I was born in the little town of Tiruvalla, which claims a little dot on the map of central Kerala. Kerala is a thriving southern state of the Republic of India. Now, if you don't know where central Kerala is, I can direct you to one of the numerous politically correct maps published by the Office of the Surveyor General of India. If you mosey around the lower corner of the map, you'll stumble on a longish looking state, and thereabouts in the middle, a keen eye should quickly spot the town of Tiruvalla. Tiruvalla, however, did not keep me for long after my birth, and mother and child were flown to Evo, Nigeria, which is the setting of our long yarn.Nigeria is a central african republic, once affluent and thriving on oil, cocoa exports and business in general. Today, Nigeria has squandered away her wealth to war, dictators and greedy smugglers.
But in her day, things were not so bad as all that. The oil market was booming, the economy was on the rise, and there was a general sense of well being and excitement in the air. It is in this atmosphere of calm and welcome, that my memories of early life begin. I can remember fresh inland air, breathed upon and refreshed by the lush tropical greenery, the little two bedroom home we lived in, which was typical teachers' quarters provided by Olupona Community High school, where my parents worked. I can remember the tall grass, single leaf blades leaning on each other for support, and constantly murmering secret nothings in rhyme with the breeze. Many of my early memories are very mundane, almost trivial. But they're clear as crystal in my head. I can remember the lizards buzily hunting dinner on the insect screen of our living room window, the green garden snake that lurked in the cucumber vine, the way I shivered in fright one night, looking at a darkened bedroom of our home and imagining the most hideous creatures crouching for the final, deadly spring. I can remember the enormous tilopia daddy bought from the market. Boy! That was a huge fish! It was bigger than I! And I remember our old volkswagen beatle, all bashed up and sorry looking after daddy's accident. I remember my first ride in that car, when I managed to mess up the car stereo, and earned a stern reproach from daddy. Oh, those memories......
The earth smells sweet after the rains. It smells ripe and delicious, ready for new tilling and new seeds. Some of the students at Olupona would come and help out with mummy's garden. You can hear the rhythmic scraping of the long scythes on earth, and tell quite easily that the tall grass in the backyard is in for it. And along with the grass, its inhabitants of teeming worms and insects and bird nests and rodents and what not are going to have to move. Some of the students indulge on a delicate looking cricket, while others are busy hacking away at the scorpions and centipedes,( all big, venomous and HIDEOUS they are!!!) that crawl out of their cover. When the students are done, they'll leave nicely spaced vegetable garden beds, ready to be sowed. I would of course help mummy with her garden. Dutifully leaving a pinchfull, and no more, of chemical fertilizer in every half of every garden bed, we'd finish a few beds a day. It was leisure work for mummy.
Paris is full of bad memories for me. It reminds me of pressing my nose against the little window of the UTA flight to catch a glimpse of the eiffel tower, and the bitter dissappointment about not being able to see it. It reminds me of wet roads and a scary burly ambulance driver who drove mom and my sister to the nearest hospital because my sister fell ill on the flight. He was scary because he pinched me into silence when I howled for mum. I was all alone and sitting scared to death inside the ambulance. But Paris also reminds me of firsts. I rode my first lift in paris. I rode my first escalator at the airport in La Paris. Paris is the only place where I've ever touched down in Europe . Hmmm...... I should visit Paris again sometime. It was en'route to India when we flew home from Nigeria, and I was a little kid then. I'd like to see the place from an Adult's perspective......
The little thatched shacks lining the unpaved road I am looking at, have to bear this onslaught. The heavens seem to have opened up, and its raining in torrents. Thick waterspouts reach down from the ominous monsoon clouds to become gurgling brown streams of gutter water. Droves of palm trees sway in the tearing gusts of wind, as they try in vain to fend off the fierce downpour. A flash of lightning captures the scene, almost picture postcard perfect. This is Kerala in full monsoon season, before El-Nino caught her by the scruff. This is the weather in which I landed fresh from Africa and Europe. And I loved it. I loved splashing through the little puddles the intermittent rains left behind. I loved standing in the rain and soaking it all in. It was more exciting because I had to do it on the sly, or my parents would give me a not so pleasant hiding. I was asthmatic, and my immune system were at odds. Of course I chose the rains, but never to my parents' approval.
It was after a rather nasty fight with Anita, my elder sister. I hated her for shouting me down all the time. For her Six odd years of age, it was perfectly natural for an elder sister to assert her authority over her younger sibling. But how was I to know that at the age of three ? So I mused it over, and decided that the only way to get out of the fix was to get another dear sibling to play with. I needed a brother! The idea caught hold and I spoke with Mom. Anita caught wind of it, and made sure that she made it clear to mummy that she would stand nothing short of a sister. One brother, she already had enough of! And that is how the first clamour for a sibling began. I have no idea whether our clamouring had anything to do anything with it, but three years later our parents had a gift for Anita and I. We had a lovely little baby brother ( yeah, I won! ) in May 1985. Oh how I love that little imp! His name is Benjamin, and he's taller and smarter and better than me in just about anything today. That includes absolute, pure laziness. Yeah yeah, he won't agree, but what the heck, I need to tell the world about it little bro ;-)
Kerala also introduced me to death. I woke up early on the morning of August 10th, 1985, hearing a loud shriek. Dad jumped out of bed and ran over to where it came from. It was my Grandma. She was holding Grandpa and wailing over him. As far as I could tell, he was still fast asleep. Then the elders from nearby, neighbors and friends gathered. Everyone was somber. I realised with some trepidation, that I might never get to see apachen ( a term that Syrian Christians use to address their grandfather ) again. It was a realization that matured me beyond my six years of age. The sting of death has been just as real ever since: but I've been able to comfort and share - rather than despair. I thank God for the empathy he's given me.
Cousin's were a new thing to me. They always got more attention from mummy and daddy, had the nicest parents ( unlike me: my parents always got annoyed when I misbehaved. Their parents never got annoyed at me ). Those early days in my home town introduced me to the way of life in Kerala. I got to know about my extended family, about my cousins and uncles and aunts and great uncles and great aunts. Kerala is one big family! Anyone one bumps into on the street would know one, and perhaps would even be related to one. I guess that's why I love anonymity today. I just love the feeling of standing somewhere and meeting people whom I've never met in my life before. I love not being known! I guess that would mean that I also wouldn't ever want to be famous.