Days in Kiwale
There was this time when I was a child of 9-10 years and lived in the outskirts of the city in a small upcoming town named Kiwale in Dehuroad. It was an abandoned Jungle area but came up due to the provision of economical accommodation to those who came searching for jobs in the nearby Industrial belt.
This little town was once dotted by fields and thickets and often reflected a rural landscape. It was easier to call it a village then. A place where men drove hay laden bullock carts, women picked ripe tomatoes from fields and children roamed freely in muck and grime with thick dust layered bodies.
In those days my only adventure would be to meet up with my friends and make an impulsive plan to escape into the village located at the end of this town. There was a stream there and it overlooked some remains of’ what we called’ a fort. We could be there for hours unless somebody gets mentally alerted about a parental warning to reach home in time for lunch or dinner. Those lazy afternoons, spend underneath a sultry sun and listening to those rippling brooks are some of the treasured moments of my childhood. There was not a bother about the heat that would bake us black and red…… We dipped our dry feet into the cool waters and felt the fishes and tadpoles tickling our toes.
Sometimes we tried a hand with fishing using waste polythene bags but it never worked very well. Once bored with the stream we played games on that fort or moved further into the village where nestled between the jowar and bajra fields was a temple with a fiery Hanuman idol. The idol and the interiors were orange but when we entered into the shade of the temple it all looked red.
This temple had a balcony and we all rested there for a while telling stories, mostly ghost stories. I was convinced that Hanuman protected you from ghosts and moreover you can do all the gossip about ghosts inside a Hanuman temple cause the ghosts cannot come near enough to hear. They simply get burnt up if they come anywhere near the temple.
Nearby was a dusty road streamlined with thick mango trees. Stoning some raw mangoes was a delightful indulgence. On a lucky day, we would find a bullock cart on that shady road and the bullock cart driver would grace us with a ride. I was the problem child with motion sickness and the vibrations of the cart bewildered me. Others enjoyed that jittery ride.
On our return, a chance ambush into an unguarded Jowar fields would gain us some prized Jowar cobs though at the cost of winning the wrath of that hidden farmer.
Those farmers never feared snakes, a snake was just another co-habitant and a colleague in keeping a check on the rat pest. That’s a big lesson for me about co-existence. During one such meanderings a playmate had found a huge snake nearby a farm and we had raised quite an alarm.. the farmer whom we alerted simply looked around, murmured something and send us away.
Once in a while we would detain a dragonfly and sentence him to picking tiny pebbles whilst holding its wings. We go lighter on Moths or a glow worms which are often packed into match boxes or through see-through milk bottles.
Catching a butterfly was another pastime activity… there were so many yellow powder winged butterflies flitting across the wild bushes. Butterfly pastime often gave me allergies of a varied sort. Since these bushes had an army of tiny beings who fired their defenses when we trudged into their abodes.
Our high school was literally yonder a small green hill. This hill had gained a bad rapport due to the slum dwellers nearby. Nevertheless, it was a short cut route then to rush home after Sunday classes to catch up the Ramayana serial. A variety of wildflowers bloomed on this hill, that gave our exotic flowers a run for their money. Some were so miniscule yet designed to perfection. Those flowers always gave me this thought, as to who could have formed these flowers so beautifully?
Right after the hill was a stretch of plain grassy field. There was a curved path etched by walkers. We used to take that path and reach a tomato farm. The tomatoes were well hidden and camouflaged unless they were ripe. Once ripened the tomatoes stood no chance of hiding. The green leaves very well highlighted their luscious existence. Their fate was to be plucked and sold off at the market.
The most romantic memories of summers then were of bicycling into this nearby village in the morning fog and collecting some wild flowers on our way back... and then getting an earful from mummy for going so far with the bicycle.
The nearby hills promised chilly winters. Mummy used to place the blankets on the terrace during day.... At night daddy used to pack us with those warm blankets. Winters were all about sitting around the warm stove or sometimes my most enthusiastic daddy used to collect all the used coconut shells and burn them at nights. Sitting around them with my dear ones remains a cherished experience.
The rains were the most horrible.. since our raincoats could never hold the water at bay. Plus there were no good tar roads in our place, so by the time we reached home we would have had heels full of dirt.... The memory of coming into warm clothes after drenching in those rains and having hot tea and home made snacks from mom still warms my heart. If daddy was at home.. he would tuck bed sheets around our feet, while we did our homework.
The beauty of this area emerges during rains with that emerald umbrella spread wide and far. Most of the houses had a fence of henna shrubs. One of our pastime was to shower one another with the rain drops that stayed back on these henna leaves.
Watching a plumpy juicy caterpillar dragging his weight around, a chameleon stand endlessly without moving a muscle, a desperate earthworm squirming in the ground, a rushing centipede, the baby pink roses dancing to the tunes of the gentle breeze, watching the rainwater from rooftops forming a perfect row of holes on the wet ground, the march of the ants to destiny was beyond amusement. There was a thrill when we anticipated heavy rains after a thunderous concert.
These experiences must have been welded in heaven, they remain in my heart as a constant nourishment for my soul.
