The Summer of '82 - Chapter 2

My grandmother was 72 years old that year. Her face filled with wrinkles of knowledge, she worked in the fields along with other younger farmers. She used to walk with a little stoop, but I had hardly any memory of her with an illness. The village of Pariyaram, in those days had rarely seen electricity. Though the entire village had poles holding the electric wires upright, it hardly used to reach the house in a way it reached us back home in the city. As the sun set behind the mountains, the bulb would emit a dim glow that we used to mistake it for a man smoking a bheedi without the smoke. The dusk used to bring with it the aroma of camphor and the hymns of the Mahabharata recited in a very peculiar fashion. All the kids would gather around grandmother and she would tell us the story of how Arjuna was reluctant to fight his brothers, when Krishna, in the midst of the battlefield recited him the Bhagwad Gita.

‘How many days did he read the Bhagwad Gita in the battle field?’ Shaiju would ask innocently. Grandmother would then close the book and tell him that the Bhagwad Gita was recited by Krishna, to Arjuna, and it stands the test of time and rings true even in today’s world. In the midst of this story, my cousin, Kittu, would squirm and ask her to tell the stories of her childhood when the British ruled the land, she would tell us how they were to sing praises of the Queen in school. She would remember those days with fondness when she bought her first Saree for 8 annas. 8 annas! We would scream in despair, we hardly got two toffees in 8 annas!

My grandmother loved telling stories from her fond memories. Her husband, our grandfather, had died in an accident. Our house was on the main road. It was very narrow, but was one of the main roads in the country then, now called the NH17 highway. He was returning early from the temple after his bath when a car hit him. He died instantly. Those days in Kerala, my grandmother used to remember, there were so many women who had more than one marriage. Surprisingly, very distinct from other cultures, the society in Kerala was a matriarchal one. The women in the family wielded the power. The men usually shifted into the woman’s house after marriage, unlike now. And in particular castes of the carpenters, who used to travel for years building temples and palaces, when they would come back to the house and see an umbrella outside their house, they would know, their wives are theirs no more, and that they are married to another man. But my grandmother never married again.
When we asked her ‘Why?’ She would smile and tell us, ‘One day you will know, Why!’

Our house in Pariyaram was a huge one, with small little rooms. Each room had another room within, which my mother used to tell me, were places to store food, since agriculture was our main occupation. In many rooms were secret chambers which were to store and hide grains when the British would come in demanding for taxes. Later, after Independence, it also became a place to hide people during the Communist struggle.

Communism ran high in our family. My grand mother was a strong supporter of the communist. It was strange that a village so remote, where electricity used to reach in trickle, was completely opinionated in its political stance. But as children it hardly mattered to us. We would enjoy sitting on the compound wall as huge processions of people wearing mundus (south indian dhoti’s) would march with red flags shouting loudly DYFI ZINDABAD, and we kids would jump up and down echoing Zindabad Zindabad! Shouting along with them used to give us a sense of power. The procession would last for more than 10 minutes with a sea of people walking in a line, their faces smeared with seriousness and determination.

Kannan, was our next door neighbor. Two years younger to me, he would tell me about the politics in school. He would tell me that SYFI was the student faction of the DYFI party. Apparently, there were more than one communist party in our state, which were led by two different leaders. These parties would help the students in their elections in school. He supported SUFI which stood for Students United Federation of India, because they used to give them 5 Rupees for shouting slogans in the procession other than tea and biscuits while the SYFI only offered Tea and biscuits. Kannan would be scolded and punished by his maternal uncle for all his pranks in school. Kannan being a staunch supporter of the communist party, it was not liked by his uncle who supported the Congress. He would whip his legs with a twig saying that he would land up as a naxalite, if he continued attending the rallies of the SUFI. His mother and sister would sob in the corner of the house as he scowled in pain.

Kannan's father had died an untimely death. One day when he was coming back from school, plucking a bunch of flowers on the way for his sister, he was shocked to see people crowding the gate outside his house. He ran into his house and saw his father lying still, wrapped around with a white cloth, with cottons stuffed in his nose and ears. He had taken his own life. His uncle had taken the responsibility of the family then. He left the army for the sake of his sister and decided to stay in the village and take care of her and her children.

His upbringing in the army bought in a martial rule. There was a strict discipline in the house and Kannan hated him for it. Suma, Kannan's sister and Kittu, my first cousin were best of friends. My parents were very fond of both Suma and Kannan as if they were from our own family. They were like family to us. Their relation with our family ran a few generations back. Kannan's grandmother and my grandmother were best of friends. They used to work for my grandmother in the fields, but the relationship of friendship surpassed that of the societal caste system and they became best friends. They were always together through thick and thin of things, and Kannan's grandmother considered us as her own grandchildren.

Kannan's mother, after her husbands death got her husbands job in the village office. But it was never easy for her. She had left school when she was in the Tenth standard, because she was getting married. So, after her husbands death, she had to go back to school, clear her exams and then go through college, after which she got the job of her husband so that she could support her family. She had a magic smile on her face that hid the pain in her eyes, and she lovingly cooked food for all of us when we came back from play on Sunday afternoons, completely exhausted. We would lie on the floor putting our head on her lap and she would stroke our hair lovingly and put us to sleep, as she fanned us with a newspaper on another hand. Their house, then never had electricity, and in the sultry hot summers, there was no house that was cooler than Sarla aunty’s house. The house was small, made of thatched roof and the floor smeared with cow-dung, that used to cool our heels, the moment we stepped in, from the hot courtyard. The doors were small in size and the elders had to bow down before they could enter. Directly opposite the entrance was the deity of Krishna in all its glory. My mother used to tell me that it was to make people bow down to God when they enter the house, that the door was so short. It was easy when I was 12, i could run past it without any effort, but later, as i grew older, there were many a times i banged my forehead on the lintel and fallen down with a swollen head.

This time, as i ran into meet Kannan’s grandmother, my forehead hit the lintel with such great force, i hardly remembered anything after that until I opened my eyes, to see myself surrounded by everyone in the family. Kittu, Kannan and Suma, Shaiju and Sita on either side of the bed. I had been asleep for an entire day. I was later told that i had lost a lot of blood and I was to take a lot of rest for an entire week.