Joychen (in the pages of my memory book ) Obituary - K. J. Thomas

Joychen in the pages of my memory book.                                   OBITUARY

My maiden meeting with Joychen was at his residence Ponga – in  Chennamkari village, long ago when we were young and handsome. Joychen was a typical Kuttanadan gentleman with a coconut grove as his own which yielded him enough coconuts every forty days adding to a landlord’s income, besides his earnings at Kochi as a smart tourist guide. His luxurious Kuttanadan menu consists of boiled tapioca, boiled rice, beef fry, fish curry, and a bottle of toddy once in a blue moon. He was happy. But his joyful days did not last long.

He was sober, no alcoholic drink no smoking, no boasting, no gossiping, andwas a perfect gentleman among us.  I never see him angry with anyone. He always kept his aristocracy and gentle behavior till his end.

But he made a blunder as all henpecked husbands do.  All his properties were transferred to his wife. I was very angry with my  father who brokered the land deal because I had foreseen the tragedy. One should not sell one’s inherited properties under any circumstances. It is like uprooting a huge family tree. It is one’s THARAVADU – which is his identity and family reputation. Once it is destroyed, it is destroyed forever. Yet Joychen  was unperturbed and calm. He was sadder but wiser. Once I asked Joychen about it., “ I love my wife and children more than myself. Let them do as they like”was his reply. Finally the Kuttanadan land-loard’s  long journey of life ended in the soil of a Roman Catholic cemetary of a remote hamlet somewhere in Kerala-Karnataka border in the most tragic manner.

Joychen had simple dreams. He loved Kochi, his dream city where he spent many years as a smart tourist guide. Joychen never bargained. So he was the favourite of  foreign tourists.

Grown up human beings are like grown up trees. Both are wilted away when  replanted in another soil. But new generation don’t know the woes of old people. Poor Joychen slowly died away in the soil of Karnataka where he was alienated, unwanted and a stranger, could not speak his mother-tongue, did not get idiappam, palappam, neyyappam and Ethakaappam,

 He escaped from his home at the remote Kannada village in the disguise of consulting a skin specialist and wandered through the streets of Kochi munching, and munching and  yet munching his tasty Keralite eatables in a nostalgic mood.

After a few days stay at Kochi he boards train to Bangalore only to come back to his beloved city after three months interval. I scribble these lines to express my tearful homage to my dear comrade, my Kuttanadan gentleman landlord whose departure is irreparable.     Kjt/05-10-2018