Saying Bye To Theyyamma
Today, I'm going back to Bangalore for work after visiting home for Onam. I'm travelling by the Island Express that leaves at 05:42 pm from Ernakulam Town. I heard someone say that Railways might change name of this railway station to Ernakulam North as we refer to it here locally. So this could well be one of the last times I'll be literally leaving from Ernakulam Town station. At the station there was an old lady sitting to my right talking to somebody over an old mobile phone, one of those we had more than a decade back. She was talking loudly to someone about how a kid, probably her own grandson, spoke English fluently. Ten minutes later she cut her phone and randomly asked me about a memu train that was passing by. I replied to her query and asked her which train she was waiting for. She said it was Parasuram Express and that it would come only around midnight. She was going to Thalassery and from there to Kottiyoor by bus. She said her name was Theresa and people called her Theyyamma. I remarked that she didn't have a Kannur accent and she replied that it was because they're Christians.
Christians from Travancore migrated to North Malabar regions around the 1950-90s years ago in search of a better life. They tamed the forest lands, fought wild animals and survived everything else that came with it.
Anyways, it was Theyyamma's uncle who came here with her sister from somewhere near Thodupuzha. She told me that she still has relatives around Thodupuzha, Pala and Kottayam. When she came of age, Theyyamma got married to Jose, somewhere in the early 80s. They had a son and a daughter. But when her daughter was only three months old, Jose suddenly passed away to some sickness.
Her son was just a little over one year old at the time. Now, he's forty. At this point I asked why she was in Kochi. It was to take her son for doing work as a security guard somewhere. I wondered why she had to take her forty year old son for a job. She said he was used to doing brick work and has never been to the big cities. He developed breathing problems recently and it was further not possible for him to continue in his line of work.
For a second I wondered about the difficulty of this woman, probably in her mid 60s, who has to take her son to get him a safe job. But she was laughing all the while she talked about this. I asked her how she managed to raise her family after Jose' death. I asked her what year he died. She didn't know the exact year, only that it happened in a time that was now too old to remember.
She told me that she worked all the time, everywhere. She had worked everywhere, in Tamil Nadu, somewhere near Bengaluru and in many countries of the Middle East like Kuwait, Qatar, Bahrain, etc. She had come for a break to India in 2020 and about to go to Bahrain when Covid struck. I asked her about her children. Her son is married and has two children. But the children and her mother are at her home because she's the youngest daughter in their house.
Her own daughter was married to someone and they have 3 children, two sons and a daughter. But the husband was addicted to alcohol and had committed suicide. So the daughter is scared to go to her husband's house where he died and is staying with her children with her ever since. The girl child is admitted in a school for girls run by Christian priests for girl children from poorer households. The sons are sent to a nearby school where one is studying in class 7 and the other, class three. It is about this kid that she said with a little pride in voice, over her phone ten minutes back to some stranger I'll probably never know.
I asked her what she did with all that money she got from the Middle East. She said that's how I got my children married. So, again, I wondered about this dark old lady who must have gone through so many darker days in her life. And with a forty year old son who still need help, and a widowed daughter with three little children, tough times are far from over.
At this point, the train that would take me to Bangalore slowly arrived to the platform. So I stood up and asked her what sees ahead? "Paniyedukkanam, chaakanam" (I should work and then die!), she replied. I asked her for her leave and quipped we may see again someday. She smiled. I got on my train and never saw her again.
Christians from Travancore migrated to North Malabar regions around the 1950-90s years ago in search of a better life. They tamed the forest lands, fought wild animals and survived everything else that came with it.
Anyways, it was Theyyamma's uncle who came here with her sister from somewhere near Thodupuzha. She told me that she still has relatives around Thodupuzha, Pala and Kottayam. When she came of age, Theyyamma got married to Jose, somewhere in the early 80s. They had a son and a daughter. But when her daughter was only three months old, Jose suddenly passed away to some sickness.
Her son was just a little over one year old at the time. Now, he's forty. At this point I asked why she was in Kochi. It was to take her son for doing work as a security guard somewhere. I wondered why she had to take her forty year old son for a job. She said he was used to doing brick work and has never been to the big cities. He developed breathing problems recently and it was further not possible for him to continue in his line of work.
For a second I wondered about the difficulty of this woman, probably in her mid 60s, who has to take her son to get him a safe job. But she was laughing all the while she talked about this. I asked her how she managed to raise her family after Jose' death. I asked her what year he died. She didn't know the exact year, only that it happened in a time that was now too old to remember.
She told me that she worked all the time, everywhere. She had worked everywhere, in Tamil Nadu, somewhere near Bengaluru and in many countries of the Middle East like Kuwait, Qatar, Bahrain, etc. She had come for a break to India in 2020 and about to go to Bahrain when Covid struck. I asked her about her children. Her son is married and has two children. But the children and her mother are at her home because she's the youngest daughter in their house.
Her own daughter was married to someone and they have 3 children, two sons and a daughter. But the husband was addicted to alcohol and had committed suicide. So the daughter is scared to go to her husband's house where he died and is staying with her children with her ever since. The girl child is admitted in a school for girls run by Christian priests for girl children from poorer households. The sons are sent to a nearby school where one is studying in class 7 and the other, class three. It is about this kid that she said with a little pride in voice, over her phone ten minutes back to some stranger I'll probably never know.
I asked her what she did with all that money she got from the Middle East. She said that's how I got my children married. So, again, I wondered about this dark old lady who must have gone through so many darker days in her life. And with a forty year old son who still need help, and a widowed daughter with three little children, tough times are far from over.
At this point, the train that would take me to Bangalore slowly arrived to the platform. So I stood up and asked her what sees ahead? "Paniyedukkanam, chaakanam" (I should work and then die!), she replied. I asked her for her leave and quipped we may see again someday. She smiled. I got on my train and never saw her again.