The beauty of story telling lies in four words, “Once upon a time”.

Well,then let us begin this tale also with a “Once upon a time”, though it is not that

older back in time. May be 20-22 years back, as that is the farthest I could remember.

Mmmm……Thinking of how my journey of more than a quarter century had gone,

the first thing that comes to my mind is our annual trip to maternal home. In fact, it

was not just a vacation trip; it had sanctity of a ritual.

I strongly believe that distance is always proportionate to your mental age and size.

Well, what else could explain my early perception of Palai (that is my mom’s

hometown, fairly 2 and half away from our Alleppey) as the other end of the world.

So every trip seems to be an adventure as good as Columbus’s voyage to find India

(Let’s just forget the fact that my dad used to have a pretty good about the location of

Palai).

When the summer starts, we, my brother and I used to wait for that day. I remember

eavesdropping to mom’s daily call to grand ma just to know when we are heading for

our adventure.

Once, the date is fixed, ruffle starts. Dad will bring down our special suitcase and dust

it for the dirt that settle down in one year.( in fact that grey suitcase with its

camouflage cover used to be our family heirloom until I broke its precious handle in a

railway station rush in Chennai.. I still blame it on my friend whenever dad rolls his

eyes about it).  Mom will be packing our things for the week while both of us will be

sneaking our toys and she will have hard time throwing them out.

As the countdown starts, I would making list of things to say and show show to my

cousins. I will be taking the work of that year….either it is sketch book or handwritten

magazine or some craft things.  In fact there used to be a lining of pride to rub off my

(small) town posh to then comparably village town cousins. (Well it is payback time

as now I have to rely on the same cousin for the happening places in Mumbai).  

Thinking of it, it is ridiculous to imagine my pride of having a cable tv or dial up

modem.

Well, then the D- DAY will arrive. In the eve, mom would have put us to bed early

after her  short lecture to behave when we are at grandparents’ home.( in fact those

weeks were the only cordial days of the year when me and my brother would not be

going for each other’s throat. We used to be successful for creating illusion of perfect

brother-sister) Next day will start early in the morning with the tinge of bitterness of

black coffee. Then mom would layer us both with the rarely used  sweater and travel

special scarf. In fact, I used to have a green sweater and black soft scarf with purple

and blue flowers which mom would tie around the head covering ears. There was an

orange monkey cap for my little brother. Even after all these scrubbing and robing, he

would be still sleeping. As he used to be very tiny and skinny those days,  it was a

funny sight to see his monkey cap clad head and oversized t shirt with his favorite

jeans and an enormous shoes and all the while ‘sleep- standing.’ Well, I doubt

whether I looked like a twisted tweety bird with my black scarf and green sweater.

Soon, we will march down to nearby bus stop. I like to hold my dad’s hand while he

carries the suitcase in the other. Mom will be dragging my brother behind and the bag

and big shopper on the other hand. Mom’s big shopper used to be like Hermione’s

bag. It contains all emergency supplies, plastic bags for the motion sickness, flask of

black coffee, rusk or cookies, her lime candies, a small first aid kit and what not.

As we walk to the bus stop in the crisp cold morning air (it used to be cold even in

summer), it would be a different world around. The usual buzzy square looks different

in the neon light and deserted. As we stand waiting for the bus, the real morning life

blooms before us…..the songs from the nearby temples, the lonely milkman in his

rickety cycle (or is he newspaper man, dunno, )and early devotees walking to the

temple with the water dripping from their hair.

The moment we eagerly await will soon arrive in the form of red ksrtc bus with its

yellow windows and dark green shutters. I was proud in figuring out whether it is a

Limited Stop, Fast Passenger or Ordinary Bus based on the pattern of yellow stripes.

In fact, I was jubilant about this knowledge and tried to rub it off on my brother like

some complicated scientific formula. A yellow neon light will be glowing inside

throwing dull golden glimmer of the sleepy passengers and impatient conductor. I

would rush to occupy a cold green rexin seat near window and everyone else will tag

along. Then comes the best part. Once we settle down in our seats (we used to fit in

the three seater when my brother was young), the conductor will sleepily come with

his magic rack of tickets. I knew exactly what my dad will say next,” 2 full and 2

half” …. well that was the magic word for getting those wonderful bits of colorful

tickets with so many magic numbers (I don’t really like the white computer printout

you get these days, it never has a charm of good old paper ticket)… it felt like height

of genius for the conductor to take out the correct color and tick the correct number. If

dad is in a good mood he would let hold the ticket for a while. He patiently explains

for the 100 th time how those numbers represent different stops and other things. Then

I would be slowly nodding off to my mom or dads lap (which is still a habit I am

struck with).

By the time I wakes up, the sun would be a big tangerine globe ahead of us. The green

shutters would be open to let in breeze from the paddy fields on one side. We could

also hear the quack of the herd of ducks floating away in the canal on the other side.

The road is a perfect black ribbon amidst the green and blue quilt work. I will lazily

lay there to the warmth of morning sun watching people buzzing around, hopping in

and out of the bus. The people living in the kuttanad area has a special fragrance ….a

mixed smell of the soap, oil and some other earthly thing…

Soon, we will reach the Kottayam bus stand, our stop over. If we are lucky enough we

would get a palai bus quickly. (mostly we are not) But even the alternative is not bad.

Dad will get us mom’s favorite banana fry and hot tea. It is a treat that cannot be

replaced with anything till date. As I munch on crispy corners of my bit of banana fry,

our next bus will turn up. The next leg of journey was like a time machine, the plains

and white sand give way to hilly terrain and rubber plantation. The odor of the rubber

sheets used to make me sick, but as it also means we are getting closer, excitement

takes better hold. Another sight we relate to come closer to palai is the nuns. There

will be nuns in their grey, white, black or sandal dress and rosaries. They will be in

the bus, road and everywhere. It was something you could not spot in our home town.

Even today when I see a nun, I am reminded about palai.

We would start pestering dad about how much time left to reach Palai. I appreciate

dad’s patience now as this question was asked every five minutes and patiently

answered.

Finally, we will see the meenachil lake, pass through the gopura of shiva temple,

sugarcane fields and then most awaited white house with its tall stone wall… it was

the signal for our stop. We literally jump off the bus and try to race ahead the hilly

road leading to our maternal home. Half the way ahead the road, we will race back

down to our parents who are walking up at their leisure and then race ahead until we

reach the grandpa’s home.

The hot yummy breakfast, smiling grandparents and hugs of cousins were just a

beginning for memorable week.

Those days, sky was the limit for our imagination. We used to reenact Enid Blyton’s

picnic lunches, write horror stories (which used to scare the life out of all us), produce

extra vaganza stage shows (our poor family had bear all those tortures) and what not.

It was equally peppered with grand mother’s pampering, small trips ,late night stories

by uncle(mostly his remake of Mahabharatha stories or Sherlocke tales). The week

would be gone in flash.

Then the journey I least look forward will come- trip back to home, school and daily

routines. Even the conductor could not hold much interest on journey back home. I

will be heading home with a heavy heart about things we could not do, things I forgot

to tell my cousins and waiting for the next big trip.