FIRST DAY FIRST SHOW – (Memoir series – Story 26)

TWO MONTHS IS TOO LESS FOR SUMMER HOLIDAYS

Thursdays, oh, the glorious anticipation! Why, you ask? Well, it’s simple: the next day is Friday – the new movie release day.

You see, my cousin Sajuchayan and I belong to the First-Day First-Show Club.

Sajuchayan is my guide during every summer holiday in Kottayam since he’s a year older than me and happens to live here.

Thankfully, our little town of Kottayam boasts not one, not two, but five theatres. Rajmahal, the classic one with no air conditioning, Anupama, the fancier one, and the triple treat – Anand, Asha, and Abhilash.

Often it’s so difficult to choose which movie deserves our “first show on the first day” treatment.

Of course, we must rely on the wisdom of the posters plastered all over town. And if we’d been lucky, we would have seen a trailer during a previous cinema interval.

Friday morning, we grab the newspaper and inspect the list of movies released in the theatres. We can’t risk any last-minute surprises, you know.

So, after a delightful lunch at the Rajadhani Hotel, we dash to the cinema.

Running a famous bakery makes Sunnychayan well-known throughout the town. So the theatre managers too are buddies with him. That’s why even if we’re trying to grab tickets for a house-full show, it’s easy. A phone call from Sunnychayan opens doors usually locked with “Sold Out” signs.

During the movie’s interval, we wriggle our way through a sea of people, all scrambling to get their hands on refreshments and cigarettes like they’ve been stranded in a desert for days. But the trouble is worth it when we sip our chilled Fanta.

Finally, when the movie’s credits roll and the lights come on, we rush back to provide Sunnychayan with a detailed review. But not before a quick Bombay Toast and Coffee from Best Bakers Restaurant where our regular waiter Mohammed serves us in a jiffy with a broad smile.

Occasionally we plan to sneakily catch more movies without telling Sunnychayan. Of course, such missions are impossible at Rajmahal, where Manager Kuruvilla practically has a permanent residence in Sunnychayan’s bakery. The man can’t resist a daily chat with my cousin.

So, our plan usually involves watching the first couple of movies at Rajmahal and Anupama and playing it safe. Our secret missions occur at the three-in-one theatres – Anand, Asha, and Abhilash.

But no matter how careful we are, it’s like Kottayam town has an invisible gossip network. Either Sunnychayan, Babuchayan, or Rajuchayan always gets to know. Having three local businessmen as cousins has its disadvantages too. You can run all you want in Kottayam but you can never hide from your cousins.

On Sunday mornings, we’re dragged to church by Granny (whom I affectionately call Valliammachi).

“Are you coming to my place, dear?” she asks while exiting the Church.

“Not today, Valliammachi. I’ll come after a couple of days”.

I like living with my Valliammachi. But I don’t want to miss my daily trips to Kottayam town with my elder cousins.

Now, let me tell you about my aunt (whom I fondly call Ammachi). She’s the sweetest person on this planet. She lost her hearing in both her ears after delivering her fifth child. But that hasn’t dulled her at all.

Her cooking is like magic. She’s a fire whisperer, constantly adjusting the wood in all four of her wood-fired stoves simultaneously to keep things from burning to a crisp. Even when her forehead gets beaded with sweat, she handles it all with silent charm.

Ammachi feeds her husband (my Daddy’s eldest brother), three sons, and two daughters like it’s a feast every day. And let’s not forget the guests and relatives who drop by unannounced. Ammachi insists no one leaves without a full belly, and that includes the three household help she’s got for taking care of the cows and the tilling and cultivation of the land attached to the house.

The joyful satisfaction radiating from her eyes when we enjoy her food is straight from her heart.

My Mummy used to say Ammachi’s spicy-red fish curry was the best in the world. She relished every tiny bit, even the sun-dried Malabar tamarind and curry leaves in the dish.

So, when I sit down to have the fish curry, memories of my Mummy wash over me.

If Ammachi catches me with damp eyes, I blame the chillies.

“The curry is spicy. But I love it, Ammachi”, I assure her through silent lip movements. And then her smile returns.

I’ve now become a lip-reading expert just by regularly chatting with Ammachi.

Evenings at home are all about the meatsafe in the dining room. The tempting aroma of cakes and cookies stocked from the Bakery seeps through its mesh panels in the front doors.

But often, Ammachi slowly approaches me with a big steel plate brimming with seasonal fruits. Since it’s summertime, it’s a mango festival. She settles down beside me on the veranda with a smile. And slices the juicy fruit into perfect bites for me.

Ammachi nibbles on the overripe, misshapen parts and whatever’s left on the mango seed.

I want her to have some good pieces with me. But she insists with a glimmer in her eyes that the imperfect bits are her favourite.

While I enjoy the mango slices, Ammachi inquires about her three sons, Sunnychayan, Babuchayan, and Rajuchayan. She’s eager for updates, and I’m her trusted source.

She’s anxious about her boys. Are they doing well in business or just blowing smoke rings with too many cigarettes? What do they eat? And who are their friends?

I’ve got the details, and Ammachi, well, she’s got my heart.

When she listens, her eyes sparkle with the interest and concern of a mother who struggles to know how her grown-up children are doing.

No one seems to spend enough time with her to communicate patiently. And I can sense the isolation she feels due to her deafness.

She reminds me of how caring my Mummy was. Always concerned. Always loving.

I’m going to miss all of this because Daddy is coming soon since my summer holidays are getting over.

And then it’s back to school in Ernakulam.

Why does time have to fly so fast in Kottayam?