What is so original about the Sambhaar?

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 4^th 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?

Ordinary lives and extra ordinary moments

Today, a friend had posted this on Facebook. I was so moved by it. I am always fascinated by ordinary people, the unchanging humdrum of their lives and the apparent simplicity of it all. Yet, there are moments in the lives of these ordinary people that makes them rise above themselves and do things that they would have never imagined possible of them.

It was a moment like that in Pietermaritzburg that made an unknown lawyer the moral compass of the entire world. A moment that made Rosa Parks, a middle aged African American woman a surprising hero of the Civil Rights movement in the United States. Must have been that moment that made Prabhakaran an internationally marked terrorist. A moment that also made Nathuram Godse.

Here's to the moments that make us.

Family inheritance is a funny business...

Yesterday’s news showed stories of 3 important families, all inexplicably linked to each other. History is like that, strange but sure and inevitable.

The first story was that of Karunanidhi camping out in Delhi to bargain for ministerial seats for his family in the new Indian cabinet. He wanted 8 posts, primarily for his family – one son, one daughter and another, a nephew. The rest were for other common members of his party, ostensibly to balance out and appease regional and caste factors in the state. Thankfully, another son is already firmly entrenched in state-level politics and may take over as the Chief Minister’s mantle from his father.

The second was that of the “Familiy” of Indian politics – the Nehru/Gandhi clan. This family’s history is very much a part of Modern India’s history – struggle for freedom, the hard-won independence, the resurrection of a bruised nation, abuse of power during Emergency, the untimely deaths of family members, the torch passed on to the closest relatives, a “supreme sacrifice” of prime ministerial ambitions by a Foreign-born woman, the young scion successfully forging ahead in his political career while his sister waits in the sidelines, biding her own time.

The third story was that of the recently slain Tamil Tiger Prabhakaran and the death of his family. A day after Prabhakaran’s dead body was paraded as a show of victory for the Sri Lankan Military came the announcement that the bodies of his wife, daughter and younger son were also found in a lagoon nearby. Prabharkaran’s elder son himself had died a day earlier.

History links these 3 families incredibly. Prabhakaran was the man who murdered Rajiv Gandhi and Karunanidhi is the man who calls Prabhakaran a friend or freedom fighter or a terrorist as it suits his political convenience. Karunanidhi is also a political friend of Sonia Gandhi, the widow of the very man Prabhakaran killed. Wow!

History unifying these families apart, the events also got me thinking on the whole issue of family inheritance. Why is meritocracy a mere entry in the Oxford Dictionary? Why do you see bloodline taking supremacy over everything else? I am not being harsh on only a few people. Look all around you. Hollywood, Bollywood, Kollywood, Tollywood – sons, daughters, nephews, nieces, all follow their famous relatives’ footsteps. Seriously, how many Kollywood stars would have been given a second glance on a screen test but for their talismanic famous surnames or family identities? Let’s look at the world of business. Kids go to fancy business schools, come back and join as directors of companies by the time they turn 25 and are on a fast track program to become heads of business conglomerates. Be it companies listed on Wall Street or Dalal Street,
this is true.

Be it the world’s largest democracy or the oldest democracy, the same holds good. George W Bush has to thank his grandfather Prescott Bush for his incredible luck, not just hanging chads or Katherine Harris in Florida. His most formidable opponent Al Gore was no less blessed having Al Gore Sr. as his father. The number of political dynasties in India is plainly mind numbing. Turn to any corner of the country – there are Singhs, Yadavs, Raos, Reddys, Bahuguna, Dutts, Patnaiks etc. The Magna Carta may have happened in 1215. But, the British Commonwealth still bows its head to the Queen.

I suppose that only in skill-based activities does meritocracy truly reign supreme. Performing arts (I am not including the movie industry for obvious reasons) and sports are prime examples. Yes, there are musical lineages in both Carnatic and Hindustani classical music but they can survive and have survived only if the progeny genuinely had the talent to showcase to the world. Being Gavaskar’s son did not help his son beyond the ill-fated Indian Cricket league.

