As the car winds its way through the narrow
roads of the quaint little village of Elangoor, sandwiched between layers of verdant
greenery, spilling on to the sun dappled streets, my son is enthralled by the
sheer beauty of the place. Local tea shops, ‘chaya kadas’, the quintessential
countryside social hub, that brew fragrant milky tea and gossip with equal
gusto, dot the scenic way. Its glass cases are piled high with artery clogging,
soul satisfying, deep fried treats; ‘pazhampori’, banana fritters golden and
crisp, spicy ‘bondas’, mashed potato spiced to perfection, batter coated and
fried.
Ironically, the first
thing I notice is the silence that envelops the place; not the kind that is
stifling and weighs you down, but the kind that washes over you and invites you
to enjoy the moment. It follows me as we pull into my husband’s ancestral
house, to spend a day with his grandmother. ‘Ammumma’ exudes a sense of serenity,
an absence of restlessness or agitation; even time seems to glide by her in
slow, graceful moments rather than the frenzied, hurried ticking I am
accustomed to.
She is a lady of few words, but then, she is one of those people
who radiates so much of warmth and positivity that words seems superfluous. Her
delight in having us over is apparent in the lunch that she serves us;
supervising the cooking herself, so that the ‘naadan chicken roast’ (one of my
husband’s favorite dishes) is roasted just so, redolent of coconut oil, crisp
curry leaves and toasted bits of coconut and the baby mango pickle, tart, spicy
and delicious is taken out of the huge ceramic urns or ‘bharanis’, where they are
preserved with a thick layer of oil, especially for the visiting great grandchild.
“I’m a year younger than this house, I’ve lived here all my
life” she tells me, mildly amused at my fascination with it. The house, like
most old houses where generations of a family have lived their multiple lives
under its roof, is full of character. It is filled with unexpected nooks and
crannies and echoes of countless laughter, conversation, and memories resonating
off of its walls.
She talks to me about her childhood in this house, the mango
saplings she planted around the house, of how she loved spending time among trees and plants who are still her friends, of how she has discovered a new
passion; collecting exotic recipes. I am humbled and inspired by her enthusiasm
and zest for life; the way she has kept her sense of wonder intact. I discover
that she has learnt the art of befriending her solitude rather than fearing it
or despising it.
As Rumi quoted “Silence is the language of God, all else is
poor translation”
I realize then, that she has deciphered the language of God.
