BARODA DAYS

                                 A memoir, by Annie Cyriac      .                                                                    

The other day, excited by the sight of the overflowing brook that runs through our backyard in Kerala, I called out to my 11 year old son to go out and enjoy the view. Giving a disinterested peek out the window he resumed his play on the computer.       

This set me thinking of how footloose and fancy-free our childhood days were and how we enjoyed the outdoors, especially the days we spent in Baroda.                                             

We were put up with my uncle's family as my father had to go abroad.           The cottage was a quaint one in the IPCL Township in Baroda. It was on the last row of houses on the last street. A few furlongs from the garden fence began the woods. A huge wall marked the boundary where it began. We’d go as far as the wall to collect all sorts of fallen feathers of birds-brown, black ones speckled with white, green ones and most of all peacock feathers. There was a gigantic mango tree that stood out from the rest of the trees. Often in the twilight, we could see the silhouette of pea fowls and their long plumes as they perched on its boughs and hear their eerie shrill cries. We always welcomed the rains in Baroda. Green was the predominant colour. We loved to splash about in the grassy green puddles. My little cousins took great pleasure in squishing leaping green frogs with mud baked bricks. I was always in the vicinity keeping count but I could never bring myself to join them in this garish act. Once we noticed a squirrel popping in and out of a fuse box outside, on one side of the house. Sunil who was barely six then, climbed up the pole and informed us that there were baby squirrels inside. Each of us took turns to climb up and we managed to smuggle a baby out. Then the mother squirrel darted up and down the pole miserably, not knowing what to do. For days on end, its frantic cries resounded in my ears. I still have a hazy memory of walking around with a guilt laden heart. As winter slowly drifted in, the rains left behind grass so tall that we had to separate them with our arms to walk through to our sandy patch, where we played along with all the kids in the neighbourhood.                                        We would trap butterflies with clumps of tall weeds that we pulled out and allow them to crawl all over the net inside our window. We delighted in marveling at the splash of colours moving about and argued about who had caught the most. Baroda was home to a tiny red velvety bug called 'gai mata' that was rare to find and we literally worshiped it, when one was discovered. Further on the other side of the left boundary wall lived foreigners in their posh villas and well maintained gardens. We'd sit on the wall and watch them from afar, mouths agape, fascinated by their mannerisms, so unlike ours. Once we even clamoured down the wall to get a closer look only to be chased back by a well-bred dog.

 Today, I find it hard to reconcile to the fact that our kids prefer the colours and glare of the T.V and computer, to the vibrant hues of nature. They enjoy the blare and beep of vehicles and mobiles and do not care for the gargle of a brook or the hoot of an owl. They do not mind the closed spaces, for they do not miss running across the meadows. But then, I cannot fathom how decades ago my mother had to walk 10 kilometers to reach school and perhaps my son would think it ridiculous that his mother had once been chasing butterflies for a sport.                                                     

I've never visited the IPCL Township after I moved on to join my father. The people who lived there are all settled in different parts of the globe. The township, that was as big as a village is deserted now, I heard, from my cousins  who visited the place recently. The garden that I remember was a riot of colours with its mix of zinnias, dahlias and fragrant jasmines. My uncle, who is now no more, had allotted each of us a space beyond the garden where we grew our own vegetables. How we rejoiced at the sight of the first cob of corn that sprouted! The rows of cottages and the gardens are now overgrown with thick foliage. We hear that a multinational company has taken over and that the school building and everything else will be demolished. Concrete jungles may come up soon and the place may teem with people. Children may perhaps run around the place once again. But sadly this time around, they'll never breathe the air of freedom that we as kids once enjoyed.

HEADING FOR A WEDDING

 by Annie Cyriac

[ An attempt at holding a mirror up to the society of which I am very much a part. ]

It was her cousin Ramesh’s daughter’s wedding in Kerala and Pia had taken a week off to attend the much awaited function.

