Traditional back-up

My mornings have a purpose now - at least till the end of this week. Between 8 and 9 am, I have the services of three pretty girls trying to set my spine, suffering from a lumbar disc prolapse, in order! Since it is an Ayurvedic clinic, the treatment involves massaging the lower back and the legs using a kizhi (it looks like miniature moneybag, only difference is that this cloth bag tied with a string has a lot of herbs and roots and stuff) dipped in moderately hot oil. My only problem is having to lie near-naked before them during the procedure, though I am getting pretty thick-skinned now.

The procedure begins with the girls placing a big lump of chapati dough (wheat) on the lower back, making a hole in it like in a doughnut and pouring warm oil into the centre. once in a while the kizhi scalds your skin and the girls go apologetic. They are all 20-somethings as are the boys, who I assume act as masseuses for the male clients.

The doctor, on his part, is a young and energetic person who is familiar with allopathy. Next week, the session will be in the evenings since I am expected to take rest after the pizhichil and kicks and what not they have planned for me. Anyway I am feeling a little better, and the pain radiating from my back to the right leg has diminished.

The diet restrictions  - no potato/banana/yam/ stuff from the fridge - are pretty mild, but I have quite a few pills (in place of the kashayams) to swallow. They are pretty huge and formidable, and I think I will choke on them one of these days.

Water wars

Summer means acute water problems for us Chennai-ites. And with Mani the watchman away and the motor for the borewell out of order, it threw everyone in our apartment complex into a frenzy yesterday. The substitute watchman was an absolute dud, who couldnt even open the gates properly, and V ended up going down the sump to get the corporation water flowing on Sunday.

And yesterday, many appeared at our door complaining to V that there was no water, that they had clothes to wash or there was a baby in the house etc. V decided to put his foot down and tell the complainants - who are owners of other apartments in the complex - that they have an equal responsibility and that he was not everyone's guardian. And we departed to our respective offices leaving the stay-at-home kinds to sort out the problem. The water came in fits and starts, and the inhabitants couldnt help heaving a sigh of relief when Mani returned from his village.

The watchman, who has the services of only one eye after some accident ages ago, is every flat owner's Man Friday though few treat him as a fellow human being - they crib if he uses a fan to stay cool in summer or takes a couple of days leave to visit his family in Trichy or if he is not at their beck and call 24 hours a day. They conveniently forget that a watchman recruited from an agency would charge three times more and wouldnt do any of the extra work he does. He doesnt just guard the building or open gates throughout the day and night, he also acts as a porter when people return from trips, runs errands for them, takes up cleaning chores in the apartments apart from keeping the common area tidy, washes cars etc etc. Of course he gets tips for the extra jobs, but still it is a lot of work. He skips many a meal (surviving on breakfast/dinner from me or dinner from another family) and saves much of his earnings to send to his family in his hometown. While he slogs, his wife and daughters have a gala time - or at least they did when they were here the past 4 years - buying trinkets to jazz themselves up and ordering food including tea, from the local teashops.

Living as we do near a Metrowater supply tank, it seems ironical that we should face a problem before the others do. Summer this year seems prepared to punish us doubly hard and water woes would be the first on its agenda. After all, the wars of the next century are prophesied to be over water...

English summer

Today, when Mira called me, the first thing she told me was that she was happy. And she told me that in English. The grandparents are making an effort to speak to them in English so that the kids dont forget what little English they can speak when they return to school in Chennai after the two-month vacation. This inclination to speak in English has been evident for the past 1-2 months, probably on the class teacher's advice or on seeing classmates jabber in English.

The only problem has been that they address us as Daddy and Mummy when they speak in English. You know what follows when you hear a Mummy coming. And now the Appacha and Ammachi have been replaceed by Granpa and Granma! Anyway I hope once they master the language they will revert to Appa and Amma and so on.

The train journey to Kerala was fun for the kids. They found a few elders (in picture) willing to be humoured by their antics and songs and talk. One of them, a balding man travelling alone, was Ash's object of interest. "You have a mottathala (bald head) like my Appa," he told him. And, 'do you know the spelling of ball, uncle?" he asked again unwilling to let his victim go.

The first two days at home went in a whirl as they ran from our house to the family house and back, and entertained their paternal grandparents the second day (picture). Mira began to feel depressed the night before my departure - she either wanted to go to Changanachery or to Chennai since she feared that granpa would beat/scold her. Granpa meanwhile is gearing up to discipline and tutor them while they are there.

Ash was stoic when I left, and didnt even look up from the sketch he was doing. And when we made him come out, he immediately ran off to see his grand uncle and his new scooter. Mira's crying face was etched in my memory as I took the night train to Madras teeming with Sabarimala pilgrims on their return journey.

Ash reportedly consoled her with a "Look, I am sad too but I am not crying." She lost her composure each night I called, but today she sounded cool and happy as she professed. Hopefully she will begin to enjoy the rain and sunshine, the love and care of her doting grandparents, and the food and playtime. And hopefully they will remember their summer vacations in Kerala with nostalgia like her parent and cousins did.

As my cousin wrote recently: "Remember how we used to run up and down the Chandanapally property, especially to the neighbor on the left side to collect the small mangoes that fell when the wind and rain came? I still recall the tangy sweet taste of those mangoes. K... used to be so small but he would keep up with us in whatever way he could. You and I used to make all kind of food with sand, water, flowers etc in coconut shells behind the house. Also, do you remember the mass haircutting sessions? I used to hate them because we girls were treated like boys, when our hair was cut short by the expert hair cutter 'Paramu'. Basically there was no chance to let hair grow beyond the level of the earlobes! I now allow my girls to grow their hair- although I hate long hair."

