A mail sent to the Pattars Net Samooham group by one of its members regarding his search for his lost roots, set me thinking. Just like his father, this gentleman was also born and brought up in a cosmopolitan city, and had no idea of his family's ancestral roots, which he, like all of us certainly has. He had one clue though - an initial in his grandfather's name. So, this person rose to the task and decided that he needs to know more about his ancestry and goes in search of it, but soon returns with no inkling of the same. He sounded quite distraught.

I was able to understand his feelings to a degree. After reading the mail I felt very sad. Why? Must be because I myself have no tharavadu of my own. Both my parents' ancestral homes have been sold to people not belonging to our community. I hear from my co-sister that one of her cousin's tharavadu, where they used to do Shiva puja and Rudra japa everyday was sold and on the day the new owners moved in, they treated the guests to a sumptuous meal of beef and other 'abhisthu' stuff. Quite ironic, isn't it? Our homes are our sanctum sanctorum. God is said to reside there with us. In the olden days, not even girls going through her natural cycles could enter the house. Such was the 'shuddam, acharam'.

My mother's ancestral house in Vellangallur has been pulled down and a telephone exchange stands in its place. It seems there were many secret passages inside the house and my mother has got absolutely no idea of these. Maybe my cousins and I would have found them if only we had been a little older. Many antique pieces in the form of vases and chinaware are also said to have been lost. More importantly, the one thing that I am most sad losing is - my roots.

I was only 4 or 5 when they sold my maternal Tharavadu. Until my sixth standard, my greatest ambition was to buy back that house. Somehow these ambitions fade from memory, especially since I have never stayed there for more than 3 days at a stretch. Even if I have stayed longer, I don't remember much. My mother does have a forlorn look in her eyes when she talks about her madam, but she has accepted the fact that it no longer exists. Even if I ask her about it - she says no one could have lived there anyway, especially people belonging to the present world. Is that her own way of consoling herself? Do you think what she says is true? The hustle and bustle of the city life is something inseparable from me, but the smell of fresh earth, the mooing of the cows, the lush paddy fields sound too enticing. Another explanation on her part is that the workers of the olden days are no longer there. "Nee vicharikyarathu madiri ellupam alla oru pazhaya tharavatta pathukaradhu... chedal arikyum... anda kalathilla madiri eppo arrukkum pani edukka mudiyathu". Is she right or is it the other way round? Do you think that because people then used to work so hard, they were healthy?

My father's tharavadu is still there in Kodungallur and one of my cousin periappa lives in the adjacent compound. My father never comes to that part of periappa's compound from where his old house can be seen because I think it hurts him to see it. He was born and brought up there. I know that a bond exists between him and that particular house. Frankly, I have no such bonds with my house as I have already lived in 4 to 5 rented houses and apartments. Even a person like me, who used to and still has an almost nomadic existence, has feelings of sadness when shifting places. So just imagine how my parents must have felt when they sold their house of God-knows-how-many-generations?

I am trying to understand the people who took the decision to sell the tharavadus. But for some questions I just seem to get no answers. How could they accept the fact that their house was being sold? How could they make such a decision ? How could they accept that someone else would live there, in their home, from the next day? Could they just do the selling without any feelings? Did they ever feel sad? Did they ever feel that they were giving up a part of their culture, their roots? Why did they have to do it? Didn't they feel that they were denying their children of some important things?

Everybody has his/her own explanations. I have asked these questions to my parents, but the replies are always vague, something about money, transferable jobs and educational facilities for the children, partition problems, etc.

Now if you ask me, "Given a chance to go and stay in your tharavadu again, will you accept it?" Ask this and my answer will be - "I don't know."

You might think of me as a hypocrite and persist with, "Why not?"

Brought up in Thrissur, Anuradha Harish is married to Harish Ganesh and is based in Ernakulam. She is doing her graduate program from Indira Gandhi National Open University.