Being born, brought up and settled in Mumbai, she had missed out on all the weddings in her mom’s family. And this would be a family reunion as well.

 She was received at the station, when she arrived, by her uncle and after an hour long journey by car, they reached her maternal home. As they drove along the mud lane, surrounded by acres of tall rubber trees, a wave of nostalgia engulfed her. In place of the tile roofed old house that most of her childhood memories were tangled with, stood a huge double storied mansion freshly painted for the occasion. Their old ancestral home had been demolished when Ramesh had returned from the Middle East, to settle in Kerala, a few years ago.  The newly built house, now, teamed and throbbed with relatives of the bride to be.With mixed feelings of remorse at the loss of the old house and the mounting excitement on seeing her dear ones, Pia stepped in.

The hunt for the groom had begun soon after Sona, the bride had completed her B.Tech. It was only a year and a half later, after parading before a dozen or so prospective guys that they had finally found the perfect match. Thanks to the online matrimonial bureau for which they had to pay Rs.3000 per month.

Shanthi, the bride’s mother told Pia that they had been saving for Sona’s marriage as soon as she was born. “And that’s why she can be married off into a wealthy family.” Arun, the prospective groom was a software engineer and according to his family, Sona had passed the ABCDEF test.

“What’s that?” asked a bewildered Pia.

“Oh, didn’t you know? ABCDEF stands for Age, Beauty, Character, Dowry, Education, and Family, which is the pre-requisite for an arranged marriage”, said Shanthi proudly.

Pia learnt that the bride’s family had done extensive research not only on the groom and his family but also on beauty salons, textile shops and jewellery shops. Even before the dates were announced, the bride’s aunts and cousins had begun planning their own outfits. Jolly Aunty said she had been hunting for a saree of that rare shade of green with a tinge of turquoise, a colour she lacked in her wardrobe. Somebody had suggested a theme colour for all. But the idea was soon dropped due to differences in preferences.

“And please don’t go for red!” It was an order. “The bride in red should stand out.”

And while she was at it, Jolly Aunty had bought those much needed kitchen towels and that lovely appliqué worked bedspread that she had coveted. After all weddings were the only times one was allowed to splurge. Cousin Lilly said she had scourged nine shops before she could get that intricate gold and white lace for her little Sue Ann’s purple velvet dress. “Yes, velvet was back in vogue.”

The guys of course had gone for branded shirts and jackets. “Naveen was growing taller by the minute and the jacket he had worn for the last wedding was just not reaching up.”

The bridesmaids, all eight of them had already collected their dresses from the dressmakers after repeated alterations. Baby Uncle was reminded to remind the tourist bus drivers to be at the doorstep at 9:30 sharp. The guests from the neighbourhood would be waiting.

Thank God for the event managers who’d take care of all other affairs right from the fresh flowers for the stage to the last detail. “No, no, plastic flowers won’t do. Even Ramu the coconut climber had fresh flowers for his daughter’s wedding.” It was another matter that he had to slog all his life to pay off his debts. He was happy he could do so much for his daughter. And he had died a satisfied man.

As the bride entered the church on the wedding day, she looked radiant, though weighed down with gold. The beautician, one of the best in town had meticulously arranged all her chains and necklaces one below the other using gold strings so that they wouldn’t overlap. “They had to be visible, no? Just think how exorbitant the making charges are!” The poor gold bangles that reached up to the elbows had no space to jingle. “It’s a matter of our prestige. Won’t the guests be appalled, if all the gold given to her isn’t displayed?” The price of the wedding sari gifted by the groom, she learnt, was directly proportional to the dowry given, in secret of course.

At least the 25000 bucks given to the beauty salon didn’t go waste. The beautician had done a spectacular job of transforming the bride from a plain Jane to a Bollywood star lookalike!

The photographer was a pro. “Phew! He had agreed to get the album ready for less than a hundred thousand rupees... Rs. 99,999 only...wasn’t that a deal?”

