We are like the passing clouds - we bring rain, we bring cheer, we change shapes to match our moods, we keep the heat out. Vaanmughil (Classical Tamil word for Clouds in the Sky) is the journal of our travels and travails.
Kevin Garibo hasn't known life outside a hospital. Born three months ago with respiratory issues, he needed a procedure to breathe on his own. Nurses prod at him, medical machines hum around him and tubes are more present than teddy bears.
But in the arms of Chris Haack, who strokes his cheek and speaks in a soft whisper while rocking him in a chair, little Kevin is one blissed-out baby.
Haack, a retired nurse from Roswell, Georgia, is a trained volunteer with "Baby Buddies," a program in the neonatal intensive care unit at Children's Healthcare of Atlanta at Egleston. As nurses race around administering medical care, she can comfort the tiny patients and stand in for parents who can't be there all the time to give the positive attention -- not the attention associated with pain or discomfort -- that is key to a baby's development and integral in forming trust.
"They need to be touched, they need to be loved, and that face -- that's why I do it," Haack says, peering down with a smile at Kevin, whose eyes are locked on hers. "I get more out of it than I probably give."
But how can I do it? This is so difficult. It is possible for them, but not for me. Nice to know but... but... but... I have my own life and its problems, you know? Where is the time for all this?
Ever heard these refrains coming from your own mouth?
Kaniamma has now started her basic lessons - she is now learning to write Tamil alphabets, English alphabets and the numerals. And, while she was practising her writing, I found this heart warming news about a 16 year old boy becoming a teacher for fellow children. http://gimundo.com/news/article/babar-ali-16-creates-free-school-for-poor-villagers/ Now, that's some effort in the march towards literacy.
Yesterday, November 14, was yet another Children's day in India. Since 1963, the birthday of India's first Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru has been celebrated in India as Children's day - ostensibly as a celebration of childhood. For a change, teachers and parents perform cultural programs for the kids, prizes are up for grabs for children in several competitions, chocolates and treats to munch on, various functions mark the occasions, some kids work at NGOs and so on. A day filled with enough excitement, any way you look at it.
Yesterday, November 14 was also the day we got a new maid at home, Kaniamma. Depending on how you pronounce her name - கனி (Kani) means a Fruit or கன்னி (கன்னி) means a Virgin. அம்மா (Amma) means Mother but it is also used endearingly to call a woman of any age. Wearing a salwar kameez in the dark colour of grapes, her thin hair tied up in a tight ponytail and pinned up with a red plastic clip, the smooth skin on her cheeks belying her youthful innocence, கனி or கன்னி, whatever she may be, came to our home last noon, with just the clothes on her back.
Kani was working at a Doctor's home at Anna Nagar, about 20 Km from where I live. In just couple of hours, she told me thrice about having left her new Diwali dress back at that home. She had been told by her father that her mother was unwell and that she was going home to see her. She didn't pack her things as she had spare clothes in her home. When she came out, she was told that she was going to work in a different home, for hopefully a better pay. She was more worried about what she was going to wear the next day.
Her father accompanied her to our home to make sure she would be alright. He counselled her, "Be good, don't steal, don't tell lies, be sharp, learn keenly and don't be afraid. Take care of this place like your home." Then he turned to me and said, "Please take care of her. She is very young but will learn if you teach her anything." And, not so much as a warm hug or a bye, the poor father left her behind.
Kani helped with me the chores in the kitchen. Red ants have invaded my kitchen. I set about clearing the shelves, wiping them clean, putting Lakshman Rekha - the deadly ant killer chalk, fumigating the shelves with napthalene balls using my vacuum cleaner. She held on to the stool and watched all the fuss. She watched me cut vegetables for the biryani. She kept asking for another knife so she could also get down to it. I didn't have the heart to get her started. So, I told her that the other knives were a tad blunt. She washed a few dishes, ate her dinner, cleaned the kitchen counter and went to bed.
She was a chatty kid though - she is from a village near Cheyyar, Sakthi's home town. The youngest of 3 children, her parents are sharecroppers. Her father used to be a goatherd and now works on some fields with her older brother. Her mother stays home. Her sister is married with 2 kids and she came to Chennai at the age of 5 along with her sister. She remembers having studied up to the 5th grade but has no idea when she was born or her date of birth. She doesn't even remember which month she was born. When I asked her how old she was, she promptly answered, "16." According to the Child Labour Act in India, no child may be gainfully employed till she/he turns 14. Honestly, there was no way to tell if she was really 16 or was coached to say so. She looked like in her teens alright, but I could only hope I am not breaking any laws. Law or no law, it breaks my heart to see a child working at my home.
But then, what are her choices? She can go back home and work in the fields with her father. Or go to some other home and work just as hard. Or, should I just send her to school in an act of charity – will she begin again? She stopped going to school after her 5th coz she was scared of a 1-mile bus ride to the next town. Will she care to study now? Will her cash-starved parents let her stay in a school if at all? Or would I be imposing my will on the child? Perhaps, I could teach her while she is with me – although my earlier maid Little Flower (my maids have really original names!) showed no interest despite my effort. She got herself trained to be a great cook and excellent maid, if at all. She made herself employable at least. Would Kaniamma turn out to be like her? She has aged prematurely already. May be, the child in her will survive, nevertheless. I have my worries and she has hers, like her beautiful Diwali dress that she misses.
