The winds of change
K S S Pillai
When I take a stroll down the memory lane, the first place that comes to my mind is Mannar, my native village in Kerala. Like other places, it has undergone extensive changes over the years. The only landmark that remains untouched seems to be the Shiva temple, which used to be at the centre of the village.
Almost all the houses and shops used to have thatched roofs of seasoned coconut leaves that had to be replaced every year. All able-bodied men in the neighbourhood would take part in the exercise of removing the old thatch, and replacing it with a new one after thoroughly cleaning the roof. Women would come together and prepare food for all in the open while children, free of parental restrictions, would play. It was a happy, day-long get-together of all neighbours.
The village had a couple of teashops, a grocery shop owned by a spinster named Komalam, and a sprawling cashew tree under which children played and men gambled. People thronged the teashops in the morning for their first glass of tea, mostly without milk, and hot dosas and idlis. While waiting for their turn, they would read the newspaper of the day threadbare, and discuss all political and non-political developments of the previous day heatedly.
One of the teashops was owned by an elderly widower named Raman Nair. It was rumoured that a clandestine love affair existed between him and Komalam. He used to visit the toddy shop on the river-bank late in the evening and would announce his wavering home journey with the slurred singing of old filmy songs at the top of his voice.
The northern boundary of the village was the Pamba river. There was a small village of fishermen across the river. They would auction the overnight catch near the church on the bank of the river before crossing over to this side on their small country boats for tea and snacks. Their women fishmongers would carry fish in large bamboo baskets and sell them in our village by visiting the houses of their regular customers.
Bathrooms inside homes being almost non-existent, the villagers would take their bath in the ghat on the river bank, both in the morning and evening. Clothes of the whole family would be washed by the womenfolk there, usually in the afternoon, while exchanging gossips. A little down the river, men would bathe their cows and buffaloes.
During the rainy season, the river would be belligerent with fresh muddy water from the eastern mountains, sometimes carrying everything that comes on its way, including dead animals. Few would then venture far into the river, for fear of being washed away.
Electricity was a new entrant that first appeared in the form of street lights on the main road. Other roads were dark at night, and one would carry either a kerosene lantern or a lighted torch of coconut leaves to avoid stepping on poisonous snakes.
The roads were sandy. We used to go to our school about a kilometre away barefooted, sometimes tying leaves of jack trees under the feet to get a little respite from the hot sand. During the rainy season it would be banana leaves that doubled as umbrellas.
There used to be a cinema house that ran on a generator fuelled by crude oil. There were two shows every weekday, at six and nine p.m. The end of the first show was announced by a drumbeat that lasted about two minutes. On Sundays, there would be an additional matinee show. Whenever mythological films were screened, special morning shows would be arranged for school children at reduced rates with complimentary passes for the accompanying teachers.
The village has become a small city with modern facilities. During my visits to the place now, I stand on the concrete bridge over the river and think of my friends who used to spend hours with me, swimming in the deep waters near the now extinct bathing ghat.
(The author is a retired professor of English. A regular contributor to The Kashmir Vision, he can be contacted at: pillaikss@yahoo.in)
