House This For A Change!

Change is inevitable. And yet when the inevitable comes, we are taken aback. On my grandma's house at my native village, change was written in large, simple letters, easily read and understood; but difficult to accept.The four tall ashoka trees that flanked the huge gates of the house were gone. I missed the slender, waxy leaves which smelt queer when crushed and also the soft, small, thin green tree snakes which used to tickle me as they slithered along the length of my arms. You could then gently place them on the branches - they would creep into the dense foliage, peeping at you now and then.
I turn to my Uncle, annoyed: "Why did you cut down the trees?"
He: "Can't you see and smell the jasmine bushes planted? The ashoka trees were useless and their snakes scared your cousin."
Yeah, right...Am sorry I missed the bushes for the trees. I remember many an evening watching those tall trees sway in the wind, always afraid that somehow their lanky frames woudn't be able to withstand the strong winds and would fall, killing the snakes too.
The four mango trees are pale, fragile versions of their youthful selves; I feel tempted to bow before them in reverence for their old age. I remember the branches where I would hold court with the village kids as my minions during my summer vacations. Fine raw mango slivers, dipped in chilli powder,oil and salt, and at times grated coconut and jaggery, would be relished as we swayed precariously on the brances and shared an unparalleled thrill. Little red ants called 'misir' would build nests out of mango leaves. If you broke open the nests, the red army would be all over you and you would scurry down as they bit you while you brushed them away helplessly. As we would scream in pain and warn others while climbing down, my Mom or Aunt would enter the scene, ready to beat me and my cousin for allowing the village kids have free mangoes.

My Uncle and cousin call me into the house which looks like any other modern house now; with a few rooms demolished, and a few wings added. As I step into it and measure the changes, I feel like a stranger. The living room, which once resembled a memorial to the dead, has lost its old character. Gone are the four huge portraits of Marx, Lenin, Mao and Stalin against a fiery red background my 'Communist' grandpa had hung. He believed in wearing his Communism on the walls.
I ask: "Where are the Communists?"
My cousin grins: 'In the junkyard, Maini."
There's a certain warmth with which she calls me 'Maini', a Tamil word for father's sister's daughter.
Framed pictures, some sepia-tinted and some black & white, of friends and relatives are gone. A picture of her, taken when she was a 7-month old plump baby, looks suspiciously at me. I wisely refrain from asking about a picture of me, taken when I was a year old and grinning impishly, that used to hang at the same spot.
Cousin: "Maini, your baby picture was here. Dad has put that too in the junkyard."
I pretend to be unaffected by her innocent observation while I curse my Uncle silently for his...God knows what! My ego bruised, I wish I could just fly back to Cal. But then, what did I expect? Ghosts from the past ready with a red-carpet welcome? And am no prodigal daughter or grand-daughter either....
I spot an old armchair, retained more for its utilitarian value than for sentimental reasons and an overwhelming wave of nostalgia sweeps over me. Sadness, like medicine, can be had only in little doses...

In the kitchen, I recognise some earthern pots and porcelain pickle jars among the steel utensils. An old spoon curled out of its natural shape reminds me of my cousin whose favourite it was. A steel plate, which had my aunt's name engraved upon it, was our favourite and we would often fight over who would have a meal on it. My grandma settled the matter - I would have my lunch on it and my cousin would have his dinner. I saw a favourite spot at the dining room; the corner seat near a large iron bench was our favourite as often even in the midst of a meal, we could jump from the chair to the bench and jump back for fun. That was also settled - every alternate day, I got the corner seat. I had pleaded in my childhood since I came only once a year to visit my native village, my whims should be indulged. But my plea was rejected by the elders as my cousin seemed to desire everything particularly more during my presence! The old bench, I learn, has been relegated to the new shed.

A rivulet used to flow under the gates; and there were little gates which opened to steps which led you down to it. If I felt too lazy to take a walk in the fields and wet my feet in the pond or the slush on the wayside, I could do just sit by the rivulet, with feet dipped in the gently flowing stream and throw pebbles like any bored kid.
Lil fish woud nibble my feet, and now and then you could even see a water snake glide by, a dash of silvery streak. During the rains, crabs would mysteriously appear and scuttle about on the soft earth. My cousin would then pick them up, tie their limbs to strings and celebrate his sadism by flinging the thread across all the four directions. Disgusted, I would tell him to stop it as the poor creatures' claws and limbs scattered everywhere. That was his idea of fun!

Gone are the gates; and the rivulet has dried up.The old neem tree's still going strong - its nimble branches remind me of 'discipline.' That was an era when our mothers would 'discipline' us for simple things, making us feel like we were hardened criminals. But that was also an era when you could play up your suffering and announce your heroism by a simple act - walk up to the village chemist and ask for Band-Aid. My legs or knuckles were the honoured recipients of such beatings when everytime the neem switch fell, you became aware of thousands of nerves tingling in pain. But the Band-Aid was always placed on a spot visible - on the cheek, near the chin, on the elbow or just across the wrist. And when asked I would proudly say : 'Mom beat me up', 'I fell', 'Cousin & I had a scuffle'.......

More than the changes wrought on the house, I think I miss certain people more - my aunt and my cousin who lived for seven years there after a fight with her husband, only to return to him again; my grandparents and their friends, and my playmates whom marriages and jobs have taken to different parts of the earth...The brevity of everything strikes me...And strangely, too much of pain seems to sharpen my senses as I 'see', 'feel', 'hear', 'smell' and 'taste' the past that returns with a vengeance...The pain pricks are maddening...And the escapist desire returns...this time a desire to return home in Cal...to be with my parents and friends...which is the present, which is real and which shall become the past soon...And as a flock of parrots screech their way into the dusk, I think of Pixie and long for my flight home...