Lessons from a village tailor and memories of the Onam Sadya...

The intermittent start and stop sound of the sewing machine and the occasional clack of scissors snipping the fabric and/or thread, would go on and on.  Except for a meal or tea break or for attending the nature's call, he never stopped pedaling the faithful old Singer sewing machine.  He started early morning and worked into the wee hours of the night.  Onam was around the corner and everyone wanted new dresses stitched for the festive days.  

Raman Ezhuthchan (real name) was our very own tailor who stitched short pants, long pants, shirts, underwear, pavadas (long skirts) and blouses for young girls and women, hemmed saree borders, and re-sized used dresses or mended torn clothing for one whole half of the village.  And his tools of trade included one well-used pair of scissors, a cutting ruler, one very old and well-used Singer sewing machine, a wooden desk, two small stools and a small shelf.  All these sat in a hole in a wall measuring about 8 feet by 4 feet, located at the corner of the main road and a mud road, adjacent to the bus stop, primary school, village office and the panchayat office.

 

Typical tailor shop in Kerala

An ex-serviceman, Raman Ezhuthachan was in his upper fifties those days and he supplemented his meager pension with the tailoring work.  Clean-shaven and bald, he always had a smile on his face and I can still see him threading a needle with the reading glasses hanging precariously on the edge of his nose.  And there was his assistant Krishnan Kutty (real name) who did most of the manual work like stitching buttons or hemming.  Both of them lived in the northern periphery of the village, about a couple of miles from the tailoring shop and would walk the distance both ways, every day. 

The location of his shop served to attract somebody or the other always.  Those waiting for a bus to travel will keep their bags and luggage inside the little shop and sit on the spare stool, complaining about the weather and how late the buses were running.  Those who had come visiting their families on vacation from their work would spend a substantial time at the shop, getting updated on all the spicy village news since their last visit.  Then there were those who were jobless and aimless, who left home making the tailoring shop their destination for spending time watching pedestrians walk by or the occasional motor vehicle driving past or guarding the shop when the tailor takes a break or just enjoying the luxury of simply doing absolutely nothing.  In the village, everyone knew everyone else and everyone knew Tailor Raman and Tailor Raman knew everyone else.   Sitting at his faithful tailoring machine, his vantage point was unique in that he never missed anything that moved on the road to his left.  If you were out to meet someone, you would ask Tailor Raman first whether he has seen the individual...  He was like a one-man information center for knowing about new visitors to locating missing kids to checking on whether a bus has passed by or not. 

He spoke little, but was a keen listener.  And everyone that happened to park oneself in his shop every now and then will warm up to him and pour their hearts out.  With those who tried to stay quiet, he used the gentle 'nudge' approach wherein he would pose a few, seemingly harmless, but leading questions, without appearing to be overtly inquisitive or interested.  That will generally get the flow going.  But, if that fails, he will resort to what he is best at doing.... keep very quiet. 

Tailor Raman was the ultimate epitome of discreetness and diplomacy.  He did not have friends or foes.  He treated everyone with the same dispassionate closeness.  He did not foment bias or enmity by talking bad about anybody to anyone else.  He spoke only when he was on neutral grounds.  We saw him everyday and spoke to him everyday.  He was very much part of the village mosaic.  You can't imagine that corner on the roadside without him or his small tailoring shop in it.  Raman Kada, as we all used to call, was a given and completely taken for granted.  He knew everything about everyone in that part of the village.  But, sad enough, none of us bothered to know about him, ever.  And, one day, sometime during the late 70's, he was no more there to open his shop and his absence got seamlessly integrated into the rural mosaic, with no visible effort.

In addition to tailoring work, he also distributed some of the Malayalam and Tamil Weeklies to the northern part of the village.  On Saturdays, I would go to Raman Kada to read Bobanum Moliyum cartoon in that week's Malayala Manorama Weekly, if there was a copy left undelivered.  (We could not afford to subscribe to any weekly and, moreover, Manorama was considered more commonplace compared to Mathrubhumi.)  Raman Ezhuthachan tolerated everything and everyone that was thrust on him and managed to keep smiling at life and people, every single day that I knew him.  Reflecting on those interactions with him has a humbling effect on me, and, so will it on you had you known him.

All of us got our clothes stitched.  One would get gifts of pant or shirt 'pieces' those days!  Only very few people indulged in readymade garments.  With labor so cheap, readymade garments were way too expensive.  I probably got one or two new shirt pieces in a year and Tailor Raman stitched them for me.  The fit of a tailored garment was always suspect even if the measurements taken were accurate.  The whole stitching process was one that of approximation, with ample allowance for growth.  Loose or tight, Tailor Raman knew how to make the garment fit..., after a few tries.  Those days, I did not have a wardrobe.  A half trouser and a shirt would be hanging out for drying in the clothesline and the other set would be on me.  Life, indeed, was very simple.

