Catherine Rhea Roy ;
Before it got misplaced in the cycle of seasons and humdrum life, summers meant vacations, grandmothers’ houses and endless possibilities.
Summers at my ammachi’s house in Kerala were as ritualistic as Sunday Mass and just like the sabbath, it was always a flurry of preparation before I made the journey deeper into the south. Books had to be rented from the library, holiday homework that was rebelliously strewn around the house after the last day of school had to be gathered, followed by a litany of instructions from my mother reminding me to brush my teeth before bed, not bite my nails or chew my hair, be polite, say please and thank you.
The 15-hour train ride from my nucleus in Bangalore was always wholesome entertainment. Climbing up and down and up and down the monkey bars that lead to the upper berths, accepting sweets and snacks from strangers who didn’t necessarily mean danger back then and if all else failed I had my trusted summer special issue of Tinkle. Before the journey was out the digest would be combed from end-to-end multiple times.
There would inevitably be a new friend – girl or boy – also on their way to an ammama or paati. If they weren’t crybabies, then we would become mayflies dancing around the light before our time came to say goodbye and never see each other again. Until then we bonded over activity books, mimicked the nasal call of the guys from the pantry-car – choi-choi-choi or kohpi-kohpi-kohpi… just being an all-round nuisance, emboldened by the solidarity of having found each other in that boxy compartment.
And when you reached my ammachi’s house, the air was always punctuated with comforting, familiar sounds. There was a cow that lowed in discomfort as it was being milked in the morning; there was always a stew that would be bubbling or a roast hissing over the hearth, chickens that gurgled as they diligently pecked the ground in search of grain, and of course, screaming cousins. The first day was always lost in formalities, awkwardly skirting each other, fiercely engrossed in our solo pursuits with a paint set or Nintendo.
But things would change over the four o’clock banana fritters that would be laid out on the table glistening with melted butter. After the heady snack, we were all delighted little demons who played like tiger cubs – chasing and tumbling with a fair bit of gnawing and scratching. In these scenarios of daring and adventure that were played out, we were our own judge and jury and the only person who had any control over the pack was our queen – ammachi – who ruled with an eagle eye, a sense of humour, wisdom and justice.
An evening when my cousin and I fought over a piece of rusk, she placed a large tin in front of us and wouldn’t allow us to get up until we finished every last one. So we sat there and ate our crime and our punishment till the crispy, buttery biscuit turned to sawdust in our mouths. That night we ate a simple meal of rice, curd, fried chicken and salt and she fed us both from a single plate. She was always good to us, pretending she didn’t see us double-dipping spoons in the jam jar or stealing fistfuls of grain to overfeed the chickens or giving us enough money to watch the matinee show and eat an egg puff on our way back.
When she was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1999, she willingly gave up her left breast with rationale and grace. She had weaned her own five children and had nestled their children against her soft bosom. She had no practical use for it anymore. So she cut her losses and extended her lease on life by another 10 years as the ruler of the house and the grounds around it – her kingdom.
Ammachi passed in 2009 and since, a dignified silence has settled over the house that is now inhabited by adults who move around like shadows and talk in low tones. As cousins we try to honour her memory by still getting along and meeting in twos or threes in the city as summer holidays are not an affair anymore. In fact, life has weathered the seasons and I find now that it has been reduced to an indistinct, endless loop of sun and rain.
As for Summer, she is frozen in sepia somewhere in another lifetime. n
Before it got misplaced in the cycle of seasons and humdrum life, summers meant vacations, grandmothers’ houses and endless possibilities.
Summers at my ammachi’s house in Kerala were as ritualistic as Sunday Mass and just like the sabbath, it was always a flurry of preparation before I made the journey deeper into the south. Books had to be rented from the library, holiday homework that was rebelliously strewn around the house after the last day of school had to be gathered, followed by a litany of instructions from my mother reminding me to brush my teeth before bed, not bite my nails or chew my hair, be polite, say please and thank you.
The 15-hour train ride from my nucleus in Bangalore was always wholesome entertainment. Climbing up and down and up and down the monkey bars that lead to the upper berths, accepting sweets and snacks from strangers who didn’t necessarily mean danger back then and if all else failed I had my trusted summer special issue of Tinkle. Before the journey was out the digest would be combed from end-to-end multiple times.
There would inevitably be a new friend – girl or boy – also on their way to an ammama or paati. If they weren’t crybabies, then we would become mayflies dancing around the light before our time came to say goodbye and never see each other again. Until then we bonded over activity books, mimicked the nasal call of the guys from the pantry-car – choi-choi-choi or kohpi-kohpi-kohpi… just being an all-round nuisance, emboldened by the solidarity of having found each other in that boxy compartment.
And when you reached my ammachi’s house, the air was always punctuated with comforting, familiar sounds. There was a cow that lowed in discomfort as it was being milked in the morning; there was always a stew that would be bubbling or a roast hissing over the hearth, chickens that gurgled as they diligently pecked the ground in search of grain, and of course, screaming cousins. The first day was always lost in formalities, awkwardly skirting each other, fiercely engrossed in our solo pursuits with a paint set or Nintendo.
But things would change over the four o’clock banana fritters that would be laid out on the table glistening with melted butter. After the heady snack, we were all delighted little demons who played like tiger cubs – chasing and tumbling with a fair bit of gnawing and scratching. In these scenarios of daring and adventure that were played out, we were our own judge and jury and the only person who had any control over the pack was our queen – ammachi – who ruled with an eagle eye, a sense of humour, wisdom and justice.
An evening when my cousin and I fought over a piece of rusk, she placed a large tin in front of us and wouldn’t allow us to get up until we finished every last one. So we sat there and ate our crime and our punishment till the crispy, buttery biscuit turned to sawdust in our mouths. That night we ate a simple meal of rice, curd, fried chicken and salt and she fed us both from a single plate. She was always good to us, pretending she didn’t see us double-dipping spoons in the jam jar or stealing fistfuls of grain to overfeed the chickens or giving us enough money to watch the matinee show and eat an egg puff on our way back.
When she was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1999, she willingly gave up her left breast with rationale and grace. She had weaned her own five children and had nestled their children against her soft bosom. She had no practical use for it anymore. So she cut her losses and extended her lease on life by another 10 years as the ruler of the house and the grounds around it – her kingdom.
Ammachi passed in 2009 and since, a dignified silence has settled over the house that is now inhabited by adults who move around like shadows and talk in low tones. As cousins we try to honour her memory by still getting along and meeting in twos or threes in the city as summer holidays are not an affair anymore. In fact, life has weathered the seasons and I find now that it has been reduced to an indistinct, endless loop of sun and rain.
As for Summer, she is frozen in sepia somewhere in another lifetime. n
