Khadeejas- My Mother's Tharavad

Aluva is a sluggish town nestled on the banks of the mighty Periyar River in Kerala. In this verdant town, amongst the lush greenery, in a lovely house clay-roof-tiled house lived the two people whom I loved the most-my grandparents; my grandad whom I fondly called ‘Uppa” and my grandmom whom I addressed as ‘Umma’.

July and August are the months of school vacation in the ‘Gelf’. They are the months of unforgiving summers in Abu Dhabi. It was the time my mom packed me off to live with her parents in Aluva.

In Kerala, July-August is the time the heavens showered its bounty on the earth. The winds bring the magnificent moisture-laden monsoon clouds to the western coast of India, they bring bountiful rains.

Among the houses on Canal Road, there was a house marked by a black marble embedded in the wall with ‘Khadeejas’ engraved on it. Khadeeja was my grandmother’s name. Yes, the house was named after her. The gates opened to a path narrowed by bushes on either side. There was just enough space for the red Maruti 800 to drive through. The path led to the muttom replete with trees and plants.

There were two houses in the compound; an old tharavad and a relatively recently built out-house.

The old tharavad was a traditional building with terracotta roof tiles, partly black oxide floor and partly terrazzo floors, long grilled windows with hook-eye latches, an attic for old unused things, and a chimney. The main door opened into a long and rather narrow living room, that housed the sofas, the television, and a bookshelf brimming my granddad’s collection of English and Malayalam books. The living room opened into another small central room that had a telephone, a telephone book, a mirror on the wall, and two chairs. In the nights during the ‘power cut’ times, we huddled together in this room under the light of an emergency lamp or a flicking flame of a wax candle. ‘Power cut’ was the half-an-hour of previously announced time when the Government of Kerala decided to stop electricity supply to an area. The time kept shifting every week and all residents were aware of when the power would go. This was the time life came to a stand-still. Outside the house, the crickets creaked, the stray dogs howled, the fireflies dazzled. Uppa would tune his radio to the ‘Akashavani-Thiruvanthapuram’ station to listen to the news.  On other days, Uppa told us stories about his past. The time he went to school, the time he married my grandmother, the time in his childhood when an epidemic illness claimed the lives of many of his family members. I listened to the stories with rapt attention. A few daft moths jumped in the flame and the bodies floated molten wax.

On one side were the two bedrooms and the dining room in the front. The fourth side opened to the old part with a black oxide floor that housed an ancient kitchen with the verrag aduppu. Umma had abandoned the verrag aduppu for the LPG gas and tabletop stove. The old kitchen functioned as a storehouse and the new kitchen adjoining the living room was where all the cooking happened. There was a large aluminium trunk in the store where Umma stored the grains. She told me stories of famine and food shortage that happened in her youth and how her Zamindar father traversed the rivers and roads to deliver trunk boxes full of food grains to his daughters.

At the far end of the house, there was a work area with the ammi kall and a toilet. The toilet was different from the toilets in Abu Dhabi. You climbed on an elevated platform and then there was an oval-shaped ceramic ditch with a scary hole on one end. On either side were large rectangular uneven ceramic tiles for placing your legs. You did not sit leisurely. You squatted carefully, with one foot on each ceramic tile and earnest prayers to God Almighty that you don’t fall inside. You finished your business and ran out.

On the left of the tharavad was a recent addition- the ‘outhouse’ with a concrete roof and terrazzo flooring. It had two bedrooms with attached bathrooms and a living room.  The outhouse and tharavad were connected by a curved mosaicked walkway covered with asbestos sheets mounted on a metal framework.  The sides of this walkway were embellished with a series of earthen flowerpots, all containing foliage of different shades of green speckled with hues of purple and wine red. Some pots were on the floor, some were elevated on bricks and some pots were hanging from the metal framework. The pots were full of Umma’s plants.  Plants for her were not inanimate objects that adorned her muttam. For her, it was a significant part of her existence. She watered them, tended them, and spoke to them like they were her kids.  Her mini garden was a treat to the eyes. Every time a flower bloomed in her garden, Umma beamed with joy.

 

My earliest memory of monsoons was sitting on the cemented side wall of the car porch with Umma, listening to the raindrops falling on the corrugated asbestos sheets and watching them make a neat line of equally spaced tiny circular dents on the sand. The chilly winds teased our faces and hands with a few drops of the rain. Growing up in the arid desert and the scorching sun, I thought, the monsoons were the greatest miracle of nature.

