On the wings of a fish...

Once we alighted the bus at the unassuming market place, we had to walk a few furlongs to my grandparents place. Taxis and rickshaws were not invented then, atleast not in this village, a coolie uncle would carry the bigger bag on his shoulder and we would march behind him, our shoes trailing footprints on the sand . I would imagine I was in an adventure, crawling through narrow lanes with spiky kaitha fences on either side, which if touched would start beeping and give me away to the enemy. Sometimes we had to take detours and cut through courtyards of houses where we would be apprehended by the folks with enquiries about how long we would be here and how big the kids had grown blah blah. Me and my brother would stand impatiently on one feet twitching our noses. All I wanted was to somehow get to the house. After many a climb and descent and small talk , finally I would perceive the huge elanji maram at the entrance to the pathway leading to the house. As every year, unfailingly, the entire pathway would be strewn with elanji flowers, the fragrance enveloping the place giving it an ethereal feeling.

As soon as we had showed our faces, we would be dashing all over the place, running to the pond where the mango tree had showered its entire load of mangoes last year, and then run back to the other pond where we had community baths, all of us kids in the neighbourhood. I would rush to check under the elanji maram, where we had dug a bottle of hand made herbal medicine, a concoction of various leaves and flowers. I had convinced my little brother that if kept for a year under the soil this medicine would turn us invisible. Well, the bottle itself seems to have gone invisible for the time being. Never mind, I was never short of ideas.

Sadly or happily, depending on the situation , I happened to be the eldest amongst the monkey army. Sometimes we were all fishermen and I would lead them with a basket in my hand and go catching fish in the pond. I had no idea it was tadpoles I was fishing at; quite fishy they were-every one of them managed to slip through my basket. After a gruelling duel of fishing Iwould emerge out of the pond with an empty basket, wet as a fish. This would send granpa into a frenzy invoking his thullal roopam - running after me with a stick shouting out loudly about what a unruly marathi girl I'd become. I would manage to outrun him every time not knowing he was intentionally acting defeated. If you wouldnt find me anywhere on the ground, I would defintiely be up the guava tree. The entire day I would be running from tree to tree, sometimes talking to them, sometimes hugging them . How I loved telling them stories - not very sure if they enjoyed it though.

Day times were great fun, but come evening it was like being in a ghost story, crickets screeching endlessly puncutated with croaks from frogs and various other vocalists putting in their two bits. It was like a symphony, only a scary one though. We would gather around the huge lamp and shout out God's name. If our voice had to carry to God above all these symphonies, chanting wouldnt suffice I suppose. Everywhere you turned there were huge shadows from the chimney lamps adding to the horror effect. By seven, tired and sleepy I would stare at the chimney , counting the insects that came diving into the light only to be devoured by the fire. However sleepy I was, I will always remember how relishing the food was! Sleep would come quickly putting aside all my plans of scaring my brother with stories of demons that lurked behind the shadows. Last waking thought being about the match boxes I would be needing tommorrow in order to go vettaalan hunting..........bzzzzz bzzzzzzzz..........zzzzzzzzzzzz

elanji .... a small , fragrant flower

maram= tree

thullal=to be possessed

vettaalan= a bug that goes bzzz bzzz