The urge to possess tools may be inborn, the result of an evolutionary break that gave humans the thumbs up. The right tool in the right circumstance can put you ahead, like Indiana Jones who whipped out a pistol when confronted by a sword-swinging opponent.
Less violently, I tasted the feeling of saving the day when I visited Kerala with a bottle of wine. Friends gathered around expectantly but the fun came to a sudden halt the moment the cap foil was removed and the cork came into view. No instrument was around to uncork it. That’s when I remembered my first tool possession, a Swiss Army Knife. A red-handled beauty packing a dozen implements including scissors, a can opener, and most importantly, a corkscrew. I flipped it out, uncorked the bottle, and suddenly levity knew no bounds.
The Swiss Army Knife was no impulse buy. Getting one had been on the wish list since the days I locked my eyes on a pocket knife around my house: a Singaporean import with an ivory handle and a three-inch blade that could slice a coir rope with one flick of the wrist. Unfortunately, its owner was Valiyammaman (elder uncle). To be in his presence was unnerving enough, but if he raised his voice, you immediately felt the loss of bladder control. This kept the knife unapproachable, yet added to its attraction.
My tool collection has grown beyond the Swiss Army knife, all acquired at least in part for the same reason: childhood denial. The denial might have been wise but it bred a desire to buy and use those very tools at the first opportunity. And what better place to do it than tool country USA.
* * *
Like other kids who grew up in a toy-less era, I had a habit of walking away with household tools, the sharper the better. This habit clashed with a household ban on kids laying hands on the same. The reasons for the prohibition were simple. The instruments rarely worked as intended in the best of circumstances. They weren’t sharp enough and the handles were often loose. Kids getting their hands on these tools meant they couldn’t be found when they were needed even in their malfunctioning state. But worse, every time a kid disappeared with a tool, he returned home with injuries, which, absent antiseptics, took weeks to heal.
Case in point, the versatile hoe (kaikottu), a must-have for kalakkal, digging up dirt. But its use kids hankered after was thirikkal, guiding water into basins dug around coconut and areca palms and banana plants to irrigate them in the summer. The sight and sound of clear cool water flowing through the channels and filling the basins held an irresistible appeal. Once a basin is full, the inlet to that basin is closed off by moving dirt with the hoe and the next one is opened. The process has to be swift or a channel would breach, which is why this chore was rarely handed to kids.
But the other reason was hoes broke down at the slightest provocation. It seemed the shaft (pidi) and the blade head (thaya) were never made for each other. After a few swings, the blade would dislodge and come straight at your toes.
The rest of the household’s tool collection fared no better:
Pishankathi, the kitchen knife;
Penakathi, the pen knife—only the rare adult had this;
Vettukathi, a machete-cleaver hybrid;
Arakkaval, the hand saw;
Mazhu, the axe;
Thotti, a curved knife mounted on a pole; and
Pickass, the pickaxe, a companion to the hoe for digging.
When put to use, each of them served up the same combination of frustration, anger, and injury. The head would wiggle, dangle, or fly off in one direction while you swung the handle. The pickaxe was called pickass, I suppose so-named by someone with an unforgettable experience accidentally picking the wrong end of his self wielding this double-sided instrument. The only tool that didn’t present danger from flying parts was the elanku, an iron digging bar. A metal pole with a pointy end, the elanku presented a different type of danger: crushing the foot upon using it carelessly. If this seems far-fetched, bear in mind that work, whether with the hoe, pickaxe, or elanku, was done barefoot.
None of this mattered to the kids. The tools were an available alternative to toys that could only be dreamed of. And when the tools broke, they were left in pieces at the spot just like kids do with toys. Yes, you got injured while playing with this assortment of faulty implements but injury and illness were a frequent occurrence. A cut here or a bruise there didn’t make much of a difference in the number you carried any one time.
When asked for a visible identification mark, I have always pointed to a half-inch scar on my left wrist. This scar is the remnant of an outing with the household’s only machete. While adults used the machete for cutting firewood and dehusking coconuts, I walked off with it with a third purpose in mind: slashing bamboo shoots growing thick and wild after the monsoon rains. A bad swing missed the mark and landed on my left wrist. Blood gushed out. Friends sprung into action. Picking off some wild leaves, they mashed up a herbal remedy on the spot and applied it to the wound. This didn’t seem to make matters worse. I carried the wound for a few weeks until it healed, leaving a lasting scar.
* * *
Putting childhood prohibitions in the past, in America, it's been one long steady tool buildup. A collection of spades replaced the hoe; clippers, shears, and pruners replaced the machete; a hand saw was the go-to until I bought the chainsaw. Every time I take it out and rev its motor, I remember watching a pair of workers, one perched high, one low, rhythmically pull a giant two-man saw back and forth to cut tree trunks. The swoosh-whoosh sound would last for hours as the workers felled a tree and cut the trunk into logs and planks.
