Tea: A Day in the Life of my Bellippa

Bellippa with his grandkids circa 2006

The earliest memory of my maternal Bellippa (Granddad) goes all the way back to the 1990s. Our family used to come down to Calicut from Muscat for our annual vacation. Uncles, aunts, cousins – all of us huddled up at our ancestral home just off the main road in East Nadakkavu. Those were the days when nuclear families and homes were almost unheard of. I loved the fact that almost 20-30 of us stayed under one roof at any given time.

My Bellippa would be up at the crack of the morning azan, starting up his Kinetic Honda on his way to Fajr prayers at the old West Nadakkavu mosque. If the middle schooler me was up, I would ride pillion or would stand in the space between the handle and the seat of the scooter. We would finish prayers, and he would go to the nearest tea/milk parlour and get a couple of packets of milk. He would return home and make tea, which would be poured into a flask and then boil the milk in another container and keep aside. The tea and milk would be placed on the dining table at the front, along with glasses for anybody who would like to begin their day with a fresh cup of tea. Incidentally, the tea dust used to be brought from my Bellippa's shop in Valiyangadi.

He would then proceed with household chores – from clearing weeds out of the garden, watering the plants, adding manure to the coconut trees, clearing open sewers at the back, getting dried coconut leaves or wood for the kitchen fire, peeling coconuts, among others. Sometimes, us kids would reluctantly join him, more so often to get to play in the dirt than to help him. I used to be a particularly naughty one who would try to sneak in the dirt all over the place, only to have my Bellippa hose me down when watering the plants. The three or four-year-old me had a field day when he used to be out in the courtyard.

After his daily chores, my Bellippa would get cleaned up and wear the whitest mundu and light coloured shirt over the white vest before clipping on his Seiko watch. He would then have his breakfast, before starting up his Kinetic Honda for the second time in the day, to head to work. Work to him was his tea dust business in the single store opposite the Town Police Station - Mahe Tea Mart - that he had begun after migrating from Mahe to Calicut in the 1960s.

Teenage me, who had moved back to Calicut, accompanied him quite many times on his trip to Mahe Tea Mart. The market would be just waking up, and the clickity clang of the shutter would reverberate around us as we opened for business. It was from here that I first learned the ABC of trade – buy and sell. I would help him pack tea for those who came looking for it. People came from the mountains of Wayanad to the islands of Lakshwadeep and even next-door neighbours or Calicut natives, to buy their favourite Monica, Suryanelli, or myriad other brands of tea dust. Sometimes, when he had to attend to some urgent matter, he would leave the cash register with me, and I would sit fixated on arranging all the notes in perfect order in the single drawer table. Once in a while, a customer would come in, and I would have to hand them the right amount of change, while the helper packed the tea for them.

He would make it a point to come later, and by evening, the chaiwala from the nearby Rangoli hotel would come. He would get us tea and ask us if we wanted any snacks. The Rangoli chaiwala would open his aluminum tin and show us the specialty snack of the day, and Bellippa would buy it for us. We would sit there, eating and drinking, while he got to tallying the accounts for the day.

At dusk, he would switch on the lights inside the shop but never stayed for long. Before the call of the Maghrib prayer, he would shut shop and make his way to the nearest mosque. While making his way back he would get fruits or his favorite murk (rice crispies) or bakery items for himself and his grandkids.

At night, my Bellippa would be back busy doing chores at home or sitting in the veranda with a cup of suleimani, up until he had to go to bed. The three-year-old me would be sitting quietly on the sofa adjacent to his room in anticipation of something, and he would give me a lovable laugh on his way to bed and ask me – “What happened, boy? Didn’t get your Boost?”. I wouldn't budge until I got my whole bottle of chocolate milk energy drink.

At times, my Bellippa would call some of his grandkids and ask them to give him a head massage or press his legs for him. He loved being playful with his grandkids, and a lot many of us would giggle away (and later get annoyed) when we were tickled by him lovingly.

Years passed, and Bellippa's mode of transport changed from the Kinetic Honda to a couple of Suzuki’s. Later on, the Suzuki too ceased and he made peace with being driven around by his kids and grandkids. While the kid me met him at least once a year, courtesy of annual vacations, the adult me had a harder time being next to him, with work barely allowing a handful of days for me to be in town.

Earlier this month, I met my Bellippa again. At first glance, he thought I was my dad, but I think he recognized me when I mentioned my name. A few days later, he asked me to sit by his side and hold his hand. That is all he asked. And I did, one last time, sans the scooter rides, playing in the dirt, helping out at the shop, the tickles that made us giggle and tea.

