O Chumma! (Just Like That)

A lighthearted tale from the days when even mischief had manners.

If I had to describe my childhood summers in one phrase, it would be — “O Chumma.”
Which, for the uninitiated, roughly translates to “Just like that.”
A phrase so innocent, yet so powerful, it could dodge nosy neighbours, curious relatives, and half the village gossip network — all in two syllables.

Life in my ancestral village was simple — the kind of simple that would make today’s “digital detox” retreats look like bad imitations.

Grandfather was no more, and we had only Valliammachi — my father’s mother. She ruled the ancestral home with quiet affection — someone who seemed to know everything that was happening around her, yet never in a strict or overbearing way.

She wanted all her grandchildren under one roof for the holidays, and that was that.

So every summer, our ancestral house would transform into something between a reunion venue and a chaos convention – with laughter, arguments, and the occasional slipper chase.

The village itself was postcard-perfect — serene, slow, and unbothered by the concept of “privacy.” Everyone knew everyone, and if you sneezed at one end of the village, someone at the other end would shout, ‘Careful, don’t catch a cold!’ before you even finished.

If someone was sick, everyone knew long before anyone even dreamed of a thermometer — and for us kids, our Valliammachi’s palm on our foreheads was all the diagnosis we ever needed. If someone got married, it was instantly community news. And if someone died, the condolence queue could have qualified as a festival procession.

In short, the village ran on word-of-mouth broadband — unlimited plan, full coverage, no privacy settings.

Every visit began the same way — a long walk from where the bus stopped at the temple, because roads, apparently, respected divine boundaries and ended there. The rest of the journey home meant crossing bridges that would make civil engineers weep — some wooden, with gaps wide enough to drop your slipper through (and your courage along with it), and others made from the humble coconut trunk, laid across narrow streams.

But we loved it. The walk, the chatter, the little bridges that tested our faith in physics — all of it.

And, of course, the people. You couldn’t walk ten steps without being greeted, blessed, or interrogated. Everyone you met would ask the sacred village question:
“Evide pova?” — Where are you off to?

Now, this was not a polite hello. This was a full-scale audit. You were expected to disclose your purpose, destination, and sometimes even your lunch menu. But we, the younger generation, had evolved a powerful evasive manoeuvre — O Chumma.
Just like that.

It was vague, harmless, and best of all — conversation-ending.

“O Chumma” became our all-purpose excuse.

Heading to your friend’s house? O Chumma.
Going to the paddy fields? O Chumma.
Sneaking off to rent bicycles from the temple grounds and risk our lives? Definitely O Chumma.

It was the verbal equivalent of stealth mode.

My cousin and I were experts. That one phrase could get us past half the village without a single follow-up question.

Until, of course, we ran into Achaachan — my cousin’s father, also known in my personal horror dictionary as The Authority Figure Who Actually Needed Answers.

He stopped us on the way, arms folded, voice calm but dangerous.
“Where are you both going?”

And before my brain could consult common sense, I blurted, “O Chumma!”

The look he gave me could’ve boiled rice. Thankfully, my cousin jumped in with quick damage control:
“Just to the paddy fields, Achaacha. We’ll be back soon.”

Achaachan nodded slowly — the kind of nod that says, I know nonsense when I hear it.
He warned my cousin to make sure I didn’t fall into the river, which, considering my balance on those bridges, was fair advice.

I learnt an important lesson that day — “O Chumma” could get you past villagers, but not uncles. It had its jurisdictional limits.

It was a different story with Valliammachi.
When she asked me where I was going and I said “O Chumma,” she would just smile.
That gentle, knowing smile that said, I know exactly what you’re up to, but I’ll let you think you fooled me.
In her world, O Chumma wasn’t rebellion — it was childhood.

But then there was Mummy.
Mummy was not part of the O Chumma Amnesty Program.

Once, I tried using it on her when I was planning to cross the high bridge to the opposite side of the house — the area where thousands of coconuts were laid out to dry in the sun to make Copra. The bridge swayed like it had personal grudges against small boys, and I’d walk slowly, trying not to trigger any dramatic physics.

“Mone, where are you going?” she’d ask.
And, like a fool, I’d say, “O Chumma.”

She’d narrow her eyes, the way mothers do when their internal radar detects mischief.
“Don’t tell me O Chumma. You stay here!”

End of discussion. Freedom denied.
Apparently, “O Chumma” worked everywhere except under parental jurisdiction.

Years later, even when I went to town with my elder cousins, I’d still be armed with my favourite phrase. Someone would ask where we were off to, and I’d reflexively answer — “O Chumma.”
They’d look puzzled.
I’d grin, thinking, If you know, you know.

Looking back, “O Chumma” was more than just an excuse. It was a way of life — a carefree response to a world that expected explanations for everything.

It meant:
I’m doing something, but not something serious.
I’m going somewhere, but not too far.
And I’m living life — just like that.

If only adulthood had such a beautiful escape clause.
Imagine your boss asking, “Why is this report late?”
“O Chumma.”
Or your spouse asking, “Why did you order food again?”
“O Chumma.”

Maybe the world would be a much simpler place.

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Some stories linger — like O Chumma, a small phrase that still carries a world of memories.

I lived in the city, but summers were for the village — bridges scarier than exams, coconut fields longer than my patience, and saying O Chumma a survival skill. Amid the mischief, the village quietly helped me survive the sadness of my mother’s illness and early passing.

My memoir, launching soon, revisits those summers — where laughter, loss, and village magic shaped everything I became.

If this story made you smile or brought back your own childhood summers, share it with a friend. Some memories deserve company.