A place called home #3
I step out into lush greenness, the foliage thick enough to cover an elephant. The rain has just drenched the brown earth of its sorrows. The smell of mud fills the ether. A praying mantis quietly meditates on a jasmine bush. The mosquitoes are composing their own fugues and canons. The yellow butterflies with fluttering gossamer-wings circle the mauve lilies in the pond. My grandmother is reciting her prayers while still on one of her countless trips between our illam and temple. My grandfather performs his favourite ritual- reading the morning newspapers - Mathrubhumi in the vernacular and the Times in English. The smell of sandalwood wafts through as the incense sticks continue burning. Ripe, yellow mangoes have fallen on the ground and a squirrel scampers to get a bite. A man hurries along to catch the bus to go pay the electricity bill before his life goes unto darkness. Damp from the dip in the pond, a skinny lad heads to the temple to ask for forgiveness and pray for plentiful. Someone is making tea for the house- strong, light, with milk, black, with sugar, without sugar, stirred and beaten. At the corner store, people are drinking lime soda, talking about elections, weather, and football. The different umbrellas passing by forms a rainbow in itself, some use Popy, some Johns, and others plain, black ones. The sky is dark grey, overcast and rumbling. Nila is already flowing over the Pattambi paalam. It will pour a lifetime's worth by the time the Sabari Express pulls into platform 1.