Is that why parents take an active interest in promoting their own? Is it parental instinct to provide for their own or is it genuine fear that the children cannot survive without the protective nudge from above? There is a saying in Tamil, “Vaathiyar Pillai Makku.” A teacher’s son is a dunce. Does that fear make parents fallible?

But, does blind love also impair and imperil parents? Push them to fatal errors? Was it Prabhakaran’s love that kept his family with him? Or did he think that sending his family to safety would signal a betrayal of his commitment to the Eelam cause and his suffering brethren? Was his blind affection that helped promote Charles Anthony as the head of the Sea Tigers? Why did Prabhakaran’s wife, daughter and young son have to meet with such a gruesome end?

Why else would Azhagiri whose supporters killed 3 innocent people in an attack on Sun TV’s Madurai office today be in the contention for a Ministerial post? Why would the self-styled poet Kanimozhi be rumoured to be in the race for the Health Ministry? Of the 39 MPs across parties from TN, and the 20 from across DMK, only the family is miraculously capable and deemed fit to head ministerial positions?

What but family legacy could have propelled Indira, Sanjay, Rajiv, Sonia now followed by Rahul to head the Indian National Congress, the same party under whose banner men of taller stature and persona fought for India’s freedom? Or if you have to see it differently, was his mother’s sacrifice of the Prime Ministership the right example for Rahul to spurn any power-play roles, which he can so easily claim?

Don’t get me wrong. I am not being harshly judgemental and implying that family dynasties are all wrong. The Ambani brothers have increased shareholder (and their own) wealth more than in their father’s lifetime. The Tata family has been the conscience keepers of the business community in India. Naveen Patnaik may have gotten a backdoor entry into Orissa politics but is also in the forefront of a radically fresh image in Orissa. Just that the abuse of this privilege makes me feel sad.

On a lighter vein, when I was diagnosed with Osteo-arthritis almost 1.5 years ago, I asked my doctor the reason. Why did I get it such a young age? He answered, “May be genetics, you may have inherited it.” Made sense, 3 of my maternal aunts have either arthritis or bone related problems, although they acquired it a much older age. I promptly called my mother and asked, “Of all the things you could have passed on to me as family inheritance - money, good looks, fair skin, intelligence and anything else, you chose to pass on Arthritis from your family?” My mother just laughed. Enough said.

On ordinary people, ordinary incidents but wierd thoughts

Yesterday, Sakthi and I went to eat at the Shipra Mall in Indirapuram. After finishing our dinner at around 9.30, when we stepped out of the mall, the car park area was freshly washed with a drizzle so welcome in this relentless summer heat. Sakthi had decided to go by rickshaw and not by bike or car but now we had to go back in what threatened to be rains. After a couple of rickshaw fellows declined, one guy agreed and asked for Rs. 30. Considering we paid Rs. 15 onward, this was nightime robbery! But, it was raining and Sakthi quickly agreed for Rs. 25. It always amazes me - this transaction of money, how do you fix a value on somebody's manual labour?

Anyway, off we went. The wind was really angry and throwing things our way. We had to close our eyes to protect them from the dirt getting in. The rickshaw had a makeshift cover for the passengers - with cut cardboard. The poor rickshawman didn't have even this. He was struggling to pull our weights against the wind. The dirt and grime forced us to keep our mouths shut - well, not really. I can never shut up.

I asked him, "Bhaiyya, is this your last sawari (ride)? Will you go home after this?"
He said, "Yes, I am done. I have been pulling this rickshaw since 8 AM."
"So, how much money do you make everyday?"
"Depends. Some days 250 bucks, some days 300."
I do a quick calculation (and very stupidly so). Not bad, if this guy worked every day of the month, he would make atleast 8K every month. Not an insignificant amount.