I too hate long hair now, but back then I simply loved long flowing hair. Now Mira wants long hair, but her curly hair is too unruly for that.

Homeward bound

The kids are all excited about going to Kerala. As I began packing their stuff into a suitcase day before yesterday, they joined in. To the extent that I had to retreat and let them do it. When I returned, Mira had thrown in two pairs of used slippers without packing them separately along with a huge gangly doll she got from her dad recently and which filled up the entire space in the box.
And I had to start all over again. V advised that it was no use getting agitated with them, and I do it when they were asleep.
Only difference from last year is that this time the parents are feeling sadder than the kids about the impending departure. The latter are looking forward to the vacation in the pristine, vast premises of their maternal home - for evenings spent watering the little garden in front along with their granpa, for a game of cricket with their new bat and ball with Bruno the lab cheering, for frequent sprints to the family house next door to see their great granny, for indoor playtime with the wooden train set and activity books etc etc.
The parents in the meantime will return to an empty, less messy house that doesnt echo with squeals of laughter and the screams of mutiny.

Mission Apollo

Easter this year did not just celebrate the resurrection of Christ for us Chandanapallians. The dance of death greeted churchgoers in the wee hours of the morning on Easter Sunday. One of my village's 'illustrious' sons had a cardiac arrest soon after he had gone to the church to light candles and wick-lamps before the 2 am mass. He was found dead or near death in his car near the church cross tower.
After the initial shock and excitement (that follows the spread of a news), people hailed it a good death. For whether he lived well or not, Apollo T..chan as he was called, had met death soon after he had prayed or had thoughts of God in his mind.
We Chandanapallians are neither too good or too bad, nor too successful or too down-trodden. We have our vices and our virtues, and our moments of success and our moments of failure. I mean, we are just an average people trying to believe that our prosperity and that of our children's (especially in the Land of Black Gold or the Land of Hope) are all god's and St. George's grace.
Nicknames were a passion for us, especially for our grandfathers and great grandfathers. Apollo wasnt exactly a derogatory nickname like many others in the village. It was merely a way of identifying him with his pick-up vehicle which he had named probably after the moon mission. An ex-military man, he ferried goods in his vehicle for a price and also did some cultivation on leased fields. Though towards the last half of his life, he didnt have to work really hard as he had one son in the UK and one in the Gulf who kept the family coffers at least half full I believe.
For one who said that the main cultivation in Chandanapally was crosses (installing cross towers was the passion of churches and even individuals at one point of time), he lived a life of religiosity like many of us who mistake piety for spirituality.
Coming from the same family tree, he had his periods of closeness with us especially during the days he chauffeured dad on some select trips. A closeness that made him make a vow that he would dedicate a sack of rice to the church if and when I had my first child. So the first perunnal after Ashwin's birth, a ceremonial chembu procession came home to collect the sack of rice. He truly believed that his prayers to St. George had worked a miracle for me.
Now as his body awaits (from the cold cell of a morgue) the arrival of his NRI sons and a daughter living in Nagaland with her soldier husband, I can only remember him with some affection the fatherly love and good wishes he bestowed on us and the mirth his good-humoured bombast gave us.

Good Friday

For the first time, the kids attended the Good Friday mass - at least one-third the long service we have. I took them in the afternoon while V went alone in the morning itself. He wasnt really keen on the kids being taken in the dreadful heat, but since we couldnt find a babysitter for the hours we would be away, I took them along with me in the afternoon.

At the outset, we sat on the chairs provided outside and watched the service live on tv, half distracted by all the action going around - mothers and children and their activities, kanji, payar, papads and pickle being carted to the counters (6 each for the men and women and a separate one for senior citizens, since Good Friday is the day many truant Christians make at least an annual appearance at their respective churches) and the thirsty going to the water dispensers etc. etc.

V took Ash away, so I had to manage only Mira who kept bombarding me with questions and munching biscuits in between. When I was a kid,my mom used to take me in the afternoon too with a bottle of milk and biscuits to keep me going while the adults chose to fast for the day. Well, I hadnt fasted, we merely took a brunch at 11 am.

After the Sleeba vandanam, where one pays obeisance to the Bible/Cross to symbolise the crucifixion and subsequent burial of Christ, I found our seats outside taken by the early birds and I decided to venture into the church which, contrary to my belief, wasnt crowded at all. I guess most of them were sitting/standing outside. It was nice and cool inside, and I sang fervently from the prayerbook in my hand. The GF service leaves a very special feeling, partly because of the nostalgia associated with it - of the days I accompanied my grandmother to the service, taking part in the procession at church barefoot under the merciless sun.

Mira watched in wonder as the priest made the ceremonial procession with the Cross inside the church thrice. And she was donning for the first time a little scarf over her head as young girls do in our churches.

Ash was attending a day service at the church after 2 years - his skin started deteriorating two years ago this time. Now his skin looks pretty okay, though the hair loss in the front does make him look a bit different from other boys his age. He did invite curious glances but not many questions were asked.

But in the night,we noticed that he had developed rashes especially on his back - not sure if it was the heat or the mango pickle (or what he ate when he went out with his dad in the night) but it did give him an itchy night that made us worry if he would revert to his old state. He cant, on a Good Friday he is cleansed in the blood of Christ, right?