And that's when i realized that crikey, once again my brown self had misplaced a date. Mind you, here Pongal is nothing like it is back in India. I don't really remember too many Pongal's in Sri Lanka either. There's only one that stands out. But in India, it's a week filled with religious debauchery.
--::-- The only memorable Pongal in Sri Lanka --::--
I must have been about 7 . I say this without the conviction of factual knowledge, because much like most Sri Lankan children brutally severed from their pasts, I don’t have too many childhood tangibles that traveled with us. The one picture I remember seeing had both my grandparents in it - so it must have been '85 or '86.
Because SHE passed away in ’86 leaving a void that never managed to get filled. Despite our best efforts.
The morning air carried with it the scent of sea salt. And the sullen promise of unpredictability. I can still recall the symphony of the torrential downpour from the night before, leaving everything vibrating in dew as dawn squeaked past it and wiped the slate clean. Water, it cleanses everything in it’s path.
A profound insight, I couldn’t wait to share.
I remember climbing on thatha’s brown leather chair to peek out the window. Yup, there they were. Curled into themselves, shielding their fleshy pink faces from the sudden downpour of stinging hot rain. The lotus’ were her favorite. I used to think the pond existed just so that they had a home. She loved us all that wholly.
My Chithi sauntered out, wrapped in a white sari, the colour earmarked for mourning by Hindu’s. Maybe she knew, subconsciously, that the end was in fact, grazing against the bubble that we lived in – slowly and most certainly eating away at the protective membrane they’d taken years to cultivate. White was just that. The signal that as one thing ends, another inevitably begins.
Our ayah’s with the help of our butler had tied tall moist stalks of sugarcane to the sides of our gate with other Pongal decorations, leaves folded on a taunt twine line, creating a haveli of sorts. I don’t recall 75 IBC road, ever looking that un-Buddhist. My grandparents, Hindu by birth, had always worn their Buddhist affinities on their sleeves. They embraced it, clinging to a way of life they had adopted when they had bought that piece of land. It was their Tamil, Hindu blood that helped build the Buddhist temple across the street from our house – both financially and physically. But on Pongal day, we were Hindu and damn proud of it.
So this was indeed a special occasion. I recall scurrying around the bricks, careful to tuck in my toes, and the two mischief filled toddlers (my sisters), when they got too close to the edge of the driveway.
I busied myself helping light a fire so our pot of blessings can overflow with goodwill and signal the beginning of a new year. I don’t recall much else other than the sound of firecrackers, the milky sweetness of kiri bath, the tingling of lunu miris and the details of the house. Strangely, my surroundings seem to have etched themselves with permanent ink against the building blocks of my childhood. But for the life of me, I can’t recall the details of the people around me.
It’s probably because by the time I was 7, I had already lived too many lifetimes; been on too many journeys. And had much more information to process than my brain was anticipating.
And that’s why I regret the one thing my folks regret the most. The gaping void of having a sparse visual history. All our baby pictures were burned in a fire. I know it wasn’t in the ’83 riots – I don’t think. But to me, it might as well have been. Sri Lanka and our lives finally mirrored each other. We all started anew after that event and our lives began on fresh slates clouded by the memories of too much lost.
Maybe that’s why I’m so camera-happy these days, much to the displeasure of my crew. I carry my lil’ canon around more often than my phone. I have this inherent, fanatical need to document everything. Because to me, pictures paint a thousand words – especially when memory fails and words have a way of recreating themselves.
Which I’m starting to realize more and more, on a first hand basis.
That one photo captured everything- pre.cisely.
My thatha stands by the overflowing pot, wearing a traditional white sarong and a white shirt, he normally reserved for political meetings or his jaunts to the temple across the street. My sisters were in his arms, proudly on display for the singular gaze of an unflinching camera lens. It’s almost like he knew that one day, this would be a defining piece of evidence that we’d re-visit a hundred times, in the hopes of deciphering our past.
And I was there by his side, as I often was. Positioned, slyly. Half-hidden behind him, my features pulled together in an expression of unadulterated defiance. But towards what, I can’t recall. Maybe it was the knowledge that I would soon be placed firmly on an aircraft – sent back to where I rightfully belonged – at boarding school.
Wow. It always astounds me when something tickles a niche of my brain and it throws up memories that it can’t contain any longer. That’s particularly why I have this space – not because I assume that what I have to say is of any interest to anyone – but because, I realize how fast my childhood memories are being replaced by other ones.
It’s almost like being pushed off a conveyor belt – eventually something’s got to give.
--::--
I wish I could say Pongal '09 was as eventful as the ones from my childhood. This year, I spent it freezing my kundi off in -39 type temperatures. Everything seemed to go wrong yesterday – from the traffic to the terrific mushroom & spinach stuffed chicken. I said a silent prayer – not because I have anything to harvest but because at one point in time, this day, was yet another reason for me to return home.
No matter, I will see my fam in less than 48 hours.
w00t w00t.
No comments:
Post a Comment