All these accounts are such fascinating reads. Thank you. I remember our summer vacations in the late 70s and early 80s. We used to head to Trichur and spend about a month equally divided between maternal and paternal grandparents' houses. There were always cousins around, some whom lived there and others who were there on vacation just like us. Traveling by train over two nights and the accompanying excitement of buying books to read, running to fill water containers, playing word games, fighting for top bunk, and listening to all the stories shared by fellow passengers is how it began.
Once there, days were spent climbing trees, roaming around coconut groves and paddy fields, playing local games that we did not play in Bombay, and generally making up things to do on the fly. The sweltering heat was an equal participant in everything we did of course. Power cuts were the norm unlike our experience back home. The main indoor game was something similar to Ludo but played with cowry shells instead of dice and using sticks, pebbles and other assorted doodads as markers. Outdoor games were mainly running games and also some football. Cricket was not a thing there back then. There were cattle sheds with cows, a few goats, plenty of chickens, some ducks, and a dog or two. Dogs were never let out of their cages apparently to make them more ferocious. Needless to say, we were scared of them. Many houses in Kerala still do this and now that I am older I understand how cruel that is. Trying our hands at milking cows and goats were highlights. As was climbing up mango, and guava trees to get at the fruits. Convincing a cousin who was an expert climber to go up coconut palms to drop a few tender coconuts was another thing we did though this usually resulted in a tongue lashing from our grandfather who kept a careful count of the yield on each palm. Our paternal grandparents lived in a more rural setting and the concept of fences, and walls didn't really exist there. So our adventuring there was basically endless runs until we got tired, or hungry. Then there was the food. Breakfast was usually kanji (rice gruel) with some scrambled eggs if we were lucky. We would fashion spoons out of jackfruit tree leaves to eat this. On some days there'd be one of the many appams (hoppers) Kerala is famous for. Lunch, and dinner usually had local fish. The fish seller's visits were also part of the fun because he sometimes had a few live ones that he'd give us to put into a tub of water. There were also the days which were set aside for making snacks. The simpler ones - banana, jackfruit, and tapioca chips were made by the women in the house. The more complicated ones whose names I only know in Malayalam required a traveling professional cook to come in. Eating all that, fresh off the wood fired stoves, was another pleasure. If there were guests a rooster would be killed and the entire process of going from live rooster to cooked chicken was also a novelty for us city bred kids. Since this was summer in Trichur, the pooram was a big part of it. Pooram, for those unfamiliar, is a temple festival. Temple festivals in Kerala meant having elephants. Depending on how wealthy the temple was, there would be anywhere from just one to several. Trichur had two very wealthy temples and the pooram there was/is essentially a competition between the two of them. Each would line up fifteen tuskers and have a grand show. The days leading up to the pooram had elephants being brought in from various places. Back then this meant elephants walking on the roads with their mahouts. On a good day we'd see four, or five of the massive beasts. Pooram also had a concurrently running exhibition with hundreds of stalls put up by merchants from all over. We'd get a few cheap toys from there. They also had magic shows, and dog shows. It was a whole other world for us and we looked forward to our yearly visits. Not anymore of course. When we take our kids there now it's pretty much the same stuff we have here with only a few minor differences. I am sure there's a lot more that I have forgotten but reliving all this has been a fun exercise. -Gabin On Mon, 15 Apr 2024 at 10:54, Yeddanapudi Radhika via Silklist <[email protected]> wrote: > > Just loved that account with the half-murders and gold smuggling. Jaane Bhi > Do Yaaron come to life except this was real life, haha! My 70s childhood > summers were full: My brother and I used to walk 2kms to the swimming pool at > 6am so we could swim between 630-8. Then we walked back home. Up and down for > at least a month. I remember it as a time of some innocence. I wore a frock > like a lot of girls my age did in the Air Force Crowd but on the way back > from the pool, I only fastened it at the top quite unworried about the gaping > back despite my mother's scoldings. I was about 9 or 10 and really > unaware...We also biked back and forth sometimes dodging doodhwallahs on > their bicycles and dirty truck drivers who hurled obscenities. I used to go > around the traffic island in the early morning traffic and