It’s been a year, I remember how the Palakkad trip was one of my very first trips I went on a solo project. It was exactly after the so called shy five weeks after my wedding. Settling in for my art direction project at Kairali Ayurvedic Healing Village with Zuzana.
I hesitated for publishing this story quite late, but there’s a beauty in rewinding. Makes me appreciate how all those days have become of me. The clever fall of dominoes of life events that led me to still standing. A very happy new year to all!
Thoughts inspired by Atheena Wilson's booty shaking anti-bachelorette tea party with wine. The journey of womankind from being ripe for the marriage market to become the Goddess. All in Frida Kahlo style with blessings of Her Highness Princess Gouri Parvathi Bayi.
Before I left to London, it was always a wish to gift Ammachi something special. She always said that only until I was a woman, I would wear sarees. I picked up the sarees from her wardrobe and visited some of the most important places in her life.
She may never say,” I love you,” she never has to. We all just know. This may perhaps be the shortest chapter. Only because Ammachi believes that love is pointless if only talked about or even boastfully shown. It’s something that ought to live in you.
Four days before her sister’s wedding, they lost their mother. My grandmother had a wedding and a funeral on her shoulders. She put on the bravest face and a dull colored saree to the wedding, she was now the mother of all.
When I was thirteen never grasp it all. But in time we were learned to sit and listen to the stories of our ancestors, real life stories of hardships and triumph, the abhorrent views of the society, how a family functions.
Growing up with someone brutally honest, I knew she always wanted to teach us beauty lay in how content we were with ourselves not the one that thrived in compliments. Another person’s opinion of how you look never mattered if you don’t know how you look.
I once read, “A woman armed with ancestral wisdom is an unstoppable force.” Kerala was never easy, and she never made it easier. You may take this in the wrong sense, but my grandmother showed me the hardships of how a society works.
Ten years from now, we would remember how we set off to Pondi one summer. Sometime again I suppose, I would be sauntering in eye-clashing clothes in another city, but my first one would always be Pondicherry.
Usually during Onam, I used to see pavements lined with flower markets in Kochi. I grew up hearing tales on how flowers were transported from Tamil Nadu, but this was another world. The stalls were divided by stunning velvety rose garlands.
Even by 6:30 am, to our surprise the market was already on its feet. Women peeling fresh prawns, a lot of them comfortably squatted, and their wringed sarees tied around their waists. There were hints of jasmine among the pungent smells.
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