The village no God can claim creation

The village no God can claim creation

Pulincunnoo is a small village in Aleppey, a southern district in the state of Kerala all known for its lakes,paddy, boat races and basketball.My father tells me that our forefathers fled during Tippu sulthan's invasion of north Kerala and seven generations of my family have lived here since AD 1760.A typical Kuttandan village,it is yet another blessed prodigy of mother nature.Everything I find new there every other vacation sends a chill down my spine for what I miss in my life.The village is largely carved out of clay raised from the lake and the blasphemy goes on that this was not one village no God can claim creation.

My dad would rush to Pulincunnoo the first day he would be home for any vacation.I have always thought that it is the best way to tell me what he expects from me when he too is retired and all home. As a kid I loved crossing the bridge in a junkar.Junkars consisted of two or three large boats tied to each other and propelled by an engine and were used to ferry vehicles and people across lake.From there we would proceed in a smaller boat so that we could directly step into our ancestral home.

On the way I succumb to two of my dad's routine obsessions.Time again, he would show me the school he studied in and his fifth standard class at the corner.And then he would move on to a closed shop which once sold him a Oxford dictionary at school.This 1965 vintage delight is a rare piece in my library and was also used by all my dad's siblings and bears their sign and date as well.But then I too have learned to enjoy his nostalgic obsessions.Post that he would he would try teach me how I was related to all the homes on the lane.And the journey would continue aside green paddy fields,lakes smelling raw clay and occasional single log bridges which were once my nightmare.

My grandfather would definitely be waiting in the road outside the house.Each time my dad saw it,the joy would echo in his face and his eyes would translate the pride he held in his surname.He did agriculture and hardware business in his prime and was famous in the rummy circles of mid Travancore.Dad would have bought a bottle of my grandpa's favourite Ceasers whiskey and they would join in a boozing party .That rings up the famous achayanic drinking spree where you give company to your dad and his dad.The conversation would move on familiar lines with discussions ranging from people around to politics in Kuttanad.My grandpa would talk of all the land he lost to land reforms 30 years back and that too least moved.I have never seen anyone talking passionately of own loss.

Next on agenda is a sumptuous meal I would die for any day and my choice of a future bride for a next few days would be someone of my grandma's culinary skills and of course a few inches taller.My grandma is one hell lot of a good cook who makes great duck and karimeen, two big addictions of kuttanad and me.But then I hear ladies there can make only those two dishes. She is an English graduate from St:Theresas college, Cochin, an absolute rarity in those times and I can still recollect bits of the Shakespearean stories she told me as a kid.

On a parting note, both my grandparents would cry and hug my dad.Grandpa tells me his wish to see from heaven 6 alphabets after my name referring to medical UG and PG degrees I ought to attain.The junkar has given its way for a ambulance width one way bridge, another joke of Indian rural economics.The little paddy fields left are being levelled synonymous with Kuttananad's agricultural miseries.The boat races are like brothels for foreign tourists.Still it can strike a chord of loss in your heart.Crossing the lake back home, I realise my heart is happier and merrier in that little village.

I promise myself, I ll come back and make it my home at least when Im retired.
Till then I ruminate over the nirvaana of my last holiday.