Part 1: Eloor-The Industrial Town of Memories
Across continents today, the vast FACT family carries a shared memory of M.K.K. Nair, the visionary first Chairman and Managing Director who transformed FACT into more than just an industrial giant. Under his leadership, it became a paradise, a home to thousands of families who found not just employment, but a life filled with community, culture, and belonging. This is my story of that paradise—the FACT township in Eloor, where I spent my childhood.
I was born at FACT JNM Hospital in Eloor. Since I was born and raised there, even the breeze felt like the fragrance of my own home. My grandfather was an officer at FACT. Our world was that little flat the company provided. Father, mother, grandfather, sister, and then me—there was a great shade of care and love there. When grandfather retired, we had to move for a while to a rented house in Pathalam, but soon father got quarters again, and we returned to our beloved Eloor.
My sister was four or five years older than I was. For the school anniversary, she taught me Kumaranashan’s poem “Aa Poomala” to recite on stage, which I still remember. My childhood was filled with the vibrant energy of the stage. Without a trace of hesitation, I would climb onto the school stage to perform dances, recite poems, and participate in fancy dress competitions. As I grew, my school life became even more active; I was a dedicated member of the Junior Red Cross in my primary years and later became an enthusiastic participant in the NCC. Those days of wearing the uniform and being part of something bigger than myself added a sense of pride and discipline to my cherished Eloor days.
On the day school reopened in June, my main prayer was that there should be a good rain waiting to pour down. With a new umbrella, bag, and uniform, I loved walking to school in the rain, holding the umbrella upright, splashing water on the road with my feet, and getting drenched on the way to and from school. In the evenings, running and playing in the parks around the quarters, walking along the tree-shaded paths—those days were the happiest moments of my life. The first steps of learning began in the nursery. A sweet memory from those days is about a brand-new beaded necklace I wore on my very first day. To my dismay, it broke and scattered everywhere, leaving me in tears. It was my teacher, aptly named 'Muthammal' Teacher, who came to my rescue. She patiently gathered all the beads, re-strung them one by one, and put the necklace back around my neck. Her kindness instantly stopped my crying and turned that day into a beautiful memory.
I also recall the Gita classes held there on Sundays with a smile. We would reach hours before Swamiji arrived to teach the Gita. Do you know why? To play all sorts of games. Honestly, I didn’t go there to learn the verses or philosophy of the Gita. My goal was the sweet prasadam given at the end of the class. Even today, I can see within me that little girl waiting for the taste of that prasadam. At that time, we had a VCP (Video Cassette Player). At night, father would arrange film screenings in the nursery with a pass. Everyone from the quarters would come to watch. Each screening gave us the same joy as coming out of a theatre after watching a movie. Looking back after years, I realise how beautiful that old FACT township and its innocent life truly were.
Part 2: The Swing in the Mango Grove and the Murmur of the Periyar
Life in the FACT quarters was like a small village. In little sheds built near the quarters, many raised cows and goats; in small coops, they kept chickens. In front of each quarter, beautiful flower plants were grown. In addition, most had their own small vegetable gardens. In the evenings, we children would go to nearby parks and quarters to play with friends. In the fields near the Periyar River, we used to fly kites high into the sky. Watching them soar so close to the clouds was a joy I can never forget. Those games and laughter were our main joy in the evenings. But my world was that big mango grove next to the quarters.
When the Onam season arrived, sky-high swings would be tied to the branches of those trees. That swing was what colored my Onam holidays with excitement. On the branch of the mango tree next to our quarters, there would also be a swing. At noon, when everyone went to rest, that swing lay abandoned. I would run secretly and swing to my heart’s content.
In the evenings, we would go in search of flowers. White thorn flowers blooming on the hills, colourful flowers in the vast fields behind the mango grove—we would walk to collect them. Even today, I feel the fragrance of the mukkutti, thumba, and aripoo flowers we picked remains on my fingers. How many times have things changed? Today is the era of ready-made flowers brought from other states with chemicals. Touching them requires washing hands. Children now copy designs from mobile pictures; many lack their own imagination. Each flower we picked, then carried the colour of our imagination and effort. The Periyar flowing beside the fields was a beautiful sight. Women beating clothes on the rocks across the river, fish shimmering in the clear water—one could stand watching that scene for hours.
On Thiruvonam day, when my father bought me a new frock, I would first smell it deeply. I loved the fragrance of new fabric. Early in the morning, after bathing, I would wear the new dress and go to pray at the Elanjikkal Temple. Returning from the temple, I would look curiously at the flower carpets in front of each quarter and evaluate them—that was my habit. After breakfast at home, I would run straight to the mango grove and park. Only for lunch would I return home. Till evening, playing with friends in that Onam season—the energy it gave remains in my life. A beautiful time that will never return, but always cherished in memory.
