I belong to a country that has survived many wars against its soul and children. I belong to a country that hosted many religions and taught its values for those who searched for ‘moksha’ [salvation]. I belong to a country that bore four Vedas, six sciences and two epics in its womb. I belong to the largest peninsula I the world that preached non-violence and love for the living. I belong to India… the land of Rishis and ‘Omkara’….
I live in the southern tip of this blessed ground. Politically divided as a state that speaks a language of its own. I live in Kerala, well known as ‘God’s Own Country’. Now I am describing about my home, the ancestral land- Wynad which is part of The Western Ghats. My father’s family had settled down in the valley. Each day of my life was monitored by these mountains. They still watch over my deeds, though they stay miles away from me….
The only man who survived life more than what his sisters managed to. My father’s grandmother’s brother. Grandma’s [dad’s mom] uncle. His 90th birthday was celebrated. And I went for the celebration. Lucky I am. I could be one of the reasons for that old man’s smile…
I learned from his words that it was his idea- to celebrate his own birthday. And throughout his conversation, he made it clear that none would’ve bothered to be with him unless this was organized! I was surprised to here him mention about nuclear family. My mom, another aunt and some other ladies [relatives-relation I will never be able to learn this lifetime] and I, had to admit that nuclear families spoil the joy of togetherness….
He could not walk properly; many were there to help him. Good food, people and frequent, but weak rain…all made the day beautiful. Many were invited, but only a few could be there. I know there’s nothing special in this situation, it’s the same everywhere. Every family in this century faces this. The sense of belongingness between people is draining out. But where do all these changes take us to? Old generation behind the bars of old-age homes and children in hostels. Man in one continent, his woman in another!
I had to leave the place soon after lunch. Had to force my dad to take me to his place which was half an hour’s drive away! The land where he was born. The land that fed him with most delicious fruits, fresh air, clean water and above all, love and care unlimited. He grew up in the lap of nature in its fullest form. Even now I wait impatiently to listen to the stories of, oh no, the realities he had during his childhood. His mother’s sister, who is of his age, narrates those incidents with great passion. That passion, I too, luckily carry in my blood. Passion towards ancestral land, life and spirit!
Our ancestral house is no more. I was accompanied by my dad’s cousin who’s of my age! We went for a stroll. I wanted to capture a few shots and pick the seeds of different varieties of mango. For the first time in my life I went in search of the seed, not the fruit. Everything begins from its seed, fruits follow!
The monsoon was weak and not many dark clouds showed up in the sky. But I could listen to the sound of crickets. I would rather call it music, not just sound! They generate life for the surroundings…. We were walking.
Our journey had a good beginning, we spotted an orange. Let me turn a bit sentimental, I love to believe that the fruit was pulled down by my ancestors who are no more… do I belive in ghosts? I’m not sure…but presence after death is something I’ve longed for. The vacuum that was created by the death of my grandparents still prevails. I believe, it’s one of them who pulled that fruit for me… for me, this grandchild who’s destined to live in a decaying world! The fruit was big and delicious as usual. We picked some seeds. We spoke about present and glorious past. We realized that we were missing something important.
Our journey ended in our relative’s house. The very thought of the location of that house makes me jealous. The evenings I’d spent there, I can never forget. And anything that prevents me from enjoying that, I can never forgive…. They practice agriculture. They have a dairy farm and five doggies guard their property. My friends there- uncle, aunty and their son, always welcome us with open heart. Three of them, I feel, carry the spirit that I hold within myself. Uncle and aunt in the case of hospitality, and their son, in case of love for nature!
I remember and live those memories. They use to collect he nest of weaver birds. Nests beautifully woven. No skill or talent of human can recreate those nests- I bet! I love to sit in the veranda of that house watching the evening sky that ends at the border of the paddy field in front. Cool breeze would stroke my hair crating that uncertainty in the air. That uncertainty or secrecy in the air is something that binds me with this land. That quality I have adopted to be my character, keeps me away from many, but that makes me different- uncertain, unpredictable for those who haven’t learned me!
It was time and ‘Cinderella’ had to go…. I waved good bye. Though short the parting was, I had tears hidden in my eyes. It’s not just to the people there, but the land and its air. I could easily feel happiness being drained out of my heart. Soon it rained, heavily. Monsoon was no weaker….
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