Thinking of Cumbum

by Swetha Ramachandran

[box]Join Swetha Ramachandran as she takes a trip down memory lane to Cumbum – a little town nestled between hills in South India – where she spent many a vacation as a child.[/box]

A billowing breeze attacked me as I was sitting in my balcony. It was an unusually cool evening for May. Just as I was idly sitting, my mother called me in for a ‘sevai puzhiyara’ session – an elaborate process for making sevai, a South Indian dish made of rice flour. I went in excitedly.

It had been long since we’d made that simple and bland – and yet somehow delicious – dish at home. Soon after I went into the kitchen though, my enthusiasm simmered down due to my physical weakness! The sevai nazhi – the contraption required to make sevai – which dates back to my grandmother’s youth, lay there sturdy and stubborn, and try as I might, I found it hard to move its top part which on pushing down produces those snake-like white, fluffy bundles!

Disappointed with my strength (or rather the lack of it) I decided I was fit only for eating the dish and not making it. I went back to my place in the balcony, now with a plate of hot sevai and coconut chutney in my hand. Quite pleased with the weather, I decided to spend my time eating my sevai there. Once again a very strong wind blew, as if wanting to prove its power to somebody. The empty dustbin inched forward, the curls in my forehead untangled, the leaves rustled in sheer joy and old fashioned music blared from an election campaign rally.

I do not know if it was the whiff of that breeze or the whole atmosphere itself that reminded me of times long gone. Of the good old days spent in my hometown, Cumbum.

Nestled in between Madurai and the borders of Kerala in southern India, Cumbum is a little town full of friendly people with big hearts.

Cumbum, the sun-warmed and rain-soaked land that would greet me with love every time I went to spend a summer vacation there. Cumbum, with its tall and gigantic hills towering above the town, with thin strips of waterfalls look like satin ribbons in mounds of gold when bathed in sunlight. The town of pleasant neighbours whose generosity would extend to inviting people to watch Doordarshan’s Oliyum OLiyum(a program in DD that plays songs from the latest Tamil movies) during those days when television had just started to come into homes and only a privileged lot owned this wonder box! Cumbum, with the gentle breeze which constantly hums its melancholic melody into the ears of its residents.

I’d taken only a step into nostalgia but I could immediately feel the intimacy and love I have for that town. I could feel the earthly fragrance of the land although I was miles away from it.

Memories rushed into my mind like water gushing out from a broken pipe with wild abandon.

One of my earliest memories is of my sister and me plucking kanagambarams from the tree in the backyard, both of us equipped with little plastic bags in our hands. We would then watch in awe as our grandmother beautifully wove a garland with these flowers, her fingers deftly moving in unison with the twine!

There is yet another memory unspoilt by time, that happened when I was three years old. I had just bid my friend goodbye but ended up falling face down on the road after having rolled down three little steps! I can vaguely remember the commotion that followed this with my mother hunting for ice and ointments since we had no refrigerator at home then. But my neighbour (who was equipped with all electronic gadgets – yes, theirs was the only house with a television too) quickly rushed in with a bag of ice to soothe my swollen cheek!

Another accident occurred in Cumbum – this time when I was about seven. I had jumped down from the sofa with a sharp pencil pointing towards my knee. A small speck of black remains in my knee even today – which, I would like to believe, is the graphite from the pencil.

My vacations in Cumbum were not just filled with accidents and injuries though. My heart yearns for those picture-perfect days where I would stand by the door and watch goats move in groups, and those cozy evenings when my grandfather would make his trademark gulab jamuns and onion pakodas especially for us, the ones that can never be bettered even by the world’s best connoisseur. And those lazy mornings and afternoons spent fighting for turns over the old easy chair. It was solely used by my grandfather, whom we fondly called ‘Cumbum thatha’, who would willingly give up his claim over the chair for our sake. Although my grandfather is no more, just thinking of the easy chair reminds me of him and all the wonderful times spent with him.

A strange happiness filled me on recalling my past. Of those days that can never come back. That little and innocent girl could be brought back to life only through reminiscence.

The flow of memories abruptly stopped. I heard somebody calling my name.My fingers had become sticky and chutney-stained, and my throat was desperately in need of water. I was in Chennai and not in Cumbum. Not a kid any longer but a teenager having entered adulthood. I looked outside and could see only big textile showrooms and huge apartments in the skyline. Once again, a gust of wind blew, this time nearly knocking me out of balance and pushing my memories away.

I was walking far away from the memory lane, where my past lay. I knew my journey for the day had ended but I also knew that it would only begin again with the same charm and joy, maybe with the whiff of a strong wind or a stroll through one of those old fashioned streets that have refrained from embracing modernity!