They told me I had her laugh. The one between a gasp and a cry and a tinker. The laugh that dragged our happiness into a wheezing sound. It was then that I decided to notice it. When we were together at the get-togethers in Pala, I’d listen carefully when she laughed. And I’d feel happy that I’d inherited a laugh from Amma’s Mummy’s side of the family.
Because usually people say you’re just like your Appa’s Mum or Dad or Aunt.
Secretly it was because I’d never carry that family name, even though if given a choice that’s what I’d choose. Simply because I loved most of the souls in that family. They loved to laugh. And tease. And shout.
And mostly share stories – of old memories recollected from the storybooks of the mind.
Once, Chandychayan recounted a time when they had not even money or the knowledge to buy a toothbrush. He said the first toothbrush he got was when they were sixteen or so. Her Husband, Johnychayan had brought it for them. She was sitting diagonally opposite to me, with her features animated. Frizzy hair going wild, serious school-teacher spectacles reflecting a mischief. She asked my uncle, “So you hadn’t brushed your teeth until then?”
Everyone broke out into the Menamparambil laughter.
So sad, someone said. Yes. Yes. Said another.
Her voice stood out. “Paavam, he had to get Johnychayan’s toothbrush to learn how to brush his teeth.” If the colour Hazel had a sound, that would be Marymmaunty’s voice. A Rice crispy Crunch music. It sounded like the affection you feel when you crunch on a rice crispy in a Hershey’s bar.
None of her eleven siblings had that sound.
Of all her immediate family, it finds traces in her sons voices. But my limited memory brings to me one person who has inherited it – Ann. Ann is her second eldest grand daughter. Her Dad is the first of her five sons. Jinnychayan. They all lived in the USA and everyone in Pala would be excited when they came. But more than the uncles, I’d remember the baby pink, cherry red and sunflower yellow chewy toffees they’d bring. There would be zip locks full of the toffees and Hershey bars all around Celinaunty’s home.
Celinaunty’s home was where they all grew up. Where Amma, Cheriamma and all the J- chayans (including Jemy who wasn’t Marymmaunty’s son) and her two brothers would grow up, be teased and made to cry. Amma remembers Marymmaunty scrubbing Jothychayan who was the fattest of them all. And Jomychayan trying to thicken Amma’s skin, and Joychayan who’d silently keep them company, and Junychayan who’d play the coolest of the five. Jemychayan was the naughtiest she’d say. When I look into old photographs, all the boys have the haircut that Harry Potter has in the fourth movie. Amma calls it the Bruce Lee Cut.
When the holidays ended Amma and her siblings would go back to Karimannoor. Jinny chayan and his brothers would go back to thottam – their coffee estate in Sakleshpur.
In Sakleshpur, there are two houses. One is old and one is new. I’ve been to both, but my sisters have stayed only in the new one. And like everywhere, the memories of growing up are in the old one. Amma loved to sit under the trees in the garden, and eat oranges from the trees while studying. I’ve heard from D and C chacha that Marymmaunty would invite all their friends home and give them rich lunches. First as they studied at Aloysius in Mangalore and then while they did various courses in Malnad College of Engineering and Architecture. (Mostly to keep a tab on the quality of friends and check if there were any girlfriends).
Amma says always that Marymmaunty was very cut and right but she fed you, took care of you when you were homesick and made sure that you’d pass your courses. Whether engineering or architecture or a master’s in Christianity. And she wanted everyone to reach great heights. To fly the nest to explore the world. When I finished my tenth board, Marymmaunty called me up and told me to ask her for a gift. I told her I only wanted her love and prayers, just as Amma had taught me to say. But I really wanted a bag of pistachios and some Hershey bars.
When I went to Hassan with Sunitha chechy and then Annetchitta and Allenkuttan and Mathu, I felt like I was transported to another world. The home is situated on the top of a winding spiral hill. Only the best of drivers can use the right combination of accelerator and clutch to drag the jeeps and the blue green Qualis up the coffee estate. And then, beneath the cold white sky sits a light pink home with a balcony that opens onto the sloping roof (Once, I discovered the greenest grasshopper in the side of the balcony railing.) All around are flower bushes bordered by solar bulbs brought by Junychayan from America.
Inside, there are touches of America. In the huge quilts that insulates you from the cold at night. In the green and pink bottles of shampoo. In the black torch that pierces through the darkness – a beam of sharp light. In the story books – with a blue cover and Bedtime Stories written on the front. One of them had a story of a boy and girl with carrot coloured hair.
My favourite traces of America were, however in all those jars that lined the dining table. And all the books that spilled over in Jonychayan’s study room. Different jars held almonds, pistachios, walnuts, peanut butter, strawberry jam and other snacks. If this were not enough, there was more – when Johnychayan picked us up from the Hassan bustop, (the buses always stopped there, because everytime we chose to visit – the Sakleshpur road would be under repair) he would buy us a special kind of chips – potatoes cut in strips and fried with a green masala and another with red masala. This would be on the table as well. With the breakfast, lunch or dinner that Marymmaunty had prepared for us.
Each one of Marymmaunty’s children (including the ones – like Amma, who stayed there as she studied) have a special love towards one of her dishes. For Dchacha it’s her pork. For Amma it’s her Akkiroti and Chutney. For Annetchitta it’s her Idly and Chappatis. For me it’s her Cabbage. Yes. Cabbage. Marymmaunty made cabbage all soft and squishy with spicy juice oozing out of them. And it complemented her rice and smoky Dal perfectly.
