Amma’s impression of Bhama Chitti’s frequent intone, vaikkyathukku variya nee (why don’t you come to Vaikkyam), is marked by a tension between emphasis and nonchalance at the moment of utterance of the kkya syllable. The taut coupling is a mark of the Palakkad dialect. It is infectious; I soon find myself saying Vaikkyam at every opportunity. She is happy to note that I have nailed the pronunciation. I’m thrilled at rare success in this department. Appa is bemused at these bouts of madness. The reason for this Kerala town being the subject of linguistic amusement – I am to escort my octogenarian Ammamma to her cousin’s place there.
On the eve of departure, I am given separate doses of two histories. Amma’s is a lecture on lineage and relations peppered with how the Vaikkyam dwelling is an imminent enchantment for me. Appa drops the slightest of hints, a mere wisp as to how the place is connected to Periyar, the eponymous Vaikkyam Veerar, he informs me. It is enough to leave me clutching at straws.
En route to Trichy, our first stop on the way, I am less concerned with familial history as I am with the historical imprint Vaikkyam has left. A Satyagraha in the mid twenties against a Travancore administration fanatically obsessed with class distinctions and the manner of their imposition upon the Avarnas (literally those without a caste) is recorded as having had nation-wide repercussions. A fifty-year old ordinance that had established different approach routes to the Vaikom Mahadeva Temple was being resented deeply as early as the turn of the 20th century. Various attempts at changing the existing order appear to have been made but they were either suppressed with force or failed to gather sufficient momentum. With the involvement of the Congress under the moral tutelage of Mahatma Gandhi, the movement got the attention it deserved. Periyar’s involvement (along with his wife) led to his imprisonment. Eventually, in 1936, Travancore announced its new Temple Entry Proclamation that abolished caste distinctions, a successful culmination of events. This day is marked as Social Reformation Day in Kerala. So much history to a small town, I muse.
At Trichy, we wait for the Karaikal – Ernakulam Express, the newest incarnation of the delightful anachronism that is the name Tea Garden Express. In its original avatar, it was primarily used to transport tea from Mettupalaiyam to the Cochin Port and hence the name. Now, Appa’s dry remark that the extensions from Trichy to Nagore to Karaikal will probably result in its departure from Andaman one day is an apt exaggeration. The train is an hour away. I wonder about the wide chasms that exist between the English spellings of Kerala towns and their actual pronunciations. Vaikkyam is spelt Vaikom, invitation for potential resolution of the tension into two disparate syllables.
Just as I veer towards Vaikkyam’s history again, Ammamma revisits her cousinry. I listen as she mentions habits, likes, dislikes and so on. Every now and then, she expresses gratitude to the powers that govern her worldview for the relative ease with which our journey has been conducted so far. Just to reinforce her point, the train arrives on time and halts for a good half hour before leaving. In the train, she is in the grip of a controlled anxiety. I wake up at Aluva (Alwaye), thirty minutes before Ernakulam, to learn that she has been up since Thrissur.
An hour and a half later, we are at Vaikkyam. Upon alighting at the bus stand, I receive the strangest set of directions from Bhama Chitti. Autokkaaran kitta Dineshan kadai nu chollu, avanukku theriyum (Tell the autowallah to drop you near Dinesh Stores, he will know). Small town directions can be dizzyingly simple, something people with urban upbringings in my generation are oblivious to. I am disappointed when the autokkaaran doesn’t know. Not so small after all.
Their home is off a lane on the road that leaves from the East of the Mahadev Temple. As such, it is called Kizhakke Nada. Upon reaching, I find that it is not the throwback to olden times that I have been promised but a quiet, unassuming home nevertheless. A preliminary walk around the area tells of a town dotted with kshetrams, kolams and plantain gardens, apart from the usual Kairali abundance of coconut trees, streams and small, winding roads. Some of the newer homes that are a sign of changing times in Kerala appear tastefully done from the outside. As I walk through smaller lanes rarely trod upon, I realize that I am being gazed at. The first look is cursory followed by a short-lived glance away. The registering of an unknown face takes root and there is the double back within moments. Creeping unfamiliarity is writ on the face followed by the realization that one is being watched in return. Turn away again. It dawns on me that one of the satisfactions of small town life is in knowing its rhythms. An unknown stimulus can produce consternation.
