Concord

There was a time when my people lived in harmony with our mother nature... We felt the lives of every animate and inanimate object around us. We lived adhering to the fact that plants, animals, birds, fish, other organisms and micro-organisms were the building blocks of our serene and tranquil existence. Whatever our religious faiths were, we realised love and care for the living nature is essential for our social, physical and spiritual growth.

We woke up to a new daylight hearing the cacophonous clattering of the crows in the backyard. Pulling water with an areca leaf ‘bucket’ from the deep well, and brushing teeth with burnt husks… listening to a cuckoo’s song… mimicking and teasing the bird…. Even now thinking of those sweet days brings back beautiful memories… It touches the soul… sends a wave of inexplicable feeling… ‘Whither is gone that visionary gleam? Where is it now that vision and the dream?’

Pallithazham

There was a time when Pallithazham got chocked up by the number of its bus waiting sheds! Communist, League, Congress and what not… Everybody was competing to serve the villagers!!

There were more people waiting in these sheds for nothing than for buses. But even nothing used to be something in our little community.

Pallithazham is also known by many other names such as 6/4, Pulikkil, CPCRI and Spices Board. It may sound weird that a small suburb known by these many names. But when we look deeper into the lives of those good people who have been living here for long… we see the vibrancy of life justifies the names. The influence of the ‘Palli’(mosque), the sourness(Puli) of our humours, the ‘spicy’ gossips spreading around… I remember when my dad’s song about the Day of Resurrection ‘roohokke paariyethi koodanayunnathu innaanu…’ (This is the day when all souls gather) was first aired by AIR, someone made a parody ‘noolokke paariyethi koodanayunnathu ingaanu…’ (This is the place where all the gossips come home).

Whatever you say, it is the ‘pallikkadu’(cemetery) that catches your attention first and keeps you reminding of the inevitable return….We were a close knit neighbourhood and all of us were related to each other on a number scale… 6/3, 6/4, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11… the miles went on all the way up to the foot of Wynadan high ranges.

The sweet recollections of my childhood are beautifully blended in the herb-smelling breeze that sweeps gently over Chelavoor and the neighborhood…. The pleasant darkness of Thurayil Kotta, under the canopy created by the thick foliage of the tall trees….. screeching monkeys bungee-diving on the dangling vines…. The three ‘makkanis’ (teashops) known by their ‘famous’ proprietors… Bawukka’s of 6/3, Bichalikka’s of 6/4 (there were two Bichalikkas… the old and the new) and Itchappa’s of 7…. After Sub’h prayer at Pulikkil masjid…walkijng in either direction…east or southwest… a black tea with a piece of ‘puttu’(steamed rice cake) made crunchy with a crushed pappodum…. It tasted heaven compared to the McDonalds, KFC or whatever!

The memories of my little village and the neigbourhood run me mad with nostalgia. The reminiscence of the past makes me die for my birthplace. But once I get home, I can’t stay there long. Mum used to say that my maru (placenta or cord?) might be eaten up by a wandering jackal.

Driving through the maze of busy Brisbane roads... stopping at the red lights... looking at the azure Pacific sky... as I did all through my wandering life... in busy streets of Bangkok... on the silver beaches of Kaaf Island of Maldives.. in the old mud houses of Oman... in the more familiar streets of Abu Dhabi, Alain and Dubai... in the hot deserts of Saudi Arabia..... I hear the call of my gorgeous Chelavoor... I get the sweet smell of Pallithazham... I recollect the silence of Bharathan Bazaar.... I love to wait for the KSRTC at that dilapidated waiting shed of Mukkil.. Moozhikkal... the paddy fields of old viruppil where I used to go sneakily to watch the 'kaalapoottu'... the murky waters of Anakkazham where I used to accompany my dad on his fishing expeditions during the initial days of the monsoon... his anecdots of past 'puthukkus'... the 'thodum kuzhiyum' of 6/3 vellayottu and vellangara... my old and gone karanavars like Kurudoor Imbichaalikka... Kandettan... Beedi Gopalettan... Puthiyedathu Bichikoyakka... and more than anything my beloved dad... the living legend of Chelavoor... Chelavoor KC... How can I forget my village? It is in every throbbing of my little heart.... har dadkanon mei tu hei... mere aashiqi mere gaav...

There was a slippery trunk lying across the river at Chelavoor… the vivid memories of diving and plunging into the deep water…With the oiled but skinny bodies… after the early morning’s Kalari ‘aerobics’ at Shafi… playing soccer on the bank… and volleyball behind the patch of cassava plants…. Soothing winds and flying kites on Kashmirkunnu and CPCRI (the new name has got no childhood touch)… The reminiscence extends… because tomorrows kick todays to the corner of recollection… It’s a continuum!