It took a village to raise the child…

Not so long ago, when restaurants and dine-out options were fewer, and the only friends we had were the real kinds (neighbours, school, church, social, non-online basically), and one did not have a smartphone to type or create for the anonymous, people visited each other. Friends, cousins driving past your town, folks coming in from abroad or distant lands, all came home—to invite for a house-warming, to grieve a death, to celebrate a wedding, to chitchat or just like that—‘chumma’, as they say in Malayalam.

‘Veruthe’…for no rhyme or reason.

Sometimes, ‘chumma veruthe’. Double for emphasis.

In the village that once was, there were either no gates or they were open for you to walk in anytime.

My mother had her kitty at home. These were six neighbourhood ladies, who hosted tea at home. Most often I tagged along too. I don’t remember games, but I do remember the spreads—pudding and spring rolls when mum hosted, papdi chaat and Punjabi samosas when Lalitha aunty (they owned the Oberoi restaurant on MG Road in Ernakulam) hosted, ilayada from Padma aunty and many more.

Then there were the house visits to family friends’ places and distant relatives and vice versa. Trays were wiped, embroidered tray cloths were spread and snacks were brought out. If it was the Onam, one got chips. If it was Christmas, one got cake. In between, there were diamond cuts, murukku and avalosunda. Rava unda and then rava kesari, that was yellow one time, and pink another season.

I was on a house visit spree in Kerala 10 days back. It is the pilgrimage one makes every once in a while, to see kochammas, uppappans, chittas, friends and teachers. I was trying to reclaim the village that nurtured me. I am fortunate my village has elders still, at least a few. My well still has the wisdom of their waters. The village where the elders still remember my child version, the teenage version, the young adult and the adult-adult. They marvel I was but a print in the pleat of my mum’s sari till yesterday and today I have greys on my temple.

I met Rev Sr Emeline, who was principal at St Teresa’s College when I studied there and at 82, she remembers how many times I won the MG University Youth Festival Extempore and the year of my university rank. On a porcelain plate, she peels an orange for me. She reminds me I should read the Bible every day. “When you have power, it should be for service”. She sets my moral compass right. I stumble out of the convent, past the chapel, past the little statues and stocking flowers, and land in front of a clutch of teachers, who were there for the memorial mass of Prof Mary Varghese of Mathematics department. They too remember, this and that about you, a speech you delivered, a trophy you lifted, a flower pot you broke, the day I was scolded, how I cried and a fine was paid. Accountability was taught, long before I studied it in public policy.

Memories are both fire and ice, wood and wind, lead and lace. I visited an uppappan and chitta and she asked if I still read Economic Times and stuck articles in a notebook. She makes me a Bru coffee, the way only she can. I know her cups and saucepan, and I thank God some things have not changed. The homes in my village are cosy with familiarity.

A post-pandemic world has normalized stay-ins. Socialising is stressful. Effortlessness is the new aspiration. While dressing up, while putting on make-up or even cooking. One pot meals for the win even as we do not mind spending hours scrolling reels. ‘Effortless chic’ is a Pinterest board. Our relationships too are effortless. Swipes, reel shares, forwards, emojis. Visiting an elder, spending time with the younger children, taking a token of affection…hell, that is a lot of work. Neighbours don’t know each other for we have stopped the custom of introductory visits upon moving into a new locality. Nor do we send food across anymore.

As I type this out, I am munching on unniyappam made effort-fully by my friend Smita’s mother, who made the batter the previous day and fried it in hot oil first thing in the morning. There is dosappodi, a chunk of yam and jack fruit seeds that she has sent with me to Delhi, packed with warmth. A bird builds her nest with the feathers of another bird, as the proverb goes.

It truly takes a village to raise a child. But what does she owe the village when she grows older? She is obliged to pour care and solicitude into the cup that nourished her, clasp the small palms of the young, and to hold the wrinkled hands of the elders—and thereby complete the circle of life.  At some point of time in life, one will be called to step up and show up. For even as the village gives you wings to fly and live free of them for a while, you will have to circle back to see the child that you were once—and she is only visible through their eyes. It is what makes an 82-year-old peel an orange for a 48-year-old, for once they were 50 and 16.