“He was the cameraman for the Malayalam movie ...........”  whispered Reena, Pia’s cousin. Pia didn’t get the name of the movie. Donkey pen??? Did she hear it right?

The guests inside the church seemed to be two hundred or so in number. Hadn’t Pia heard Ramesh say there would be at least a thousand?

After the marriage Pia desperately wanted to witness the bride and groom being garlanded outside the church. But she got pushed behind as the camera crew took over. And before she could manage to get a glimpse, it was all over.

“Hey, what’s happening? Where were all those people running to?” Pia’s heart skipped a beat! Did something happen to old grandma? Not finding anyone to voice her doubts to, Pia ran after the milling crowd, lifting her heavy gold brocade bordered sari. She muttered a curse as she wobbled on her stilettos through the stony gravel paved churchyard.

The whole crowd came to a standstill at the entrance of the Parish hall where the wedding banquet was to be served. All the doors to the hall were closed and as more and more people closed in around her, Pia could barely breathe. After a wait that seemed endless, the huge wooden doors opened and she felt herself being pushed inside. She tripped on a stair and clutched at someone’s hip clumsily and steadied herself mumbling a ‘sorry’. As she entered the hall, she could see people running pell-mell. After much ado and a blink of an eye later, all were seated. Pia was one of the few who were left standing...... Survival of the fittest!

“Step aside, please”, said a waiter with a harried expression, balancing a huge bowl of fried rice in one and a spade shaped ladle in the other. Someone nudged Pia to a corner. She looked at the stage which was now occupied by the bride and groom. No, she couldn’t make out if the flowers were fresh. Jessy Auntie’s daughter, all decked up, made an announcement. But nobody was listening. The bride and groom began the journey of their lives by lighting a lamp and cutting the wedding cake. Of the nine hundred odd pairs of hands, only a few clapped while the rest of the hands were busy filling their mouths.

Outside, the sun was bright and hot. Fanning herself in the heat with the pallu of her saree, Pia looked around and realised that no one seemed to notice the bride’s ornaments or the colour of her saree. The magnificent ice carving of the swan in the centre of the hall had begun to melt and was fast evolving into a miserable wet duck. The bridesmaids’ roles were over in a jiffy. They too had spent quite a bit of time and money at the salon. The live band that played in the background could be barely heard above the din of clanging cutlery as waiters passed food and guests talked with their mouths full. Pia felt sorry for the lone magician who was showing his tricks to no one in particular. Someone waved at Pia and she waved back; not recognizing who it was. Among the folks wolfing down food at express speed, she spied Mathukuttychayan, her diabetic uncle, digging into his ice cream with gusto, his eyes darting around occasionally like a naughty child who feared being caught. 

Pia had come with a merry heart and hopes of meeting all her relatives and reliving old memories. She had hoped to enjoy every bit of the wedding. But it didn’t turn out to be a time to be cherished. There was a commotion near the wash area outside, that consisted of taps all lined in a row. Someone had wringed his hands spraying droplets of curry on somebody’s brand new Kanjeevaram sari.

 The guests were all in a hurry. Most of the relatives lived hundreds of kilometers apart. The sky was by now overcast and they had to reach home before dark.

Pia looked on, disillusioned. Here she found a cross section of the society that claimed to be civilized but had lost all their civility and decorum. These were the same respectable people who had voted for the Ministers and MP’s who had caused disquiet in the Assembly. The instinct of the mob was the same everywhere, be it in a local Mumbai train, the Parliament or at a sophisticated wedding, she mused.

Someone tugged at her sari. It was Jikku mon. He had been searching for her, for the family photo session with the newlyweds. Afar on the stage, she saw Shanthi, beckoning frantically. It was late and the bride had to enter the threshold of her new home before the inauspicious hour began.

There was another wedding coming up in May. Pia had planned to book tickets for her whole family in Mumbai. But.......... ? Shrugging off her thoughts, Pia hurried to the stage, plastering a dazzling smile on her face.