Kovilpatti will always remain etched in my
memory. Even after all these years, if I close my eyes, I am transported back
to “Sivagnana Nilayam, 131, vakil street, Kovilpatti. It was my home for the
first 8 years my life- a happy home in all respects.
It used to be tastefully decorated by Mom, and
our tiny garden had a huge profusion of flowers in a riot of colors; purple,
mauve, white and magenta bougainvillea dotted the place. In my mind’s eye, I am
still the little girl of four, striding down the long corridor to the backyard,
where there is a tall and lissome neem tree offering us plenty of shade. It was
home to umpteen chirpy squirrels too .The entire backyard is strewn with tiny
neem fruits.
Every evening, I used to wait in eagerness
for my friend Nirmala residing next door to drop in. She used to be the color
of warm chocolate with shiny bright eyes, and a winsome smile. Nimmi was one
year older to me and she had started school while I was yet to be enrolled in
school. “Tomorrow I have school that is why I came to play today’, she would
say every evening. I never got around to asking her why she said that every
day. Dad had brought us both two tiny
buckets, and our favorite pastime used to be collecting the maximum number of
fallen neem fruits. They all were stored in our tiny buckets. Days later, after
we had forgotten about these tiny fruits, inevitably Dad would find them in
varied stages of putrefaction and he would throw them all out snorting
disgustedly. Watching him do that made us collapse into giggles, and it only
helped to infuriate him further.
Nirmala‘s mom was a very pretty and kind
lady, who used to be great friends with my Mom. Mom too was fond of Nimmi, as
we used to call Nirmala. Once, Mom bought us both identical dresses. Atop and a
skirt, both in bright orange, with black and white flowers embroidered on them.
Nimmi came home wearing it and I too scrambled away to wear it, and we posed
for Nimmi’s Dad to click away pics of us both.
Unfortunately Dad never clicked pics of us
both, so Nimmi, as we so fondly call her, is relegated to just fond memories.
Not a single evening passed without her
dropping in to talk and play. Since she was slightly older than me, she took it
upon herself to cuddle and baby me and I quite enjoyed the attention.
On birthdays we exchanged standard gifts of
chocolate boxes with lovely pictures on them. More than the chocolate, we
treasured the boxes. I still remember receiving a chocolate box with the
picture of a skier on it, skiing down a snowy mountain slope.
Suppose I had one too many boxes, Dad used
to take my permission to use the least liked of the lot to store his shaving
set. I loved the fact that Dad dint take me for granted and used to seek my
permission. Maybe he was teaching me basic good manners and the fact never to
take anyone for granted by all these tiny acts.
My happy companionship days came to an
abrupt stand still when Nimmi left us all suddenly. Her Dad, a bank officer,
was transferred to another city. We bid them a tearful farewell, and since in
those days, we had no Face book or mobile, to keep us connected, we just
drifted apart. Mom used to walk down to their house and weep thinking of Nimmi.
She wept harder when her eyes fell on a toy clockwork clown left behind by the
little girl, and it was standing alone and forlorn behind closed doors.
After Nimmi left, the neem tree was my best
friend and sole solace. Beneath the neem tree, grew large clusters of spinach
plants and I used to pluck them for Mom to make tasty upperi.
I so used to look forward to the advent of
the ghee lady. She would make herself available every month, and on her
arrival, Mom would give her a stove and she would seat herself under the neem
tree. I would squat beside her and watch her as she made lovely fragrant frothy
golden hued ghee from the home made butter Mom gave her. Mom used to make
homemade butter by pouring thick curd into Horlicks bottles and she would keep
shaking the bottle continuously until the butter separated from the curd.
I never had any playmates after Nimmi left,
so my evenings were spent watching my brother play ball badminton with his
cronies.
By late evening, we pulled out chairs and
settled ourselves down in the garden, amidst the lovely bougainvilleas. In
those days, there were several hours of power cut in Tamil Nadu. Dad bought us a transistor and we used to
listen to ‘chalachitraganangal (Malayalam movie songs) while we waited for the
power to resume. On full moon days, the garden used to be bathed in ethereal
moon beams with a gentle breeze tugging at our long tresses. On some nights, we
used to even sleep on the terrace, under a lovely blanket of stars.
Those were the days , when I knew so much
of happiness, and nothing could mar the steady pace and rhythm of our lives. If
only I could set back the clock…..