The wind started getting harder. He was finding it difficult to pedal on. He got down and tried pushing by hand. I shut my mouth briefly and told him, "You are panting already, I will shut up and not ask any more questions."

And, just within a minute or so, the wind was relenting a little and got softer. I couldn't shut up for too long. "Where do you live? How far do you have to go after dropping us?" I was worried if the poor man would have to go a long way and get soaked in the rain too.
"Nearby only. Shakti Khand. About 10 minutes distance." I was a little relieved for him.

We were closer to our home by then - it was only a 5-7 minute ride. "Bhaiyya, do you have kids?" In between huffing and panting, he said, "Yes. Two. One 6 year old and another 1 year old."
I asked my standard question to anybody from a lower economic group. "Do they go to school?"
"No, I don't have the money." I was very angry. "A six year old and not going to school? There are government schools with free education you know?" This was outrageous. How can he spoil his child's future like this? I mean, with 8K, can't you send a child to a free school? Yeah, yeah, I know it is stupid, but that's how I felt.

I got no answer. We reached home. Sakthi pulled out his wallet and gave him Rs. 40, much much more than a standard fare. We are like that - we keep giving extra money when somebody talks about children, having to educate them and the way we see it, the money is too small for us to even worry about it.

While walking to the complex and then on the lift, I started thinking. What is it that makes me ask these stupid questions to strangers? Especially the poor people? Is it sympathy? Or genuine caring? Or is it my status as an upwardly mobile woman who thinks she can get away with asking these questions of people less fortunate than myself? Am I inadvertently stripping them of their dignity, invading their private world? Or, by asking, am I able to understand or get a glimpse of a life that I hopefully, will never have to endure? Why this incredible curiousity about what seems to be ordinary lives?

Would I ask my own circle of friends what they make? Would they care to tell and if they do, how genuine would it be? Would I be judgemental about how they bring up their children? Will I be forgiving just because they send their kids to schools, buy an entire mall full of goodies and indulge their every whim and fancy? With their basic needs presumably taken care of, will I think of the emotional well being of these more privileged kids and question the parents on that?

Finally, I told myself this. Whatever it may be, every time I meet such people, it puts my own life is perspective. I don't feel guilty about having thrown away my corporate career (What career? That's another matter altogether!) and fancy salary. I am still living well. I don't feel jealous about the CEO varieties in my circle of friends, don't miss not having diamonds and pearls, having huge wardrobes full of clothes. I don't live in the hungry African hinterland or in the war torn corners of the world. Believe me, I am so bloody glad I am not a woman living in Swat.

I am happy to have Sakthi with me - he indulges my love for food, books, music and travel (once in a while, to be honest). I don't have to worry about anything. I can sit in the cool confines of my home, TV in the background, laptop in front of me and pound away my boredom. When I go back to Chennai, I will try to ease any traces of self-guilt by working in the Cancer Hospital. I don't believe in God but I am grateful to Sakthi. Glad to have you in my life, dear! :-)

எங்கே இருக்கிறாய் என் தோழி?

இன்று காலை, எல்லா செய்தி சானல்களிலும் ஒரே செய்தி ஒளி பரப்பாகிறது. பிரபாகரன் மரணம். சில வீடியோக்கள் இடைவிடாமல் காட்டப்படுகின்றன - இலங்கை ராணுவத்தின் விமான படையால் தாக்குண்டுப்பட்ட விடுதலைப் புலிகளின் கடைசி மறைவிடம், ராணுவ உடையில் பிரபாகரன், அவர் திருமணம், மனைவி மக்களுடன் ஆனந்தமாய் பொழுதைக் கழிப்பது, ஊதப்பட்ட ஒரு பெரிய பொம்மையுடன் விளையாடும் மகன், 2002-ல் நடத்தப்பட்ட அமைதி பேச்சு வார்த்தைகள், வெளி நாட்டு பயணத்திலிருந்து திரும்பி வந்த இலங்கை ஜனாதிபதி மகிந்தா ராஜபக்சே தனது தாய்நாட்டு மண்ணை முத்தமிடுவது, இன்றைய நிலைமையைப் பற்றி வெவ்வேறு வல்லுனர்கள் தங்கள் கருத்துக்களை தெரிவிப்பது, வெற்றி ஆரவாரத்தில் ஆனந்த களிப்பில் கொடிகளை ஆட்டும் மக்கள் - இவை அனைத்திற்கும் இடையே என் மனதில் ஒரே ஒரு கேள்விக்குறி. கீதாஞ்சலி, எங்கே இருக்கிறாய் என் தோழி?

