Post-partum caregivers

After two weeks in my hometown during Mira's mid-semester break, I boarded an Emirates flight from Kochi. For a change, I opted for the window seat; aisle seat is my preferred seat as it gives me better freedom of movement and less claustrophobia. 

But I had not bargained for two older ladies as companions - women who were already in winter clothing appropriate for their destinations which were so bulky that it not only inconvenienced the wearer but me the neighbour. Its layered material encroached into my space while her feet in newfound shoes stole part of my leg space. 

Once I had finished admiring the skies and the land below, I turned to study the lady next to me. I surmised she was heading to meet her offspring most probably to help with her pregnancy. My sarcasm towards the kin of the new breed of Kerala immigrants to the West did not prevent me from helping her with her food tray. Her battle with the chettinad chicken biriyani further limited my space - she held akimbo the foil on her left hand as she attacked the chicken. A forlorn fork fell to the ground; I advised her to fetch it later as I didnt want her tripping the whole tray on me.

Once we had finished our meals, I decided to corroborate my findings. And boy! wasnt I right?!!. She was en route to Ireland to take care of her pregnant daughter whose due date was two days later. And her companion's daughter had given birth a day earlier. I only got her native place wrong. She hailed from Nagercoil and her friend from a town near Kochi; the latter seemed a little more flight savvy and English literate (enough to follow the cabin crew's queries). She had travelled all the way to Kochi airport instead of Trv airport to have a flight companion.

"This jacket is too hot," she told me as she removed it after her meal, revealing her dusky figure in  a green sari. I smiled sympathetically. 

But I wasnt prepared for the tale she narrated for the rest of our four-hour journey.  Her daughter was a nurse who migrated from Saudi to Ireland. She had worked as a daily labourer to bring up her three children after her alcoholic and abusive husband passed away. And no, this wasnt her first flight journey, she had been to Qatar to visit another daughter. 

Have you been to Dubai before? No, she said, though my son lives there. He has been incommunicado for the past three years. He lives there with his wife and child but doesnt call me ever. Her eyes moistened as she talked of her son. Her daughter had promised to take care of her. 

She kept talking until the place touched down in Dubai. I wished her all the best and went my way as she waited for the wheelchair to transport her to the connecting flight.. That is a ploy not only to  avoid the long walk inside dxb airport but also to navigate English illiteracy and related bottlenecks. 

Lives of people are more complex than we take them to be.

C to C

Mira had a 10-day mid-semester break in early October that coincided with Pooja holidays. She landed at Chengannur station on September 27, a week after I came. As luck would have it Manju met with a freak scooter accident - she drives up and down every day on a Honda Activa - and a hairline fracture that warranted a week's rest. So Mira could not have the variety food she fancied and along with her fussy granny, she susbsisted on the puttu-banana I cooked up every morning or the quick side dishes our substitute help Ammini rustled up between her hospital visits and SHG and NREGA activities.

One morning, we went to Aranmula to talk to the metal mirror makers, and Mira hopes to find an interesting, not-yet-explored news angle in it for a class assignment. 

p.s. After a two-year wait between application and reception, M gazed at her Aadhar card like she had won the Dubai Duty-free lottery.

Brut and us

Our days partly revolved around our labrador Brutus. I had to set alarm to wake up at 6.30 am to let him out. He would then head to a few plants and water it with his urine before settling down beside me as I read the paper. 

He is a high-energy, cantankerous dog and likes to paw us the moment we pay him some attention. Then he would get even more aggressive with his affection, so the trick is to not pay him any attention and get on with our work. He would then rest his head on the floor and be lost in thought. Most often, he looked like he was waiting for dad, and would choose to rest beside the chair he once sat reading the newspaper.

Mira has a lot of gram-worthy info on his behaviour and diet. Mom of course refuses to heed our gyan and insists that he be fed a bowlful of rice and some beef three time a day.

Mom's garden

These were the first pictures I took when I reached home. The red hibiscus-like flower mesmerised me but I didnt dare touch as I was told its leaves and stems were prickly. Everyday some 10 flowers bloomed brightening up the garden. 

Mom takes a lot of interest in her garden and it gives her much happiness, I feel. The garden extends to the road giving the roadside a neat look. In one part of the premises, sweet potato creepers have invaded some part of the ground.

Onam, the equalizer

While mom had her Onam sadya with her helps, KK and Manju , our guests of honor included my Sri Lankan maid; it was her first real sadya.

Saviours of the poor

 Mom's home nurse Manju has shifted to her new compact home built with government funds, their savings and some aid from us in cash and kind. Looking at pictures of the house with marble flooring, new shiny curtains, and appliances that make life easier, one would mistake it for a rich man's house. But it is a house built painstakingly with their sweat and blood, and dignity that has been made possible by the communist movement in Kerala which gave the oppressed classes equal rights and the freedom to dream of a better life.

Kerala lost one of its revolutionary stalwarts last week - former CM Achuthanandan, better known by his initials VS. Someone who came from modest and difficult surroundings, and who fought for the rights of the backward castes and classes and that of labourers. The massive crowds at  his funeral though he died at the ripe old age of 101 was unprecedented. We might call him  the last good communist but it might be better to say the last popular good communist.

If Manju's progeny can cut a birthday cake like any other rich kid or buy new clothes for Onam, the struggles of these mass leaders have not gone in vain. 

M's husband Vish... spent 10 years of his growing up years in my family home. His father was our family help, a kind of man Friday who had some odd job around the house on a daily basis. He kept the yard and the fields tidy. Vish first came to chase away birds in the fields during sowing season. He then took up residence with us on granny's suggestion sleeping on the big table in the work area that doubled up as an ironing table on weekends. For the young lad of 10, it meant three square meals, wholesome and tasty, cooked under granny's guidance. He went to the government school  nearby but also tended to the cattle at home, fetching hay for them or stoking the fire under the huge cauldron that cooked their special meal of puliyarikanji. Vish was also our playmate, joining us for football or badminton. He taught the masters' sons cycling and tree climbing as they would lovingly vouch years later. But books and studies were not his cup of tea, and he spent 2 years in every class. He quit goodbye to books after failing in Class 10.

Today his elder daughter is doing well in school, and her teachers expect her to pass with distinction in grade 10.

For Gaza

Contributing my bit during a visit to the fish market.