Home Sweet Home


Home sweet beloved home
Can you hear us cry?
Our hearts break to see you fall
We can never be the same without you

Who is there so cruel and callous
To chop you down with no pity
Your wooden ceilings and polished doors
Will now be fuel in some unknown hearths

When you cease to exist on the earth
Orphaned and dismembered we will be
Our souls dwell within you forever
Our roots lie deep in your soil

You were the guardian angel and friend
In whose hands our parents left us
When they left the mortal world for good
Safe and secure we felt within your walls

Where shall we look for a roof when you are gone?
Where shall we assemble together again?
A world without you is hard to imagine
Homeless wanderers we shall ever be

Into oblivion we will never let you go
For we have carved a niche in our hearts for you
A place so sacred and inaccessible
That no selfish hands can harm you ever
[Written when the process of breaking down the ancestral home was going on]


]

OUR CLOCK


My little Oxford defines ‘Clock’ as a time measuring instrument periodically wound
up, kept in motion by springs or weights acting on wheels and recording hours minutes etc by hands on a dial’. We have a fine specimen of it at home. It is pretty old, an octogenarian, I should say. My father says it was bought sixty years back from a German firm [which makes it all the more precious], I am sure it must have been manufactured twenty years before he bought it. Though old by age our clock is quite young in spirits because it still requires all the attention and affection demanded by a sentimental wife .My father lavishes on it all his love generously. Without prejudice I should say that I often feel jealous of this old granny who scores over all his children, even me his youngest daughter, in getting my father’s affection and gentle care.

Recently I happened to see a Hitch cock film ‘The man who knew too much’ and the show started with the title ‘The clang of the cymbals and how it affected the life of an American couple’. It reminded me of the song-laden chimes of our clock and its effect on my father. I have often wondered how attached one can become to this old lousy thing, which creaks and groans in the silent night disturbing our sweet slumber. Half of my father’s leisure time is spent on it but the pity is that it never reciprocates the attention bestowed on it. He refuses to sell it in spite of my mother’s repeated requests and never bothers about the money he spends in repairing.it.The sight of our boy servant carrying it like a coffin to the repairer has become a regular feature. Hardly a day passes without an argument between my father and mother about disposing of the clock. In my mother’s opinion the clock is with one foot to the grave and the only way it can serve us now is by bringing the maximum amount as its worth. To make it show the correct time is as impossible as making a dead man get up from his grave But my father turns a deaf ear to all such arguments and an advocate as he is, he will argue the case though vanquished

My father’s love for his clock exceeds all normal limits .His vain attempts to correct the clock every time it goes wrong has developed in him almost a passion for all time-denoters. It is very funny to see him sit with half a dozen wrist-watches at home near the radio at 7-45 in the morning to get the correct radio time at 8 .I have often wondered how he manages to correct all these as well as the clock simultaneously. This is a daily circus repeated at 12, 6. and 9. At 9 o clock in the night he goes to bed after checking once again the correctness of all time keeping mechanism at home If any one of them is slow or fast, even if it by one minute or so, he wont retire to bed before correcting it. Being a lawyer he seems to believe that even the inanimate clock should be given a chance to go through the due process of law before passing the final verdict If all of them show the correct time he goes to sleep with the satisfaction of a father who sees his children obeying his commands without protest .The constant ticks of the heavy pendulum lull him to sleep

Then in the solemn night’s tingling silence, while I will be dozing over a book, my father’s anxious question rouses me up “How many strokes did you hear? 11 or 10? Only his hands pointed towards the clock helps me grasp the meaning of his question .The clock has recorded the time as 11 and my father is evidently worried whether it struck exactly 11 or one less. Even though I may not have heard a single stroke I tell him it struck 11 lest he should spend another hour on it disturbing everyone asleep