Diwali day - morning 4 AM. Amma is already up. She prepares for the traditional ganga snanam for the entire family. Whole black pepper, red chillies and betel leaves floating in hot gingelly oil, the traditional vethalai pakku (betel leaves, areca nut) along with bananas kept ready on a silver plate along side, nalangu (red coloured paste made from mixing lime used to paint on walls and turmeric) in a small bowl - all awaiting the sleepy heads at home.
Paati is also up next. One by one, all the children are kicked out of their beds. Easier done on a Diwali day because no child wants to miss being the first person in the block to start off bursting the fire crackers. Sets off a war between the siblings too - to have a bath! We sit on the manai (a wooden platform used as a seat) duly decorated with Amma's izhai kolam. Paati rubs the hot oil on our heads, patiently puts the nalangu around the ankles, pops the vethalai pakku in our mouths followed by a shove of the ceremonial banana piece, and hands over the new clothes after prostrations are duly done. Amma is meanwhile keeping peace with the fidgeting, quarreling siblings.
5 - 6AM - The TV program starts. Some famous carantic musician or the other starts off the Mangala geetham (auspicious music) on the nayanam. Amma is busy in the kitchen brewing piping hot coffee for all the adults. Appa picks up the newspaper and plonks in front of the TV. The kids run in and out, searching for crackers, all the while fighting, boasting about the new clothes or the special type of crackers that others don't have.
6 - 8AM - Some self-important movie star starts off the day's bombardment of cinema based programs. Amma begins preparations for the Diwali feast which consist of at least Paruppu, More Kuzhambu, Poosanikkai pulippu kootu (white pumpkin gravy), thakkali rasam (tomato rasam), vadai, thayir vadai, payasam, kai, appalam, vazhakkai varuval (banana chips), senaikizhangu varuval (yam chips). Everything has to be made fresh on that day only, the only item that comes out of the fridge is the yoghurt for the thayir vadai. On a two burner stove, milk is constantly on the boil for coffee for the family followed by the friends and other relatives that constantly stream in and the milk concoctions for the kids. Amma is busy chopping vegetables, grinding the gravies for the various dishes (in the days when modern equipment like mixers and grinders were banned by Paati's diktat, she had to do all these by hand on her ammikkal - the stone grinder), deftly managing the brewing of one dish, frying of an ingredient etc.
8 - 9 AM. We kids are hungry. "Amma, we woke up so early, we are hungry, give us the vadai, payasam right away." She can't. Everything has to be kept ready for the pooja and naivedyam, so there's no way we can lay our hands on any the festive goodies. Amma suspends the feast preparations and starts making dosas to keep us quiet.
9 - 10 AM. The latest movie to be released on Diwali day is announced and the bimbette who starred in it shares her insights on how she got this far in unbearable Tamil - the interview is mostly in English anyways, even that English is tortured and mangled. But then, she is a starlet and the entire family gathers around the idiot box - save Amma. She is back at her chores. Appa gets bored of watching TV for 3 hours, strolls out for his cigarette break and gathers with his friends to discuss the latest news in politics.
10 - 11.30 AM. Solomon Pappiah is the naduvar (judge) of yet another pattimandram (debate), the staple diet of any festive day TV programming. Today's topic is "Who is to blame for problems afflicting women? Women or Men?" a refreshing variant from the Dussehra programming just 20 days earlier, "Who creates more problems in the society, Women or Men?" We have the usual round of debators, an equal number of men and women who are known for their verbal wizardry and humour-laced duels. They crack silly jokes on their spouses, father-in-laws and neighbours, buttress their arguments with one-liners and lyrics from movies and throw barbs at the opposing teams. Meanwhile, Amma is done preparing for the gravies and starts the mixer to grind them. In chorus, all the addicts in the living room yell, "Amma, can't you wait for the commercial break? We can't hear anything." Amma switches off the Mixer and waits indulgently. It's a different matter that during the commercial break, hell breaks lose to find the next most interesting program on a competing TV network.
11.30 AM - 2 PM. The TV set screams, "Thiraikku vanthu sila maathangale aana, super hit thiraippadam." Literally, it means, a latest release, super hit movie but read between the lines - it refers to the movie that nobody ever cared to buy tickets for coz it was so darn lousy in the first place but is still being foisted on an unsuspecting audience on Diwali day by the producer who must have paid the TV network to get it off his hands. Meanwhile, Amma is pleading one child after the other, "Please go and give some of these Diwali batchanam (sweets and savories) to the neighbours." None of us budge, "No Amma, this scene is very important, there is going to be great song in the next 2 minutes, look at him fight," or something to that effect. Amma goes on the distribution rounds herself. She also manages the visitors who stop by incessantly. She also occasionally yells out for us to eat our food, but our eyes are fixed on the movie program.
