Finding Joy in the Small Moments: A Childhood of Contrasts

 This era, despite its limitations, holds some of the most cherished memories of my life. While I enjoyed the company of my school friends and the vibrant personality of Shihab, a truly local boy, I still felt a sense of isolation within my own home.

My days followed a rigid routine: early morning school, a long walk home by evening, followed by homework, and the inevitable "teaching dramas" as my parents ensured I completed my studies. Sundays were reserved for a visit to Shihab's, the only break in this monotonous routine. My parents were understandably cautious, restricting my outings, perhaps fearing the unknown.

This overprotective environment mirrored my son Jithu's current experience. He too faces a similar schedule: early mornings, late evenings, and even Saturday school. I'm actively trying to encourage him to explore his surroundings, to forge friendships within his own community, just as I yearned for those connections in my childhood. We'll discuss this further in a later blog.

Rain was my escape. I loved the thrill of walking in the rain, drenched to the bone, on my way home from school. The courtyard pond, overflowing during the monsoon, was my personal playground. Despite my grandfather's strict warnings and the occasional beating that followed, I couldn't resist the temptation to swim. He was a complex man, capable of immense kindness but also prone to sudden outbursts.

I remember spending time in his small supermarket, listening to his tales of hardship during his youth, a time of severe food shortages. Living in a joint family, I shared the household with my cousins. One of my favorite pastimes was collecting fallen mangoes from the surrounding trees, making juice for myself and my sister. I always made sure to share with her, a gesture that inevitably brought tears of joy to her eyes.

There were two jasmine trees in our courtyard, each blooming in alternate seasons. I'd wake up early, carefully plucking the fragrant blossoms and weaving them into jasmine garlands ("Mullapo mala") for my sister. This act of kindness, however, often triggered jealousy in my cousin sister, leading to a silent competition.

I also enjoyed collecting eggs from the poultry cage, eagerly anticipating my mother's "mutta chikiyathu" (scrambled eggs), sometimes referred to as "kuthi pori." These simple pleasures brought joy to my childhood.

Despite these moments of happiness, a profound sense of loneliness often lingered. Visits to my mother's home, where I had a cousin brother and the freedom to play outdoors amidst the surrounding paddy fields, were always a welcome respite. Games like "erum panth" (a traditional game involving chasing and tagging) filled those days with laughter and joy.

However, the return to the Tharavadu always brought a wave of sadness. The loneliness, coupled with my father's strict discipline, often cast a shadow over my childhood. His frequent trips to Dubai were usually followed by a dreaded "nercha" – a severe scolding session, often accompanied by physical punishment. Though I knew these outbursts stemmed from his love and concern, they left a lasting impact.

Years passed, and as I entered adolescence, the loneliness intensified. My social circle remained limited due to the restrictions placed on my outings. Shihab and his family eventually moved to Aluva, further isolating me.

One source of solace was my grandmother, "Vellima." She often visited, bringing with her a group of ladies who would indulge in "pan masala." I'd sit beside her, fascinated by the lively conversations and the intricate process of cracking "adaka" (areca nuts).

As I entered adolescence, new emotions began to stir – crushes on my schoolmates, the awakening of romantic feelings. These experiences will be explored in the upcoming blogs. Stay tuned!