The thotti, basically a curved knife tied to the end of a bamboo pole, was meant to harvest mangoes, papaya, and jackfruit. Wielding it put the user in imminent danger since the rope used to tie the knife would quickly loosen and the knife would fall before any fruit did. The telescoping pruning saw in my collection today would be an effective and less dangerous substitute for the thotti, except there aren’t any mangoes or papaya to pluck. Instead, this contraption is used to trim out-of-reach twigs and tree branches.
The pickaxe is unchanged, except the handle and the head seem to be mated for life; despite much digging, the head has stayed fixed to the handle. The elanku is still the iron digging pole, except this one is a 70-inch long mass of high carbon steel with a chisel head. Wearing back braces would help when using it, not to mention a pair of metal-tipped boots.
While I enjoy using tools that serve their purpose and rarely break down or cause injury, I must admit not all of them were acquired to redress childhood denial. Many of them are simply needed to get by in a house with a yard. But acquiring tools can be overdone. I have some fancy knives that have become decorative pieces. Others, I carry around waiting for the right opportunity to deploy. Take the sharp-edged fixed blade military-grade black finish SOG SEAL Elite. The muscular description, no doubt, was part of the reason why I bought it. After procuring it, I have kept a wise distance, prudently encasing it in a hard sheath and leaving it in the truck. As we were getting ready for a recent canoe trip, I pulled this “Elite” knife out of its sheath and showed it off to my daughter. Her reaction was:
“Why do you need it?”
I didn’t have a ready answer. But then we paddled to an island in the middle of the Potomac and decided to take a stroll into the wooded interior. When our progress was stalled by wild growth, my daughter remembered.
“Take out that knife of yours,” she said. “Maybe it's useful after all.”
“Oh right! I forgot to take it. Left it in the truck,” I replied without looking at her.
A worse loss of face occurred when I hung a sleek machete sword over my shoulder and went on a hiking trip with my father visiting from Kerala. When we hit an unmarked portion of the trail, I pulled out the machete with great flourish and started chopping the overhanging weeds to clear the way. But the woody weeds didn’t yield one bit. It appeared the tool wasn’t sharp. My father was quick to notice.
“Your machete isn’t doing its job,” he said. “It's blunt. Did you ever use it after you bought it?”
“I think the stores aren’t allowed to sell it too sharp for fear of liability,” I replied in a half-hearted bid to cover up my embarrassment.
Unlike the blunt machete sword, one instrument I have used over a dozen years has unfailingly accomplished what it is supposed to—a 6-pound wood splitting maul. Its metal head has an axe-like cutting edge on one end, but the edge is less tapered than an axe’s. This makes it perfect for splitting logs. The other end is a sledgehammer, which can be used to drive a wedge to split stubborn knotted wood.
* * *
Although tools were prohibited, they were around and could be stolen for play or purpose. Toys simply weren’t available. You saw them peddled in temporary stalls at temple festivals a few times a year. In a fit of benevolence, if your uncle or dad bought one for you, it broke before it reached home. My dad bought me a toy train one time. Twist a key and it would clank and crawl for a few feet. It survived the trip home. But upon reaching home, curious about the source of locomotion, I dismantled it with a kitchen knife. A gear, spring, and a few nails spilled out. I was at a loss how to put them back. Worse, I had curled the knife’s tip. Dad spotted the wreckage and forever reminded me of my reverse workmanship skills.
Perhaps the rapid train disassembly was the reason why, despite much pleading and begging, he refused to buy me a cap pistol when we were at the Irinjalakuda Koodalmanikyam temple festival. The toy was a pretty good mockup with a barrel, hammer, trigger, and a grip, all made of polished black metal. Load a cap roll, pull the trigger, and it went off with a flash and a pop. No wonder this was the coolest toy around. I could only watch while other kids fired away pretending to be secret agents.
I had no hope for closure on that disappoitment until one day, during a high school NCC training class, the Havildar (drill sargent) took us into a clearing in the woods and handed us a .22 rifle. Just holding the thing felt powerful, actually loading the cartridges and firing, even better. But the excitment was shortlived. I was not among the few selected to progress further in firearms training. For the reminder of the school days, I had to contend with classmates who were keen to rub it in with their exploits in advanced NCC.
Fastforward to the present and once again it’s-a-free-country gave me a 2nd chance at amending a childhood lacuna. Unlike with the tool collection though, this calls for extra care. Misuse, mishandling, or mistake can come back to bite and it won't be a cut or a bruise.
With that caution, it's time to celebarte having come full circle. Ready, aim, ... here's to living your childhood dreams!