There is a mystery about our clock and even about my father’s love for it He is a bit over sentimental about it, But his love for it seems to be infectious and the clock has become a ‘dear’ to all except me who look at it with a mixture of envy and bitterness as I still feel that this exquite curio gets all my father’s attention which should duly come to me, his youngest child The long dragging sounds of its strokes which can match the notes of the seventh octave appeal to my philosophical uncle as a solemn song that should remind us of the passing time and the meaningless hours we spend in this world ---of ‘tomorrows that creep in this petty pace from day to day and yesterdays which have lighted fools their way to dusty death ‘ My brother calls it a lyre and feels quite bored when the clock is with the repairer Even my mother who has been pestering father to sell it is uncomfortable when she does not hear its sweet monosyllabic song My musically talented sister goes mad when this ‘sweet singing bird ‘ is not at home I wonder when its swan-song will be heard

[This was originally written and published in a magazine in 1971.when my father was alive

The clock has survived my father who passed away three decades back .It now adorns the wall of my brother’s flat. My brother who seems to have inherited my father’s fancy for this antique has kept it well polished and it looks pretty now Whether it shows the correct time is a matter of speculation. But I have completely got rid of my jealousy now and am now an admirer of the clock]

On the Death of My Sister

On the Death of a Dear Sister


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Death of a dear kin

Creates a void deep within

A thousand things she taught and said

Come back to mind again

You feel lost and distraught

In a manner never before thought

Transience of life fills you with despair

Will all elders you love go like this?

Will you be left alone to find your way?

You realize the value of flesh and blood

Frailty of friendship you thought so high of

Strikes you all on a sudden

In hours of grief pals have no time for you

Only kith and kin know how you feel

My beloved sister left us without a word

So full of life she was always

One could hardly believe she would go so soon

She had so many things to tell us all

Of her children she had gone to visit

Yet she went before she could share her joy with us

Sister, dear, we loved you, wanted you amidst us

But God loved you more and called

You had to go when the Almighty called

But forever you will be with us

A Tribute to an Old Servant

MARAR------A Tribute to an Old Servant


Marar, to me, is a symbol of old times----of the carefree childhood days of fun and frolic. He was the cook-cum house –keeper for my uncle who was a chronic bachelor. Marar became a part of our family when my uncle came to stay with us in his old age

My association with Marar dates back to the time my uncle came down from Tellichery after winding up his practice as a lawyer there to settle down in his newly built house in Trichur.I used to visit him quite often with my sister or cousins Our main interest in going there was to test our culinary skills with Marar’s assistance. We used to prepare the menu for lunch and tea. Marar would get all ingredients for us and lend maximum help in our self-chosen task. We used to enjoy every minute bof the freedom we got in the kitchen where we, children, were not allowed to enter in those days
When Marar came to our house, he became the chief cook and our old servant boy became his assistant. For over a decade he dominated our kitchen. With his tall well-built frame, baldhead and tobacco chewing mouth he walked up and down in our kitchen, which had become his domain, making his presence felt everywhere. Cutting five or six jackfruits and making chips or jam out of them was a child’s play for this septuagenarian. Grating any number of coconuts and extracting milk from them was all done in no time at a time when mixers and grinders had not found their way to the kitchen. The taste of his ‘ ‘chakkamolosium ‘and ‘mangachamanthi still lingers in the mouth Nothing that I cook with all my modern cooking appliances can reach anywhere near his dishes in taste

Marar left our house after the death of my uncle who had bequeathed to him a reasonable sum of money with interest of which he lived afterwards. But he used to come to our house twice or thrice every year to see us all and he did not like to miss Trichur Pooram even after he became aged and weak. When he did not come a year or two we wrote to him to the address he had given us But for some reason our queries remained unanswered .I felt quite worried about it because, I could remember this old man, only with affection So when I got a chance to go to his home town Tellichery I was very glad .I went to see Marar who was staying with his nephew .He was a shadow of his old self. On a mat he lay with a piece of cloth thrown over him His eyes were closed and he could not recognize any one Altogether he presented a really pathetic sight as he lay there immobile and helpless When I called him several times he tried to open his eyes and I felt he wanted to say something. But speech was beyond him As I stood there watching the pitiable state of our dear old servant, I was overwhelmed by a deep sense of sadness
As I bid farewell to him mentally, I knew I was bidding good-bye to something young in myself –another link with the past was going to be broken soon