1983. நான் ஏழாம் வகுப்பு மாணவி. இலங்கையில் தமிழர் பிரச்சினை அப்பொழுது தான் பெருமளவில் வெடித்திருந்தது. ஆங்கிலத்தில் ஒரு வார்த்தையை அப்பொழுது தான் முதன்முறையாய் கேள்விப்பட்டிருந்தேன். A-G-I-T-A-T-I-O-N. என்னை பொறுத்த வரையில், அதன் அர்த்தம் - அனைத்து அரசு பள்ளிகளுக்கும் ஒரு மாத விடுமுறை. பள்ளிக்கூடம் இல்லை. பள்ளி சீருடை இல்லை. காலை 8.20 மணிக்கோ, மாலை 5 மணிக்கோ பேருந்தை பிடிக்க வேண்டியதில்லை. வீட்டு பாடம் இல்லை. எல்லாவற்றையும் விட அதி மகிழ்ச்சியானது, அரக்கியான எனது வகுப்பு ஆசிரியை பாப்டிஸ்டாவை பார்க்க வேண்டியதில்லை. அவ்வார்த்தையின் அர்த்தமே வேறு. நண்பர்களோடு காலனியில் K பிளாக் கார் ஷெட்டில் நாள் முழுவதும் சீட்டாட்டம், கண்ணாமூச்சி, I Spy, டப்பா, ஏழு கற்கள் - இவற்றை ஆடி களிப்பது, களைப்பது. தமிழ் நாட்டுக்ககரையில் அலையாய் மோதி வந்து இறங்கும் அகதிகள், மண்டபத்தில் திறக்கப்படும் முகாம்கள், குட்டிமணி, ஜகன், தங்கதுரையின் வீர சாகசங்கள், இலங்கை ராணுவத்தின் கையில் அவர்கள் அனுபவித்த கொடுமைகள், அமிர்தலிங்கம், பிரபாகரன், பத்மநாபா, TULF, LTTE - செய்தி தாளில் வெறும் வார்த்தைகள். 3 வருடங்களுக்கு முன்னர் அன்றாட செய்திகளைப் படிப்பது வாடிக்கை ஆயிற்று. கடினமான வார்த்தைகளை குறித்து கொண்டு Oxford அகராதியில் படிப்பது வழக்கமாயிற்று. போராட்டம், அகதி, சிறுபான்மை இனத்தவர் - இவை எல்லாம் வெறும் வார்த்தைகளாகவே இருந்தன. எல்லாமே மாறவிருந்தன - வெகு விரைவில்.