The downpour of water enraptured me. The shapes the rain drew on the sand fascinated me. Mild drizzle would texture the sand and heavy downpours would dig large round ditches exposing the pebbles underneath. The trees danced to the winds, the earth absorbed all the water, and the well filled up.  I loved to walk in the rain, holding an umbrella, splashing the rainwater with my Hawaii chappals.

 

When the dark clouds hovered in the sky announcing the imminent downpour, Umma used to run to the cloth lane to gather the clothes hanging outside for drying. 

Umma would not let me out during heavy rains or during thunder and lightning. “Dubai kids catch illness quickly”, she would say. “What will I tell your mother if you become sick?”. She would make me a hot savoury snack and switch on the TV. She was the best cook in the world.

On rainy days, I stared out of the window, amazed by the drops kissing the earth, drenching the soil in the flowerpots, and splattering on the mosaic walkway. I revelled in the luxury of nature, in the beauty of the greenery, in the love of my grandparents.

The smell of the rain on the sand always reminds me of my Grandparents home. 

 

My Grandparents were early risers. They woke up before the sunrise, in the silence of the last part of the night and prayed Tahajjud together. This was how they began their day for all the time I had known them.

Uppa would lead the prayers as the Imam. Umma and I followed his actions standing behind him. On some days I prayed, on other days I fell asleep on the prayer mat. My grandparents were kind they never forced me to pray or scolded me for sleeping off during the prayer.  

 

I used to wake up the sight of Uppa slicing vegetables for Umma. Uppa was a cute, petite man. He was mild-mannered, extremely courteous, and seldom got angry. When he smiled, his eyes were reduced to slits, the corners of his mouth pulled up revealing his pearly white, squarish teeth and the midline diastema between the upper central incisors. He smiled with his heart, his round nose and bald head shined. His eyes sparkled when he looked at Umma. After the vegetables were sliced and the chopped pieces were approved by Umma, he got dressed to go to the chanda (market) carrying a large canvas bag with wooden handles.

On other days Uppa went to the backyard with his white towel tied as a turban over his head, his lungi folded up with a mammaty (spade) over his shoulder. He would go to his maavu, plaavu, tengg, vaazha, perakka, chambakka marrams (mango trees, jackfruit trees, coconut trees, banana trees, guava trees and rose apple trees). He removed the weeds, dug the soil around and reshaped the soil to form a circular embankment around the trees.

After the arduous labour, he headed to bath. Lunch was usually served after Zuhr prayer.

Umma was a beautiful woman, with glowing porcelain skin and shining hair. Draped in a cotton sari, she ran the house with an authority that was rarely questioned even by Uppa. She was a domineering woman who could command her sons. She bullied the ladies who came to work for her. Helpers in the house rarely persisted for long.  But to me, the grandchild who came to spend the vacation with her alone, she was the sweetest grandmom.

She oiled my hair with a self-made concoction of hair oil. She fed me food enriched with homemade ghee. She told the milkman to get extra milk for my boost and curd. She made her special Beef Achaar. Steaming hot puttu with a dollop of ghee and a generous amount of Umma's beef achaar was my favourite breakfast. Her vacation agenda was to fatten me. She was an amazing cook and loved to make special dishes for me. Uppa was diabetic, hypertensive and hyperlipidaemic with a history of bypass heart surgery. So, his food contained no salt, sugar, or fats.

When Umma cooked, she prepared a special portion of every dish for Uppa. Seeing Uppa eat was a pleasurable event. In reality, Uppa ate bland food. But he enjoyed every morsel of it. He started with a loud ‘Bismillah’, relished every bite, praised my grandmom abundantly, he would wipe off the plate with his fingers, lick all the fingers of his right hand noisily and then let out a loud burp. A rather loud ‘Alhamdullilah’ followed the burp. Then we would get up and go to the washbasin outside to wash his hands and mouth. He swished and he gargled. And then he did something very funny. He sat on top of the slab near the washbasin and brushed his teeth looking into a small hazy mirror.

Uppa came inside and opened his box of medicines. It had multiple small brown paper envelopes with strips of tablets. He meticulously selected the drugs and gulped them down with a glass of water.

Umma was a diabetic with a strong appetite for sweets and chocolates. She had a secret stash of chocolates in the storeroom and lots of ice cream in the freezer. She ate to her heart's content and not the doctor’s instructions, much unlike Uppa.  Post lunch when Uppa napped we enjoyed our ice-creams and sweets.

Umma made me rub her aching back with my then tiny legs as she laid down on the mat in the veranda. After a while, she told me stories of her childhood and I told her stories from my school.