1.30 PM - Just when she has finished work and is ready to take a break, the hunger clamour begins again. Amma asks for 5 more minutes. She wants everybody to have hot vadas, the cold ones are dunked into the dahi vada. Vazhai ilai (banana leaves) laid out, Amma brings out the dishes one by one and serves them to everybody. Tummies full and satiated, everybody rushes to wash hands and plonk in front of the TV. Amma clears up the mess and sits down for her first morsel of food since morning.
Movie over, kids are ready to go out and stake the neighbourhood to burst more crackers or play with friends while Appa is tired and ready to take a nap. Amma is busy cleaning the pots and pans. By 3PM, she starts asking Appa to take her to homes of important relatives to hand over the Diwali sweets, get blessings from the family elders etc. She drapes her Diwali sari and a quick face wash later, is off on the journey to meet everybody. 2-3 hours later, she is back home, worrying about the kids and making dinner plans.
We kids have always had a great Diwali. It is always a great holiday, crackers on hand, sweets and savories to pile up the calories for the entire year, enough idiocy on the TV to keep us engaged, friends to play with - this couldn't be better. Amma? Well, Amma's Diwali is all about keeping us all happy. It is another day, in fact, it is a day she works harder than usual.
This Diwali, I reserve my wishes for all the mothers that slog in the kitchen and keep their families happy; the fire personnel who go to work as usual to douse the fires caused by reckless rockets that fall on thatched roofs; the security forces (police and armed forces included) who are vigilant and on their toes ensuring no miscreants take advantage of a festive mood and cause mayhem; the emergency staff at medical establishments who are on standby to take care of a burn here, a broken limb there or still taking care of other patients in their care; the bus & train drivers and pilots who miss being with their families to transport millions to their loved ones; and the scores of others who sacrifice their time for others to have a great day. All festivals are just like that. Somebody has to work so the others can enjoy. The least I can do is recognise this and pray silently for the toiling masses and wish well for them too.
For the last two days, I am plagued with just one thought in my head - Tat Tvam Asi. Oh well, it started innocuously - I was looking for books to buy at Cafe Turtle at Khan Market. Along one shelf, this was written in big bold type on one book and just caught my eye.
Tat Tvam Asi - I first heard of this Mahavakya (literally, it means "very important sentence" in Sanskrit) when I was probably in my 8th grade. Was part of a small history lesson on Adi Sankaracharya, Ramanuja and Madhvacharya. Didn't mean much then. But, today, I feel like I found a new meaning in life, a true revelation.
Let me explain. Tat Tvam Asi is a very important philosophical statement that has origins in Hindu literature. Originating in the Chandogya Upanishad as a father's words of wisdom to his arrogant know-it-all son, Tat Tvam Asi explains some core beliefs of Hinduism. In simple terms, Tat means - that, Tvam - You, Asi - are. "THAT THOU ART!" It is generally taken to mean that your soul or consciousness is wholly or partially the Ultimate Reality. Tat - refers to The Supreme One, or Brahman, the Ultimate Reality or God. Tvam - is the person, the soul, the consciousness, the physical presence.
Now, this sentence can be interpreted in 3 different ways to explain 3 different paths (or belief systems) in Hinduism. Dvaita, Visishtadvaita and Advaita.
Dvaita philosophy starts with Atat tvam asi - A-TAT (not Brahman) tvam (you) asi (art) - That thou are not. This clearly distinguishes between the Brahman and the souls and between souls. Thus it believes in "twoness" as in one set apart from another. The world around us, we as individuals and the Brahman are all distinct.
Visishtadvaita philosophy believes in "Almost twoness" as in with ultimate self-realisation, you become united with the Brahman while still retaining your identity, thus only becoming a part of the Brahman but not fully integrated.
Advaita philosophy believes in "Not twoness" as in - there are no two separate identities, the Brahman and the soul are one and the same. One does not become Brahman, rather, one already is and just needs to come to this realisation.
Confusing? In the beginning, it was to me as well. But slowly, the true purport of these statements dawned on me. I am an atheist. I don't have any firm belief in a Supreme Creator - I don't really care to know. Why then would "Tat Tvam Asi" mean anything at all to me? It does and here's why.
If I take "That Thou Art" literally, what it means is that I am that, that everything outside of this physical body and soul of mine. I am the person I see on the road, I am the dog that is whimpering, I am the coral reefs and the Amazon civilization under threat, I am the criminal inflicting pain and suffering on my brethren and I am the one fighting for peace and harmony in some of the world. If I am all that - is "Tat Tvam Asi" really a statement of compassion, love and equality of being? That too, not only within man kind but of all living beings. Does Tat Tvam Asi really stand for empathy, the ability to see yourself in the other and vice versa?
Whether you are a Hindu or a Christian, it really does not matter. Even Jesus said in Psalm 82, I say, "You are gods, sons of the Most High, all of you; nevertheless, you shall die like men, and fall like any price." (verses 6 & 7). Sounds a lot like Visishtadvaita to me. In Buddhism, Bodhi means enlightenment and anybody who has attained Nirvana (the state of awakening or enlightenment) becomes a Buddha. Tat Tvam Asi again?
