Beneath Simple Roofs:
A Tapestry of Tradition and Open Living
My home could not rival rich people’s homes for splendour, but within it, there was harmony and culture I can only dream of now. It was a plain brick house with clay tiles, but it was well-built, constructed to last — a creation of my grandfather in his heyday, designed as a weekend getaway. It was well-ordered to suit the times, featuring a front veranda and a front room with a separate entrance that came in handy as I entered my teenage years. The dwelling comprised a living room, a dining room, four rooms, and a kitchen.
We possessed simple wooden chairs with cane bottoms. A large dining table stood in the middle of the dining room, larger than anything I had ever seen. There were no marble-topped tables with lace, only a simple wooden table so weighty that nobody could lift it. A few glass cabinets stored the meagre cutlery and crockery we owned.
Statues of Mother Mary, Jesus, and a few saints adorned a box in the centre of the living room. One could observe the next-door neighbours’s water well and their bathing habits through the large windows with metal grills.
Our house was cleaned twice daily, with my grandma handling the morning sweep and my mother taking care of it in the afternoon. They used a broom made of wood and coconut husk. The floor got a fresh shine from discarded coconut powder every three months. Nothing was wasted; everything was re-used to the max.
Coconuts played a significant role in our daily routine, with approximately fifty coconut trees gracing our property. Our meals were infused with the rich flavour of coconut milk, and for the youngsters, refreshing coconut water was the only beverage of choice. Whenever a coconut plucker, clad in a loincloth, a traditional attire resembling a contemporary g-string, arrived to harvest coconuts, our abundance allowed us to generously share the surplus with our neighbours. Inside our home, instead of a conventional ceiling, a roof supported by joists and horizontal studs crafted from trunks of coconut trees adorned the space.
We didn’t have locks on the doors inside our home, only colourful curtains. It was a casual atmosphere where anyone could walk into any room without knocking. Privacy wasn’t a thing. Whether I was changing clothes or completely undressed, it was just part of the open living style. Our house was always bustling with visitors like aunts, uncles, grand uncles and grand aunties who came to stay.
We had a kerosene cooker and a wooden stove in the kitchen, both seeing plenty of use. Kids were encouraged to observe the cooking and daily chores and even help.
The water well stood quite a distance from our home. We were fetching water using a bucket attached to a rope. Laundry was done at the well, with clothes scrubbed by hand.
The street was a fair distance away. When electricity finally reached us, we needed an extra power pole in the middle — a whiz-bang addition to our large garden. Until then, the house was lit by oil lamps in the night.
At 9 pm, our house became quiet. The oil lamps gave a soft light, like they told stories about our day and how much we loved being together. The rooms, which used to be so busy, became calm as everyone, old and young, went to sleep. The curtains moved slightly in the night breeze, making a gentle sound like a bedtime song. Our house, under the moonlight, slept peacefully — a safe place for dreams and memories. We all looked forward to a new day when the sun rose.
Related links: My walk up to my home street
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