy rides today, but I persisted and eventually won my seat on the cross bar. I hopped onto the crossbar and sat with both feet on the left and clasped on to the handle bar, put on my raincoat hood and glanced upwards to wave my bye-byes as my Amma looked on gleefully and my sisters stared down, gnashing their teeth and fuming with vengeance.

The ride was a long ride, three and a half kilometer in all, from the Gujarat Housing Board Colony in Gorwa to the Main Market adjacent to the Vadodara Railway Station. On the ride, I kept bombarding my father with questions to get a clue of our assignment, but Pappa was busy and focused on riding the bicycle, just riding it as fast as he could. I knew I had to just keep mum and wait for my answers.

By the time we reached our destination, my legs were numb and I could barely walk, but it was an adventure worth the pain. Pappa parked his bicycle at the stand and ran hastily dragging me behind him, as if we were about to miss a train or were visiting someone on the deathbed with the soul holding on to the body just waiting to wave the last goodbye to us.

We jostled past the crowded market and finally reached our destination, nestled in between the kirana and masala shops, a tiny little 2ft x 2ft shop  that sold multi colored lungis, pure white towels and men’s undergarments. For a moment, I looked up to Pappa with a bewildered look on my face that asked, Did I come all this far, travelling on a crossbar, in the rain to buy underwear? Shucks! That is when a tiny baldhead with spectacled eyes appeared from under the table and called out ‘Ah Cheta, you arrived! It is all lying here, just for you’. That was Mr. Pillai, my father’s agent, and from under his table, he got the stash out. A collection of some very exotic vegetables that I had never seen before, some whole coconuts, plantain leaves, banana chips, Palada and Sharkara Uperi all packed in old Malayalam newspapers. Pappa gave him the money, which included his commission and we rode off, back to home.

On my way back, Pappa explained how difficult it was to procure our very own Kerala’s homegrown vegetables and other foodstuff and how he had arranged for these to be delivered through someone travelling on the steam locomotive train which arrived once a week from Kannur, travelling 3 days in all via Shornur, Madras, Vijayavada, Sholapur, Bombay and Surat. That, all this stuff was required for celebrating Onam, which was tomorrow. Tomorrow, we would be hosting some of our Malayalee friends who would join us in cooking and savoring an elaborate Sadya. My father was super excited, and I could sense that in his moist eyes and from the descriptions that he gave me about Onam. On our way back, we stopped at some of our family friend’s houses, where he informed with much enthusiasm that ‘The stuff has arrived, all of it. Come tomorrow. Come early morning itself, and don’t forget to bring the bottle’

Next day we celebrated Onam with much traditional fanfare. We Fraud Mallu kids conversed in broken Malayalam and although being Christians, we siblings applied Chanda kuri on our forehead. Elders donned traditional Kerala dresses. The men lazed while discussing Kerala politics over a smuggled bottle of brandy as the women cooked a sumptuous Sadya. For the first time in my life, I had food served on a banana leaf and savored the manna called Pappadam-Pazham-Payasam. Drinking Payasam off a banana leaf required special skill, and most kids really struggled with it; but we endured it to preserve whatever was remaining of our Malayalee identity. That was the first Onam celebration that I can remember of; that was somewhere in the late 1970’s.

This year, that is, 2013 some 35 odd years later, I found my little 5-year-old lad Yohan at the same point where I was then. We were in Kerala for our usual Annual vacation that falls in July-August. It was also the time that most of my cousins from various corners of the world landed at Kannur for their respective staycations. Whatever it was, it was not time for Onam yet; this year Onam fell on 16 September and by the time Mahabali arrived, we cousins would have left for the land where we worked for a living. Nevertheless, my mother had conjured up a surprise for all of us. Under her leadership, she organized the first ever potluck Sadya in our house. Each family prepared a set of vibhavams and for the first time, Yohan and along with him many young kids in my extended family had a full course traditional Kerala Sadya off a Banana leaf sitting on the floor. They struggled, but just like my sisters and I, who endured scooping yummy payasam off a Banana leaf many years ago, these little kids did too, and I am sure that, just like us they too enjoyed it.

Amongst all this festivity and commotion called Onasadya where the men cracked clamorous jokes and lazed over duty free liquor and Rummy, where women jostled kids running around creating havoc as they served food, I realized one thing. In all these years that we celebrated Onam, we never had all the traditional ingredients of a standard Onam day. In our celebrations, there was no Ghoshayatra, no Mahabali, no Pulikali, no Chandamelam and no Pookalam even. Nevertheless, we did enjoy it, and by God, we did enjoy it to the fullest. I guess, the reason why we enjoyed it most and carried good memories of it, was because we were in the company of good people; people who genuinely loved us and cared for us, and that, I believe is the most important ingredient of all.

 

 

That day, as I watched little Yohan having his Onam meal, I was transported back to my childhood, to that long ride on the crossbar, to my first Onam Sadya, to my little pranks for which my sisters always received the rebuke and to the memories that I share with my childhood Fraud Mallu friends, who are long lost in time. I wished them well, and hoped that somewhere they too were having their onasadya and reminiscing those good old days and wishing me well in return.