At that time, father would bring me the Poombatta storybook. In June, when school reopened, those name slips inside the book. I loved the slip with the picture of a green frog standing under a mushroom, sheltered from rain. Kuttusan and Dagini, Luttappi and Mayavi, Sigal the fox, Mottu the rabbit, Peelu the tiger, Banthila the elephant, Boban and Moly. They were my close friends. After finishing the book, I would give it to children in the next quarter and get their books in return. Sometimes I would be so absorbed in the Poombatta storybook that I lost track of time. Even when punished for being late to school, the joy of having that storybook in my bag was greater. Those precious moments are gone forever, but their warmth will always stay with me.
Part 3: Eloor Memories That Turned Into Sorrow
Our childhood was not just a celebration; it was a paradise without bills or worries. No electricity bill, no water bill, no rent for quarters, no school fees, treatment completely free. We made balls from rubber latex, rubbed rubber seeds on the ground to heat and burn each other playfully, laughing aloud. The yellow kolambi flowers kept in school bags, when burst on the forehead, gave a sound— that was our great satisfaction then. At Christmas, we dressed as Santa Claus and went house to house singing carols. With the money we got, we bought balloons and sweets from the shop in quarter number six and enjoyed them immediately. Quarrels started with small complaints but ended with laughter. Onam, Vishu, Christmas, Eid—all festivals were celebrated together by everyone in the quarters.
But among those joys, there is one day I still recall with a pounding heart. When I was in seventh grade, the piercing sirens of ambulances rose. A teacher said in class that the company’s Composite Ammonia Plant had exploded, and no one could survive. Hearing that, I felt dizzy. My father was working in that very plant. Crying, I ran home, looking from afar to see if there was a crowd in front of our house. Luckily, I saw none. That day, father had taken leave to watch a cricket match on TV. Instead, the uncle, everyone of father’s age was called “uncle”—who went to work in father’s place, died in that disaster. The sorrow of his death and the joy of my father’s survival were indescribable. After this incident, the plant was closed and restarted after a few days.
Though father seemed a bit serious outwardly, I realised he only knew how to love everyone. I remember when I was three or four years old: my mother was preparing me to go to nursery. Turning to look in the mirror, I hit my mother’s sari, fell on the doorstep, and my forehead split, bleeding heavily. Father immediately placed me on the front of his bicycle and rushed me to the hospital. Unfortunately, no anaesthesia was available. A loving nurse put a candy in my mouth and asked funny questions. Even while stitching, that little girl did not cry. Father was amazed at my courage. On the way back, with tear-filled eyes, he bought me a gift.
Another beautiful memory is from when my sister was in college. She used to receive many New Year and Christmas cards. As a school student, I had no habit of receiving cards. One day, I got a card without a “from address.” A beautiful card full of red flowers. Inside it was written: “Study well, study and become smart.” I jumped with joy. Father came home from work, saw my excitement, and went inside with a small smile. On some days, my father would come to my school at lunchtime carrying my meal. I loved introducing him to my friends; it gave me such a sense of pride. In the evenings, after the national anthem and my return home, he would eagerly wait to ask, "What did your friends say about your father?" He took such delight in hearing my replies. Those moments revealed the simple, loving heart behind his serious exterior. Years later, after my marriage and the birth of my daughter, my mother revealed a secret months before my father’s death—my father himself had sent that card. He wanted his daughter to receive a card like others. That father’s heart is still my greatest treasure.
In higher classes, after school, I would drink coffee and run to tuition classes. Teachers in the quarters took tuition. It was not only a study; it was also a place to share school news and jokes. Talking with friends on the way to tuition was great fun.
Years passed. After my marriage and my father’s retirement, we moved to Kozhikode, our family roots. Seven years later, at the age of sixty-seven, he left us forever. Not a single day passes without remembering him. Even as I write these lines, my tears fall upon them. The world I once knew has changed, but the essence of my father’s selfless love remains my most precious inheritance. Though he is no longer with us, his gentle smile and the warmth of those golden Eloor days are etched forever in my soul, untouched by time.
Today, through the 'FACT Memories' WhatsApp group, various other social media groups, and Facebook, we share our cherished memories from different corners of the world. Even though we are miles apart, we stay connected through our phones, reliving those golden days together.
After some years, I went once more to the land where I was born and raised. But what I saw was a FACT township that had lost its old glory, lying in ruins, and many quarters where we played had collapsed. The roadsides were covered with weeds. I couldn’t even find the nursery school where I studied. More painfully, I realised that many whom I respected, like my own parents, and loved, like my own brothers and sisters, have already left this world. The land, once filled with love like paradise, now looked like a mournful graveyard. Even so, in my heart, Eloor will always remain with that old floral fragrance.
