Time, distance and man himself changes one's life and experiences. Like the marks of water on land showing that once upon a time, water flowed, there were streams and rivers making the land fertile, green and beautiful, man's mind too is a canvas. Despite the ravages of time having a marked look, the good times are the ones with colour and somehow always come to the surface to bring a smile.
For me, the summer vacation at my uncle's place was the best times of my life. My uncle was a man of many talent. He was the child of a talented man himself. As heard from my mom, my grandfather was known very well in the city, not just for being a congress man but also for being a humanitarian who was kind and giving. He also had interest in literature, music and arts. She used to say that the fire in the kitchen at home would burn 24 hours and no one would leave home without having something.
My uncle lost his father in his twenties and took on the responsibilities of bringing up his eight younger siblings, with the eldest being my mom, a teenager. My mom did reminiscence that despite the troubles of the time, he handled things as well as he could. He chose a career in banking and worked in the cooperative bank till retirement. He inherited the traits of my grandfather in not just art, music and literature but also in his relationship with people. Every time someone came home during breakfast, they would join the family. Rest of the day it was always tea and snacks. He was not loud spoken nor would get angry easily, but then those rare times I have heard him loud and get angry were chilling then and is still today. He would convey his ideas and opinion with clarity and his brain was an encyclopedia in itself. One could ask all doubts and questions to him and he would answer. If he didn't know, he would go to his collection of books, a huge library, pick one and find out with you.
Some memories around him are as clear as though it happened just a few minutes ago. Like the time when he would play the harmonium and sing with my mom, aunt and her music teacher. Those evenings were a world where my love of music got cultivated besides the radio that played at home. Malayalam and Hindi songs, lines repeated when they went wrong. He would play the harmonium and if he missed a beat, pause and play it back which in itself was a rare thing. In the midst of this, I would watch him looking at me, and egging me to join. Evenings that started around 7 pm would stretch for three hours before they all reluctantly would stop and call it a night. Songs would be called out, sung, corrected where it went wrong, resung some times if required. It was about getting together to sing, and spend evenings in the midst of music. My mom had her notebook with lyrics which she would carry back home. I still hold that music book of my mom. Those evenings were magic, like being transported to a different space, a different dimension.
Some evenings were with friends playing cards. He introduced his eldest son once and asked him to join in. I saw a father introduce a son gently into his world, the adult world. He was that. He wouldn't hold your hand, nor would he tell you directly anything. He would watch, listen, gently show you the way and be behind, watching your step. In the middle of all kind of conversations, have seen him watch everything, not missing anything. I guess that eye for details, for knowing things and taking care of people was a quality unique to him.
Most evenings, he would come from office to have someone waiting to meet him - a courtesy call, invitation, and many a time for suggestions and advice. So, those evenings spent with him - silence sprinkled with conversations were special. One evening, my uncle had come home with vegetables and he was cleaning the green leaves. If I remember right, one of my cousins and me were sitting with him. He used to ask me about school, learning. Somewhere in the talk, I told something to the effect of 'I hate men'. He had a pause. When I turned, I found him looking at me. He went back to picking the leaves, and asked me 'Why do you say that ?". Me always the person stingy with words in articulating bad experiences, especially those days, just said, 'I don't know. I hate men. They are not good'. It was the year I started riding the bicycle and was experiencing boys and men whistle, cut in, cat calls. I didn't tell him any of this. There was a long silence and he asked me if I love my dad. I said, yes, of course. Your dad is a man. Do you hate him ? I said No emphatically. I looked back at the leaves and I could hear the wheels of my brain turn and fire. He let it turn and fire. After sometime, he said. There are all kinds of people in this world. Good and bad. Not all are good and not all are bad. I still have issues with generalizing like many but that lesson comes to mind every time I do. He didn't force an opinion, didn't tell me my thinking was wrong. He just showed me a bigger picture and let me learn.
Another time, was a conversation I overheard with my aunt. She was in her 12th std I guess and was studying to give exams. He told her to study well and you can go for teacher training and become a teacher. The time when I failed my quarterly and half yearly in the eight standard in maths. After the customary thrashing I used to receive for failing and few days of silence and peak tension I remember my mom telling of a conversation he had with her. My mom had failed her exams at 16. She was upset because she was a bright student. She hadn't taken her exams seriously. It was the year after her dad had passed away. When the results came, it seems my uncle told her it was okay and to study and write the exam again. She was upset and didn't do it which she regretted always. In the sixties and seventies, an age when girls education was not much spoken off, here was a brother backing his sister to study. He had told her she could train to be a teacher after she passed. My mom related this story and told me she regretted not taking her brother's advice. If only she had taken his advice seriously, she would have had a career other than a house wife. She felt that she hadn't reached her potential. My mom was a talented woman - literature, art, music, dance, gardening, cooking, design, conversations and relationships she could easily build with all people, her amazing memory of people. Also, when later in life she found out about her friends, I guess it hurt her that she hadn't taken the right decision. So, the feeling of not having achieved her potential stayed with her through life. My uncle placed great importance on education on all his siblings and on the next generation as well.