Whether you see it as a God-fearing person or not, you can just say Tat Tvam Asi is all about universal brotherhood. When you see God is in you and if God is omnipresent, he is present in everything around you. If you don't believe in God, but just believe That Thou Art, it is merely your ability to see yourself in everything around you and see everything in you. For me, now it is Tatvam Asi (Tatvam - philosophy) and that is - We are part of the whole and the whole is just us - ALL OF US!
Couple of days ago, I saw a program on Discovery Travel & Living - Filthy rich and homeless. "Saw the program," is an overstatement. 5 minutes was about all I could take of that masterpiece of shit. Let me explain why. In times of reality shows fast replacing soap operas (which is a greater evil is just a matter or perspective), this program purports to be a social experiment putting filthy rich people on the streets for 3 days (or was it 10?) to feel the pain of the homeless and track their progress. Wow, what a noble thought!
So, these filthy rich (ho hum!) people rough it out on the streets and after 3 days, they get buddies to help them with the rest of their tenure on the sidewalks. The buddies happen to be ex-convicts, drug addicts and other unsavoury elements. That's about all I could take of this offensive nonsense.
Let's try to reason this out. There are these amazingly rich guys who get more publicity and empathy for giving up their millions (albeit for just a short period of time) to understand the lives of the homeless with the firm promise of being able to go back to their riches in 3 (or 10) days. That's really difficult is it? The real indigents have no idea of where the next meal comes from or if they will be adequately clothed to live out the winter clime in Britain. No real hope for education, for betterment of their own lot, no real skills and hence, no chance at employment, no light at the end of tunnel and every living, waking moment is hell. And, the rich pretenders get buddies to help them out to act like the homeless. Come on, spare me the drivel.
Reminded me of a childhood story of Birbal. Emperor Akbar threw a challenge if somebody could stand all night in a pool of cold water and if he/she did so, would be rewarded handsomely. A poor man did manage to do it. And, what kept him up through this arduous task? A light glowing in the distance from one of the palaces. Gave him the imaginary warmth to spare him the shivers. The realisation that as dawn breaks, he would see his reward that will help him break free from the shackles of poverty. See, what hope can do to any person?
I read somewhere that "The road that is built in hope is more pleasant to the traveler than the road built in despair, even though they both lead to the same destination." Hmm. So, why would it be difficult for filthy rich people to manage 10 days out in the cold with not just hope but the fool/fail-proof assurance of being able to go back to their rich comforts at the end of it all? And, in a perverse way, is this also the reason why the poor rarely manage to rise above their miseries? Couldn't the money spent on making a program like this be better used to provide critical life skills to the poor rather than play out a perverse charade for the amusement of the rich or the voyeuristic pleasure of the viewers? But then, it wouldn't make for an interesting dinner time viewing, would it? In the constant tussle between hard-nosed profitability and preachy socialism, is it any wonder what wins out?
Au contraire, ordinary people, faces, events, incidents, news, observations, emotions, decisions, actions – there is enough in the world around that keeps me pondering all the time. The woman with ragged clothes who sweeps the streets clean, the man who comes home to repair a broken pipe or fix a light, a little child who tails me on a morning walk with colourful paper umbrellas or pins of the national flag, the old lady with every wrinkle telling stories of years gone by – these are the real people in my life. Their lives deserve to be told – ever more so than the celebrities and their offsprings with a warped sense of entitlement.
A decade and half ago when I started working, the branch manager at my office would often remind us, “What we say, do or create has to make sense for the common man.” Of course, he was merely setting the golden standard for achieving results in the holy trail of professional excellence. Yet, those words have been a compass guiding my actions overlapping both my professional and personal lives.
I love the Common Minimum Person (to be gender neutral). My vegetable vendor Shakuntala inspires me with her work ethic as much as the rickshaw puller in Delhi who drives through storms to feed his ever hungry brood. The waif on Mylapore’s North Mada Street who cups his hands into a camera and pretends to take a picture of me when I am trying to shoot him with my expensive Digital SLR has as much a story to tell as do the parents of a 5-year old child suffering from Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia who are determined to fight the disease to the finish. Ordinary lives, ordinary stories and everyday occurrences but each speaks of enormous fortitude, grit and courage in the face of extreme adversity. Some tales are poignant reminders of our own shortcomings and selfishness. Some speak to us of utter helplessness shaking our faith in ourselves and in the faiths that we profess to belong to. Yet, these are stories that touch our lives in way only kindred souls can feel. These are voices that are hard to ignore and stubbornly take up quarters in our own hearts.
“God must love the common man, he made so many of them,” said Abraham Lincoln. This no less from a man, whose humble beginnings as a shoemaker’s son betrayed his eventual rise to eminence as the President of the United States. And, this is my attempt to chronicle the lives of these many ordinary people because once we are stripped of our own exaggerated sense of self-importance, we are no more than a “Common Minimum Person.”
Yesterday, I was the queen of melodrama. No, I didn't don any grease paint, spout inane dialogues or act in any lengthy tele novella that lets you catch up on the same scene with little changed even a year later. I just went into shock. And, there in unfolds the whole drama.
