(
This article was written as a travelogue to the writer’s best friend’s
home)
Sreeja,
my ‘unparalleled buddy’ who empathize my feelings; who appreciates my
eruditeness, and prays for my colourful future, is one of the superlative human
that I came across in my life. Many years passed by in the Govt: Law College,
Thrissur enhancing the extent and insight of our friendship but never a day
came to visit her sweet home. The voyage of understanding materialized in a
travel of thirty miles, but too extensive is the experience to explain. The
rendezvous was with a purpose but very accidental and was persuaded by our
fondness between each other: doubted as destiny’s recital. The dawn of the New
Year 2007 was sanctified by the spree to Sreeja’s domicile, surfacing a dream,
symbolizing trust and strengthening familial ties. What more blessed reason
than this for my bliss?
On
5th Jan, 2007, the march to Panampatta Tharavadu – The Heritage
Mansion – was my maiden trip of the year that became the longest in the streets
of my memory. Near was Sreeja to me yet so far was Cherupalasheery for me.
Disregarding the distance, devoting to the deepness of our relation, enduring
exhaustion, and discovering a new direction to our resemblance and resonance, I
landed on the countryside of Chalavara – The Greenland Village – with unique
beauty unexplainable and unblemished, so pure and profound that it oxygenates
life to an eternal and spiritual feel.
Though
it was a Toddy Shop on ‘the gateway’ to the address where my friend resides, it
was completely serene unlike other intoxicating cottages, without any folk
songs emanating from any corner of it. However, the muddy passageway from there
to the house was very forlorn, adjacent to which was a slender canal with
stagnant water at sporadic spaces, and on both sides of the path were lush
green paddy crops bending in obedience to the wafting wind. In the wide
panorama, far I could spot two or three houses delimited with shrubbery and
bamboo hedges. I was sure, that was my destination. Withstanding more than a
century’s changing climes and times, the Panampatta Tharavadu stands as a
hermit amidst the verdant sea of paddy field: that was my first notion. Next to
the ruralist marvel was a building under construction: the contemporary version
of Panampatta villa which would be the new abode of Sreeja and family in the
near future after its completion. Hope I may be there on the ‘house warming’.
For
demystifying – the ways I felt – may be intricate, but the domestic splendor
and native narrative is coherent to express as it is indelible from the rooms
of my mind. The sinless scenic wonder cascades often in front of my eyes and
the unadulterated ethnic whisper still echoes in my ear. The chilling ponds in
many numbers, petite fishes swimming under, kaput cadavers of crabs lying over
small rocks, the flowing graceful streams cutting across paddy bunds, white
swans soaring above in search of their prey, cows and goats grazing on the
bottle-green pasture, the shamanic ‘ghost hill’ surrounded with multiple myths
and legends, the aura of Ganapathi temple and other small place of worships,
and numerous other facts and fictions about the folks, flora and fauna there
add to the elegance enveloping the very old Panampatta dynasty.
Charm
of rustic Chalavara never stops here. The remoteness of its esthetics unravels
and traverses to the remotest of our senses. It’s beyond imagination; with no
pollution, no pretensions, no parochialism, no hectic schedules, nor any sort
of sophistication present. It was unlike other ‘concrete jungles’, metros and
cities which stains in poisons and sustains pollutions, lives in mechanical and
mundane routines, coloured communally and camouflaged in ostentatious
attitudes. Fairly, the pastoral territory was greenish, hygienic, lively,
simple, spacious to breathe, and secular-thinking people ruling and being ruled
– that’s the bona fide Chalavara. Diverse caste and community inhabit with
calmness, comity, empathy and mutuality; when on one side the temple bell
tolls, on the other the prayers of the mosque resonates through amplifiers. The
religious synchronization, multi-cultural incorporation, cooperation of local
people in their all civic activities, social interaction and the division of
labour without discrimination, contributes to the peaceful welfare of the
idyllic Panampatta soil – a holy geography seen in heavens!
To
remind the reader, its ‘love’ that makes events and experience emboss in the
heart of humans perpetually. More to the healthy and harmonious ambience of the
place, it was the Sreeja’s family warm welcome, homely care, candid
conversation, bottomless modesty and respect-sans-vanity that made a tremendous
impact upon me. The toasting of wine before lunch was done by Sreeja’s dad
Prasannan in an incredible customary style. Though there was a slight
hesitation regarding that matter on the face of Sreeja and on he mother, it got
vanished by the help of discussions while lunching which ranged from mythology
to theology. Awesome was the chicken fry, spicy the fish curry, and the dish of
tapioca tasty and savoury. The credit of the culinary art goes indisputably to
Sreeja’s mother Shailaja – my dearest and loving aunt. Hope that the tricks of
the ‘kitchen trade’ may get inherited by Sreeja as well! Okay, I can’t miss in
the mentioning: the serving of ice-cream rose milk and even chocolates one
after the other by Sreeja in compassionate tenderness. It seemed like esculent
‘amendments’ to the ‘Constitution’ of my abdomen. Gratitude aplenty for the love
unlimited! Now who will burn off my plumpness? That may be possible, but not
the swabbing of the pretty good things happened there, from my memories.
Following
the lunch, after a speck of quiescence and personal chatting, Sreeja took me to
her new erecting house that was in its naked form. Then she introduced me to
the ‘family pool’ and its fishes, and said that she do swimming and fishing
there; made me familiarized with her space of study – the ‘gurukul shiksha’ – in the shade; got me acquainted with the local
ponds being used and unused; then habituated to the wild flowers and its
fragrance, frogs and crabs, butterflies, breeds, seeds, thorns, dirt, dust etc.
When sun was showing a slight mercy by attenuating its burning radiation, we
both went over a bridge of the Kanjarapuzha
Canal near by and sat
over it for few minutes. In a while, both of us walked down in between the
flanked green paddy fields, romancing the nature and nature doing the same to
us. She was escorting and guiding me and I was just like a tourist imbibing the
newness of everything gathering the information that I could. Then by strolling
we zeroed in to a temple situated beside a pond. Unlucky enough, no one was
there bathing! Finally, we returned back as both of us were tired and even time
was counting short. But my mind wasn’t weary as it voiced to stay there for
more span.
Time
eluded quickly and cruelly. What could I do? Birds were returning to their
nest; it was turning murky as the orange sun sighed sayonara; men were
homecoming after the day’s hardship, and the lamps got lit on the portal of
houses. It was 6 O’ clock – the time to depart. While I was about to leave,
Uncle gifted me a copy of his-own-written book of poems titled ‘Apriya Satyangal’ penned in Malayalam.
That was a voucher of remembrance – a souvenir for eternity.
Expressing
my thanks, as a piece of etiquette, though too small for their care, comfort
and hospitality given, I said a good-bye to all before parting. ‘Now, when I
may come back’ was the question that lingered in my mind. For refreshing the
things that I sensed; for another rendezvous more memorable, and for
re-stepping once again on the early footprints left behind, I anticipate, a day
is in the making.
