Thangassery a sheaf of memories thro the eyes of a ten-year-old

 It was about the 16th century that the Chinese discovered the sea route to Quilon from where they carried on a lucrative trade. They were outdone by the superior power of the Portuguese, and they in turn were driven away by the Dutch. The turn of events in history which is unexplainable brought the British East India company to keep its stranglehold on the sea coast as a stepping stone to establish a hegemony over India.

Thangassery was an enclave of about 200 acres of pristine coastal land ideal for setting up a township dear to the hearts of the foreigners. As one waveform domination bypassed another the foreigners probably decided to keep away from the local Malayalee’s, to settle down with their desi relationships to create a new home away from their land

I remember entering Thangassery thro the arch that proclaimed its uniqueness from the humdrum Kollam or Quilon as it was called. My father decided to settle down for a few years to educate my brothers and myself, in an English medium school and so it was.

 I used to walk along the rocky sea coast along which fisherfolk had taken a foothold. More enticing and rather scary was the cemetery with gigantic tombstones commemorating those men who had come from afar and lived and died in Thangassery. Dutch names engraved in marble indecipherable to the Indian tongue.

 Today I hear that the heavy tombstones have been purloined, to be used as flooring for houses nearby.

 The Light house keeper satisfied our innate curiosity by letting us climb to the top to view the blue sea and ships sailing on the far horizon. It aroused the spirit of adventure in many of us

I remember with nostalgia names and places of long ago. Dr. Krishna Pillai who had three jars of medicinal mixture, one a light pink, one a dark pink, and one a white one. For minor consultations to him one would be administered to whichever illness was complained about. There was never doubt about its efficacy for minor illnesses.

 The Lulu Mall was probably an avatar of Ravi Stores which stocked everything, and a shop where most households had running accounts for come payday and go pay day were a part of finances. Very few of the residents bothered about their tomorrows.

At the junction where two roads bifurcated, young Romeos would assemble in the evening for snacks and chukku kaapi from Shenoy mobile snack cart. I can still savour Kooni Mariam’s toffees sold outside our Infant Jesus Anglo Indian school. Kooni Mariam’s sweets were five pieces of jaggery and peanut chewier sold for 1 Anna.

 Speedy vehicles were rarely seen on the roads of Thangassery except the lucky owners of bikes. The owners of these were envied by the hoi polio and cars driving from outside to deposit children in school or parents who had their small sons boarded in homes of friendly hosts.

Our evenings were spent running to the small beach behind the Mount Carmel convent, and we kids and teens, classmates, friends, and cheery neighbours could wade into the waist deep briny sea. We children collected clay from under the rocks, and caught tiny colourful fish using towels. As the sunset, we shared pink ice-lollies with friends.

All was not fun and frolic in Lent. The divinity and sanctity of the season was the procession of the Way of the cross round the entire town on every Friday during lent. 

Sounds of piano music we’re heard when Ms Sheela D’Couto thumped at her piano encouraging the young to appreciate western music. She was the first Anglo woman of Thangassery to become a graduate. She taught perfect Kings English.

 The young boys of the community were experts with drums, guitars and flutes for they must have had latent musical genetic genes from their forefathers.

 Christmas was a time of fun. Groups of us serenaded as Santa’s and his cohorts carolling our hearts to earn a little pocket money. For the budding teens the East West club was the focus of merrymaking. Kids were not admitted as strong liquor like arrack was the celebratory drink. The famous Thangassery twists, jives, and rock roll, set the rollicking festivities aglow from Xmas eve to midnight on Xmas day. Those nights when whole of Thangassery looked like a fairy land of dreams where gaily dressed young girls with beautiful make up danced with handsome companions.

 Unforgettable were the sights and sounds of old Tangy. Another memory that never fades is of the famous Carmel Bakery, owned by Mr Andrew James. The aroma of freshly baked buns and pastries had many of us crying for more. Carmel Bakery wedding cakes were a sight to the eyes and a taste to the tongue. The rich and famous from all over had their offspring’s wedding cake from Carmel Bakery. It was narrated that Carmel Bakery made the wedding cake for Central Govt minister Henry Austin’s daughter’s wedding. It was also said that the Kochi famous Mr Chackola wanted his daughter’s wedding cake to be made by Andrew D Cruz who refused to make it in Kochi. The final compromise was that the cake was made in Thangassery and transported to Kochi. The sons of the owner of Carmel bakery had the nicknames like Roti, Bunny etc

 Thangassery was famously once in the news when Thangassery girl Janice Spinks was declared Champion Hurdler.