I was at the National Photographic Salon organized by the Photographic Society of Madras at the Lalit Kala Academy on Greams Road, Chennai. This was the perfect opportunity to study the different approaches of fellow photography enthusiasts, learn from them and hopefully better myself. After going through the various sections including Water, Temples of India, Monochrome, Streets at Night and entries from the Club members, I diligently avoided the Flora and Fauna section.
Psst. I have to admit. I suffer from a strange (but not all that uncommon) phobia called Ophidiophobia - A fear of all kinds of snakes. Yeah, most snakes are harmless and chances of encounters with those slimy skinned, beady eyed, venomous monsters in a concrete jungle are next to impossible. Although many humans living in that environment would automatically fit that description, I really am not scared of them.
Snakes can't be blamed. It is just me. A symbol of the devil to Christians, yet adorning Lord Shiva's neck and attaining a diviine status in Hinduism or deemed a phallic symbol in psychological interpretation when appearing in dreams, snakes have a long history of association with man kind. And yet, I think mankind is historically hardwired to be scared of them. Many years ago, I had decided to conquer my fear and fed myself to 5 minutes (speaking of which, 300 seconds does seem like a very long time) of snake viewing on National Geographic. Thought, more exposure will get me acclimatized. Beats me to this day, why I did it. I didn't sleep or eat well for 3 days after. My phobia has only gotten progressively worse.
So, I avoided the flora and fauna section for fear of being exposed to a snake's tail. One friend kindly warned not to go near a section where there were some pictures of the slithery beasts. While another friend encouraged me to go bravely coz he had turned over the offending (at least to me, they were!) pictures so I could see the others at least. Despite his well-meant effort, I did see one brown speckled (or one too many, I don't know) snake in an exhibit (my friend had inadvertently missed this one) and then unfolded my trauma. I gasped and then just couldn't get a sound of out my trachea. Believe me, if I say so, that is nothing of short miracle to subdue my usual garrulity. Here I was, huffing and puffing and just trying to convert air to words to convey my misery. The laws of conversion of energy simply failed. Mechanical energy wouldn't and couldn't become sound energy. A few minutes later, I was retching near a balcony, shaking in morbid fear, 2 friends trying to hold me and calm me down. As irrational as it sounds, I was afraid that something would still creep up my back and get me. A plastic water bottle got crushed out of shape in my sheer nervousness and resembled a limp thread. All this while, friends surrounded me giving courage and saying, "Trust us, nothing is gonna happen. We are there with you."
Yet, my joints ached, my neck felt like it was swollen, teeth clattered non stop, I pulled skin off my right palm and imagined snakes rolling near my leg in my friend's car and I couldn't close my eyes. Irrational fear despite being surrounded by caring friends in a car for heaven's sake. As Edgar Wallace said in The Clue of the Twisted Candle, "Fear is a tyrant and a despot, more terrible than the rack, more potent than the snake." Irony, that fear is said to be more potent than the snake. What do I do about my phobia then?
Yesterday, I went to pay the telephone bill. The online portal for BSNL refused to recognise our customer number so I had to go in person to check it out. I was directed to the accounts section where one bored AAO (Assistant Accounts Officer - only in the government services do you get designations like these!) got up to help after finishing her very important gossip session with her friend on the office phone. Her computer was not working, so she found another but had to move a fan which caused major discomfort for another colleague who was enjoying the breeze. So, for some time, there was a tussle to position the fan to get the maximum breeze and not to hinder sitting next to the only working desktop. After this, some banter ensued on why centralised air conditioning was required. I waited patiently.
After a good 20 minutes since I first went to the office, the desktop booted and just when the consumer billing screen came up, the power went off. She said, "See what and all (sic) we have to put up with?" Yeah sure. Then, she handed over my bill to her supervisor who told me, "May be, there is something wrong with your computer?" Okay. If their site refuses to recognise my consumer number, my laptop ain't working? I had to explain everything again. Mercifully, the power returned and the supervisor started hunting for another working computer. 5 minutes later, one was found and before we could say "Pay," the power went off again. The supervisor smiled wryly and said, "Why don't you just go to the telegraph office (the building next door) and pay?" Okay, it was the last day for payment, I had already spent an hour there and I was also plainly amused to see how far this would go.
Off I trotted to the next building. There was a huge queue of people waiting in the hot sun and from where I stood, the customer service section looked like a little cage with pathetic birds (the employees of course) with wings clipped. The loud churning of the diesel generator was adding to everybody's misery. Anyways, there were 20 people ahead of me. A girl with her tousled mane barely contained in a pony tail, a thin emaciated looking guy with his dirty lungi folded up in the classical South Indian style, the guy in front of me with a big kumkum mark on his head and a few odd faces which don't leave any imprint on my mind. I took my spot.