Often there would be visitors in the evening. Mostly it would be my cousin brother Nabeel who came after school to watch television, play with me and gobble Umma’s delicacies.

The TV in my Grandparents house had only channels- DD1 and DD2. Together we saw Sakthi man, Duck tales and other cartoons. Sometimes there were grown-ups as visitors who came to see my grandparents. Some people came with wedding invitation cards.

Some visitors would drop in to see Umma. Often, they would ask her for a part of her beloved plants. Umma judged people on their ability to grow plants. And based on that judgement she decided to share a plant part or not. After they left, she would reveal. “That woman is a plant killer. She has killed all the plants that I have given her. Why does she keep asking me for more?”

If you are a plant grower, Umma would part with her plant pieces with pleasure and pride.

An obnoxious relative, once asked, "Which is your home?". I replied, "This one". He said, "How can this be your home? You are the daughter’s daughter. This house belongs to the sons”

A ten-year old’s heart did not love according to the rules of patriarchy. A ten-year old’s heart gravitated towards where there was love. Today at 35 years of age, this house in Aluva is still the place where a part of my heart belongs.

In the evenings, Uppa sat on his desk and wrote a page in the diary. Without fail, every day, he chronicled the events of the day in his personal diary. After that, he heard the news on the radio, ate his dinner and went to bed early.

Uppa was a religious man. He was diligent in his prayers and raised his kids well. He did not force religion on his kids or grandkids. The choice to pray, to cover one's head and to practice religion was left to each individual.  He feared his Creator, led by example and advised with love. Uppa read extensively and had a broad-minded approach to religion and the role of women.

Once I overheard him rebuking my oldest uncle for shouting at my mom. Uppa advised, “Women are like crystals. They are innately beautiful. But once you drop it down, it shatters into many pieces and then you cannot fix it back”.

And that is exactly how he dealt with the women in his life. He treated his wife with love and respect. Over the years, I have never heard him belittling my grandmother. He always held her in high regard, no matter what. He was always appreciative of her company, support and efforts. 

For his daughter, my mom, he was the strongest pillar of support. He was the voice telling her to go ahead and prove herself. When my mom wanted to study, he encouraged her to. When my mom wanted to work, he took pride in it. When her older brother protested against my mom going to work, he told him that if her husband did not have a problem with her working, nobody should. He wrote letters to my mom frequently with words of love and optimism.

For his granddaughter, me, he was the best grandpa a girl could have. He was a patient listener, an empathetic guide and a wonderful pen pal. He used to write to me, in a language that I understood, encouraging me to overcome obstacles in my life.

In a society teeming with misogynistic men deciding women's clothing, limiting their education, and clipping their wings, Uppa was a class apart. 

My grandfather died in 2003 after losing a battle to oesophageal carcinoma. His loss left my mom with a vast emptiness and pain that took years to heal. 

Umma was an indomitable spirit. She lived her life on her own terms and not by societal standards. She did not change her behaviour to please anyone. She did not mince words. Often, she used to lash out bitter truths like a slap on the face. Behind this imperious exterior was a soft heart. I remember her tearful face when she had said goodbye to her youngest son as he prepared to go to Dubai. Good-byes were always a sorrowful affair. 

She used to judge people for what they were and not what they pretended to be. She did not judge people by their attire, modesty and piety. She knew it when pious words were mere pretence. She had this sharp eye to see directly into your living soul. 

I had learnt very early from Umma that modestly in dressing is not a measure of goodness of heart. I had also learnt that it was impossible to win a debate with her. She always had the last word. 

She was a tough mother-in-law. She loved all her grandchildren dearly. 

"I pray for all my grandkids in Tahajjud prayers. I remember you, as well", she would tell me, on phone, in her feeble voice. The last decade of her life was troubled by a neurological movement disorder. She stopped living alone in the Tharavad a few years before her death when the tremors and muscle stiffness robbed her of her independence. She started living with her son's wife and kids. Her frail health did not stop her strong mind. 

My grandmother expired in 2016. A bit of the house died when she moved out. I found it painful to visit Khadeejas after Umma died.  The house has withered with age and was damaged by the 2018 Floods that wreaked havoc in Aluva. My mom tells me that the house will be demolished soon.

'Khadeejas’- the house where the eponymous matriarch lived with her loving husband during the last lap of their lives. The place where they sent their sons off to U.A.E for better prospects, the place where they married off their last two sons, the place where they entertained their grandchildren. This place will soon be memories for everyone.