Kilianthara

When my chachan, the patriarch Vincent Chacko, made the journey from Kottayam to Kilianthara in search of farming land, it was a move driven by necessity. It was around the time the Second World War had come to a threadbare finish and famine spread like the common flu. Directly affected by the acute shortage of grains in the Pala and Kottayam areas, my grandfather, along with Ammachi and several other members of his family, set out in search of cultivable, affordable land. Land he could also make his home.


And that’s how he came upon Kilianthara. Nestled cosily in the mountains, the virginal Kilianthara (located at the Karnataka border) was sufficiently affordable and cultivable; as a bonus, there was already a tar road (connecting Kerala to Mysore) that snaked through the village. Rife with wild animals, delirious with flower and foliage, gushing with little brooks and streams, and resounding with raw fertility, my grandfather saw in the intense expanse, potential. In what would be a defining moment for several generations to follow, chachan made up his mind that Kilianthara would be his home.

Several years later, to mark the 41st day after the death of my mother (who so dearly loved my father’s native home), the whole family congregated in the village (we usually come together during the Christmas and Easter seasons) in June. Lovely cousins were everywhere catching up on the latest news, nephews and nieces played around noisily; the aunties parked themselves in the thinnai outside the kitchen, cutting and slicing as conversation flowed freely, the men made themselves useful by doing particularly nothing, enjoying their day off from work. And there I sat by the slope of the driveway nibbling on a jackfruit pod ruminating on the rudiment of my existence. Kilianthara was undoubtedly where the seed of my existence lay. And yet, I knew not even what its name meant.

My good Joychen uncle solved that problem, giving me a quick recap of history. Back in the harrowing period after World War 2, Kilianthara was best known for the cashew and rubber estate that was owned by AV Thomas and Company. And at that time, the local tribals had a brave tribal chief- one Mr Kilian. And so, the floor (thara) where he ruled came to be known as Kilianthara. When my grandfather arrived, he had a task at hand. There were beasts to be domesticated, greenery to be cajoled into submission. And of course a house, for expanding family to live in, to be built. So, he built The House. The house that still stands, resonant with voices and memories from the past. But while it was Chachan who built the house, it was Ammachi who really made it a home. Running the family with lots of love, values and an iron fist (I am still not convinced my white-haired gentle granny was as strict a matriarch as made out to be by my aunts and uncles), she is to this day, though she is no longer a physical presence, remembered fondly throughout the village. The house too, like her, will soon cease to be a physical presence. This grand old dilapidated structure will soon be torn down to make way for sturdier livings quarters. It will be sorely missed. We cousins discuss that a lot these days. It makes us feel older and more mature, discussing the good ol’ days- when we’d alternate between playing hide and seek in the house and playing hide and seek in the woods behind the house. By the time Joychen uncle is done with the story, I’ve inadvertently gobbled up another five jackfruit pods (and I don’t even like jackfruit) and I mentally scold myself.

But then again, in Kilianthara, food is a way of life. Conversation surrounds it and is surrounded by it. My father gains a good two kilos on every visit to his village. Because, eating is primarily what everyone does when we have gathered for an occasion. There is puttu, kappa, kappa biriyani, meat, coconut-laced veggies, spicy mango pickles, crisp papadams, mounds of fat red rice, pulicheri… every bit, every drop polished off by greedy tummies and hearty appetites (yes, it is the mountain air). Most of us don’t eat at the table (some of the elders do), but there’s always someone eating, so you’re never alone. Sometimes, to wash down our ablutions, there is fresh toddy that is rationed out generously to everyone. Even the girls. Actually, for those of us interested, the uncles are most-willing to part with a share of alcohol when there’s a booze session happening (‘just make sure, you never drink anywhere outside’ we’re sternly told). And it is on one of these booze sessions in the evening when the grasshopper has just begun his song that my father tells us that when they (his siblings and him) were kids, chachan would always share any alcohol that he’d got equally with everyone at the table. He was a forward thinker, that man.

Chachan also cultivated in the family a certain joie de vivre that honestly not many other families can lay claim to. We love life. We also love bathing in the river, we love drinking toddy while at it, and splashing around like happy fish. We love water. Sometimes, during the monsoon nights, when all is quiet, one can hear a distant stream, or a little waterfall gushing down merrily down some obscure slope. But my all-time favourite water memory is of when the vanilla plantations (Joychen uncle apart from being a pioneer in organic farming in his region also dabbled in the vanilla venture briefly) still existed. It was a rainy afternoon, and I was aimlessly walking about, when suddenly I stumbled into paradise. Heavy, chilly mist enveloped me, the light aroma of vanilla wafted about langurously, bottle green shrubbery preened with moist grit and the only sound was that of a stray insect. For all practical purposes, this was the mist irrigation technique (wherein, lines of overheard tubes release mist) used to cultivate vanilla. When not in the water, we are in the woods. My generation of cousins, we spent our vacations in the green expanse behind the house, happily uncaring about the resident snakes and the like around. To me, the woods were like the Enchanted Forest. I had my favourite corner, where stood a tree whose trunk curved like a divan, and I could repose and introspect. I liked doing this alone. On one such occasion, I vaguely remember a gigantic white pig grazing away at a distance. I have other random memories too. Like watching a ladybird scuttle around in circles, even as someone in the house was getting a real telling to by Beana aunty. There’s another I tree I loved, this tree I joyously shared with the cousins. The great mulberry tree, which we’d climb bravely just to gather the prickly little fruits. At that point, my most favoured fruit in the world was mulberry. There were other options to choose from too, sapota, cherry, passion fruit, jambanga.

Waking up every morning, surrounded by the mighty Western Ghats, with virility surging forth from every patch, bursting with green goodness and fresh air, the family knows it has to be thankful. So we go to the church (the act of going to church is more of a religion than the actual religion itself, for most) to relay our thanks and best wishes to the Mighty One above. We usually walk to the church together. The ones from the US, the ones from Glasgow, the ones from Delhi, from Bangalore, from Chennai, from other parts of Kerala…we all walk the small distance. The walk, another religion. In my early childhood after church service, we’d unfailingly head to Babychan uncle’s little sweet shop for free treats. But talking of shops, beloved Kilinathara still doesn’t have its own pharmacy. In fact, it only very recently got a departmental store (courtesy my second cousin). For better shopping options, one can always head to Irrity (the nearest town), where you can get anything from tacky umbrellas to quality organic products. The price to pay for decent shopping is a half an hour drive and if the car is not free, a very bumpy bus ride.

Yet, when I look around, I am not too sure I would change a thing. I am being selfish, development is much desired by the locals, but I fear it will kill the splendor of my land. For once I don’t feel badly for my selfishness.