Somehow, the iconic poster of Che Guevara presented to me then by my cousin, the face collage in red and black with a beret sporting a solitary star, instilled in me a sense of importance though I had no idea what it was based on.
Every time, the Devi’s procession crossed the vicinity of another Devi Temple – there were about 3-4 temples in the area of Puthupally – she would stop to visit her sister. Now this is seriously the realm of the spiritual as we know, and the sisters were allowed to have a conversation, and while this happened in the spaces beyond human access, the oracle’s dance reached a crescendo, the poor man becoming God for that instant and letting everyone know of the divine wish of the deity.
It is almost as if you have just stretched through the veil of time and set off a trigger that works on the premise of remembrance – of a smile, a smirk, the toss of the head or some quirk that you have stored away in memory as an associative remnant.
When Velappan entered their bedroom that night, Karthi was sitting in one corner of the bed and when she looked up as he entered, he knew she had been crying silently. He went and sat near her, took her hand in his and asked her what the matter was. Karthi was silent for a while and then turned and asked him imploringly,
When Karthi, my grandmother, first set foot into the village, she had just turned all of nineteen years. She and her orphaned sisters – Malu and Ambika, both younger to her in that order, had lived in Ezhukone with their uncle.
She would tell me about how she and her three younger sisters would, after their morning house-chores, sit on the little flight of steps on the western part of my ancestral home. That was before she got married, in the late sixties.
Let’s say, whenever a car comes in, or somebody walks in through the gate, the whole path talks. That is the good thing with river gravel. You can be anywhere inside the house and realise that, yes, we got visitors.
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