This little town was once dotted by fields and thickets and often reflected a rural landscape. It was easier to call it a village then. A place where men drove hay laden bullock carts, women picked ripe tomatoes from fields and children roamed freely in muck and grime with thick dust layered bodies.
In those days my only adventure would be to meet up with my friends and make an impulsive plan to escape into the village located at the end of this town. There was a stream there and it overlooked some remains of’ what we called’ a fort. We could be there for hours unless somebody gets mentally alerted about a parental warning to reach home in time for lunch or dinner. Those lazy afternoons, spend underneath a sultry sun and listening to those rippling brooks are some of the treasured moments of my childhood. There was not a bother about the heat that would bake us black and red…… We dipped our dry feet into the cool waters and felt the fishes and tadpoles tickling our toes.
Sometimes we tried a hand with fishing using waste polythene bags but it never worked very well. Once bored with the stream we played games on that fort or moved further into the village where nestled between the jowar and bajra fields was a temple with a fiery Hanuman idol. The idol and the interiors were orange but when we entered into the shade of the temple it all looked red.
This temple had a balcony and we all rested there for a while telling stories, mostly ghost stories. I was convinced that Hanuman protected you from ghosts and moreover you can do all the gossip about ghosts inside a Hanuman temple cause the ghosts cannot come near enough to hear. They simply get burnt up if they come anywhere near the temple.
Nearby was a dusty road streamlined with thick mango trees. Stoning some raw mangoes was a delightful indulgence. On a lucky day, we would find a bullock cart on that shady road and the bullock cart driver would grace us with a ride. I was the problem child with motion sickness and the vibrations of the cart bewildered me. Others enjoyed that jittery ride.
On our return, a chance ambush into an unguarded Jowar fields would gain us some prized Jowar cobs though at the cost of winning the wrath of that hidden farmer.
Those farmers never feared snakes, a snake was just another co-habitant and a colleague in keeping a check on the rat pest. That’s a big lesson for me about co-existence. During one such meanderings a playmate had found a huge snake nearby a farm and we had raised quite an alarm.. the farmer whom we alerted simply looked around, murmured something and send us away.
Once in a while we would detain a dragonfly and sentence him to picking tiny pebbles whilst holding its wings. We go lighter on Moths or a glow worms which are often packed into match boxes or through see-through milk bottles.
Catching a butterfly was another pastime activity… there were so many yellow powder winged butterflies flitting across the wild bushes. Butterfly pastime often gave me allergies of a varied sort. Since these bushes had an army of tiny beings who fired their defenses when we trudged into their abodes.
Our high school was literally yonder a small green hill. This hill had gained a bad rapport due to the slum dwellers nearby. Nevertheless, it was a short cut route then to rush home after Sunday classes to catch up the Ramayana serial. A variety of wildflowers bloomed on this hill, that gave our exotic flowers a run for their money. Some were so miniscule yet designed to perfection. Those flowers always gave me this thought, as to who could have formed these flowers so beautifully?
Right after the hill was a stretch of plain grassy field. There was a curved path etched by walkers. We used to take that path and reach a tomato farm. The tomatoes were well hidden and camouflaged unless they were ripe. Once ripened the tomatoes stood no chance of hiding. The green leaves very well highlighted their luscious existence. Their fate was to be plucked and sold off at the market.
The most romantic memories of summers then were of bicycling into this nearby village in the morning fog and collecting some wild flowers on our way back... and then getting an earful from mummy for going so far with the bicycle.
The nearby hills promised chilly winters. Mummy used to place the blankets on the terrace during day.... At night daddy used to pack us with those warm blankets. Winters were all about sitting around the warm stove or sometimes my most enthusiastic daddy used to collect all the used coconut shells and burn them at nights. Sitting around them with my dear ones remains a cherished experience.
The rains were the most horrible.. since our raincoats could never hold the water at bay. Plus there were no good tar roads in our place, so by the time we reached home we would have had heels full of dirt.... The memory of coming into warm clothes after drenching in those rains and having hot tea and home made snacks from mom still warms my heart. If daddy was at home.. he would tuck bed sheets around our feet, while we did our homework.
The beauty of this area emerges during rains with that emerald umbrella spread wide and far. Most of the houses had a fence of henna shrubs. One of our pastime was to shower one another with the rain drops that stayed back on these henna leaves.
Watching a plumpy juicy caterpillar dragging his weight around, a chameleon stand endlessly without moving a muscle, a desperate earthworm squirming in the ground, a rushing centipede, the baby pink roses dancing to the tunes of the gentle breeze, watching the rainwater from rooftops forming a perfect row of holes on the wet ground, the march of the ants to destiny was beyond amusement. There was a thrill when we anticipated heavy rains after a thunderous concert.
These experiences must have been welded in heaven, they remain in my heart as a constant nourishment for my soul.
I enjoyed going back to the memory lanes of our days in Dehuroad, and Kiwle. Do you remember our picnic to that village during our summer vacation.
ReplyDeleteHey Lizy,
ReplyDeleteMy memories are fresh of Kiwale village !!!. U suddenly vanished from social media ??
My husband is a freelancer and he maintains a blog. Ofcourse his content is totally different.
- Christine Mathew ( from Kiwale village )