1984-ல் எப்போதோ என் பள்ளிக்கு வந்தவள் கீதாஞ்சலி மாணிக்கவாசகம். என்னை விட உயரம், சற்றே நிறம் குறைவு, நீண்ட முகத்தில் வெடித்த சில பருக்கள், எப்போதும் இனிய புன்சிரிப்பு, கட்டுக்கடங்காத சுருள் முடி இரட்டை வால் குதிரையில் அடக்கம், அவள் குழந்தை இல்லை - வாலிப பருவத்தின் வளைவுகளை காட்டும் இளம்பெண். அவள் பேசுவதே வேறு விதமாய் இருந்தது, எப்பொழுதும் மரியாதை, இனியதாய் குரல் மற்றும் ஆம், இலங்கை தமிழருக்கே உரிய அரிதான பேச்சு நடை. பள்ளிக்கூடத்திலிருந்து பத்து வீடுகளுக்கு அப்பால் அவள் வீடு. முதல் மாடியில், அம்மா, அப்பா, 3 உடன் பிறந்தவருடன் வாசம். ஷங்கர், சுதா (அவன் பெயர் சுதாகர் என்று நினைக்கிறேன், ஆனால் அவனை அவள் அப்படிதான் அழைப்பதுண்டு) மற்றும் இளம் குழந்தை பிபாஷினி. தம்பிமார்கள் படித்தது அருகில் இருந்த சாந்தோம் மேனிலை பள்ளியில். பிள்ளைகள் மீது எப்பொழுதும் கருத்தாய், அவர்கள் தேவைகளைப்பூர்த்தி செய்தவாறு, குழந்தையைக்கூட மரியாதையுடன், "பிபா, இங்க வாங்க," என்று அழைத்த அன்பான அம்மா. ஆட்டோக்காரனால் "வூட்ல சொல்லிட்டு வந்துட்டியா?" என்று மட்டுமே கேட்டு பழக்கபட்டிருந்த மெட்ராஸ் வாசியான எனக்கு இன்ப அதிர்ச்சி.

கீதா, கீது என்று செல்ல பெயர் ஏதுமின்றி, வெறும் கீதாஞ்சலி என்று மட்டுமே அழைக்கப்பட்ட அவள் வெகு சுட்டி. படிப்பில், வகுப்பில் முதல் 10 மாணவிகளில் அவளும் ஒருத்தி. அற்புதமாய் வரைவாள் - கஸ்துரி ரங்கா சாலையில் இருந்த சோவியட் கல்சுரல் சென்டெரில் ஓவிய பாடங்களுக்கு ஒன்றாய் செல்வோம். அந்த பாடங்களுக்கு போகுமுன்னர், அவள் வீட்டிற்கு சென்று பிபாவுடன் விளையாடி, சாலை முனையில் இருந்த பேக்கரி-இல் பிரட்-உம் ஜாம்-உம் தின்று, 27D பேருந்தில் செல்வதுண்டு. என் வீட்டிற்கு தனியே திரும்பி செல்வேன். விளையாட்டுகளிலும் அவள் தேர்ச்சி அடைந்தவள். ஓட்ட பந்தயத்தில் வேகம், கூடை பந்தும் தெரியும், ஜாவேலின்-ஐ லாவகமாய் வீசுவாள். அனைவரிடமும் இனிதாய் பழகினாள். பாப்டிஸ்டா டீச்சரையும் மயக்கி வைத்திருந்தாள். அவளைக்கண்டு நான் என்றுமே பொறாமைப்பட்டதில்லை. அவள் நட்பில் சந்தோசம் மட்டுமே கண்டேன். கொஞ்சம் பெருமிதமும் அதில் கலந்து இருந்தது.

