Childhood memories are strong. The images from the 1970s that are etched in my memory have not faded one bit. It was a trip to see my great-grandmother in her village! Mudikondan is a tiny hamlet, a dot on the Tamil Nadu map, not far from the Nagapatnam coast. So nondescript is the place that, as per accounts, it once had a railway station of its own that was later dismantled because there was no traffic!
It was here that my great-grandmother lived by herself. She was old, and she stayed in a home that was older. Shrouded by the cobwebs of time, it went back a few centuries, perhaps more.
I recall the street where my great-grandmother lived. It was dusty, with houses on either side, like modern-day row houses. The house was old-style. Once inside, the main hall had a quadrangle that opened to the sky and was lined with pillars. The quadrangle was spacious, with ample room for a full-blown tree. For my Mumbai-grown eyes, it was a novelty—to have a tree inside a house!
Photographs crammed the interior wall, leaving not an inch of space! Everyone was there—grandfathers and mothers, grand-uncles and aunts, down to the latest generation. People in their earlier avatars, set in the 1930s and 1940s, looked young and fashionable! Each photograph was amusing—either the serious expression or the quaint dress.
The main hall had a swing that creaked as you foot-pedalled it. The door that led to the kitchen was shallow. Many an unwary person got a bump on the head if he did not duck at the right time!
An old "almirah" was filled with artefacts, including one giant elephant replica. I remember fussing over it until the elephant was brought out of the closet. The elephant’s foot was known to have a hair-line fracture! My father broke it when he was a child! Everything was preserved through the decades—the story as well as the elephant.
My great-grandmother was bent with age. She was active and spritely on her feet. Her skin was crinkly, and her elbows jutted out. Her eyes were alert as she peered through the spectacles. Her toothless laughter was infectious—it shook her entire frame! Soon, more relatives gathered. The house was filled with the hubbub of conversation and the gurgle of laughter. We were in time for the annual village festival.
After my great-grandmother’s time, the house fell into disuse and was sold off. We never went back again. Time is relentless, much like the ocean’s waves. As the tide comes in, the wave sweeps over the elaborate sandcastle built with care. The people, their voices, and their stories become one with the ocean. Mudikondan remains a memory.