Ever since I moved from Kerala to Jamshedpur when it was part of Bihar, I have noticed my Keralite colleagues in the hospital getting excited on the approach of summer holidays. After booking tickets, they would beamingly tell me, “Natti povunnu”, and to other colleagues, “Desh ja rahe hain.” I would understand it as “going home”, while the others would wonder, “Kerala is within India. Why does she say desh, country?’

Be that as it may, “going home” had always been a much-looked-forward-to annual event. In the late 1970s and for several years since then, a train journey of nearly three days was the only travel option. Recently I undertook a train journey to Northeast India. The AC three-tier coach was packed with young working men and some with their wives. They had boarded the train from Kerala or Tamil Nadu and were visiting their homes in West Bengal or Assam after a gap of two to three years. I could see them visibly excited at the prospect of seeing their family and friends and they were quite busy buying gifts from hawkers in the train.

Over the years, as air connectivity has improved, the three days spent in a train has been reduced to 12 hours from one home to another. I always prefer a window seat and look at the waves of the Arabian Sea lashing on the sandy beaches of Kerala. The vast greenery interspersed with tile-roofed houses takes me closer home, even before the plane lands. From the airport, my brother or nephew drive us back home along the Shangumughom beach. On one such visit, my nephew told me that the sea had claimed part of the land. Indeed, the road along the beach looked as if it was torn apart by an earthquake. We had to take a detour. More importantly, and much to my anguish, there was no beach at that spot any more. On a subsequent trip, he proclaimed proudly, “We reclaimed our land from the sea!” We drove along the newly laid road, safely stone-walled; still, there was no beach to walk upon.

The city itself had undergone a steady transformation. There were many high-rise towers, and tiled-roof houses had become few and far between. Traditional houses were getting converted to multi-storey concrete structures. Out of the three heritage houses in the heart of the city, interspersed with high-rise office buildings, two looked unoccupied and I wondered whether they would also get pulled down. The third, my ancestral house tucked away from the main road, will probably escape getting annexed because of its location. The house, once alive with many members of the extended family in different ages with as many interests, looked minimalistic with just two occupants, welcoming as they were. Sitting on a swing in the central hall, I realised that change is inevitable and felt privileged to have had my upbringing there. I relived some happenings in the past and recalled interactions from my memory like opening tiny boxes in a board game. Some boxes held good memories that had an uplifting effect on me — like climbing a ladder. Tragic events, conflicts that remained unresolved and barbs not allowed to lose their stings by frequent recalls were like snakes on the board that pulled me down. Visualising the past as a board game gave me the choice to shut the boxes of bitterness and desist from festering the hurts.

A day before my departure, I woke up at 5 a.m. to a faint tip-tip-tip sound outside the bedroom, which my mother used to occupy. Peering out through the window, I saw a gentle, slow and steady shower of small star-shaped light brown flowers from a Fishtail palm tree. In the stillness and quiet of pre-dawn, the sound of the flowers was surreal and soothing. With a sense of peace, I moved to the poo mugappu, the hexagonal front hall. A faint fragrance from the scanty flowers of a henna plant wafted through the bamboo curtains. The ephemeral subtle sound of falling flowers and the fragrance of a few blooms got added to my perception of what “home” means. Once again, homecoming was comforting.

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