Forever a Malayalli

Under the green trees whose shadows she rested I grew up playing, in the very rain that drenched her I bathed, by the bank of the many rivers that nourished her I learned of heritage and culture. She was the mother that I seldom had, the father that I longed, a friend that I cherish. She was everything that I wanted and she is everything that I am. The life that I lived every second of every hour I lived in her cradle is the life that I ever want to know and wherever in the vast expanse of the globe destiny decides to take me my roots are forever claimed and every moment lived is but an attempt to be back in my mother’s lap. 

The spicy scent of the wet land, my grandmother is to say that beautiful scent was mother earth burping with satisfaction after her thirst has been quenched. How beautiful it smelled, like the scent of fresh Thulsi leaves. How beautiful was it too see the dark monsoon clouds come rolling in from the sky, It was said that the clouds had the colour of lord Krishna and just like the little Krishna they brought great joy along with them. My Kerala, My mother was a beautiful sight to see when she was drenched in his blessings. Everywhere there was just the vast expanse of green and from every leaf dripped many a million drops of rain. The trees rained down after the clouds and as a little child, dressed in nothing but a little black tread by waste I would go below the many creepers that grew in our garden and give it a shake. I would squeal with delight as the cold droplets hit my then tender body and I would smile with absolute pleasure. Of course I was too young to remember it then but my lovely grandmother had painted for me such vibrant pictures of my childhood that somehow they seem more part of my memory than a part of her narration. Everytime I think of those moments I feel them, the emotions of the little me rather just a detached memory.

I remember though the many hours I have stood by the many windows, each time a new one and watched the endless rain and I remember being overjoyed at the mere sight of it. To me each drop of rain now is a part of my mother and her endless beauty. They in their watery way tie me down to the land and the land in its muddy way tie me down to the sky and. They together in their symphony tie me down to my mother. There in that adobe of love I started talking root and every monsoon my roots grew just that much larger and deeper and tied me down a little more to the land. 

There is not a day I don’t dream of going back to her, I have not been too far from her yet every moment spent away from her is sheer agony and the desire is that much more deeper. My mother had loved me and I have loved her back just as much, the truth is you never realize how much you love them but at the moments you spent away from her. Rain and monsoon are that much deep rooted in me and every one of my memories does have a tinge of it somewhere. Be it the times I stared at the rain from the safety of the local sweet stall clinching to my grandfather’s hands or be it the moments I have immersed myself in the bliss as it fell down over me. Even when I grew up I was in love with the rain and every chance I get to be with her, I took, every excuse I could make to be with her I have made. I love the rain and the land after the rain. I love the land before that rain that is both ominous and sensational. The thunder and the lightning, the cold and freezing breeze that comes just before the rain and then as the drum roll reaches its finale you hear the hear, the sizzle before she comes and rains down on you.

How could I be anything but her beloved son, How could I ever dream of having a mother that is not her, a home that is not hers. I belong there I belong in her lap and I am to be at home curled up in her laps and listening to her wonderful stories and dream of the wonderful world that it draws in my mind. I belong to her both in this life and the next, I came from her and into her wet soil I must return as ash. In her many rivers must I lay my final rest and in her lap I must lie dead the same way I was born into hers. Forever I will be hers, A malayali.

When it Rained in Chennai

It was raining in Chennai, At least in the part of Chennai where he was living. At first he sensed the day getting darker slowly and steadily. At first he thought it was another ruse played by the rain gods but this time around the things were different. The day got steadily darker and then there was the ominous stillness that always and inexplicably came before the rain. The twilight when the peacocks dance and the birds rush to their nests. The magnificent drum-roll that accompanies any beautiful rain. Then he could hear the soft sound of little rain drops kissing the ground.

He made himself a cup of coffee, slowly pouring it out into a mug like he had all of eternity to do that. He walked to the open balcony of his apartment. He could see that it had started raining harder and steadier. Little droplets were falling from the sun shade as a bunch of little marching soldiers. The outside was hazy and the balcony was partly splashed wet by the rain. He leaned over the railings, his nose almost touching the falling rain. He could smell in the earth that was just been showered upon, the air was thick with the fragrance of dry earth. He sipped the coffee and as the hot liquid game him a shiver down his body as it slowly went down. He closed his eyes and inhaled in the world around him and slowly opened his eyes to the heavens.

The dark clouds were rolling in, thick like a woolen blanket. The sky no longer belonged to Chennai but this sky belonged in his memories. He could see in the sepia his life in another city, his home. He could remember vividly how the rain clouds marched in like Alexander’s great army. The torrential downpour that drenched the land around him poured down his mind. He could feel the coldness of the showers and the amazement with his being was cleansed manifested as a small smile that spread across his face.

He remembered the years of his childhood, the endless days he spent watching the monsoon, the thunder and the lightning playing around like two long lost brothers in their reunion.  He remembered the streams that flowed near his house that was up to the brim and spilling from the sides. He remembered the birds that nested in the mango tree in his house; he remembered how she would hide herself in the thick canopy and how she dodged the falling waters. He remembered the wet trees and the green grass. He remembered the cows and the wet muddy trails that led in the plantations. He remembered his mother and she would get him a cup of tea when it was raining and how they would sip it together and watch the rain perched on their balcony.

He was I and being in Chennai for some time now, I miss the land where I was born and where I was raised. These memories rushed to me in a surge of emotions and nostalgia. I wonder how much more my life revolves around the beautiful monsoons of Kerala.