A boy from the shop next door was trying to get his diesel generator running and then I noticed him. Right next to this boy was a paraplegic with crutches trying to drag his feet. He was dressed neatly and looked very serious. I assumed that he was the owner of the shop and was supervising. Then I realised he was trying to move away with great difficulty. That was because right next to the generator was a slight slope leading to our queue. He was struggling to get to the queue. I moved aside and motioned him to join us. He smiled and nodded with a no. I thought may be, I had offended him and looked away, not wanting to embarass him any further. 2 minutes later, he was still struggling.
I went up to him and asked him what he needed. He showed 2 bills and cheques for payment. I told him to wait right there. I walked up to the head of the queue and requested the first person to allow me to pay for the handicapped person. He readily agreed. I handed in the documents and waited. A slight murmur started. 3-4 people were eagerly looking in my direction and commenting. I heard snatches of conversation. "So bad," "Can't see queue," "Idiot" and some unmentionables in Tamil. I kept smiling coz honestly, it felt like I had the power in me to irritate them for they knew not what I was upto. I got the receipts, went up to the handicapped person , gave him back his documents and joined at the end of the queue again to pay my bill.
Then, the heads started turning. I got curious stares and a few embarrased smiles. I just smiled back. I told myself. They didn't see the handicapped person and just saw the queue ahead. I saw him and only then, did I stop seeing the queue. Curiously, knowing that I had spent nearly an hour in the office with the lazy employees, I really don't know how much time I spent in the queue. I hadn't seen that either. Happens.
Yesterday, I went for a hair cut at Sunflower Parlour in Besant Nagar. The parlour was dark, hot and depressing. The girls were having their afternoon siesta interrupted by me. Hurriedly, they wore back their uniforms, moved the curtains back and switched on the AC and fans. It took a while for the place to get alive again. A short North East Indian took on the job. She asked me if I wanted a new hair style or just the existing one trimmed. Having had disastrous runs in styling my hair at various known parlours/salons at Delhi, I was not in any mood for experimentation. "Just trim it," was my short command.
The girl started snipping away. Gotta admit, she was good. She went at it with full gusto. Snip here, snip there - just for trimming really short hair, she took a good 20 minutes. Nary a conversation passed between us. She called the owner of the parlour for the final finishing touches and lo, I was ready. I paid the money and got back into my car. The AC's full blast caught me.
And, my memories drifted. Back to sometime in 1982. We lived in Reserve Bank Colony and the flat above was occupied by Natarajan Mama, his wife, 3 kids and his aged mother. I don't remember the grandmother's name. She was just Mudaliyar Mami. City life could throw people of different castes to a big melting pot unlike in rural areas where people of similar castes tended to live together. Yet, identities were hard to shed or get rid off. So, in our block of 8 flats - we had families of Palghat Iyers, Sama Veda Iyers, Vadakalai Iyengars (my family), Marathi speaking Tamilians from Madurai (Saurashtra Brahmins as they were called), Mudaliars, Thenkalai Iyengars, Malayali woman married to a SriLankan (there was some funny story about this) and another flat which had several occupants over the years we spent there. Don't ask me how I know or remember this. Caste was never openly asked or discussed but we all knew. We didn't have to be adults or gossipy to know. We just knew.
Back to Mudaliar Mami. All I remember of her now is her pear shaped body. Big fat buttocks that heaved with her every laboured move. And, she had passed on her facial features to her son - even now when I see him (they have been our neighbours since 1976), this is all I remember. Sometime in the early '80s, I think I was in my 4th or 5th grade, my mother invited Mudaliar Mami to braid my hair with thazhampoo. I suppose that tradition is unknown to many these days - as with many other little nuggets we lose as we progress towards modernity.
Mami's efforts began days earlier than when the braiding really happened. She had summoned the neighbourhood pookkari (flower seller) to get the thazhampoo - not an easy task considering not many actually knew of the flower or how to use it. White Jasmines (mallis and mullais), bright orange Kanakambharam (Crossandra infundibuliformis), green Marukozhunthu (Exacum lawii), Kadambam (a delightful mix of all these and hence the name), the absolutely pretty Pavazhamalli (Nyctanthes arbor-tristis) with orange stems and white petals, the sensuous Manoranjitham (Artabotrys hexapetalus), the ubiquitous Nandiavattai (Tabernaemontana coronaria) which grew everywhere - flowers of every hue, shape and fragrance were brought to the door steps of every household each evening. But, the thazhampoo (Pandanus odoratissimus) was not very common. Mudaliar Mami had issued a diktat, the thazhampoo had to be procured.
One evening, the thazhampoo did happen. And, I lost my evening's play time. I returned home from school at 4, had my evening snack and my mom pinned me down. I couldn't go out. Mami was going to braid my hair with the thazhampoo. She showed me the poo (flower). It just didn't look like one. Long, greenish yellow in colour, it looked thin and leafy like palm fronds. It smelled different - I don't remember being overawed by the fragrance.
