A 'Chest' of memories

Yodeling, screeching, slipping and sliding, I was born two years and two days after my parents' act at the altar midst a three ring circus of the religious, silk-clad relatives and the hamlet's who's who. Amma says I was born on Maundy Thursday (No! That's not directly or inversely proportional to my spirituality) at a hospital in Cherthala. An actress died in a car accident at the hospital bend. After a few drops of water from a steel tumbler held out by Lily Aunty (the tumbler shares glory with my first toothbrush, first spoon, pair of shoes and all that jazz in a showcase at home), I was wrapped in 'swaddling' clothes and taken home to make a family complete.

I knew no mattress as an infant for my Appa's hairy chest lent me all the comfort in my baby world and the melody of two heartbeats sang me a loving lullaby. This nightly tryst with my truly warm bedding makes for my first definition of feeling at peace, of feeling at home.

A hairy chest! Urggh! I'd scream and scoot the scene in a jiffy were I a 21 year old then but in my years of vulnerability as a suckling, it was my blanket from the world. Handled and fed by maidservants who came and went like night and day, I yearned for the "phat-phat" of the scooter that signaled Appa's arrival. A few sounds of water running in the shower later, I would be greeted by the fragrant embrace of Cinthol and Cuticura and a bearded cheek pressed against my "Johnson Baby" one before I was allowed to straddle my favorite bed.

I've slept the best on my Appa's chest and it is probably the only bed that fit me perfectly (my short stature allows for plenty of boot space on the present one). I did not have to worry about drawing back the covers or smoothening the wrinkles for it always offered me the perfect welcome. I toss and turn on hardwood bed today but a few fleeting seconds with Appa and my baby self found itself dreaming of cherubs and all things angelic (folklore has it that babies smile in their sleep when they dream of angels)

Well, I have gained years now and there will never be another chance at the pristine happiness on Appa's chest. He still celebrates his hairy splendor (and looks down on metrosexual men baring smooth chests) for it more than makes up for the lack of crowing glory atop his head.

And I, I celebrate the chest that blessed me with warmth, blanketed me in love, shielded me from mosquitoes (there is no Big Bad World when you are an infant) and rocked me to a lullaby that promised me the world.