The time he brought sweets for the 'Grahapravesham' of the home we, six of us (three sisters and three brothers) plus sometimes neighbourhood friends built is the exact scene I can re-enact even today. The hut was built under the mango tree. A drawing and a kitchen, just a 8X10 max maybe with a partition, chest high. As in previous years, we built the hut from scratch using poles and thatch. My brothers knew how to build. To this day, I don't know from where they learnt it. They first would go check out the wood, size and strength as well as the coconut fronds, sometimes matted, sometimes not. After an assessment, we would carry them to the site. Then, they would measure roughly and start digging holes in the ground. We sisters wouldn't be allowed to carry anything heavy. We would scoop mud out or help with the ropes and the fronds. The heavy and hard labour our cousins would do all by themselves. Once the pillars and beams came up, the coconut fronds would be put up on the roof as well as the sides. The ground would be cleared of weeds and grass and the mud flattened. Mats would be brought from home and layed out on the ground. The rest of the summer, this would be our hole from morning to evening. Once finished we invited my uncle and aunts to come home just like in previous years. So, the evening he said he will come, we prepared lemon juice and my cousins bought some candy with the pocket money they had saved. It was excitement when my uncle returned home in his trademark scooter from the bank. We waited. Sometime later, there he was, walking with a basket on his head, filled with treats, walking beside him, my aunt(his wife), followed by his three sisters, in a procession. He was singing some song and made an elaborate walk around the main way and came home. I still remember him taking his role very seriously. He came home and sat on the mat, enquired, how we built the house, the rooms, what we do. It was so surreal then and more so today. We offered the juice and candy and part of what he had brought - back to him. After exchanging pleasantries and chatting, they took leave and left us. We jumped into the basket full of sweets and savories, enjoying our home. This happened every year but that particular year, we had built the hut in a different location and hence the way from home through the main walkway could be clearly seen. That was the last year we built a home as my move to the ninth standard meant no more of summer holidays. Exams took over life forever after that and long distance travel became like taboo.
Then there was this one time, when I saw the full extent of his anger. I never knew or thought till then that he would or rather could get this angry. My cousin and I had this habit of chatting a lot in the morning and therefore delaying brushing our teeth to have morning breakfast. Today I wonder what kept us so engrossed and what we were chatting about. With toothbrush in hand, both of us were chatting away. We were called once, then a second time. We said okay, coming and then continued chatting. The third time, call came from my uncle. My cousin ran up to him. I stayed back and the next thing I know, I can hear my uncle tell loudly, don't run, come here. I see my cousin run for his life with a coconut frond wielding uncle behind him, running around the vast expanse of coconut trees. As my cousin ran around the coconut trees impleading his dad to not catch him and asking for help from my aunt and skirted being thrashed, my pulse went up. The fear that came in saw me running and brushing my teeth and landing up at the dining table. The cries from my cousin were bad and made me feel guilty as hell. Still I did not dare go anywhere near that transformed uncle of mine. Never have I heard a strong word, forget a frond wielding runner at his fiercest. After that, I always looked out for my uncle's hand. Both of us cousins avoided each other that day and the day after and the day after ... and were quiet. It was quiet sometime before I got over what I saw. I never asked my cousin what happened nor did he volunteer. That was the only time I saw my uncle like that. Despite having had a dad and mom in that form and been at the receiving end multiple times, my uncle in that form shocked me. Since that day, I have tried recollecting what that so important non world changing matter engrossed us and to no avail. Nor have I ever asked my cousin. I have absolutely no recollection except the place where we were talking and then that wild chase I witnessed.
Another time, there were a group of people who came home requesting my uncle to mediate some matter. One man was particularly striking. He wore a white mundu of course, but his height, beard and turban made him look imposing. So, after my uncle dressed up and told my aunt he was leaving, my cousin and I started walking with him. On the way, he said he was going to mediate a matter between two sides and he hoped he will be successful. I saw him calm on the surface but also, that sense of purpose in him. When he reached the point where he had to cross over the railway line to go to the other side, he stopped both of us and told us to reach home safely. Across the line, I saw a tall man in a turban and felt uncomfortable. My uncle went across and we waited for him to return home. He came back the calm, collected person he was with no indication of what had happened there. Have heard many a time my dad say that he has stood as mediator or helped solve issues between parties and thereby avoided confrontation.
It was only two months vacation for few years that we got to spend with him, yet, memories of the time are etched in the mind, as clear as that day. Of course there are many more such things, important and mundane. The day before, it all became the past. I have wondered many a time what he thought of me becoming an academician. Never asked. Wondered what he thought of me having succeeded in educating myself despite the struggles for a few years in school. Never asked. For in him I saw a vastly talented man, who was capable of many a thing and lead a remarkable life. Just like any other, life threw many challenges, struggles, grenades, mines and bombs. Yet he maneuvered life. I know he maneuvered because I have seen a couple and much later came to know. Looking back even today, wonder how he held himself up, how he managed to keep cool. Wondered if he wished he had done something different to change the outcome of situations he came across. Some struggles I know of, some of course I will never know. It must not have been easy to do a lot of things, but some people have the talent to pack it all into one life. He did that. How well he handled or if he could have done better or done things differently, I have never looked into, never thought much and consciously chose never to judge. The me of today understands he lived life his way, surely the best he could, within the circumstances life threw at his step. Sometimes, I wish he wrote his autobiography. Atleast, some stories.
In the last few years, he waged a final battle, with Parkinsons. Seeing him on those rare occasions, brought back so many memories and the thought that a brain as remarkable as his was failing him. How could it and why ? I preferred to remember that full of life and coconut frond wielding uncle than the one who was fighting Parkinsons. For there are only so many memories in that little bag of mine that I chose to carry into my old age, having removed many and thrown in the garbage bin of time. That little precious bag of mine, I choose to keep it safe, because on and off, there are times that items from the garbage bin come back as though hit by a restore button, to sully and destroy, to put foil to all my efforts to clear the clutter. In my mind, there are a few pictures of him saved forever. One of him on his scooter, another of him in white shirt and mundu, with specks on and face tilted a bit down showing how much of my grandfather I never saw nor knew he looked like, a third of him bare chested wearing a lungi and carrying that basket of goodies for our house warming, a fourth of him singing and playing the harmonium and the last one of that coconut frond wielding runner.
Till we meet someday, I will carry the pictures and memories of an era gone by.
