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.