Rest in peace Bellippa.

Live a little, love a little

Before the glitz, glamour and bling, and much way before grabbing global headlines for having the tallest, biggest or largest ‘whatevers’ and also hosting global events surprising many, the GCC was a much simpler place. The noise was lesser, the cars much grander and the general atmosphere itself was much relaxed.

The era I am talking about was pre-new millennium, when TV shows like Full House, The Wonder Years and the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and cartoons like Captain Majid, Duck Tales, Johnny Quest and Swat Kats kept us entertained. It was a time when collecting Tazos and sticking Sun Top stickers just to get the elusive prize mentioned in the book was a challenge in itself (God knows how many Lays, Cheetos and Sun Tops must we have consumed for that) and it was also when Fridays meant coming back from Friday prayers to have mom’s ghee rice and chicken curry or biriyani,

Weekends meant grabbing the cricket bat and wickets and heading to the beach or park with your next door neighbour or the scores of friends and relatives peppered all over the city. If you were lucky, the trip would be down to your dad’s Sheikh’s farmhouse in the outskirts. That would entail a whole different level of fun, with the entire day spent in the pool, having a barbeque and countless number of games ranging from cards to board games to random running around. Hanging out was devoid of the technological dependence that we are so used to today.

Back then schools were in itself fun places to be, when competitions meant having fun with your friends. Team spirit took precedence over individual achievement. Exhibitions and local competitions didn’t need the tag of big cash prizes or names of sponsors plastered all over the prizes, stages, grounds and auditorium (and even the kids themselves). Adding to it there were no participation trophy, and nobody remained disheartened. A winner was lauded and everyone got their chance. Teachers were personal heroes, and connections more real.

Shopping in itself was a wondrous adventure, tagging along with your mom and dad, for the month’s supplies. Shopping giants didn’t litter around your city and your friendly next door supermarket had all that you needed. You’d like rolling the cart down the smaller isles, with only the essentials making it in. Gaining coupons for your purchases, your mom waited for months to exchange it for that one gram of gold or the cookware she’d been eyeing for a while.

Back in the day, public transport didn’t rip you off. Taxis were shared, buses were few, and the city was within your reach. Your parks and homes and malls weren’t kilometers apart, and your dad was your most reliable transport partner. His Toyota or Mazda or Mitsubishi did not compete with your friend’s dad’s cars nor did they with his. Cars were meant to be driven, not shown off. The general quality of cars also spoke volumes of their use, and some people never let go off with which they began with since they didn't make them like them anymore.

Awe-inducing technology back then was your CRT TV or VCR/VCP or your SEGA/Nintendo game console or satellite receiver that broadcasted a handful of channels from around the world. Moms/sisters/brothers would spend time with their best friend on phone for hours, and it wouldn’t tear a hole in the pocket of the user with a big bill at the end of the month. Semi-automatic washing machines ruled the roost, while dishwashers weren’t even in the scene. The more affluent afforded a brick-like GSM device, but other than that, personal tech was subjected to just a Walkman, brick game, Gameboy or Tamagotchi, all of which eventually lost out our interest in a couple of weeks’, months’ or years’ time.

Going back a decade or two, love letters weren’t in bits and bytes. Nobody cared who looked how at what time of the day and where. All that mattered was that the boy/girl leaning from the back of the seat would take the guts to pass the piece of note on to his/her crush. Innocence wasn’t lost and nor was bitching and cursing a way of life. Recesses were times to rush out and play, and were also when you could make your move. Romance was alive and genuineness marked the times.

Why have I gone to all this trouble just to reminisce of those days that I remember? I guess it is a grim reminder of who we were and what we’ve become.

TV shows for us are now plenty and at the tips of our fingers, while cartoons have literally died out, with quality taking a toll in both cases. Today, kids are fed on rubbish beyond compare and the only way out are the classic reruns on video sharing sites and one of the umpteen channels on television. Weekends are meant to splurge money, be it for movies, concerts or roaming in malls gaping at what to splurge on next. You might not even know the person living right across your hall, let alone your relatives in the city. Schools have become big business models. Fees dictates the quality and all kids are pampered or tortured to a level with needless knowledge and unhelpful assignments and exams. Shopping is a  disaster and we are spoilt for choice. Your friendly neighbourhood supermarkets have been taken over by corporate giants, with needless wastage accompanying our incessant buying. Public transport is as essential as anything, if you aren’t lucky enough to get your license (which you most probably wouldn't considering the sheer amount of luck that we carry with us). Malls and places are scattered all around, and to reach one another would be to quote Robert Frost - and miles to go before I sleep. Coming to technology, who isn’t face down looking at their mobile every two minutes? And it doesn’t end there – tablets, HD TV, HDR, laptops and console wars – we are cosntantly sucked into every vortex that cuts us off from the real world. Last, but not the least – love has lost all meaning. Relationships are dead and romance lifeless.