So Mami began her work. She cut the fronds/petals/whatever into manageable little strips of various sizes (the bigger ones would go on top of the braid and progressively got smaller for the lower end of the braid). I sat still amused at all the work. Mami kept talking even as her hands were in constant motion. Stories of princes, princesses, Indian mythological anecdotes, her own childhood reminiscences, her lament on a lost culture - everything poured forth. Once the strips were ready, she started braiding my hair. She strung the nethichutti first - a traditional bejewelled ornament with rubies, pearls and diamonds (mine were all fake!) and then came the flowers. She inserted the cut strips and stitched them on to strands of hair. It took a while - she was meticulous and I had long flowing hair reaching down to my thighs. She was done after about two hours. I couldn't see how she worked on my hair and I have no pictures or videos recorded for posterity.
I still wonder how many people would even know of, leave alone be able to practice this art these days. We have courses in hairstyling, beauty salons mushrooming in every street, contests in Discovery Travel & Living for hairstyling (I must admit, I watch and read just about anything), and innumerable products on grooming flying off the shelves. Yet, in a cold interaction with an undeniably professional hairstylist and little verbal exchange, I have nothing to remember like the Thazhampoo from nearly 30 years ago.
Since last night, only one song has been on my head. தாழம்பூவே வாசம் வீசு, தாயின் தாயே, கொஞ்சிப் பேசு - a delightful melody from probably a similar vintage as my memory. Memories that stay from fragrances that linger forever.
About 3 weeks ago, I was at my mom's home and we had a visitor. Ambulu Mami. She had come to say good bye. I have known her since 1976. The years had changed her appearance very little but she had come to announce the biggest change of her life. She was going to join an old age home / senior citizen's home along with her husband.
Ambulu Mami. We lived in D42 in Reserve Bank Colony, a vast sprawling campus that was then the residence of about 175 employees of the Bank. Ambulu Mami lived in B12, the adjacent block to mine. She was fair, short and rotund (she still is), her thin hair pulled back in a tight pigtail. A big kumkum bindi on her forehead, a nine stone mookuthi (nose ring) adorning her nose like any typical Brahmin wife, matching diamond earrings, plump lips that gave her a permanent pout and always wearing bright sarees whose 6 yards barely made the rounds around her more than ample waist.
Some memories of her include:- Her high pitched nasal voice with which she belted out classical Carnatic songs. I guess she went through the typical Brahmin childhood experience (or trauma for some) of having to learn Carnatic Music or Bharatanatyam dance. She sang alright. Chinnanchiru pen pole written by Bharathiyar is one that I remember a lot. In the evenings, she taught the neighbourhood kids "Aigiri nandini" the songs about Durga. During Navarathri, the nine day festival in September-October, kids flocked to her home for her different sundal (a dry lentil snack) preparations. On one of those 9 days, she made Aval puttu (a sweet dish made with broken rice flakes). My siblings and I loved it so much that it became a tradition for her to send a boxful every year. She never forgot to give a rupee to each kid who visited her home. Considering I had to fight hard to get even 30 paise from my dad for butter biscuits, it was a huge sum and a treat indeed.
She was an even bigger friend of my grandmother. The 30 years of age difference didn't mean much. They were best of friends. They went to the Ashtalakshmi Temple on Besant Nagar beach together. After the morning chores were done, my grandmother, Ambulu Mami and a few other grannies got together at the car shed below Mami's flat and played Thayam (Ludo). They played variations of Ludo and gossiped. When I grew older and into my teens, I started hating the gang knowing vicious gossip emanated from that corner. My grandmother who ruled over my mother with an iron fist typical of mother-in-laws seemed to have a soft melting spot for Mami who was probably younger than my mother. Strange!
I resented that even more. I had a special name for her. Her real name was Alamelu but she was fondly called Ammulu. I made it Ambulu, then Ambuli and then ruthlessly made it Ambu Puli (arrow, tiger) Mami. Somehow, giving her the moniker of a fearsome tiger and a weapon of murder seemed justified. She always treated me the same but my distance with her grew over a period of time. In the late 80's, she moved into her own flat in Besant Nagar and I saw less and less of her. I never forgot to ask about her once a year - for her aval puttu. Selfish ingrate that I was.
So, I saw her again 3 weeks ago. She came to say that she was moving to a senior citizen's home. She didn't have any children (there was plenty of gossip about why). She sold her flat along with all the things in it, kept a few precious possessions to carry with her. She described her home cheerfully. She would get a separate living quarters to be with her husband, she didn't have to cook and she could have her nook for her gods and goddesses. She was ready to ride into her sunset years in the home. My grandmother who is 93 and very hard of hearing kept peppering her with questions even after she had long answered them. Finally, paati said, "Ammulu, why do you have to go to an old age home, why can't you just stay at your own home?" Mami replied very wryly, "Mami, ungalakku ithellam puriyathu - you will never understand this."
My grandmother didn't understand and probably never will. With 3 children and 5 grand children and a full life (even if the definition can be pretty nebulous), she is still unhappy. She complains about many things. My mother finally giving up on towing her ultra-conservative line, not comfortable staying with her younger son for various reasons (mostly unjustified), not getting along with her only daughter, moping about grand children not talking to her enough (there is a remote for increasing the TV volume but is there any for increasing your own to blast a deaf 93-year old's ears?), about a 4 year great grand daughter not playing with her - her problems are manifold.
