தாழம்பூவே வாசம் வீசு - Memories that linger...

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.

On some things that are hard to understand

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.