No, no way, I will not give it up: (George Thumpayil, New Jersey)

No, no way, I will not give it up.

Let the earth sink.  Let me go down fathoms.  I will not give it up.

I can't succumb to my wife's and daughter's friendly threats.  I will not.

Let them tell the whole world.  Let the whole world make fun of me.  I will not give it up.

Just because we live in America, does not mean I will give it up.

This is part of my body now.  In fact, it's almost one of my body organs.  Do we sever any of our organs, just like that?

That towel (affectionately called THORTHU in Malayalam), made in Balaramapuram, will stay with me until I take my last breath.  This is a promise.  No; this is a pledge rather.

For those who are not that savvy about South Indian men style, especially Mallus, I can unequivocally say the following about thorthu. It's a common weakness shown by men of Mallu origin to wear  the homespun towel called thorthu.

Wikepedia describes Thorthu (aka Torthu, Torttu, Torth, Thorth, Torthmundu, Torthumundu) as a small/medium or large sized thin cotton towel used mainly in Kerala. This soft piece of cotton cloth is ubiquitous in the state and is often used as either a bath-towel or an upper garment. Generally white or off-white in color, the thorthu is composed of twin cotton fibers woven into a rectangular cloth with a colored border or flag-mark called 'kara' or 'chutty'.

 The texture of this desi towel is so delicate on my skin when I use it for my bath needs.  My family use the so called "Turkey Towel", and they don't send it to the laundry ever.  I do not know why they throw the Turkey Towels to the floor when we stay in Hotels or Motels, even just after a face wash.  They do this even when they see the 'Go Green' sign pasted on the wall. 

They say this towel, the thorthu, is a disgrace in our master bathroom.  Whenever we get a visitor or guest, my thorthu disappears instantaneously.  Miraculously it appears after they leave.  To my utter dissatisfaction, they hide it from the cleaning lady, who visits us once a month. What's the big deal with it, I ask, especially when she sees and deals with the underwear and bras hanging in the bathroom?

I am not sure whether I was born in to this desi towel.  (I guess I shouldn't call it desi because I was born in a village in Kerala and that towel was the only towel in that category available to anybody living in that era.) My mother said so many things about me later during my life as an young adult, good and bad,  after she delivered me: how I was behaving, my weird smiles, my untimely pissing, etc.  In fact, I still have vague memories about my childhood, as early as age 5.  But I can never recall a discussion or dialogue about this thorthu.  I do not know at what age or stage I started my affinity towards this thorthu.  To the best of my knowledge, during my school years I was hooked up with this delicate clothing.  Sometimes it was covering my nakedness during open bathing around the well.  It was on my head as a scarf during my evening playtimes. I donned it as a randam mundu, as an upper garment to show male supremacy.  Many times I wore it as an  `angavasthram', folded over the shoulder to display aristocracy. 

It was always packed in my bag, wherever I went.  After college years, just like other Mallu men, when I went to Mumbai (how easy and delightful it is to say Bombay), I had a pair of them.  Always used one and kept the second one nicely folded underneath my precious holdings in the only one bag that I had.  Before boarding the flight to Saudi Arabia, when I took a quick trip to Kerala to bid farewell to my family, I visited my local textile shop and bought ten of them.  I had both hems stitched by paying 15 paise each.  In Dammam, Saudi Arabia I never had any issues with it even when I was living with men from almost all states in India.  After getting married, even when I moved into an apartment with my sweet wife, I didn't face any obstacle using my sweet and sweat filled thorthu.  Now, when I look back at memories, I am even believing that whenever I took solo trips to India, my sweet wife may have relaxed with the presence of my odor inducing thorthu.  Years later, while immigrating to America, I made sure my baggage had 15 of them.  With each trip to India, either yearly or every two years, I made it a point to bring a lot of them with the return trip.  A lot of them.  Kissi ko koyi andaza nahee hoga, kithana mene abhi thak laya.  I must have at least 30 in my closet untouched ever since I stuffed them there.  The one in use is completing its first anniversary next week.  It will go for another month or so before I discard.  I will not be opening my closet to fetch a new one.  I have 2 in my ever-ready backpack; the one l used during a church related conference will be the next one chosen. The other never had any touch with water, still brand new with the smell of Balaramapuram spinning mills.

All this hoopla about the thorthu started the moment my family initiated talks about our daughter's wedding.  One of the condition from my daughter is that I should refrain from using this nasty, smelling, torn apart piece of desi clothing (verbatim from my daughter's preaching a week ago).  My real agony is that my sweet wife of 30 years is joining my daughter in this World War III of our lives.  I am given an ultimatum and a deadline of one week.

No, never, I will not give it up.

This thorthu is part of my daily life.  There won't be any life for me without my thorthu at my side.

There is no compromise. I may forgo my relationships, my sweetness and my attachments.

But never ever will let it happen.

No, no way, I will not give it up.