regurgitating

I have watched bovine creatures
on moonlit nights
lying on their  straw mattresses
regurgitating to glory                
I have always wondered
what do they think
as they move their jaws
east to west and west to east
the occasional shake of head
to dislodge the irritating fly
or to erase a disturbing memory.
After a days grazing , the tired limbs rest
while the hurriedly eaten grass gets re-processed.
After decades of wandering I rest mine
 and memories come back for reliving.
They taste different from when consumed.
The painful thorn I consumed now
tickles my tongue
and the greenest leaf I pursued
and consumed
now feels insipid.

Au revoir Warrier

"Warrier went today (വാരിയര്‍  ഇന്ന്  പോയി) ". It was a monotonic and very final sounding statement . Unni said this as he kick-started his bike to leave. Seeing my reaction and query , he switched-off the bike and clarified - "Warrier passed away today morning. The post master passed away few days back and now the post man  has also left ". the nonchalance and impersonality of the statement was hurtful. Especially when I thought , I had immortalised both the post master and the post man in my previous blog.
Warrier was the one with more public contact . Being the face of the post office , he was the one who met the public often. He also had another public-facing  role that he played at the local temple . I associate him with the mixture of pounded rice flakes, grated coconut and jaggery (avilum ,sharkarayum with thenga  - in malayalam). I carried an impression that he survived on this . He was also an acclaimed exponent of akshara slokam . The aksharasloka groups had this heady mixture of avil and sharkara  as the centre piece and their sessions lasted as long as the centre piece was getting replenished. I also vaguely recollect warrier to be a good chess player.
I wonder how Warrier would have fared at another time, another place and another role . He must be doing that now with same old wry smile and un-hurried pace of life.

Kanaran Maash

The walk to the postoffice everyday afternoon after 3pm was a routine for my grandfather. Being a school kid who had just started the rigors of school life, I used to look forward to this on the days I missed school and on Saturdays. While struggling to keep up with his long strides, I would be running a few yards in front and then waiting for him and once he would catch up then I would again run ahead. We did not speak much or rather he did not speak much. He would exchange very brief pleasantries with people we met on the way. Once we crossed the paddy fields we would reach the road. This daily pilgrimage to the postoffice was in anticipation of a letter from my father. We would stroll across the road and go up to the Post office. The Post Office was in the largest of the buildings on the road in our village. It had about 4 rooms on the ground floor and the post office upstairs. The biggest grocery shop for the village was also  there. Afternoons in our leisurely paced life at the village can put an insomniac to sleep. The warm and humid weather with an occasional breeze from the paddy fields that felt cool on the skin could easily lull you to sleep, especially if you have had a heavy starchy lunch. The shopkeeper sitting on the worn wooden stool with his feet up on the open sacks of rice and his head resting on the wall behind, would be enjoying his siesta. He would punctuate his sleep with comments like 'bus from north is late today', 'chance of a cloud burst today', 'fish monger, Abdu is late today' ......... I have always wondered if these comments were made as a deterrent to those who might feel like tasting the jaggery or other eatables in the shop during his siesta. He also had a unique way of sitting on the stool without soiling or crumbling his 'mundu'. He would lift his 'mundu' sit on the stool and drop the 'mundu', which would appear to 'skirt' the wooden stool.

At the corner of the veranda was the rickety wooden stairs that led to the post office. Instead of a bannister there was a rope hanging from the roof mid-way up the stairs. Invariably we would reach the postoffice before the postman's arrival. The postman would have cycled to the nearby town to pick up the mail. We would spent the next few minutes or more  looking up the road to look out for  the postman's cycle to make its appearance and observing  life in the vicinity. There was always a couple of ardent chess players on the veranda, playing with charcoal drawn squares on the floor and pieces made out of the stem of a plantain tree. The game would always be played in silence and had an audience of another two. Beedi smoke added to the flavour of the game's tensions.

If the postman was considerbaly delayed, the postmaster would come down the stairs and make some appropriate comments. The post master, popularly known as 'Maash' or more specifically 'Kanaran Maash', was a stocky built person with an impressive moustache. Fortyfive years ago, it was a salt & pepper moustache that was luxurious and the tips pointed heavenward. It was not just the moustache that brought out the 'uniformed' look in him, all his actions were very military like. Since this was not a 'real' Post Office (later in my life I came to know this PO was an Extra-Departmental PO) Kanaran Maash and his team did not wear the regular uniform, while the postman (Warrier) was always in his spotless white khadi, Maash had pastel shade shirts to match his white mundu. Warrier would then appear around the bend in the road, his cycle bell waking others waiting like me and my grandfather and draw them towards the post office.

The privileged among us would climb up the stairs with Kanaran Maash while the others would wait on the veranda. There would be two bags, one more like a sack was larger and tied at the mouth with a jute string while the other smaller bag had the mouth sealed with sealing wax.There would also be a few pages of paper which both the post officials would joke about and keep aside. Then the suspence of the contents of the sack - Warrier would first empty the sack on his table, then check the empty sack three times for any stray or missed letters. The empty sack would then be discarded to a corner on the floor.He would then gather all the letters into a neat stack and place them face down on the table. On the table he had a stamp ink pad, which was like a royal crown with a shiny brass lining on the sides and a blue-black inky cushion at the top. Next to the royal crown was a royal staff, this was the stamp with a changeable date on it. The stamping ritual would begin with a customary pouring of ink into the cushion and  testing of the stamp on the newspaper that covered the table. Next five minutes (depending on the volume of letters) was what I always looked forward to. Warrier would tilt the pile of letters onto the table and with the index finger of his left hand, he would push the un-willing letters to the centre of the table. Once the letter was in the correct range, his right fist holding the royal staff would come down with a loud 'thump' and stamp the letter. With another flick of the back of his right hand, the stamped letter would get pushed to a side. His  hands working with clock-work precison and would create music -- rustle, THUMP - rustle ....

