Grandmother's tales

As a kid, every time the school reopened after summer vacation- each kid had some story or the other to tell involving his grandmother. Rather, for most of the children, a summer vacation was synonymous with a visit to their maternal grandparents home, the only time their mother ( all of them housewives without exception) could take a break , go to her parents home and do nothing for that period which in other words meant running havoc on their sister in law's who would do all the household chores). Anyways, now these trips were always filled with how their grandmother told them many stories, sent to mango orchards and got them new clothes etc etc. I would listen to all this intently and recount a few stories of my own. Though, my friends at that time were as ignorant about Kerala as an average adult Indian is about mizoram now, I never had to invent things. We had a surrogate grandparents. ( I know how it sounds but this, but as a kid I never cared as long as I was getting to listen to all the stories, eating raw mangoes and swimming in the village canal). However, whenever the subject veered towards grandmas I felt little cagey. I did not know how illustrious her life was at that young age, so I did not know what was making me feeling ashamed.

My first memory of her was when I was very sick at very young age, may be as a two or three year old. We had gone for our once in a blue moon kerala trip and I fell terribly sick, which my mother told me later was a regular thing at that time of year. In fact, my first memory of my life is that incident when my mother with my naani took me to a doctor in a white ambassador. I must have recovered, or so I think. But, that memory has lingered on.


My maternal grandmother had a shop, and she was called 'Kadeamma' by all the people in the town. 'Kade' means a shop in malayalam, and I was told it was a small shanty- thatched with coconut leaves, mud floor, a few banana bunches hanging. I am not too sure what she actually sold in this shop but my mother told me it was a tea shop- where people would gather to have a sip of tea or 'kaapi', and lustfully look at the woman in her mundu and blouse covered with a thin cotton cloth ( All malayalees are lechers, including me). Another factor, perhaps, that brought more visitors to her shop was her infamous toddy which she used to brew illegally and sold at evening to midnight to keep her 'real' clientèle happy.

My grandma had a young paramour of hers, who used to visit her often. I must have been some seven or eight years old when I visited her, and her romance was in full swing with this young lad. ( not so young though, must be some 15 years younger than her). My grandmother had a separate house to herself which was around 5o feet away from the house we stayed in. I used to listen to all the talk about her ongoing love affair, but sadly couldn't make much of it because it was all in malyalam. It appeared, all our neighbours and relatives disproved of this relationship however mutually satisfying it was for them.

The next thing I know is that my mother got hold of the news that my naani and her young lover are ensconced in the cottage away from home- in broad day light- a not so secret meeting perhaps. They all started shouting, and threating to burn the house if he doesn't come out. ( I don't think they were serious about it). But the poor fellow had to come out at some point or the other, and had to face those bullies-- chief among them my Mom who if I remember correctly was wielding a stone in her hand to throw. Great commotion followed the moment the guy came out and all I remember now is that he was severely beaten by everyone. I might also have kicked him as it was all part of fun where one got beaten if one did. I had no idea then what the fuss was all about ( In retrospect, I feel it was a clever decision on my mother's part not to teach us malyalam-- we would have absorbed much more than she wished for on our Kerala trips). The funniest moment came when his clothes were torn. Not much of clothes there as he was wearing a lungi and shirt.

In our family, we often used to joke about my naani's whereabouts. She had spent some two three years in jail - on and off- on charges of illegal liqueur making. I wanted to learn the art so that I can pass as an authentic sommelier myself, but sadly her tenure didn't let me. Though, I must add, no one ever died after consuming her alcohol.

Recently I was watching the movie "Talk to Her" by Pedro Almodovar where the protagonist spends twenty years of his life taking care of his mother. And these twenty years were his formative years when he did his home schooling; and later on enrolled for private schools and completed his studies. On being asked, whether he felt he lived a normal life he answers in affirmative. What is abnormal for most people becomes very normal for whom it is their life.

I have somewhere heard that a family which does not embarrass you is not worth having. I don't know if I could ever talk about these things in public or with my friends. I don't know how many of friends had their naani serving in jail, cavorting with young guys and selling kaapi in a road side stall, but I find it more amusing than abnormal. because when you live your life everything becomes your own, very normal and mundane.

Laugh like a man!!

I have a secret. Not much a secret, but a tiny little detail about me which I am too embarrassed to share with others. Now, I tend to believe that every mortal has one nagging habit or other that she is cagey about letting other people know, but what are some of those things. But, this irritating habit of mine has put me in enough problems already and, I have noticed a pattern. I do it when I get nervous. Now, I am curious to know what others do when they get nervous. so a few comments might help :)

I laugh. Yea, that's what I do when I get real nervous. I don't know how it all started. Perhaps, it started when someone told me that I look much better while smiling, the other thing that they told me that I had really thick lips and it looked hideous ( Which, now I have come to realize is what people pay exorbitant price in cosmetic surgery clinics for getting the "Jolie" look). So, I have stopped smiling the way I used to in my childhood but I have perfected the art of pouting without people knowing that it's a pout -- similar to the way, I have been tucking my stomach for all my life so that it looks almost flat. Despite my perennial pout, I started to break into laughter when I realized that I must turn myself into "happy go lucky" person. This happy go luck state also stayed for along time and left me with propensity to laugh at most inopportune moments. Sample this-- at my gym, my trained has handed me a difficult weight and in the middle of the set when i am not able to continue, instead of growling in pain I laugh. You may find it amusing but not my trainer, who must think what an imbecile person I am. My boss told me that the last assignment was not up to the mark, and I LAUGHED. ( though later on, looking at his reaction I did feel like laughing). I laughed when a friend told me that his mother was critically ill, I laughed when my colleague asked me if I ever had any body massage ( Did he know that I was gay? was what I feared ), I laughed when my neighbours told me that in our absence a thief had broken into our home..so the list is endless.

So, what's your secret?

Silence

My first short story, nothing too great but I guess writing 55 words a day will keep me in good spirits. Yea, but only if I write happy stories, or knew to write.


Silence
She knew her mother was dead. No one has told her this yet, but she can tell this from her husband's guilt. Sitting across her in the train casting furtive glances sideways. The silence said it all. Silence within the din of railway stations and moving train was enough. Enough to wail in her sorrow, silently.