So, going back to where I started...  Onam.  Most families would get new dresses stitched for wearing on the Thiru Onam day.  People like Tailor Raman would get really busy for a month or so.  Schools were closed during the Onam festival.  From the start of the month of the Malayalam month Chingam (mid-August), we will start laying the pookalam (a cirular floral arrangement) in front of the house.  All the stories about Mahabali and Vamana apart, the advent of Onam for us was marked by the visit of our tenant (paattakkaran), who managed our small agricultural holding (which eventually became his property), with a basket of vegetables and a bunch each of raw and ripe plantains (nenthra kaya/pazham).  And, on the Onam day, the floral arrangement will be the largest possible, with flowers plucked from wherever possible. Plantain chips, both salted and sweet, were made at home a day or two in advance using the raw plantains.  The ripe ones would be hanging on a rope inside the house somewhere, mostly out of the reach of children.  Rich or poor, each family indulged in a multi-dish feast for lunch that day.  Those lucky to get new clothes could be seen going to the temple wearing them.  And, yes, Chinnammu, our maid, wouldn't take the day off since she always got a new set of Mundu from my mother that day. 

 

Simple Pookalam (flower arrangement)

Nenthrakaya Upperi (Plantain Chips)

Sarkara Upperi (sweet chips)

Plantain chips, plantain fruits, pookkalam and the sadya defined Onam for me.  There were no community celebrations or festivities in the village.  There was no one dressed up as Maveli.  The heavy lunch topped with the sweet payasams rendered one immobile and the siesta that followed turned the page on Onam, leaving it as memory, memory of the significant part of the day - the Sadya!

The sadya items consisted of - Paruppu, Kalan, Olan, Avial, Sambar, Thayir Pachadi/Kichadi, Mezhukku Puratti, Erisseri, Rasam, Puli Inji, Plantain Chips, Pappadam, Pickles and Payasam.  Of course, the feast was served on banana leaves. 

Of all the dishes, to me, Kalan (or Kurukku Kalan - meaning condensed Kalan), a yoghurt/curds and coconut based semi solid dish, stands out with its own place of pride on the sadya leaf.  It is a unique Kerala delicacy unmatched by any other dish in the menu, served in such small quantities just enough to tickle the palate and get the digestive juices flowing.  To the un-initiated, it may look insignificant amongst the other dishes on the banana leaf.  But for the gourmet, the Kalan lights up the sadya by its own singular aura! 

I have prepared Kalan for our local potluck Onam sadyas many times.  A delicacy and gourmet dish, Kalan or Kurukku Kalan requires a lot of dedication in its preparation.  What is dished out in the restaurants in Kerala would be nowhere close to the authentic dish that our mothers used to make. And, like any gourmet dish, attention to detail is an absolute necessity while preparing this dish.  It is quite time consuming, and, if you are in a hurry, don't even bother. 

Kurukku Kalan -

1.  Cut chena (yam) to 1 inch cubes - 1 cup

2.  Cut nenthra kaya(raw plantain) to 1 inch cubes - 1 medium plantain (If you don't have plantain, use raw banana in its place.)

3.  Take a thick-bottomed vessel (2 or 3 gallon size) and cook the cut vegetables with little water, salt as needed, a tea spoon of turmeric powder and a table spoon full of freshly ground black pepper.  Don't let the water dry out.  Whenever needed, add a bit of water.  Once cooked, turn the heat off.

4.  Grind to a smooth paste, a cup full of grated coconut with green chillies (as per tolerance to the spice) and quarter spoon of jeera (cumin) seeds.  Use only as little water as possible.

5.  Add a liter of sour curds beaten to a smooth liquid.  Turn the heat on to medium and keep stirring continuously.  At this time, you can add a tablespoon of ghee.  Keep stirring.  You can stop stirring after about two minutes after it starts boiling.  Let the curds reduce and thicken to half the quantity.  Add the ground coconut paste now.  Mix well and let it come to boil in low heat.  Keep stirring the mix lest it should burn in the bottom.  Add a spoon of ghee and a teaspoon of fresh roasted and ground methi (fenugreek) seeds and continue stirring till the consistency becomes considerably thick.  Recheck salt and add more if needed.   Remove the vessel from the heat.

(Note:  Quite often, when you add the beaten yoghurt, it could break or separate when it starts boiling, if the yoghurt is not sour enough.  I suggest adding the ghee before you pour the beaten yoghurt to avoid the separation.   Try adding the yoghurt little by little rather than all together.  Keep the heat low and keep stirring.)

The process till now takes about an hour!

6.  Do thadka (seasoning) with mustard seeds and half a spoon of methi (fenugreek) seeds in a tablespoon of coconut oil.  Add a few red chillies when the mustard seeds start cracking.  Add also a few sprigs of fresh curry leaves.  Pour the mix over the Kurukku Kalan.  Mix well and serve as a side dish in small quantities.

 (Image credits - various from Google search)