Maria chedathi (meaning elder sis, but a Christian way of addressing older women) was a permanent fixture at our family home when we were growing up. A diminutive and frail woman, the widow was granny's help around the kitchen and for washing vessels. She and her two young sons lived in a single-room hut with thatched roof and cow-dung polished floor which was a stone's throw from our house. The hut stood on a two-cent land donated by her brother on one corner of his small plot.
Around our family house lived kith and kin of the Perumala family, most of them in penury in the 1960s and 70s. One next-door neighbour was so poor he reportedly ate rats roasted by his wife. Along with Maria and her sons, her brother's three children would line up for food in front of our kitchen door in the mornings. Ammachi probably fed an army, including farm helps, despite being financially tight. The paddy fields and other crops helped to feed all, and her generosity was remembered by beneficiaries upon her death some years ago.
Mariachedathi's boys were handsome and tall unlike her brother's children. The older one soon got into fish trade in the Kollam Neendakara beach; he later married the daughter of his colleague from Pandalam. The younger son, who was in his early teens when mom came to the house as a young bride in 1970, was mom's personal assistant drawing water from the well for her or running other errands. In all fondness, the quiet and shy boy called her kochamma. When he was old enough to start working, he went on to be shopfloor assistant at my aunt's textile shop in Chengannur. After many years earning a pittance and listening unwillingly to my Shylock uncle's tales about his wife's family, he left to start a maadakada (a mobile wooden shop) that sold everything from beedis to lungis and lime soda.
The younger one then married an only daughter of a widow in Konni, a forest area without proper roads and facilities then. By then, Maria had passed away and was spared disappointment about her favourite son's partner. Unlike the sons, both the daughters-in-law were not easy on the eye - one reason why Maria did not let her first d-i-l live in her house as long as she breathed. Curiously both d-i-ls had the same names, though the younger one is a nicer person.
The older one, who settled in their family hut after the mother in law passed away, would make 3-4 visits to granny's kitchen everyday asking for something or the other or to bring fish (today her sore legs allow her to to walk only to her church 3 km away and not to our house 20 m away). Two of her children, the oldest and the youngest, were our acolytes while the left-handed middle one stayed home; being a leftie was considered a handicap then. The mother used her connections with us to help the elder daughter get a college admission; today the daughter is a prosperous government nurse - driving her own car and living in a two-storied mansion built by her Gulf-based husband - embarrassed to acknowledge her old association and hand-me-downs. The youngest, a hyperactive boy, turned out to be the most loving, and carefully maintains his relations with us. After jumping a few jobs in the UAE, he presently works as an electrician for an Abu Dhabi firm and calls occasionally.
The younger son of Maria's younger son meanwhile approached us to help him with a Gulf job after we shifted here. That V worked in an electrical goods manufacturing company made them hopeful. His first job in a frozen foods factory in Ajman was tough as was his second short stint as electrician helper at a construction site. Running away on any excuse invites a ban for 2 years, but Covid gave the necessary gap to plan the next entry. He looked up to us to help him find a job and we made vague promises to help if he came on a visit visa. The family, making ends meet with income from the small shop, was financially struggling as were many lower middle class families affected by the lockdown and later partial shutting down.
The second Covid wave spoiled plans to come after his church inauguration and festival in May this year. A ban on India flights from April to August resulted in an indefinite delay. Procuring vaccination was another hurdle for someone in the 20-40 age group. Pleas from the father finally goaded us to send a visa - which ensured faster vaccination - and later ticket and the boy reached last Thursday on the cheapest possible ticket in peak tourist season.
Putting to rest his earlier apprehensions about accommodation and job, V picked him up and brought him home. The grateful parents sent loads of home-made chips and pickles.
Returning from school in the afternoon, Ash saw the new occupant in his room and on his bunk bed.With his characteristic ease in making friends, he made J feel at home chatting non-stop and taking him out for a walk after his airport PCR test results came. He conveyed to us that J had never tasted Arabic food and requested that we take him to an Arabic restaurant for Friday dinner. Courtesy Ash, J had his first taste of, according to his own testimony, Dunkin Donuts (or any donut in fact), Arabic grill and rice, paneer curry, Laffah shawarma etc before he shifted to his new accommodation yesterday.
The camp room in Sonapur (no idea how a labour camp in the middle of Qusais got a very Indian name) made him happy and relieved. It was neat and pretty new, with 7 other Malloo inmates (some camps are infamous for dirty toilets and bed bugs). He got a brand new mattress, pillow and blanket provided by the company. Company buses in the compound waited to take them to work the next day - a 9-6 factory job with a one-hour lunch break.
Today, November 1, he joins as a trainee in the switch-gear manufacturing division in V's company after a trial run on Saturday. Hopefully in a year or two, he would have mastered the job well enough to find a more lucrative offer elsewhere. His family will hope to get a share of the petrodollars to extend their modest house and prepare to welcome brides for their sons in two years' time.
Such is the dream of many families who sacrifice their beloved sons in the desert heat to escape their lives of penury. Some make it, some don't. I hope J does.
p.s. The title is a pun on the name J-Hope, a BTS singer, and the Greek myth of Jason and the Golden Fleece.
p.p.s. Grateful that the children are growing up oblivious of class divisions and treat less fortunate people with kindness and grace. It hasn't been easy for me to shed the class prejudices I imbibed from my elders since childhood, but I am trying. The affection and hospitality extended to our guest J was part of that effort. For V, it comes more naturally as he is a more generous and humane person.
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