 Anglo Indian young girls and boys became proficient for their skills as office secretaries. At that time very few opted for medicine or engineering. Eventually they found profitable livelihoods in foreign countries like Britain and Australia.

 The bounty of the sea can never be forgotten in our homes, like 8 or 10 Anna’s for a kilo of fresh fish and lobsters almost a foot long for two annas almost a pittance today

Thangassery munglish was the current lingo then. Some Munglish notations reverberate in my mind after all these years. A sample reads thus. Rasam was pepper water, Pappadom’s were curry biscuits, liquor was grog, Kanji was rice porridge, non-Anglo Indians were called burgers. I once pestered my mother for bamboo cake, which she eventually found was the Malayalee Puttu, and Mafry was Mathi or sardines fried. The tete a tete of a young couple was called mooching.

 Social camaraderie knew no bounds. Marriages between familiar families were accepted as the young could relate to known social mores.

 Today the old Thangassery is no more for those who lent life and colour to this small enclave have twitched their mantles blue and have gone to fresh woods and pastures new.

 

A picnic to remember. A page from the past

What is this life if full of care?  We don’t have time to stand and stare.

 In my indubitable days of teaching in STC, I desperately to accompany my students when they went out of Kerala on week long excursions. But my dreams never materialised due to circumstances beyond my control.

 And then one day my dream came true when Sr Marie Cecile asked Vilasini and me to accompany the final years to a destination they had chosen, Goa

 The adage that when the cat is away the mice will play literally worked for me, for the man around whom my existence was a rather luxurious one, had gone on a month’s construction project to Tuticorin, and my decision to make hay while the sun shone precipitated my desire though I did miss him.

 My mother in law bless her heart was happy to have her grandchildren to Molly coddle and she waved the green signal. So, I set out like a female Ulysses looking for Ithaca.

 My companion was Vilasini well renowned as a guide for college excursions and me a novice. We were told that arrangements made by one of the girls, for our stay overnight in Mangalore and later in Goa, was made by her cousin

 And we set out with a bus full of budding rosebuds waiting to bloom, full of the joie de vivre. With prayers and laughter we drove off to green pastures.

 Miles and miles away and all their singing and cheering, lunchtime meant a break. Somewhere on the highway we saw a gushing stream and they pleaded for a break. Bikers on their way stopped to gaze at the buxom girls and had to be threatened by the driver and Kili.

 Night shadows had us in Mangalore to bed for the night in a school room on school benches. The only source of water was a tap in the garden. So bathing was by candlelight and moon light. There definitely was a broken misunderstanding as Jeeves would say.

 We hurriedly saw the college Sr Therese Marie studied in and a magnificent St. Alosius college and church.  We drove next day over hill, plain rocky roads and farmlands and landed in Panaji old Capitol of Goa. Our girls screamed in delight. What I noticed was the sloping verandas in home stead’s brimming with verdant growth, and ancient well-preserved churches at every turn of the road.

 Then again evidently there was miscommunication or some kind of voodoo for our bus took us to a seaside hillock called Dona Paula. It was a small town where we saw young men lolling mindlessly probably sipping feni in the cool sunshine. Our destination was a small school on a hillock cheek by jowl with a Govt fisheries project on the side.

Amid grumbles and tears a comedown from hopes of decent beds and bathrooms we settled the girls, soothing damaged egos and personality blips. Miraculously food packets from a hostel nearby arrived. We finally settled on benches to rest our tired bones. All was quiet till about the time witches usually fly. there came a thunder bolt so deafening as it rolled from hill to sea in atomic blasts wave after wave.

 Vilasini and I found ourselves clutched by the shivering hands and curdling cries of our wards. The sun rose the next morning as tho the apocalypse of the night had never happened.

