It was on Facebook that I came across this word. Needless to mention, I was hooked. It’s a Welsh word meaning homesickness, nostalgia, or even a longing for a place that only exists in your memory, with the associated emotions. This was certainly something; a word to signify an actual place where you exist only in your emotions and memories only shows how emotionally mature the Welsh civilization was probably. I made a mental note about the Welsh to my ever expanding list of must-do things. Incidentally, that list also exists in my mind. In a place that cannot be reached and touched in a purely physical sense.
My Hireath is the home where I lived as a child many years ago. Some of my earliest memories are of that place.
It was an early morning. I had woken up after a deep, dreamless slumber ensconced between my parents. On my right, the bed was still warm; my mom had probably just woken up. Daddy on my left was still fast asleep. Rubbing off sleep from my eyes I walked out of our little bedroom in a 3-room, L-shaped house. The kitchen and the living room formed the longer part of the L. I stepped out the house.
It was a bright and a beautiful morning. The coconut trees in the neighbor’s house were reaching the sky and swaying in the morning breeze. My mother was looking at a little plant she had managed to grow; she had just then watered it. The ground around the plant was wet. “Hey, mottai, you are awake,” she said, noticing me. “Come see the bitter gourds have come; you want to pluck them?” I probably nodded. In no time, I was on my fours foraging for the bitter gourds. The moram (a tamil word meaning vegetable pan) was crowded with the home-grown veggies, and my heart brimmed over at the accomplishment. I may not have been more 3 at that time.
I remember vividly the white color of the ground. It was a peculiar color; but it strangely filled me with a sense of security and happiness. There would be cracks here and there. Through the cracks I would see ants smuggle food. And, sometimes I would pour water through the cracks for them.
Saturdays would mean just lazing around for us, kids. And much play. The tamarind tree that stood in a corner of the 4-ground plot was massive; it was almost shaped like a rotund, grumpy mammoth. Once in a while, I’d pick a ripe tamarind and finish it in one go without anyone ever coming to know of it. That’s perhaps where my stealth skills were sharpened.
The Sapotta tree deserves a separate post. On it were spent some of my most beautiful summer vacations. A little swing, read an old saree, would be tied for the children. On some days, the tree would be home to honeycombs. At such times, the entire area around the tree would be quarantined for a few days, or until the nearest full moon or new moon day. I am not sure. At the right moment, a rag would be doused in some cooking oil and smoked right near the hive and the honey collected. At such times, I’d be rooted to the spot and try and catch the dexterity with which my grandfather would collect the honey. For a major part of the day, he’d be resting in his easy chair telling us grandchildren to comb his white, soft, silky hair. Sometimes, he’d be weaving the dry coconut sheaves to re-d0 the roof of the verandah. If the children pestered him enough he’d talk of his experiences in the World War II, about how his one great regret was not going up to the Holy Land, Jerusalem, for the war was called off when they had marched only up to Iraq. I’d imagine my grandfather in military uniform, complete with shoes and rifles, and feel terribly proud.
During the summer months, the drumstick tree will be filled with bright, white flowers. But, right with them will arrive patches of caterpillars and all of us will invariably end up itching and washing ourselves each time we’d go to the well to fetch some water.
The verandah served us in many ways. As the place for homework, as the place where the fish vendors and mom will have long, happy conversations, as the place where daddy would soak all parts of the gas stove in kerosene as he cleaned every single nut and bolt of the stove, as the place when family disputes would be fought and not necessarily settled, as the place where my sister and I would play with our building blocks (Automech was the company then, before Lego took over) and kitchen sets (wooden, stone, and even steel!), and as the place where ammachy (grandmother) would meet her old students or comb out the lice in a cousin’s hair.
I can go on and on; I would never tire of the memories of my Hireath. Even if I can’t go back there in the physical sense, I often find myself in its sprawling grounds, filled with joy, hope, love, purpose, and most importantly the joy of living.
And so, thank you, my dear Hireath. I’ll keep dipping myself into you very often, now.