Once the whole pile was done , he would turn the pile over and read the addressee names. and handout the letters. He normally would have very few letters to deliver to doorsteps as  all  those anticipating letters would be in attendance at the post office. For the  few others , who were employed outside the village , the letters would be left behind at the grocery store.

I dont know what changes have happened at the post office now. But one change I came across in the obituary coloumns this week.

കണാരന്
ബാലുശ്ശേരി: വിമുക്തഭടന് കരുമല ടി.സി. കണാരന് (97) അന്തരിച്ചു. രണ്ടാം ലോക മഹായുദ്ധത്തില് പങ്കെടുത്തിട്ടുണ്ട്. പോസ്റ്റ്മാസ്റ്ററായും പ്രവര്ത്തിച്ചിരുന്നു. ഭാര്യ: കുട്ടിമാത. മക്കള്: ജാനു (ഫാര്മസിസ്റ്റ്), പത്മിനി, രവി (വിമുക്തഭടന്), ലീല, തങ്കമണി (താലൂക്ക് ഓഫീസ് ക്ലര്ക്ക്). മരുമക്കള്: പരേതനായ കരുണാകരന്, ചാത്തു, കണാരക്കുട്ടി (റിട്ട. കെ.എസ്.ഇ.ബി.), പരേതനായ ഭാസ്കരന്, പത്മാവതി (എസ്. എന്. എസ്. എസ്. നന്മണ്ട).

walking through the paddy fields

On a sultry night I am walking along the narrow pathway in the lush green paddy fields. The eerie silence of the night is interrupted by the croaking of the frogs and a chorus by umpteen members of the family insecta. In the inky darkness of the night paddy is not green , everything is black. Each footstep is a belief because I do not have torch or any other source of light. Normally a torch would have been left at Velayudhan's paan shop by my considerate father. But today I only got a shake of head from Velayudhan. I can see the flicker of a torch , at a distance , coming towards me . As it gets nearer the heavy footfall and panting gets very audible. The practice in such encounters is for the armed one ,the one with the torch, to flash at the unarmed one's face and say , ' oh! it was you ! why so late ?' . The unarmed who is already walking like a bat on a sunny day ,becomes totally blind and if the flash was effective enough would fall of the walkway into the slushy paddy field. By then the torch bearer would be far away and adds insult to injury by shouting a statutory warning ' be careful dont fall into the field'. The light was getting closser and the sounds start to become more distinct. I could clearly separate the noises - the flip-flop of the hawai chappal , the stretch sounds of the starched mundu against the legs , the 70(?) kilos of flesh and bones pounding mother earth with a vengence and the occasional swagger of the folded umbrella against unruly growth of paddy that was trying to usurp the walkway. I was contemplating the defensive tactics that I could deploy and decided the best course of action would be to cover my face before he could flash the torch. Walking along these pathways is always adventurous . and it becomes more interesting on a dark night like this . While the planning commission in my head had almost reached a consensus on the action to take , I suddenly realised the world had gone quiet!

There I was on a dark night in a paddy field , walking homeward on a prayer, and the stranger in the night walking towards me making enough noise to give me a cardiac arrest, suddenly could no longer be heard. Yes, the noises suddenly ceased. As if they were comrades from the same trade union the frogs and crickets too went into total silence . I stood rooted to the spot and scanned, albeit blindly, everything in front of me . Then as if on a cue the frogs and crickets got their voice back, but the stomping was still missing. I took a step forward and I heard it again. I stopped and it was again the deafening silence . I took a step back and again heard the rustle, the half clippity-clop which was followed by silence. It almost seemed like a couple waltzing . The silence in between made the night darker. I never knew that sound could have such an impact on light or more appropriately silence could intensify darkness. I dont know how long I stood rooted to the spot . The sultry night was adding to the discomfort. The polyster shirt on my back was dripping wet and stuck to me like my second skin. My tongue was almost non-existent and throat seemed to be lined with sand-paper. Clearing my sand-paper throat seemed the only way to make my presence felt . I felt , any kind of identification that I could transmit might be considered as a peace offering and I would be left alone to live another day. I attempted the guttural exercise and the sound that I produced was a cross between a toad's croak and a bus applying breaks ! And all hell broke loose . It was as if a typhoon, tsunami, hurricane , every possible natural disaster - hit the area around me. First was a scream that curdled my blood, then a crash and splinter of glass. I realised that the torch had fallen from my adversary's hand and crashed on the ground. The impact broke the glass , but also switched it on. Light from ground level can make the shadows very menacing. Over all all this, I could hear the heavy footsteps running away while the scream continued . Slowly I could feel life returning to my limbs . I picked up the torch and walked home. I swung open the gate and walked in , and to my father's query if I got the torch from Karunan I replied affirmatively.

Next day morning waiting at the bus-stop for my 'Vijay Travels' I overheard Karunan at the adjacent teashop enthralling an audience about his narrow escape the previous night at the hands of the 'yakshi' who was as tall as the coconut tree , broad as the jackfruit tree and roared like a lion ! Till this moment I have never felt so 'mighty'