The Homecoming

No river can return to its source, yet all rivers must have a beginning.

Native American Proverb.

On 9th August, 2024, I set out, for the first time in 65 years, on a pilgrimage to my ancestral village of Kalpathi in the Palakkad district of Kerala. I did not travel alone. My daughter, who accompanied me, was excited to be on a 'journey of discovery, to solve a 100 year old mystery' and chose to be Hastings to my Poirot. My husband, who valued the visit to one's native place, also travelled with me. Years ago, we had been on a similar pilgrimage to his native village of Kandamangalam, in the Tanjore district of Tamil Nadu. 

But why was I undertaking this journey?  What was propelling me? What was driving me? I tried to question myself and understand my need to visit a place my ancestors had left decades ago.  My paternal grandfather had left Kalpathi in 1917 and had arrived in Jamshedpur in Bihar, where he took up service in The Tata Iron & Steel Company. Like a banyan tree, my father's family had grown  roots and settled down there. 

 I was born and grew up in Jamshedpur and I do miss the warmth of my loving family.  Their love and care was marked by a generosity of mind, a candid openness, cheer and goodwill. There was no problem that had no solution. Their gentle and easy going ways had a strong influence on me and  I wanted to pay tribute to our native land that had nurtured them. 

You don't meet people by accident. There's always a reason. 

A chance meeting with my new neighbor in Chennai threw up an incredible proposition - the time had come to make the visit. Not only did he hail from my village, he had family living there, in the same street. Without a moment's hesitation, he put me through to his cousin, who patiently heard me out. It gives me more solace to know and acknowledge that people from my native land continue to be empathetic, so warm and friendly.

As reference points, I had only the name of the street, Kacheti Theruvu, the name of the doctor from Madurai, who had acted as the caretaker of the house for several years and the mention of a temple, the Krishnan Kovil, at the end of the street, where the family prayed. Also, from my grandmothers name, Chattapuram Swaminathan Thangammal, (C.S.T. Ammal) I got the name of her village, Chattapuram.

Sometimes it's not the place that makes you emotional, it's the people and things that come to your mind when you hear it.

The journey, for me,  was unsettling. My grandfather had arrived in Jamshedpur with nothing but a hope to provide the basic necessities for his family. To his credit he achieved much more. But it also must be said - Jamshedpur fulfilled the promise she had made to this stranger from Palakkad.  Within almost a 100 years since my grandfather had set foot in that prosperous land, I left Jamshedpur for good. I felt a sense of double betrayal, a guilt for  having left Jamshedpur, which in my mind was synonymous with Kalpathi, my ancestral village in Kerala.

My journey took me from Chennai to Coimbatore and then onward by road to Kalpathi via Malambuzha, a town in Palakkad district of Kerala. The dam here, also known as the Malambuzha dam, is the longest dam in the state.  The Malampuzha- Kalpathi route is picturesque, the sloping hills and the fields, resplendent in  green after a gentle shower. And within moments, on the next turn, we saw the signboard which pointed exactly to the place I was heading: the Kalpathi Agraharam. 

Life takes you unexpected places, love brings you home.

As I entered this hallowed ground - now a heritage village, I passed through the road with homes on either side which were built in traditional style. The houses stood in neat rows, each house linked to the other with a common wall. Every house was a picture in itself, I stood admiring the roof, the verandah and the small courtyard. There was a temple at the end of a cluster of streets which provided for a simple and pious life. The relaxed and slow pace of life was in complete contrast to my feelings - I was in a hurry.

It was late afternoon and people were getting ready for the evening rituals.  The sounds of chanting from the temple nearby, reached our ears. From then onwards, my memory runs in fast forward mode - the visit to the home of our friend in Kacheti Theruvu, and then on to the next street to the shop- R.S.Vadhyar and sons, Book Sellers and Publishers. A word with the owner who confirmed the address, and we were there, at the exact spot where my grand father and his siblings had spent their childhood.  And a very short drive, later,  around the corner led us to Chathapuram, my grandma's home. 

Our native land charms us with inexpressible sweetness, and never allows us to forget that we belong to it.                Ovid.

The place reminded me so much of Jamshedpur, the neatly laid roads, the cottages one beside the other, every home with a little garden adjoining it. What did I feel being there, as witness to the land of my forefathers? Looking back I can only feel a sense of joy and happiness, something profoundly fulfilling. Strangely, I had no questions. My ancestral house had been acquired by a neighbour and he had brought it down to construct a new one in its place. So all that was left for me to revel in was a plot of land, the land on which once stood the home and hearth of my loving family.

As I entered the temple, where my ancestors had prayed decades ago, I felt a strange calm and peace. I offered my grateful thanks to the Almighty for having made this visit possible with the help of my friends and family and for having bestowed on me my Palakkad identity, which I carry so proudly. I left Kalpathi with a bagful of treats especially the famed banana chips which my granddaughter enjoyed. And as for the story of my family from Kalpathi, which I had penned, The Death of Memory, it continues in the realm of 'once upon a time...!',  and stands as a plausible testament to the life and times of my family, long long ago! 

 

ReplyReply allForward Add reaction