But let’s not tarry in what we have become. It isn’t too late to unbecome what we have become. Go out, meet friends and family, see the world beyond an artificial screen, shop at local markets, breathe some fresh air, cycle around your neighbourhood, play a game of hide and seek, create new things and for your own sake – live a little, love a little.

Uppu's smile

As far as I can remember she always had the corner room in the huge tharavad across the Mahe railway bridge and maybe around a 100 metres from the river. She'd be up at the crack of dawn, opening the windows, on the side of her bed, to the fresh smell of an early morning spell of rain, the cackling of a myriad birds and the cold winds blowing through the iron grills. The windows opening to the inner courtyard would be opened by her youngest daughter who slept in the same room along with her kids. She would then make it to the adjoining room, looking for her eldest daughter, and gently lift her legs across the maze of doorways and corridors to come on to the veranda. Large beams supported the extensive veranda with a raised platform on either sides. But her favourite seat was the reclining cane chair. It was her place to be early in the morning and late evenings, until the Maghrib azaan sounded. Sometimes her eldest daughter would bring her tea and biscuits (or eggs, banana fry, rusks) – as is ritual to have before breakfast once you got up in that tharavad – to the verandah. But otherwise she would nimbly make her way back across to the hall adjoining her room and have a seat at the dining table. Groggily, us cousins would also join her, when we were all together during vacations, to have the same tea and biscuits or eggs or banana fry or rusks. But she would see that we always got a treat when nobody was looking. She had chocolates or treats hidden under her bed or her one door almirah, and we would take it with eager hands and chomp on them when the adults would disappear from the room. All the while a mischievous warm smile on her face.

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One day, she got angry. A cousin and myself hadn't prayed Isha'a. But we insisted we had. An argument ensued between us and our respective moms. That was when she came into the room with her light cotton bath towel, twisted to form a tight rope like whip. She never threatened, and whipped the towel on the table, very calmly asking us to go and pray. We stopped the ruckus immediately, no questions asked, and headed straight to the raised platform in the veranda and prayed. I don't think we ever saw that side of hers ever after that. After the prayers, she called us to her room. No menacing scowl awaited us, but just a warm smile synonymous to her and the slight gesture of the chocolate that magically made it's way into our hands.

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The tharavad's no more. She is in a corner room again, but the window next to her bed has been replaced by a split AC above her bed. There is another bed in the same room for one of her daughter's to sleep in. The age old doors, rickety stairs, rocky earthen floors, heavy wooden ceilings and the forest in the front and back have been replaced by concrete blocks all around. But she is happy her kids are happy. The last time I had visited her, in May, she held my hand, reminiscent of the 'treat' giving days and slowly placed a 100 rupee note in my hand and asked me to buy something for myself. She smiled and talked to me like the child i was, her memories playing see-saw, while I held on to her hands and reassured her that I will definitely take care of mom and agreed on finding somebody for myself. She intermittently mistook me for my dad, and the next moment asked me when he would come to see her.

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There was dancing, singing and a lot of merriment. She adorned a light cotton saree for the August wedding of her youngest daughter's son. She liked sitting outside, but ill-health usually saw her subjected to just the inner room. But that night was for celebration. And she found herself sitting outside in the same old cane recliner beaming at all that was happening in front of her. People went, people came, she talked, she clapped hands to the the aunts singing around the groom, she kissed foreheads and her sons, daughters, grandkids – everyone was there.

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Today the gentle smile bids adieu. Today the treats cease. Today we pray for her soul.

Rest in peace Uppuma.

a 1000 dreams to just wish

hazaron khwahishein aise bhi hote hain,
anjaane kahi gum ho jaate hai,
yadon ki woh haseen pal,
milte bhi tab pigal jaate hain,
sunsan dil rehna padega.
lekin haste huey hum yeh kah jaate hain -
hazaron khawishein asie hi rah jaate hain...