had to wait for my > little brother to catch up. How he did it is a total mystery. Our daily and > ordinary lives were so precious and I only recognize it now. When I see what > Palestinian kids are going through... > > After the morning swim, there was breakfast - yum cucumber sandwiches and a > boiled egg. Then, an hour and a half of holiday homework and then...no rules, > no tasks...and the Aadoo tree awaiting us in the backyard. My brother would > get my mom to tie a turban with a blue cloth towel. I went just as I was to > climb the Aadoo tree. We'd both sit on a branch and shake it to make it sway > like the Bay of Bengal in Vizag where we usually went for the other month of > the vacations. Below the tree there was a mini-shed with a treasure trove of > gardening tools all very useful for our adventures as farmers. We'd shovel > and hoe without helping my parents one bit with real gardening tasks. We'd > seen the construction workers eating chillies, onions, and chapattis and of > course, my mother had to prepare this for our daily adventures in the > backyard up on the Aadoo tree. I haven't climbed a tree in decades but am > considering signing up for a tree climbing course in Atlanta... > > My room was the epicentre of the make-believe world in my house. My brother's > hockey stick was my mike and I belted out total scat without batting an > eyelid. My brother was there but what he did I don't remember much. What does > activity mean to a child anyway? There is a restless, endlessly curious > connection with the world that is a natural state and the physical body is as > much a part of it as the mind. He tumbled around the bed, stood on one leg, > fixed his turban and did some other finnicky things...it was all great fun. > Sometimes we played in the closet lining up all the shoes and tracing our own > feet on paper like we had seen the mochis do. Shining our shoes for school or > for my dad wasn't really a chore - we loved it. > > Then there were the great train journeys from Delhi to Vizag with a "halt" at > Kazipet Jn where the bogies switched tracks...a few times there were coal > engines and we arrived nicely "sooted". India was such a miracle, an > absolute kaleidoscope of sensations. There were the ravines of the Chambal > Valley that we hoped to pass quickly (Phoolan was a real threat then), Agra, > Itarsi, Jhansi, Nagpur (for oranges and batuvaas) and then the changes after > crossing the Vindhyas - the rocks of the Deccan! In A Passage to India which > I read in my undergrad degree at Delhi, there was a description of a great > hollow rock, the Kawa Dol, that balanced on another rock. Such a familiar > sight on our journeys...and finally arrival at Vizag...bougainvillea and > whitewashed walls and the smallness of everything that was just the right > size for a childhood. It just made the Bay of Bengal even bigger. And yes, I > could say a lot about the beaches but it was the way there (as always the > journey is better) that was 90% of the fun. Up and down the slopes passing > the buffaloes and the adjacent milkmen's colony; the ISKON temple; the house > where a classmate called Poornima lived and then down and down until there > was only the mad rush on the sand to the sea. I'm very, very grateful in > Vancouver to have a little bit of Vizag via the sea. > > I'm finding it hard to write all this and not think of my Dad who taught me > to swim and who passed away last Sept. His photo is here on my desk and I've > put his Air Force Peak cap on it. > > I'll stop there but this is a great thread. > Loved the other childhood summers described on this thread too... > > Cheers. > Radhika > > > > > On Sun, Apr 14, 2024 at 9:06 PM Shenoy N via Silklist > <[email protected]> wrote: >> >> Lovely piece, Veena! Here are a few recollections of my childhood >> >> I grew up in Bombay and it was a very different Bombay. We lived in a small >> house in Malad, a distant suburb that my uncle, in a fit of pique, called >> 'the armpit of Bombay'. My father had a busy medical practice there, which >> meant he couldn't move very far, and the house was small. It was perennially >> run over by out of town relatives. My parents, who had to sleep in the >> kitchen sometimes, under the dining table at other times, and often in the >> little balcony, depending on how many people were living in our house, >> desperately wanted a larger house. But the only one my father could afford >> turned out to be in the middle of a mangrove forest swamp. They took it >> without another thought. >> >> When we moved there, I was ten. There wasn't much to do. We would play >> cricket but if the ball went into the mangroves, as it often did, everyone >> had to chip in to buy a new one, which caused great fiscal problems. And the >> mangrove forest had its fascinations. It had little waterways in which >> fisherfolk would row little canoes, fishing for crabs and small fish. They >> were generally nice, friendly folk who would give us kids rides in their >> boats if we asked nicely. Sometimes they would charge 25 paise. I