A magic mirror of memories: Aranmula Kannadi, from God’s own country, Kerala

Translated from the Hindi original by Khila Bisht

What a beautiful feeling it is when a story stays, generation after generation, with the same warmth, the same softness … just a little different in the way it is woven. We don’t always pay attention but sometimes an object, a fragrance, a place become the backbone of these stories, their plot. And these become tradition.

It wouldn’t even have been five o’clock in the morning. Amma’s voice rang in our ears like a prayer and we, brothers and sisters, would walk, eyes covered with our hands, slowly feeling our way to the Puja room. Amma would recite a mantra softly:

‘Karagre vaste lakshmih karmadhye Saraswati. Karmule tu govindah prabhate kar darshanam’

Then Papa would place some money in our hands – Vishu Kaineetam it is called. The old days, like those notes and coins held tightly in my fist, slip slowly and scatter.

It was Vishu, the new year for the Hindus of Kerala. The first day of the first month of the solar calendar. Like Bihu, Baisakhi and Chaiti Chand. On festivals, on birthdays, following Amma and Papa’s rituals, listening to them without question, waking up early, I still remember everything as it was.

Childhood memories are full of light, just like the lustrous mirror that was part of Amma’s altar. And which she cleaned gently with a soft silken cloth. That mirror was the Aranmula Kannadi. A mirror full of memories of Papa’s village.

In Malayalam Kannadi means mirror. And this Aranmula Kannadi is made in a small, sweet village called Aranmula. Aranmula is half an hour away from my grandfather’s village, Ayroor. It is a small settlement along the Pampa river, where the boat races are held on Onam. The boat races or Vallam Kali, are a beautiful and famous tradition of Kerala, but we’ll talk about that later!Aranmula Kannadi: a Aranmula Kannadi: a

Aranmula Kannadi, or mirrors made in Aranmula, are very special, their most unique feature being that they are not made of glass. They are made of an alloy that is achieved, at a certain temperature, from a special mix of copper and tin. This mirror makes up part of the ashtmaangalyam, or vessels of eight metals. These eight vessels are an essential part of the articles needed for marriages and pujas. They were part of the collection of brass vessels in our home. Every now and then Papa would take them out and make them shine with lime and tamarind and salt, laughing as he said ‘See I’m shining your future!’ Perhaps all fathers do that. And the mirrors and the vessels, are all just excuses.

My grandfather would tell us about how old the story was, going back centuries. Eight craftsmen were brought from Tirunelveli in Tamil Nadu to the Parthasarthy Temple in Aranmula to make the jewels, crowns and vessels of the deities. It was during that time that they created this shiny reflective alloy that was like a mirror. After many experiments with many metals in various measures they finally found one that gave the same shining finish as a flawless mirror. Since then the same family has made these mirrors. Never disclosing the secret formula to anyone, preserving the dignity of the tradition.

With moulds made from clay and skilful hands this family has saved these mirrors from the harshness of machines. In the same way perhaps, a mother saves her golden bangles for her daughters, or a father some special books or the rear-view mirror of his first scooter. We collect things in the present that help us look back into the past … as we should.

As he told this story, Appupan’s (my grandfather) brown eyes would glow. The thin gold wires he wore in his ears swinging ever so slightly. I would clasp his rough hands in mine. I saw the same glow in my father’s eyes as years later he told the story of the mirror to his grandchildren. I clasped his hands then, and I still feel their touch. I don’t wipe away tears whenever they slide down my cheeks, my father’s fingers do …even today.

What a beautiful feeling it is when a story stays, generation after generation, with the same warmth, the same softness … just a little different in the way it is woven. We don’t always pay attention but sometimes an object, a fragrance, a place become the backbone of these stories, their plot. And these become tradition.

Memories of summer vacations and festivals are forever bound in my memories of that small village house in Kerala. The sweet taste of ripe yellow jackfruit, fresh coconuts sliding down our throats, the damp smell of the earth … everything is as it was.

The stories told by my grandfather, and then my father, are as luminous as Papa’s mirror, his Aranmula Kannadi. I have a mirror too. A reminder, it tells the stories of my grandfather and my parents. When I glance inside it, I see their hands, caressing my hair, blessing me.

NOTE –

The Aranmula Kannadi is now exported all over the world. It has even found a place in the British Museum in London. A mirror the size of one’s palm is worth four or five thousand rupees, the worth of hard work and centuries of tradition.