Happiness

Life has become a never ending rat race. Everyone is in a rush to buy the latest marvel of technology; the latest gadgets, fancy cars, and expensive homes. I struggle to understand the logic. Isn’t happiness about simple things in life? Happiness, at least to me, isn’t about gadgets or cars or houses or money. It is about feeling good, light, simple, happy and serene. It is not a rat race to one-up anyone.

Memories of childhood are stippled with simple things that made me happy. The simple joy of playing cricket till sunset, listening to my aunt reading aloud paico classics, watching Sanjay KD acting out mohanlal movies, playing tabala on plastic buckets at NCC camps, walking back from school with my brother along that tranquil creek sucking on rainbow striped cigarette candies we purchased from labba kakka’s murukkan kada. Happiness was in collecting monsoon drops that dripped off our thatch roof, summer vacations with achamma, playing seven tiles with friends, and eating thatha-chundan maambazham on hot summer afternoons.

Happiness was amma’s home made unni appam. And achamma’s ada pradhaman, rich with pure ghee and whole green cardamom. Oh! That taste.
Happiness was in the simple pleasure of wading the quiet creek by the paddy fields, with my brother. Fishing with dirty, oily, mildew laden bath towels. Knee deep, in the cool water, loose algae flowing past our bare legs, fish darting about as we disturbed their sanctuaries. Feeding the ones we caught and housed in horlicks jars. We fed them earth worms and crushed rice. The creek bottom was littered with shards and broken glasses. We cut our legs, and scrapped our knees. But the pleasure of fishing abated our pain. That was an adventure we enjoyed without Amma’s knowledge or consent. The secrecy of the adventure was more satisfying than the fun of fishing itself.

Pleasure was tromping through the coconut groves. Picking mulberries and thetti pazham. Watching little lazy silk worms nibbling tender mulberry leafs. Suckling honey from banana blossoms. Pelting stones at 8-acre musaliar’s mango trees. Sneaking out to Santhy’s home. Spinning tops made from tapioca seeds, and riding cycle tires days on end.

I wonder if my son will ever have such a childhood. I wonder if he will hear the soft sounds of the afternoon winds, the pleasure of picking guava, the art of fishing with a half torn bath towel, the thrill of playing hide and seek between hay stacks, the adventure of instigating strange cows, the beauty of pregnant creeks and green paddy fields drenched in monsoon rain, the sound of crickets and the sight of frog hunters with peevish petro-max lights. The delight of fresh warm ghee smothered unni appam. The silence and serenity of our small village.

Growing up, life was simple; we studied when we were told to. We played at every opportunity, and enjoyed most of it with boundless enthusiasm. Happiness was in simple things. I would give anything to have it back.