remember >> one time, thanks to the generosity of a visiting uncle, I had an entire >> rupee in my pocket. The fisherman to whom I offered this was so overwhelmed, >> he took me all the way to Versova, which Bombay folk will know is a good 15 >> km from Malad. But through the waterways, it's quite close. My rupee had >> still not run out, evidently, because he took me out into the ocean. I >> remember being terrified. I didn’t even know how to swim. The gigantic waves >> buffeted the canoe around like it was a leaf. My fear seemed to amuse the >> fisherman. I think he genuinely thought I was having a great time. >> Eventually we reached shore in Versova, an entire universe away. I didn’t >> have a penny in my pocket but such was the kindness of Bombay, people gave >> me rides all the way back home, which is a story in itself. I got off at the >> Versova jetty and found a BEST bus there. I went to the conductor and asked >> if this bus went to Malad. "Malad?" the conductor asked, with unconcealed >> astonishment. I tearfully told him my story. He asked me to get into the >> bus, which went to Andheri station, stopped another bus theere which went to >> Malad, and handed me over to that conductor with a brief account of my tale >> and a "mulga veda aahe" (Marathi for "the boy is crazy"). This other >> conductor dropped me off to Malad from where I walked home. My parents of >> course had no inkling. If I had drowned and died, I’m sure no one would have >> known. This sobering thought sorted me out for good and I started doing >> better at school. >> >> And there were the murders and ‘half murders’. This latter term always >> fascinated me. A half murder, I now realise, is a failed murder attempt. >> Back in the day, I thought of a precise, scientific killer who would stab >> someone just enough to kill him fifty percent, and would spend hours trying >> to think of what it might mean to kill someone fifty percent. But on with >> the story. Where were we? Right. The mangrove forests. >> So the mangrove forest and the fisherfolk’s boats made it an ideal conduit >> for smuggled gold. These were the glorious days of socialism when the powers >> of the day had outlawed gold entirely, making gold smuggling the number one >> industry in the country. Steel making, agriculture, automobile manufacture, >> all came a distant second, third and fourth. The gold would be brought in >> big boats which would moor themselves outside the 12 mile Indian waters >> limit. Small canoes and fishing boats, like the one that had taken me to the >> ocean, would row there and carry small consignments of gold back, which they >> would hand over to the landing agent and receive a handsome fee. The gold >> bars would be sewn into jackets which the fisherman would wear, and hand >> over to the landing agent, who would then wear it under his shirt and >> transport it wherever instructed. The personnel involved in this supply >> chain were called jacketwallahs. Naturally, none of them acknowledged that >> they were in this trade, but Bombay knew. Whenever a jacketwallah passed by, >> there would be surreptitious nudges and nods with “jacketwallah” whispered. >> An uncle of one of the boys in my class was a jacketwallah and he was the >> coolest guy we knew. He used to wear Ray Ban sunglasses and smoke 555 brand >> cigarettes. That boy was our window into the dark underworld of the >> jacketwallahs. Ever so often, the thought would strike a jacketwallah that >> if he simply disappeared with a jacket, it might be written off as an >> accidental death. Gold bars are really heavy. If you wear a jacket laden >> with them and fell into the waters, you would drown without a chance. If I >> feign a drowning, the ingenious jacketwallah would reason, and laid low for >> a while, I could trouser all the cash and live happily ever after. >> Sadly, this almost never worked out. Retribution was swift and brutal and >> the corpse would usually be laid out in a visible spot in the marshes as an >> example. Our class mate would whisper “Murder!” and all of us would run to >> the spot in the lunch break to get our glimpse. Usually, the corpse would >> have been moved, or if it wasn’t, by the time we reached there would be a >> lot of policemen who would shoo us away, but once, I saw a murder victim. It >> was a young man, his face pale, mouth slightly open and no sign of any >> blood. It was super scary but gave me a thrill nevertheless. Then I realised >> I knew who he was. I had seen him around school. He was a relative of a boy >> a year junior to us. It’s strange how death affects us if we know the >> deceased person, even slightly, as opposed to a stranger. My thrill turned >> to sadness and I lost my interest in going to see murders and half murders. >> >> Thanks and regards >> >> Narendra Shenoy >> > > -- > Silklist mailing list > [email protected] > https://mailman.panix.com/listinfo.cgi/silklist -- Don't confuse me with facts. My mind is made up. -- Silklist mailing list [email protected] https://mailman.panix.com/listinfo.cgi/silklist