Surely, she will never understand the loneliness of a childless couple having to re-start their lives in a strange home. She may never understand the fear of losing a spouse and being left all to yourself to face the vagaries of old age. She may never understand the longings and unfulfilled desires of a woman who loved kids but never had one of her own. Paati may never understand that the things that she takes for granted or grumbles about are what makes her life fuller, the deprivation of which Ambulu Mami has the rest of her to life to figure out.
Last night’s dinner menu was – saadham (rice), mullangi (radish) sambhaar, kootu with peerkangai (ridge gourd) and sorakkai (bottle gourd), kathirikkai podimas (brinjal dry preparation with lentils), beans poriyal (dry side dish) and a salad of cucumber, carrot and baby mangoes. Cooking all this was simple enough. Following mom’s instructions, that is.
Heat oil in a pan, add asafoetida, a few fenugreek seeds, throw in chopped onions, let them turn pink, add pounded garlic, add 1-2 green chillies, add radish and fry a while. Add chunks of chopped tomatoes, salt, turmeric, sambhaar powder, amchur (dry mango powder instead of tamarind) and water. Let it boil down till radish is cooked and the raw smell of the sambhar powder vanishes. Add boiled toor dal (pigeon pea) and let boil again. Heat oil in a separate pan, pop mustard seeds, curry leaves and add to the cooked sambhaar. Garnish with chopped coriander leaves. It is that easy...
The Sambhaar took the longest time among all dishes – as it brewed and bubbled in the pot, I started thinking. How did this all begin?
According to the Wikipedia,
·Tomatoes came from South America. Known to the Aztecs somewhere near 500 BC, it took a long route to India. The Spanish took it to their colonies in Caribbean and on to the Philippines from where it reached South East Asia, probably including India. This was not until the 1500’s at least.
·Radish was domesticated in Europe in pre-Roman times but there is no way to determine its earlier history and domestication.
·Pigeon pea’s cultivation happened at 3000 years back somewhere in Asia.
·In Bronze Age settlements, onion remains were found alongside fig and date stones dating back to 5000 BC. There is also postulation that cultivation probably took place around 2000 years later in ancient Egypt.
·Chillies originated in the Americas and have been a part of the human diet since at least 7500 BC. After Christopher Columbus’ expedition, chillies quickly conquered the globe taking Mexico and Philippines enroute to India. Or, it came to India via Spain with help from the Portuguese.
·Coriander is native to Southwestern Asia and west to North Africa.
·Fenugreek seeds are believed to have been brought into cultivation in the Near East. Charred fenugreek seeds have been recovered from Tell Halal, Iraq, (radio carbon dating to 4000 BC) and as well as desiccated seeds from the tomb of Tutankhamen.
·Tamarind – is native to Africa, including Sudan and parts of Madagascar. But, the name is very Indian Tamar Hindi = Indian date, although it was known to ancient Egyptians and to the Greeks in the 4th Century BC.
·Oh, there is something original to India in the sambhaar – the curry leaves, which most South Indians use it only for flavouring and never consume, setting them aside in their plates.
·And, the turmeric of which only a pinch is used – is native to tropical South Asia. Patents may have been granted to the turmeric in the Western World but it belongs to India.
Well, what is so original about the sambhaar then that South Indians salivate at its mention and swell with pride? Most of the ingredients didn’t originate in South India and not at least until the 1600s. So, some 400 years ago, there was a darn good chef, an unsung hero, who threw all these together to make the brown broth that conquered the native palates. He had pioneered the various uses of Sambhaar. Mix it in rice and eat with a vegetable dish, or eat the sambhaar with idlis and dosas or dunk some vadas in it. It is as South Indian as you can get it.
You think so? Not quite. A year ago, a charming 4 year old came to my Guragon home. I was to baby sit her while her mother needed the time to get her chores done. As the evening drew near, I called out to my maid and said, “Please get the sambhaar (sam pronounced like calm and bhaar like car) ready.” The kid quickly corrected me, “No Aunty, it is Sambhaar (bhaar pronounced like burr).” I tried correcting her right back, “No honey, it is Sambhaar,” emphasising on prolonging the last phonetic. She wouldn’t hear any of it. We went back and forth correcting each other. Finally, I told her, “Sambhaar comes from where I belong, so it has to be said the way I say so.” She was quite for a while after. When the bell rang an hour later and it was her mother at the door, off she ran. Just as the mother entered, the kid asked her mother, “Ma, hamare waale India mein Samburr bolte hain na?” In our India, don’t we call it Samburr?
Really, what is so original or South Indian about Sambhaar or Samburr?
Sujatha sort of knows what she wants to do and also doesn't. She is interested in food, art, music, languages, travel, politics, passionate about children and social work,and some more. She can't decide which one of these to pursue to excellence and so, ends up dabbling in all. Much like the different clouds in the sky, various shapes and forms, some standing calm and tranquil and some threatening to pour, some days not to be seen and some days, swallowing the entire sky, obscuring everything else - Sujatha has various moods, passions and means different things to different people. This blog stores some of her outpourings which she sometimes updates and sometimes not.
