Cuts like a highway
My grandmother had a quaint little house in Nettur, near Thalassery, built in the traditional Kerala style with a deep veranda at the entrance and a sloped tiled roof. I have vague memories of visiting the house in my childhood with my family during summer vacations. An auto rickshaw would take the “right” at the well near Nambiar peediya (Malayalam for shop) on the Thalassery- Irikkur road and then the first left at the NTTF Centre, until you reached the tap by the road side where my father would ask the auto rickshaw to stop. The petrol auto rickshaws emanate a certain smell from their exhaust that to this day takes me to our vacations in Kerala. We would alight and walk a few yards down the gradual slope of the eda-vazhi or lane till we reached the short flight of steps that led us up to the front yard and the poomukham (porch) of the house. My grandmother had a permanently stooped back by then but you couldn’t make that out when she stood at the door, holding the lower closed halves of the traditional four panelled wooden door. She would stand there clad in a white mundu and blouse, her silver hair tide up in a small bun, as we walked up the steps. Perhaps she had been expecting our arrival. Her youngest child was the one that she saw the least, only during the summers every two years. She must have eagerly looked at her grandchildren, grown up so much since the last time she saw them. The tall handsome boy who looked so much like his mother and the skinny girl who had taken after her father. They were as much a mystery to her as she was to them. Language had created barriers. Both children couldn’t speak the vernacular properly. She must have longed to communicate but couldn’t. She maintained a dignified silence, and in complete understanding and acceptance.
My grandmother passed away when I was in the 6th standard. In all those years I must have met her on three occasions while at an age that retained memories. And the visits would be limited to few days that the daughter was allowed to visit her parent’s house after her marriage. Most of our holidays were spent at my paternal grandmother’s larger house, a half an hour ride away. I don’t remember my maternal grandmother or velyamma as we called her much except for the few facts mentioned. The rest are constructed from conversations with my mother.
My grandmother, Parvati was a primary school teacher. She was a kind spiritual soul and generously helped all those in need who reached out to her, even though they themselves were far from affluent at home. She loved her school children, most of them hailing from poor families in the neighbourhood, often helping them with money and material. She taught at the Ramanal Keezhiyil School, situated a short walk away from home. The RK Primary School, established in 1927 is still running. The school was run by a distant cousin from the extended tharavadu. When she was not at school she preferred to dabble in the garden, growing fruits and vegetables. Under her nurturing care, everything bloomed and sprouted in abundance. My mother, like her three elder sisters studied at this school before moving to schools in the town for their higher education. My mother remembers how the teachers would get together after school on pay day and order some snacks and tea. A few yards away there was the Ramanal Keezhiyil Ganapathy temple, which the family frequented for a vazhipaad on birthdays and other occasions. Sometime in the early 90’s one of my aunts who had inherited the house demolished the old house to construct her new and much more comfortable house. My grandmother’s house was relegated to fading memories.
When we were kids we had heard about a project to construct an important bypass which would pass near my grandmother’s house. That has now come to pass.
The above satellite map shows the 4-lane Thalassery — Mahe Bypass under construction which cuts across the village cutting it into two, breaking the free access. The road is at a lower level than the terrain. You can identify the location of my Velyamma’s house@1, Ramanal Kizhil Chaliya School @2 and the Ramanal Kizhil Mahaganapati temple @3 all within a walkable distance from each other. But now they lie across an insurmountable chasm. The long-awaited road has finally materialised but while transforming the geography of the place it has also decimated the local history. Families across the road would have been neighbours once but now the future generations will grow up alienated. And the road hasn’t ushered in development to the village since it cannot be accessed by them. This is probably the story all along the highway and elsewhere. Roads while seeking to connect distant places, tear apart local communities. Cultural roots and ties are often sacrificed on the altar of development. It’s not just boundaries and fences that separate people, sometimes bridges and roads do too.
Change is inevitable and indifferent. We are all destined to ignominy. Simple lives of simple people forgotten except in fading photographs and fading memories. The houses of labour and laughter, the gardens of toil and nourishment, nothing survives. The earth changes, rivers change. Memories live on for some time in conversations before they also quieten down to eternal silence.