Marymmaunty commanded her kitchen just as she commanded all the children assigned to her. With a strict hand full of love. One day as I carelessly loitered in the kitchen, she told me that Riya – Joychayan’s eldest daughter had made pancakes when she’d come home. Marymaunty’s voice and tone betrayed a special pride in Riya’s pancakes. I wondered what pancakes were and vowed to learn how to make them as well.
The richest tea I ever had was in Marymaunty’s home, after the Way of the Cross service. There were watermelon, Bombay mixture, our potato strips, all those nuts, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (my first experience), Coffee, tea, mangoes and so much more that my memory now fails to recall. I just know that that day the table was so full that there was no place in it for anybody to sit and eat.
That’s enough about food. There’s another memory that’s precious to my childish heart. That of artificial rain. Behind the house were steps that led to an ample terrace. That’s where the estate dried it’s coffee. And there were tall sprinklers in this place. One day, after we went around the estate ( This is a standard ritual of every person who sets foot in the estate for more than 4 hours ) , and learnt the nuances of the place, we the kids – Allen kuttan, Mathu, Liam, Miriam and me decided that the place which provided artificial rain would be our favourite. Our next favourite would be the fishing pond – but this we let everyone know.
It was Johnychayan who discerned the yearning in our childlikeness. So, one day he told us that we could go onto the terrace. There were no coffee beans. Just us. And he let the showers down on us for an hour. That day, we quenched the thirst of childhood – each of us kids in different stages of it. While a beloved wise granduncle watched protectively over our glee.
Marymmaunty and Johnychayan has looked after many small children like us and many more big children like Amma.
One time I was talking to Clerritchitta about Chicken Pox. “Who took care of you, when you guys had Chicken Pox?” I asked her.
“We all went to Hassan”, she said. Marymaunty and Johnychayan took care of them. And then I asked Clerritchitta something I regret even now.
“But wouldn’t you be spreading your Chicken Pox, in Hassan?”
But that’s how selfless they were. When Amma was in Mysore studying, she was only allowed to wear Sarees or Long Skirts, because Daddy said so. At that time, Jinnychayan brought Marymmaunty five chudidhars for her to wear. Marymmaunty called up Daddy and convinced him that the chudidhar was a more decent piece of clothing, though new, and more comfortable than a saree. And so, Amma and Cheriamma wore their first chudidhars – brand new sets that was actually a gift to Marymmaunty.
Amma tells me this story long after Marymaunty died. Whenever she narrates these memories, her voice will break towards the end and she becomes silent. Then her lips quiver and tears flow down her cheeks. She brushes them away with the end corner of her Chudidhar.
Marymaunty took care of us like our own Mother, she will say. A silent song. A sorrowful Prayer.
Liam and Miriam will tell me those recounted memories. Remember those stories that I love the Menamparambil home for? Those ones. In them will be the stories of Kunjachan and Marymmaunty fighting when they were young. For little plants that Kunjachan steals from Marymmaunty’s (obviously) garden patch, and the complaints of the little young girl to her mother who brings them up alone. In them will be Chandychayan’s toothbrush story. But this time it will be another sister – Rosammanty who teases him.
“Njan ippozhum aa toothbrush…”
“Ayyo, Chandichacha, ippozhum aa toothbrush kondaano brush cheyyunne?”
It will be another joke. And the times will fly with more memories, more stories and more laughter.
But inside will be a pain. A searing pain that fights hard to hide in the guise of white handkerchiefs and silent smiles. And nostalgic memories. A knife will cut through and through, everytime Marymmaunty is missed.
As a wife who married Johnychayan when she was 18. As a mother who made the fastest-softest chappatis and managed five strapping men and even went to post matriculation studies with them and became a lawyer. As an aunt who fed them scoldings and food and their degrees and most importantly, Love. As a grandmother proud of her grandchildren’s pancakes. As a Mumma to the nieces and nephews she took care of when their own mother passed away and they had Chicken Pox. As a grandaunt who calls the local veterinary doctor so that one of her grandnieces can shadow him to learn the nuances of the profession – while she has only months left to live.
But in the end the pain that got to me was my Mummy’s. I called her up that day.
“Mummyikku veshammam undo, Mummy? “ I asked.
“Illanne. Illa.” There was that pain again. Muffled in a fast Malayalam that Mummy never speaks in.
“Njan karenjonnum illa. Daddy ketappol karenjennu thonunnu.” Hidden in words spilling over each other.
“Anh pinne, ente Chechi poyi. Adhoru velliya dukham alle.” Cutting through the haze of the lost eldest sister.
“Njan palliyil poyi. Prarthichu. Chechikku vendi”
I was crying. In Bangalore. “Mummy Veshamikkandatto?” I said.
Marymmaunty will be missed – as the eldest sister. Of the Menamparambil home which is knit by strong ties of love in the blood. In souls who are born into us and in souls who become part of us.
Here, everyone’s heart sheds tears. Here it is painful. Here there is a Marymmaunty shaped void in our Universes.
But in Heaven – In Heaven – the Angels and Saints Rejoice.
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