Nostalgia Nauseating

Once again it is that time of the year when full-throated cries of nostalgia looms in the air like reeking clouds of cigarette smoke. Cigarette smoke, for all you need to end up as a passive smoker is to exist. There is no escape. Mourners of the past, of halcyon days, more precisely of Onam are there. Just about everywhere. On television, radio, in magazines, newspapers. And the bunch comprises Intellectuals, Litterateurs, Academicians, Artists, Tom, Dick and Harry.

Every year these people come along with Onam reminding one of what E.V.Lucas described as the buttonhole type of bore in his essay, Bores. No matter how hard you try to get rid of them, they will simply stick to you. Paradoxically a very mention of ‘Onam’ will make them frown initially and it will be preceded by verbal diarrhoea; “Onam? What Onam? Those were the days when we kids gathered together at the ‘Tharavadu’ to celebrate Onam. We used to go out to pluck flowers. Then we would make floral patterns early morning while mom, aunt and grandma prepared Onam delicacies in the kitchen”. Then it will be followed by a long list usually begin with ‘Banana chips’ and ends with ‘Payasam’. Most often the abuse will end up with the reciting of either “Maveli nadu vaneedum kalam manusharaellarumonnu pole….” or “poove poli poove poli…” in a pathetically shrill voice. (The first one makes sense but what the hell the other is all about, no idea though I have been listening to it since I was a kid). And if it is a woman she would even shed a few drops of tears as she was taken back, by the embarrassed interviewer, from her ‘journey down memory lane’.

And if you are living outside Kerala, Oh God, Onam celebrations are just obscene. Middle aged women weigh around a ton, who hardly left a single stone unturned in their effort to look younger will be there all around, reminding one of caparisoned elephants.
Then their 555-smoking mahouts and offspring. It is just utter chaos. Clad in traditional Kerala Saree, Silk mundu & jubba with sandalwood paste on their forehead, these ‘uprooted malayalees’ will list umpteen reasons to celebrate Onam. Then they will lament the loss of culture, of the good old days and the so called bullshit like parrots. Even the nouveaux riches among them would claim of having Kudiyaans (Tenant is a rough translation) who brought ‘Vazhakkulas’ for them during Onam. Each and every ‘uncle’ would tell the story of Mahabali in his butler English to kids with a cut-glass accent and will eventually get frowned upon. Actually this chap, the pot bellied demon king with a handle bar moustache must be considering himself fortunate for being booted to the abyss for he has been spared of all these ‘blah-blahs’. But wasn’t it he who began it all and should be aptly dubbed as the unforgivable? He was so naïve to trust the dwarf and later obliged and succumbed to him. He should have denied that he made any promise. Far far smarter are our rulers.

Another ‘to-your-face­-crap’ is the interview of film stars telecast on channels on Onam. Often these would be shot at their sprawling bungalows. Needless to say they too would be clad in ethnic wear with all the necessary paraphernalia around. Worst would be the scene if it were actresses, especially new ones who ‘set the screen ablaze.’ Donned in ‘pattu pavada’ usually yellow in colour, they would share their onanubhavangall with octogenarian viewers. Sure there would be a ‘sweet grandmother’, most often died recently, and whom our actress misses terribly especially during Onam. You know why? Because it was this grandmother who used to prepare her favourite pickle. And all of a sudden she is no more. What a pity!

The most tragic of them all are the ‘Onam special’ telefilms. It comes to your drawing room and take you for a ride (nothing figurative, take it literally) as the camera zooms into a big home, ‘Tharavadu’. The only residents are the aged couple. The husband is bald and stout dressed in mundu and vest where as the wife is lean and wears a cotton saree. A salt streak on hair adds dignity to her appearance. The opening scene would show the wife busy at kitchen. She is Unni’s mother. Oh let me introduce Unni. He is their only son works with Microsoft, second in hierarchy to the Chief Mr. Bill Gates. And beloved Unni promised that he would come home for Onam and Mom is just busy. After all it has been years since he came home and it’s Onam. As the camera pans we would see her cleaning the family photo in which Unni seems smiling as a five year old flanked by his parents. Suddenly the camera would even zoom into her eyes; yup it has been moistened and glistened with affection. At last the preparations are over; the husband is seen coming with plantain leaves. Both of them are now sitting on the verandha waiting for Unni and suddenly rang the phone. Mom picked it up. Her face darkens. She put the receiver on the cradle ( the speed in with her hand goes down is 1 km per day). She seems so melancholic and with welled up eyes conveyed the message to hubby darling that Unni wouldn’t come as he has to attend an important meeting. (Perhaps Bill Gates might’ve gone out of station, may be to space to set up an office there). As it ends the couple would be shown sitting on the verandha with their eyes glued to the gate. (All the characters may be fictional without any resemblance to people living or dead, but the dialect must be typically Valluvanadan)

God, once again please get me through this terrible period without getting hurt. God please help me. Please, please..