Achachi

I lay comfortably twisted on the floor; you know that one particular position that seems to work for you. I am at my native; or rather you can say my dad's native. I have very fond memories of this place. Ah! what beautiful days those were! Childhood at its best! Every summer spent in this part of the world. How I used to long for these vacations. We did nothing and everything. Every day was as eventful as the previous. So many memories etched on the plantation trees, on the tiny pebbles in the tiny river-lets we bathed in.
All these memories remain fresh in my mind, lamenting at the thought recreating the past. The past remains beautiful, shiny and crystallized in happiness. But i stare at the fact that it is the past, and as all beautiful things memories too die away slowly.
I characterize time with respect to events. I associate the passing of an era with something eventful that happened at that point of time.
It had been a year since my last visit. The last time i was here to visit my grand-dad, for the last time. I miss him dearly. Now when i try to remember my time with him, I always see a smiling face. I cannot remember him as a sick and bedridden person, but as a strong individual going about the rubber plantation or the house doing odd jobs or fixing something. I remember he used to make bats and balls for us, using some or the other part of a coconut tree. He was always there to make our vacations memorable. I remember the time we used to buy chocolates in his name, and he would pay the shopkeeper later. He never complained. He was a happy person. I wished it could have been different, wished he was here with us. Life could have been a bit kind to him. I am sure he’s still with all of us, still living through the memories we have of him.
He loved us all. We all loved him too.
'Achachi' - That's what we grand kids called him. His name was A. P. Govindan Nair (the 'A' and the 'P' for his house name and fathers name respectively). He was a small stout man. He had a small frame but he seemed big in the eyes of a 7-year-old.
 He had thick rimmed reading glasses. There was a framed picture of him hanging in the dining room, Achachi in his youth. He looked immaculately dressed, like a perfectionist. He always had a knife kept under his pillow, a habit from him youth i guess. His hair was pearl white, and we almost had the same hair-do.
He used to go to the village 'Vayanashala' every evening, he and his fellow comrades playing cards in the library. I wonder if they gambled there, or if he was even good at it. And while returning he used to get us chocolates again. Good old chocolate-rubber-trees-coconut-bats filled days.
He had an old steel suitcase under his bed, it was green in colour. I always hypothesized that it was in this, that he stacked his bundles of rubber-money. I was wrong of-course, but it gave me a sense of mystery about suitcase. It was what I wanted to believe.
What else do i remember of an old man who lived in a faraway house middle of a plantation? Who used to be a Malayalam teacher, who conjured play-things out of thin air when we need something, who used to hang rubber sheets up in the kitchen chimney to dry.
Who had that ever so welcome smile.
I miss you Achachi.

We have all grown up now, Ammu chechi just got married. The house on the hill is uninhabited and the rubber trees in need of your attention. Nobody visits during vacations and no more chocolates in your name. No more coconut tree bats and no more memories to etch.

Appu