A post office of my own

Mundakkottukurussi, a village in Kerala which is the birthplace of neither a mahatma nor a motion, is residence to me

with the aid of now i have gotten used to the response the title of my village elicits: “Mundakkottukurussi???!!!” “where is that?” “Is that a tongue tornado?”

and then, as we take the turn from Kulappully Junction closer to the road that leads to Mundakkottukurussi, be it cabbie or pal driving me there for the primary time, a muffled snigger with a what-is-this-place? Look at me. A few minutes onto the slim road, the cabbie — a city slicker from Kochi or Thrissur — would quite often mumble, “Thank god, there is nonetheless daylight. I’d by no means find my means back within the night.”

As for neighbors, i’ve heard the whole thing from “Do you have wild animals right here?” to “So what’s the movie walking right here within the village talkies? Chemmeen?” to “Are we going to have children going for walks after the car?”

That on this time and age, there still is a village like Mundakkottukurussi is close to a conundrum. Pristine, untouched and real god’s possess village, it hasn’t been eaten up as but through actual estate sharks or turned into a environment for a inn by using earnest tour operators.

Mundakkottukurussi is one among the villages along what is now an arterial road linking Kulappully or Vaniamkulam to Cherpulassery. On either aspect of the wooded road you’re going to see a medley of dated tile- and concrete-roofed houses, and garish new bungalows constructed with cash despatched residence from the center East. There are little temples that dot the landscape as there are minarets of mosques right here and there. The pass and a church are conspicuous by way of their absence.

No constructing appears like another but all structures have in long-established substantial acreages full of many trees, giving the villages a distinct density of shadow that one mostly sees within the peripheries of forests.

The terrain is hilly and interspersed by way of immense tracts of paddy fields. In the distance is the Anangan variety, grim, brooding, dark mountains but Mundakkottukurussi has its own Pulmooth Mala. A hill on the western part of the village where rain clouds break first, so it’s possible to look the rains come sliding down the hillside into the valley. To nowadays women rush to the clotheslines as soon as they hear the far-off hiss of the rain on the hilltop.

The object is, Mundakkottukurussi, my ancestral village (the family tree traces our lineage to the 16th century), has nothing that would make any one come looking for it. So much so, when I set out to create Kaikurussi, a fictitious village in my first novel, the simpler Man, I effortlessly looked around Mundakkottukurussi and described it: it is the birthplace of neither a mahatma nor a motion. There aren’t any craft forms originating from here to fill government cottage emporia shelves. No miracles have ever happened right here. Actually, nothing of importance occurs to any individual here.