Manganam, where boundaries blur
...
"I made it", valiamma proudly said. She used to make models with clay but only this one remained and though small, it adorned a prominent spot in her tidy room.
Manganam, my mom's village used to charm us since childhood. We spent most of our vacations in this serene land. Full of farmland, canals, ponds and all flora and fauna one could imagine as a child, this small village in Kottayam was our dream destination. We always longed to go there, not from sheer love for nature, which the tiny village had in abundance, but for the joy of connecting with cousins and friends.
All my childhood heroes were there. My elder cousins Padman and Praseed were always a step ahead of me, whether it be cycling, playing kutti kol or marbles (we used to call it Goli in Trivandrum, they called it Kachi). Padman chettan was good at painting, sculptures, drums and even Kathakali. I followed him ardently and imitated whatever I could. Alas! I could hardly enjoy Kathakali, though I did sit with him whole night to watch a few. But I could easily emulate his Khadi attire and also subscribe to his ideologies.
The village offered plenty more. Mangoes, relished fresh from tree tops, bathing in the temple pond, sleeping on 'maadam' (cots placed on poles inside a hut in the centre of the farmland, from where Grandpa used to monitor the work going on), the list is endless. But what astonished me then and even now is the 'no boundaries culture' of the village. We were city bred and were used to boundary walls, though in those days we were free to jump over any of them (kids rarely entered houses through gates). But in Manganam there weren't any boundary walls either on ground, or in people's minds.
In our childhood games, there were so many kids from the neighborhood. We could hardly make out whether they were relatives or not. All of us were one gang. The elders probably knew them all. Kids could eat from any house and play wherever they wanted. There simply weren't any boundaries. All houses looked and felt the same. It was indeed a haven for the 'kutti sangams'.
Today Manganam has changed. Most of the wetland has disappeared, more houses have come up, many, similar to the concrete city mansions and the muddy allys have given way to tarred bylanes.
Yet there's one trait which hasn't changed much. Boundary walls are still few, boundary between minds even less.
We gathered for an offering called 'Ada' in the village temple, one of the few in the state with Narasimha as the main diety. Those who hail from Manganam has a special affinity to the Avatar, for them Manganathappan comes first. The temple is a meeting point for the village. All festivities are also common.
Ada is a sweet dish made with rice flour, jaggery and coconut. Few hundreds are made and are taken in a procession to the temple, from where after pooja, it's distributed. The whole village gathers, irrespective of who is offering, and not only takes the Ada but also join the lunch afterwards, special invitation is neither extended nor expected. The village behaves as one family.
We were there for just a day, yet had glimpses of the 'borderless tradition'. A neighbour who was building a new house was using my cousin's garage for his carpentry work, a cow grazing on Valiamma's backyard belonged to their neighbour; small things but indicating that even today boundaries seldom mattered. They are still keen to help each other.
My Valiamma (mom's sister) is past eighty and is attached to few possessions, the clay she modelled as a child, being one of her dearest. Zoom in, the idol this Manganathappan devotee created as a child and treasures even now, is Jesus, indeed replica of the truly borderless culture of her dear village.
Where humanity matters more, boundaries are sure to blur.
"I made it", valiamma proudly said. She used to make models with clay but only this one remained and though small, it adorned a prominent spot in her tidy room.
Manganam, my mom's village used to charm us since childhood. We spent most of our vacations in this serene land. Full of farmland, canals, ponds and all flora and fauna one could imagine as a child, this small village in Kottayam was our dream destination. We always longed to go there, not from sheer love for nature, which the tiny village had in abundance, but for the joy of connecting with cousins and friends.
All my childhood heroes were there. My elder cousins Padman and Praseed were always a step ahead of me, whether it be cycling, playing kutti kol or marbles (we used to call it Goli in Trivandrum, they called it Kachi). Padman chettan was good at painting, sculptures, drums and even Kathakali. I followed him ardently and imitated whatever I could. Alas! I could hardly enjoy Kathakali, though I did sit with him whole night to watch a few. But I could easily emulate his Khadi attire and also subscribe to his ideologies.
The village offered plenty more. Mangoes, relished fresh from tree tops, bathing in the temple pond, sleeping on 'maadam' (cots placed on poles inside a hut in the centre of the farmland, from where Grandpa used to monitor the work going on), the list is endless. But what astonished me then and even now is the 'no boundaries culture' of the village. We were city bred and were used to boundary walls, though in those days we were free to jump over any of them (kids rarely entered houses through gates). But in Manganam there weren't any boundary walls either on ground, or in people's minds.
In our childhood games, there were so many kids from the neighborhood. We could hardly make out whether they were relatives or not. All of us were one gang. The elders probably knew them all. Kids could eat from any house and play wherever they wanted. There simply weren't any boundaries. All houses looked and felt the same. It was indeed a haven for the 'kutti sangams'.
Today Manganam has changed. Most of the wetland has disappeared, more houses have come up, many, similar to the concrete city mansions and the muddy allys have given way to tarred bylanes.
Yet there's one trait which hasn't changed much. Boundary walls are still few, boundary between minds even less.
We gathered for an offering called 'Ada' in the village temple, one of the few in the state with Narasimha as the main diety. Those who hail from Manganam has a special affinity to the Avatar, for them Manganathappan comes first. The temple is a meeting point for the village. All festivities are also common.
Ada is a sweet dish made with rice flour, jaggery and coconut. Few hundreds are made and are taken in a procession to the temple, from where after pooja, it's distributed. The whole village gathers, irrespective of who is offering, and not only takes the Ada but also join the lunch afterwards, special invitation is neither extended nor expected. The village behaves as one family.
We were there for just a day, yet had glimpses of the 'borderless tradition'. A neighbour who was building a new house was using my cousin's garage for his carpentry work, a cow grazing on Valiamma's backyard belonged to their neighbour; small things but indicating that even today boundaries seldom mattered. They are still keen to help each other.
My Valiamma (mom's sister) is past eighty and is attached to few possessions, the clay she modelled as a child, being one of her dearest. Zoom in, the idol this Manganathappan devotee created as a child and treasures even now, is Jesus, indeed replica of the truly borderless culture of her dear village.
Where humanity matters more, boundaries are sure to blur.
