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.
