Holidays on the Hillock

An overnight train journey from Chennai to Chengannur and a couple of long bus rides later, we would arrive at the bottom of the hillock on which my paternal grandparents lived. Even as a little child, I would know when we were close, thanks to the unmistakable scent emanating from the coconut oil factory in the vicinity. This, followed by a short, bumpy autorickshaw ride up the hillock (during which I'd imagine falling off the vehicle into the valley below), we would reach our destination. For another week or so, my parents and I would stay here, in a quiet house made with large stone bricks and unpolished walls.

I'd wake up quite late in the mornings and watch from my window as my strong grandfather descended down the hill, wearing a shirt covered in rubber stains, a lungi and Hawaii chappals (flip flops) - a bucket of pasty, white liquid in his hand. I would wave at him and then run out to brush my teeth outside by the washing stone - a place from where I could watch Appachan pouring the freshly collected rubber in aluminium trays, adding a chemical from an unlabelled bottle and leaving the mixture to rest.

On some other days, if I woke up in time, I would accompany him to a neighbour's backyard where a rubber processing machine stood. He would work his way through the machine, and I'd watch as freshly pressed sheets of rubber emerged. We would then walk back, and Appachan would hang the sheets on the clothesline in front of the house.

Occasionally, I would also get to go up to the rubber plantations, climbing the step-like landscape by holding on to trees and tall shrubs or grass. The mosquito bites and the sometimes bruised palms were only a small price to pay for the adventure. I wasn't allowed to go on my own, so Appachan would lead the way or follow close behind. He needed no help traversing the rocky landscape - not even a stick for support, despite his old age! During these trips, I would always check the coconut shell cups attached to each tree and see if there had been any new discharge after Appachan last carved the tree barks.

When we head back home, we would be welcomed by hot breakfast prepared (by Ammachi and Mummy) on the woodfire stove, along with a tall glass of milk and an egg my Ammachi picked up the same morning from the hen's egg-laying spot - a woven basket, placed upside down. In those days, there was no fridge in the house - produce was either fresh or from a dark room in the house that Ammachi kept closed most of the time. I called it the "fridge room", because it functioned like one - without any air conditioning, though!

The fridge room had my quiet fascination, but so did the bathroom which had two doors - one inside the house and another that made the bathroom accessible from the outside. The door on the inside had a metal wire that had to be attached to a hook on the wall before you do your business. It would never fully close; it would only remain ajar. In the earlier days, before the house was fitted with proper plumbing, I remember the back door being used by Appachan and Appa to bring in buckets of water from the well that would fill the large stone tub inside the bathroom.

At Omallur, I spent my days running up and down the almost empty, pebbled roads outside the house. On the rare occasion that I would encounter a passerby, I had to stop and say, "Njan Karavallil Samuelchayante kochumola" (I'm the grand-daughter of Samuel from the Karavallil House). A look of recognition would break out on the stranger's face, even though he/she may have never seen me before. Convinced with my answer, some would continue on their slow-paced lives while some others would have a few more questions; Where was I from? Had my parents come with me? For how long would I stay?

Most of the time, though, it was just me and my sense of curiosity keeping each other company. I'd go looking for small fallen jackfruits that attracted swarms of large flies or simply walk around to count the number of pineapples growing casually along the sides of the rocky roads. On other days, I would look for the homes of kuzhiaana (antlions) and dig gently to look for inhabitants in them. I would then get down on all fours to see if the tiny creatures resembled elephants in any way (kuzhi-aana in Malayalam literally translates to "pit elephant").  I'd search the sides of pathways and around the trees for thotaavaadi (touch-me-not plants) and touch every single leaf in sight to watch them close.  I'd go back in a few minutes, just to do it all over again!

I would call out to "Melatha Appachan" (which literally translates to "Grandfather from above/upstairs"), my grandfather's brother who lived in a house a little further up the hill), as he worked in a kandam (field) in the valley between the hillock our house stood on and the one opposite to it. He was always a sport, shouting and waving back at me.

If I was lucky enough, I would spot Ammachi with her dentures off as she cleaned them at the back of the house. Ammachi was shy to show anyone her toothless face, so she did it almost in hiding! If she saw me coming around to make fun of her, she would shoo me away, much like how she shooed the chicken that sometimes decided to chase me for no apparent reason.

If it had only rained recently, I would go looking for patches of velvety green moss along the sides of the small cliff that ran close to the back of the house. I would lean on it, run my hand across it and, every once in a while, also try to peel some of it off as a green "carpet" souvenir for myself.

Speaking of souvenirs, I also spent hours around the house searching high and low for the rare, smooth, almost translucent pebbles among the many dark brown and black ones. Sometimes, I would throw a pebble or two into the well, to see if the water had any frogs or fish living in it, before being told off by an adult.

I would run up the wobbly stairs up to the terrace and put my head beside the chimney to smell the smoke or call out to Ammachi who was in the kitchen below. I would also spend a few minutes on the terrace, collecting the small inedible fruits that fell from a nearby tree. I would then take them down and crush them with a small piece of rock to see the green stain they left behind. 

Once, when I was very young, I remember taking a walk with Appa and Mummy down to a small stream of water where I floated about on one side under Appa's supervision as Mummy washed a few clothes on the other side. I also remember the long walks to the church on Sunday - through roads shrouded by greenery, narrow elevated pathways created to divide fields and alongside tiny streams.

In the evenings, back in the house, I would play on the side porch, digging through the walls where wasps built their homes. I also loved waiting around in the bedroom when Ammachi or Appachan came in to open the alamari (an old, wooden cupboard), simply because it smelled so good inside!

At nightfall, I remember feeling a sudden awe-filled dread for the same outdoors that I had walked freely in during the day. There were no streetlights and no lights in front of the house. Not even the moonlight seeped in to dispel the darkness on most nights, thanks to the thick foliage surrounding the house!

I imagined the steps leading to the front door being gobbled up by the darkness, as I quickly retrieved any shoes or sandals left on them. During the family prayers that Appachan led, I would keep my eyes fixed towards the door, looking into the dark abyss beyond it. What if a creature or, worse, a human hand appeared suddenly? As soon as the prayer ends and the family disperses from the hall, I would run to the front door and lock it!

Every once in a while, if I had an adult standing close enough, I would brave the dark to stand by the door and look outside. During these moments, the house transformed into a spaceship,  floating in the pitch-black void, interrupted briefly by the twinkle of "stars", the fluttering fireflies. And just like that, I would have something fascinating to dream about when I went to bed!

Whenever possible, Appachan would prepare something special for us to take back home (jackfruit chips, banana chips, or even chawanprash). He usually made these just the evening before we were to return, so that they stayed fresh for as long as possible. On that last evening, the quiet house would be bustling with activity as Appachan - shirtless, drenched in sweat - took the lead in front of the hot cheenachatti (kadai).

A trip to Omallur was never complete without a few rituals - me checking how tall I've grown from the last visit by checking my height next to Amamchi, and all of us spending at least a day visiting our relatives in the surrounding regions. As the final ritual, when it was time to leave, Appachan and Ammachi would sniff my cheeks and bid us goodbye until we visited again in a year or two!

We no longer take trips to Omallur because Appachan and Ammachi are now in Chennai, at my parents' place. They had lived on that hillock for as long as they could, only leaving when they couldn't manage on their own anymore. Everything has changed - neither of them has the strength to cook or the energy to work like they used to before. The Karavallil House has been rented out, no longer inhabited by Karavallil people. The rubber trees have pretty much been forgotten, with no one to maintain them.

The only thing that remains the same is the way my grandparents sniff goodbye, whenever I visit them in Chennai, now with my husband!