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An Unforgettable Way-side Scene

An Unforgettable Wayside Scene
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In front of a star hotel by the wayside she sat -------her face the very image of all the suffering she had undergone in her young age. She looked miserable and distraught in her torn saree, which she had carelessly thrown over her lean body. As she watched the passers –by she did not even bother to stretch her hands for alms though it was clear that she was expecting something from them. She was in her late stage of pregnancy and what shocked one most was the sight of a tiny kid, just a few months old, crawling around her –The child was doing summersaults and doing its best to attract the attention of its mother who hardly ever noticed it.. There was no semblance of a smile on the woman’s face as her little one continued its gimmicks making childish sounds and laughing innocently .She was totally unmoved and indifferent. Some pedestrians flung a few coins at her but none wanted to know the reason for her grief or rather everyone felt it would be futile to probe into the depth of her sorrow

For many days after I saw this scene my mind was restless. I pondered over the same question; what were the thoughts that passed through the mind of that woman as she sat impassively there. Was she cursing the man who was responsible for her present state? Was she thinking of the father of the little one frolicking around her though he had never bothered to see his progeny. ?One could hardly guess the feelings of this woman who looked so emotionless To me she represented the whole class of suffering womenfolk who become victims to the nocturnal antics of selfish men

My Uncle

Prof T.R.K.Marar, My Uncle


Chewing the cud of childhood memories, as I try to rediscover the pleasures of my younger days, one thing that comes prominently in mind, is my introduction to the world of literature through the stories narrated by my uncle Prof.T.R.K.Marar.Summer vacation in those days was a time we looked forward to, not only because it gave freedom from the monotonous routine of school, but also because it was the time we could hear interesting stories from world classics told by our uncle who used to spend his vacation with his aged mother at home .We had story sessions in the evenings. Sharp at 50’clock we used to assemble in the portico of the house ready to listen to him He would then come fresh after his evening bath smelling of cuticura powder and eudecologne and take his seat in the cane chair while we children sat on the floor. Even my septuagenarian grand mother was an enthusiastic member of the crowd who listened to his stories in spellbound silence
Maugli who lived in the jungle with wild animals, Oliver Twist, the orphan boy who asked for more food, Edmund Dante who sacrificed his life for love and friendship, Lady Macbeth whose hands could not be sweetened by all the perfumes of Arabia------all became living characters to us kindling our imagination and arousing our curiosity. To lend a touch of reality to the narration he often named some of the characters in the classics after our friends. Though a Professor of English, he was equally well versed in Indian mythology. The stories of Mahabharatha held a special charm on us. Arjuna with his unerring aim, Bhima who could consume a cart-load of food in minutes and Karna whose generosity knew no bounds –all became our heroes thanks to his wonderful way of narrating their exploits, Often we vied with one another in making each one of them our favourite.

The session would come to an end at 6oclock when it was time for evening prayers. The gathering would have to disperse reluctantly then and wait with bated breath till next evening to know what happened and whose assumption would be proved right
Disabled at a very young age, [his right leg having been amputated in his early 30’s], my uncle never gave in to despair or self-pity His determination to lead a normal life despite his handicap was quite remarkable. He took up what would have been a cause for utter dejection for others as a challenge and led a normal life till the end .His suffering only made him love life more. With his inexhaustible repertoire of jokes and and humorous anecdotes he could amuse and entertain people of all ages. On all important occasions at home, especially for weddings., he would compose a poem and one of us would have to recite it at the family gathering It was all real fun and everyone enjoyed it
Now that he is no more we miss all this. Though two decades have passed after his passing away the memory of his narration is still fresh in my mind. Even now when I turn the pages of some old classics, I can visualize him sitting in the cane chair and narrating stories in his own in inimitable style How I wish in vain those days would come again.