A Season of Stories, Surprises, and Sharpened Pencils
Looking back, summer always meant Kottayam… Granny’s hugs, her endless stories, and the comforting rhythm of our ancestral home.
But that year, fate had a different plan.
My aunt and uncle in Alwaye invited me over, and just like that, my summer took an unexpected detour.
Their home, a grand old bungalow tucked inside the UC College campus, was nothing like my cramped house in Ernakulam.
It had towering windows, vast rooms, and a timeworn charm, making it feel like a relic from another era.
Surrounding it was a large compound covered in round, oval, and oblong-shaped stones—a peculiar chocolate brown colour. Every step we took sent the pebbles rubbing against each other, creating a soft, rhythmic crunch that became an oddly soothing soundtrack to my summer.
Uncle, a botany professor, had filled the place with books, curios, and treasures from his time in the U.S.
The best of them? A wall-mounted pencil sharpener… part machine, part magic.
The handle turned with the smoothness of a well-oiled clock, and the hum it produced was strangely hypnotic.
I was obsessed. Every time I passed by, I had to sharpen a pencil… until I practically reduced my cousins’ school supplies to stubs.
Then there was Uncle’s record player. We had only a handful of vinyl records, but one song—“Tere Dwar Khada Ek Jogi”—mesmerized me.
I didn’t understand a word, but who needed lyrics when the melody had its own pull?
Another favourite? A nursery rhyme about a red wagon, ending with the strangely philosophical line: “Look what happened to the wagon, all the paint is washed away.” It felt profound, though I had no idea why.
The house had its quirks too… none more menacing than the Pomeranian chained near the kitchen. That tiny beast barked like it was guarding a medieval fortress.
Auntie was the only one who could silence it, speaking to it in a mysterious, almost magical tone.
She was a magician in the kitchen too. Every meal was a masterpiece, a culinary inheritance from my Granny.
But her best story? It wasn’t about food… it was about a feisty fisherwoman.
One afternoon, from my perch on a guava tree, attempting to pluck kovakka from vines that had swallowed a stone wall, I saw a fisherwoman passing by, singing her sales tune.
“Do we need fish?” I called down to Auntie.
“Not today,” she replied.
Auntie didn’t buy fish from her regularly… housewives, you know, have their favourites.
But one day, when her usual supplier wasn’t around, she finally called out to this woman. The fisherwoman snapped back with a single, cryptic word: “Olakka!”**
Auntie, not knowing the local slang, thought she was being insulted and was thoroughly horrified.
Only later did she learn that Olakka was just the name of a fish. We laughed until our sides ached.
Then there was Uncle’s car, a stately Herald. It didn’t get much use, but when Uncle drove, I watched, fascinated by the gear lever. Unlike the clunky shifting of my dad’s Fiat, the Herald’s gears moved with crisp, effortless precision. It was oddly satisfying to watch.
That summer in Alwaye was an adventure of oddities, laughter, and tiny discoveries.
By the time I left, I had new stories to tell Granny… of vinyl records, a barking nemesis, a graveyard of over-sharpened pencils, and the peculiar brown stones that whispered underfoot.
And honestly? I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
**Olakka literally means a pestle (for pounding rice), but in colloquial usage, it can also express anger or disagreement.
WORDSOUPS 