Memories

Last week, on the 26^th, it was the 14^th death anniversary of my grand-dad. Some how, my thoughts seem to be going back to him, although he has become a figment of my imagination.  The things I remember about him are vague at times and so vivid at times.  It's almost as if he is not there but there in my life.  

I know from memory, he was a very soft spoken man.  He used to write stories, poems and draw pictures. He had a good voice; he used to sing the typical Coorgi folk songs. He craved out toys from bamboo.  He knew to weave strips of cane into interlocked rings.  I remember a flute like instrument he made from bamboo, which he used to play.  He loved a good meal.  He loved a good game of cards. He loved his arm chair, the cattle, the chicken, the pigs, the dogs and the cats.  The chickens were so used to him that they used to peck the grain from his hand. He knew the names of each and every cow, bull and calf in the shed.  It was like he was acquainted with their life like it was his own. He had even taught one of the dogs to show its teeth when he said "smile".   He and my grand-mum had a bond of fierce loyalty, love, honor, respect and humour.  I don't know what my grandmom felt as I was not there for his funeral; I had my Finals at the time. I sometimes wish I knew him better.  For now, I know, I have parts of him in me. For that I am ever grateful.

One of the things I loved about going to my grandparent's home was the sense of open spaces, large fields of rice, coffee plants in more shapes and design than any gallery of wooden sculptures,  large trees laden with jackfruits, wild mangoes and the Shrubs with oranges, numerous berry plants whose names I still don't know.  Depending on the season of our visit, there was a different view awaiting me.   We mostly avoided the monsoons, because when you step on the ground, you can be sure that you have generously donated blood to the hungry leach.  Leaches are very impartial; they treat all beings with red blood the same way.

I remember my visit during the harvest festival, the fields were so awesome.  The rice stalks were laden with rice and were bent with humility.  They had a yellow brown hue and each time the winds blew, the entire fields formed waves, moving in one direction. Standing at the vantage point the view is a sight to behold. It felt like all the rice stalks spoke to each other and had practiced with dedication to achieve such a synchronous movement.

I don't know if I could survive a lifestyle that my grandparents had. My knowledge of farming is limited to Potted plants, and that of the animals, to the fact that pet dander/fur makes my allergies worse<<giggling>>.  Their day started at 5 am, when I am usually wondering if I could snatch another 10 minutes of sleep.  Their day ended by 9 pm, when I am usually getting things ready for the next day and then maybe read something before heading to bed.  Their most reliable vehicle was their feet and their strength was their faith in the abundance of the earth, while mine is the Car and my strength is this belief that I come from a lineage of Strong minded people.   I feel that their hard life gave them an appreciation and a sort of grounding that most of us lack today.  They worked with the rhythm in nature, they moved with the seasons. They bore the brunt of the seasons and ate the foods that were part of the cycle. While we have our "frozen/Imported/Greenhouse grown" foods and air-conditioned homes.

Am I being Nostalgic for something that looks good from far away? Or does some part of me Know that there was goodness then that isn't there now? Hmm...Off to ponder land again J