 Some wanted to go back to Kochi but good sense prevailed when we were told that it was a common occurrence and many Goan’s believed the thunder was commentating the suicide of a beautiful maiden called Dona Paula

 But the sunlight of the day and hours of roaming the streets of the town without much supervision was a boon for our young wards. Bike taxis a new concept for us, bike riders could be hired to take a passenger or shopper to one’s destination

 They went wading in the placid sea waters supervised by us who didn’t know the ABC of swimming. Shopping for strange Goan artifacts, like soap on a rope, and religious icons were on the agenda. So was a visit to the cathedral to view the casket which had once contained the remains of the patron saint wasabi experience especially when we walked on the terracotta flooring where thousands had walked. It seemed to be a hallowed floor too.

 There was a celebratory dinner and then it was time to head back home after buying bottles of wine in beautiful glass containers as mementos but we were warned that the excise officials would-be lying-in wait to arrest us for contraband liquor for we had no license. But we were happily advised to layer top layer of our suitcases with lingerie and the bottles of wine to lie dormant at the bottom of ladies’ things.

 Sure enough we escaped as bootleggers no doubt but it was all in the game. We drove into STC at midnight in pouring rain

Requiem for an Island

 I’d like to remember those halcyon days of the emerald isle where one never had to read catastrophic headlines which screamed “Sri Lanka is burning”; “Curfew imposed”; “Death toll rises”

 The Sri Lanka of my memory was genuine, sun-filled land of rolling hills and meandering roads, of white-washed stupas and incense-filled air; of temples, temple flowers and lanterns swaying through the balmy air. The haunting throb of the drums at Perahera fills my ears even now, Kandy! Colombo! Gampola! stalks the land.

 Gampola! Nestling amidst hills- a tranquil, little hill town like many others of its ilk- of steep, sleepy roads ad old houses. The pains of growing up tempered by the untroubled air, among the non-militant Goonewardene’s, Fernando’s, Alwises, and Pelpola’s and still more no aggressive Kumaraswamy, Selvanayagam’s and Muthunayagams.

 Days of togetherness! Of treks along hillsides, resting near miniature waterfalls and like all children everywhere, sharing the joys of fruity loot or jointly shivering and quaking in fear at the scary walk to school by the side of the cemetery. Could it be that the tranquillity of my childhood days has really been desecrated? Could it be that Tamil, Singhalese and Malayalee children will no longer play hop step and jump on the long flight of steps that once led to a mythical King’s treasury upon Hill Street? Will they no longer be able to peep in fearful anticipation of seeing the ghosts of the Dutch descendants of the Jantzes or Stockman’s through the lace curtained windows overlooking manicured lawns and prim hedges?

 When “I summon up remembrances of things past”. I cannot recollect a more exciting event in our world than perhaps the great flood, where Barton’s Dam gave away. The homes were left wide open to swirling waters, remained intact except for the damage done by swirling waters, timely help was extended. We stayed, 45 families, in a sprawling mansion of a Sinhalese friend, and were fed by a Muslim merchant who opened his godown and poured out a cornucopia of good things. Mothers chipped in to help, and it was hey day for us children. But it seems those dear days are dead and gone.

 “The woods are lovely dark and deep” but no longer safe for a stroll when season is spring

 It was a good time for both grown-ups and children, Christmas, Wesak, Ramzan, and Pongal were exciting days for us. Hovering in my memory are those delicious trays of sweetmeats, covered in snowy white pillows, lace-edged tray covers, that were sent as gifts from house to house. Oh! That delicious feeling of anticipation! No racial overtones there!

 Holidays saw our home filled to the seams with friends of all groups, many of them staying on for lunch to taste Kerala food. Many was the time we raided the meat safe to assuage those in between meal time pangs with bibinque. Kokis or kallu dodohl. It was a rampage with a big difference.

 Peradeniya gardens! So, exciting a botanical wonderland for school children and picnickers. I wonder whether I would ever again be fortunate to see the giant Wanda in full bloom in Orchard house-with no fear of being attacked. The typical relaxation was to wander in the well-laid out gardens or to browse with a book ‘neath the shade of some exotic tree or to stand amazed in awe at the ancient travellers palm with the names form a century ago carved on its fronds. The spirit of those days is gone forever’.

 Nuwera Eliya, Mount Laviniya, Trincomalee.. names that conjure up a thousand many splendored images. Images that now lay shattered. Mythical sirens will no longer sing hauntingly on the coral strands off the shores of Sri Lanka, for the mood of the serendip has been lost forever among the gunfire and blazing human hearts.