It is December. The time of the year when I visit my parents in my home town and renew my ties with the place of my birth. This trip is part of my annual checklist. My parents live in a small town in the district of Kanyakumari (Cape Comorin) in South India. I did not grow up there. Nor do I possess any fond memories of the place. I am a glorified traveler having an extended stay in this territory. What sets me apart from a regular tourist is the promise of rent free accommodation, free food and lack of interest in venturing out and exploring the attractions of the place. I am home bound and am content being so. The only occasions when I step out of the confines of my maternal home, are to visit relatives in need. They fall under the categories of the old, the ailing, the financially challenged and the ones who reside in close proximity.
The visits to these relatives’ houses and subsequent interactions are almost mechanical in nature, following a curated template — they expressing joy on seeing me, enquiring about my date of arrival and duration of stay, asking about Bangalore weather and passing disapproving remarks over my reduction in weight; I faking a smile and enquiring about their health or lack of it, commenting about the monsoons, politely refusing tea, coffee or other refreshments, and handing them some currency notes, as I glide out in relief. Any imposter can play my role with ease, provided he/she adorns appropriate facial make up to resemble my features. The text and template are fairly simple. These interactions, however, are crucial in keeping the familial bonds in tact.
My daughter is yet to get accustomed to these annual customs and curricular activities. She wonders why everyone is faking it. “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players”, I tell her, rather proud of my Shakespearean knowledge. The other aspect that bothers her is the overt expectation of her to dress up in traditional attire and sport fine jewelry, if a pair of earrings can be deemed as jewelry. The idea of replacing her faded jeans with a flowing skirt and her favorite t-shirt with a blouse baffles her. After a lot of coaxing and cajoling, to make her understand the importance of costume in a drama, my city-bred offspring gets into a frock, and frowns, as I clip the earrings to her ears. Nostalgia hits me hard, as I see her reactions. “She is less of a rebel, good for me”, I muse.
A vacation in home land is incomplete without drowning oneself in truckloads of local delicacies. Eating is almost a 24 hour affair, during the course of the stay. The mouth is eternally open, the small intestine is constantly confused and the large intestine is in a total mess. The output system struggles to keep up with the pace of the input system. How can one resist flavorful kappa (tapioca), fried fish, idiyappam (rice string hoppers), kothu parotta (masala laden shredded flatbreads), signature mutton kuruma, netholi meen avial (anchovies cooked in a coconut and yogurt sauce), vazha koombu thoran (plantain flowers cooked with grated coconut and spices) and home grown varieties of jackfruit, banana, chikku (sapodilla), custard apple, mangoes (even in December) and tender coconut, all from the backyard / kitchen garden? Food coma sets in. Coming out of it is a herculean mission, made possible only by packing one’s bags and leaving the center of (attr)action.
I choose December for the trip, solely because it is the only time of the year when the tropical weather is at its best. Still, humidity haunts us, it being a coastal town, barely few kilometers from the Indian ocean. No natural remedy can provide us respite from the feeling of being inside an oven. The place used to feel like Antarctica during my summer vacations in childhood, when I drove down from Chennai. Now, the origin of my tour is Bangalore, and the garden city of India has made my home town feel like the epicenter of the equator. I am sure, Einstein did not think of this aspect, when he devised the theory of relativity!
This is also the time of the year when I mull over the 365 days that passed by and pen down my reflections and memories. The quaint little town with its lush green fields, rubber plantations, sparkling streams and towering hills offers the perfect backdrop to brood over life and dream of sunny, mellow days ahead. The humid air embraces the soul with a kindness and warmth that is amiss in the urban atmosphere. The stillness and serenity of the country side fills the heart with gratitude for the little joys of life. I sit down by the banks of the brook, a pen and a book in hand, breathing in the scents of the soil and listening to the faint tune of a humming bird; a tune that sends soothing ripples across the still waters; a tune that echoes through the swaying branches of the coconut trees; a tune that blends with the cries of the crickets and the moss that covers the moist land; a tune that tugs at my heart strings when I walk down the memory lane; a tune that waits for me to return, every year, as I glance through my annual checklist.
