The language of colour

Mallikamma, came to me one afternoon, when the monsoon clouds darkened the skies, forcing upon it a late evening like quality; much like a lady, whose youthful looks have been jaded by a sudden illness.  I was looking at engaging someone younger, as a domestic help. I must have shown my surprise when she stated why she was there, for she took my hands in her rough, calloused hands and asked me to ‘try’ her for a week. Later, I would wonder what was it about her, which made me say ‘Yes’. Was it the look in her eyes, that spoke without hesitation what her mouth refused to say; that she desperately needed this job? Was it the way she smiled, eyes crinkling, with a touch of affection combined with a hint of mischief, suggesting that I needed her just as much?

“Colours have always spoken to me, from as long as I remember and I have always loved them,” she remarks, fingering the pile of clothes that she is helping me put away. “… probably because my life has been devoid of them; even the flower I’m named after, Mallika (jasmine) is leached of all colour” she continues, talking more to herself than me. “I should not have been taken in by the honeyed whisperings of the crimson silk sari, the colour of ripe pomegranates, with enchanting zari lines running across it. It was what my aunt and mother tempted me with, to get married at 13.” Seeing my shocked expression, she added, “there were gold jhumkas and silver anklets too”, conveying to me that she was powerless, against the lure of such temptations.

We become good friends, she and I, laughing at my terrible Tamil and her incorrigible Malayalam. She tells me little snippets from her life now and then, without any self-pity or malice, for life hasn’t been kind to her, but stating them simply as facts, as if it could have happened to anybody. Married at 13 and widowed at 19 with four daughters, her life had morphed into a race for survival before she was even out of her teens. “The day my husband died, he took with him my right to live. I was expected to merely exist. They took away my saris, my one indulgence. Deep coloured ones -aubergine purple with pale gold bhuttas, sunset orange, parrot green, red, the colour of freshly applied sindoor.  I can close my eyes and picture them; they were the colours of my ephemeral youth. My pretty silver anklets and jewellery were replaced by a pale saree, the colour of watery bile. I mourned the death of my youth, as well as my husband for a week and then I put away my grief, along with my colourful clothes and accessories, like winter clothes are packed away in boxes at the beginning of summer and embarked upon the long journey of survival, for the sake of my daughters.”

“For the past 30 years, I have worked until the skin peeled off my back, to educate my daughters and ensure that they all have jobs and are financially independent before getting them married. My spirit has been crushed many, many times; the death of my beloved daughter whose children I’m now raising, being thrown out of my husband’s home and being left penniless, battling illness, I’ve seen it all. But life must go on; we must rise each time and will our spirit to rise again, like a phoenix. Now I have given myself the permission to live again, to be happy and not simply exist. I surround myself with colours and the tinkling reminder of my carefree youth” she hitched up her sari with a mischievous glint in her eyes, to reveal silver anklets which tinkled as she moved.

It was hard for me to believe that this woman who broke into fits of giggles for no reason and was one of the most cheerful people I know, had dealt with so much of grief and heartbreak and that she was bringing up and educating her grandkids singlehandedly. Maybe super heroes don’t always come with capes and masks, some come with colourful sarees, cheeky smiles and tinkling anklets.

Museum of memories

I stand in the room we used to call ‘poomukham’, fingering the smooth curves of the decorative tiles that fringe the borders of the room. It features an intricately carved bouquet, of what I have always thought of, as wildflowers and is believed to have been imported from faraway Germany. We have come to say goodbye to the house and wander amongst the multiple corridors and rooms one last time.  The house wears a resigned look, with its rooms stark and cleared of all furniture, like a widow, whose finery has been stripped off.  This ancestral mansion has housed generations of my family and its walls have seeped their laughter and tears, their dreams and sorrows; the very fabric of their being. As I walk around, I can almost hear snatches of conversation, peals of laughter. I can almost smell wafts of familiar scents and feel the nonexistent furniture, as though my senses are conspiring, to will the house, to come alive again.

‘Valliamma’ (my grandmother) is in her room, which is known as’machinteagam'. It truly is the heart of the home. She is sitting cross-legged, in the middle of her bed, engrossed in giving the final touches to her painting. She looks up and beckons to the young girl at the doorway, to come sit next to her. I run up to her and smother her in a tight embrace, inhaling her distinctive scent of scented medicinal oil with a heart note of Nivea cream and a base note of lavender talcum powder.

Her dove white, starched and ironed ‘mundu’ is smeared with a streak of bright red paint, like fresh blood spilt from a wound; an unfortunate after effect of my display of affection. When I meet her eyes, I’m startled to see amusement there, instead of reproach. I feel a surge of affection for this kind soul, who is ready to see the world through my eyes.

It is somebody’s birthday and the whole house is abuzz with activities, the mammoth kitchen is invaded with delicious smells, from the plethora of dishes being made for the all-important afternoon lunch or ‘sadhya’, in honour of the birthday person. The huge dining room is cleared of furniture and lined with reed mats. In the centre of the room is a small lit brass lamp, and a tiny banana leaf with a small serving of each of the delicacy prepared; an offering to the Gods. I close my eyes and breathe in that special aroma that arises when steaming hot rice is placed on a freshly cut and washed banana leaf, and a dollop of golden ghee is poured on it, followed by salted dal. I can almost hear the crunch of a puffed up ‘pappadam’, being smashed, powdered and mixed with rice.

There is an unholy cacophony arising from the enclosed pond, which has rough stone steps leading down to placid and emerald green water, with tiny fish which nibble on our toes when we dangle our feet in the cool water. We are being taught the basics of swimming, and we are screaming in horrified delight, as an indigenous floater made of dry coconuts and coconut coir ropes, holds our limp bodies afloat, as we thrash about violently in our attempts not to drown. Valliamma and my aunt are watching us from the steps and my aunt threatens us with dire consequences if we don’t come out that instant, to get our hair washed with the viscous shampoo, made of tender hibiscus leaves- ‘Thaali’  

The vast courtyards with its ancient trees, where generations of children have run barefoot, the terracotta tiles warming their tiny feet. The fruit trees laden with seasonal bounty;  green mangoes, tart green slices of which, smothered with a fiery mixture of chilli powder salt and oil, make us pucker up in delight, as flavours explode on our tongues. Golden ripe mangoes, sweet as ambrosia, which melts in our little mouths and delicate jamun pink and blushing, some surprisingly sour, as we bite into their tender flesh. Jackfruit, papaya, guava trees line the garden along with huge leafy banyans, which stand tall and majestic. Their thick bowers, forms tiny oasis of shade, on the scorching ground.  The ‘tulasi thara’, with its tiny crevice, where a tiny brass lamp is lit every evening, to acknowledge the twilight hour. The ancient ‘sarpakavu’, the abode of snakes, overgrown with dense foliage, a place shrouded in ancient folklore and mystery. Bits and pieces of the house stick themselves on to the collage of my memory.

A house is essentially brick and mortar and everything else that goes into its making, but it is also something else, much like how we are not just our physical body and features, we are also made up of our thoughts and dreams, our memories and scars. That last day, as I walked through the rooms and courtyards with my sister and cousin, I imagined the spirit of the house leaving it. It was only years later that I realized, that the spirit had not left, it had merely shifted into the memories of all of us, who have inhabited it at various stages in our lives. It had transformed into a living museum of our memories.