My traverses during story times

When I run out of bedtime stories for my son, I make up stories, or tell him about old times, ‘When Amma was a little girl’.. Off late, he is opting for the third category and I take it as a chance to take a meditating plunge into the pit folds of memory.

I told him what all I saw in my Appappan’s house, the steps and the sidewalls which led to the frontdoor, the   wide branched tamarind tree I saw through the small wooden window, the red coconut tree through Appappan’s bedroom door, Achamma’s pan chest holding tender pan leaves, perfumed chunnambu, powdered areca nut and the blackish wet tobacco sticks(which I never liked) and much more.

To my surprise the pictures were so vivid in my mind, as if from a reel, it unrolls and within my closed eyes..the scenes flash, and I voice it out for my son to see the unseen and make memories too..

I walked all over the house, amidst the rubber and cashew trees, ate the red aamla from the tree, checked the kitchen shelf for goodies, smelt the oil from achamma’s hair, saw the tiny brass box in which Appappan keeps his sindoor which he would wear like a round bindi on his forehead every day after bath, the small faded mirror through which I made myself pretty, achamma’s pujaroom with her Kannan all decorated with red petals dipped in sandal paste. I took the flute in my hands and slowly put it to my lips and savoured the bit of  jaggery from the Prasad glued to it and wondered if Kannan had played the flute after eating the Prasad achamma offered…

 I dipped my hand in the huge mud pot to take out the full mangoes dipped in salt water, and licked my hand up my elbow to stop the salt water from dripping down.. I ran through the rain to cross the open courtyard which separates the main wing of the house from the kitchen side.. played pebbles on the rough cement floor, touched the lamp wicks and inhaled the kerosene smell..

I told my son all of these.. and we fell asleep