Back home, I am treated to the first of the culinary revelations on the trip. Chutney made out of manga and thenga is accompaniment to puttu. It has a fine sourness that reminds me that my taste buds are rarely privy to this sort of sensation. Chittappa duly asks me to leave with him for a darshan at the temple. The Mahadevar Lingam is part of the Vaikkyam-Kaduthuruthi-Ettumanoor triumvirate that must be visited on the same day, legend has it. To my eye, Vaikkyam is any other Kerala temple with one telling difference. The sanctum sanctorum has eye-catching murals on rectangular slabs the size of windows around it. They are leaf paintings that have been restored recently, Chittappa tells me.
When we exit, he takes me to the customary Kerala boat jetty at the end of the Padinjaru Nada (West Approach). This road seems the commercial hub of the town with shops galore. The clock is nearing twelve and the strapping humidity adds to the heat. Standing in the shade of a Banyan, I am content to corroborate the zoomed in image of Vaikkyam on Google Maps with the local geography that is staring at me. We trudge back slowly in merciless heat and cool ourselves. Soon, it is time for lunch. After lunch, I am in the thick of conversation about impending arrivals for the rendezvous at Vaikkyam, the arrangements to be made, how events are to play out and so on. Already, the unmistakable patterns of this kind of life are on display - walk, eat, talk, rest, walk, eat, talk, rest.
My interest in what Bhama Chitti might concoct for our meals if I were to stay longer is further piqued over lunch due to the presence of Thair Molagai and a dry curry made out of Payaru and Vazhaikkya, the closest phonetic equivalent to Vaikkyam itself. After lunch, I am pulled out a siesta prematurely by Ammamma asking me to take a look at the resident thottam. Reluctant, I walk out of the back door to find Chitti’s wiry frame standing in mock indignation near one of her plants. I offer an expression of tiredness that is quickly swatted away. Sadly, it leaves its mark on Ammamma who persists in asking, over the next five minutes, if everything is alright with me.
The thottam is the true highlight of the trip for me. Chitti is more animated than I have seen her the entire day as she reels off names. I can discern a Kathrikkai (Brinjal) myself. The plenitude of Vazhai ilagal suggests that their lunch every day is had over plantain leaves. She even replaces one for Ammamma muttering that it is too large for her! Vazhaipoo and Vazhaikkya feature next in the collection. Thenga grows at a height that lends itself to convenient picking, something that evokes admiration from Ammamma. She calls our own coconut tree in Iyer Bungalow, Madurai a behemoth. There are behemoths here too and they have tendril growth around them. This, I am told, is black pepper. Vendaikkya, Payaru, Mullangi and Pavaikkya complete this, a veritable garden of earthly delights. The walls of the newly erected compound even enclose a pond the size of two car parking spaces. It is covered with plant overgrowth now but was once filled with water, I am informed. Chitti is quick to follow it up with anecdotal seasoning. Idhukkula Moorthyiyum Venu-um chaadittundu orukka.
In the lead-up to my departure that afternoon, Chitti gives me adequate portions of marchini appalam and chakka varatti. Recalling my fondness for the manga chutney, she leads me to the terrace where we try to dislodge manga clusters from the safety of their twigs and branches whilst dealing with the red ants that are crawling all over. This is the third produce that I am to take to Madurai.
On the bus back to Ernakulam from Vaikkyam, I notice a Thandhai Periyar Memorial hardly a kilometre from the bus stand. I have all but forgotten. Two histories. For eight hours, the lesser has dwarfed out the more momentous.