அவளைப்பற்றி பற்றி இப்பொழுது எதுவுமே குறிப்பாக நினைவிற்கு வருவதில்லை. அவளைப்பற்றி நினைத்தாலோ, ஓர் இனிய உணர்வே அலை மோதுகிறது. சொல்லொண்ணா துயர நிலையில் அவள் குடும்பம் இருந்திருக்கலாம். ஆனால், நான் எப்பொழுதும் கண்டது - சந்தோசம் மற்றும் ஒற்றுமை. அவள் அப்பாவை ஒன்றிரண்டு முறை கண்டதுண்டு - பேசியதே இல்லை. நான் 9-ஆம் வகுப்பிற்கு சென்றேன். அவள் அடையாளமே தெரியவில்லை. பள்ளிக்கூடம் வருவதை நிறுத்தி விட்டாள். அவள் வீட்டிற்கு சென்றேன். காலி செய்து சென்று விட்டிருந்தனர். லண்டனுக்கு சென்று விட்டதாய் கேள்விப்பட்டேன். பாப்டிஸ்டா டீச்சருக்கு ஒரு கடிதம் எழுதி இருந்தாள். எல்லா தோழிகளிப்பற்றியும் விசாரித்து எழுதி இருந்தாள் - என்னையும் சேர்த்து. அந்த கடிதத்தை நான் பார்க்கவே இல்லை. டீச்சர் அதை காட்டவே இல்லை - அவரிடமே வைத்துக்கொண்டார். ஒரு வேளை கேட்டிருக்கலாமோ? எடுத்து கொண்டு இருக்கலாமோ? அவள் விலாசமாவது தெரிந்திருக்க கூடும். அதன் பிறகு, அவளிடமிருந்து தகவலே இல்லை. வெறும் நினைவாகவே மறைந்து விட்டாள்.

பள்ளி நாட்களிலிருந்து புகைப்படங்கள் என்னடிம் வெகுவாக இல்லை. ஆனால், ஒன்று உள்ளது. பாப்டிஸ்டா டீச்சருடன் கீதாஞ்சலி, பார்கவி, சுதா மற்றும் நான். Google-இல் புகைப்படத்தைப்போட்டு தேடும் வசதி இருந்து, அது தானாகவே இருபத்தி ஐந்து வயதைக்கூட்டி, அவளைக்கண்டுப்பிடித்து தந்தால் நன்றாக இருக்குமே என்று நினைப்பதுண்டு. அவளைக்கண்டுப்பிடிக்க பல வருடங்கள் முயன்றதுண்டு. 1995-6 இல், முதன்முதலாய் இன்டர்நெட்-ஐ உபயோகித்த போது, அவள் பெயரை Yahooவில் தேடியதுண்டு. அதுவே வழக்கமாயிற்று. ஒவ்வுறு வருடமும் அவளைப்பற்றி எனக்கு ஞாபகமிருந்த சின்னச்சின்ன விவரங்களை வைத்து, வெவ்வேறு ஸ்பெல்லிங்-களை வைத்து தேடுவதுண்டு. அவள் பிறந்த ஊர் Batticaloa - அவள் அதைச் சொன்ன விதம் மட்டக்களப்பு. 2002-இல் Google-ஐ உபயோகித்து அவளுக்கு முன்னமே அறிந்து இருந்த, பழக்கம் விட்டு இருந்த இரண்டு நண்பர்களான ராஜு மற்றும் பைரவ்-ஐ கண்டு பிடித்து தொடர்பு கொண்டேன். நெஞ்சில் சின்னதாய் நம்பிக்கை அரும்பு விட்டது. கடந்த ஏழு வருடங்களாய் என் தேடல் தொடர்கிறது. அவளை இன்னமும் கண்டு பிடிக்கவில்லை.

அமெரிக்காவிலிருந்து லண்டன் வழியாக தாயகம் திரும்பும்போது, விமானத்தில் என் அருகில் உட்கார்ந்திருந்த ஓர் இலங்கைத் தமிழ் பெண்ணிடம் கீதாஞ்லியைப் பற்றி விசாரித்தேன். லண்டனில் இருக்கும் ஒவ்வொரு இலங்கைத் தமிழருக்கும் மற்றவரைத் தெரியக்கூடும் என்ற அல்ப ஆசை எனக்கு. 2005-இல் கொழும்புவிற்கு இரண்டு முறை சென்ற போது, அவளை நினைத்துக் கொண்டேன். இது அவள் தாய்நாடு. ஆனால் அவள் இங்கே இல்லை. இலங்கையைப் பற்றியோ, யாழ்ப்பாணத்தைப் பற்றியோ யார் பேசினாலும், அவளைப் பற்றி அமைதியாக நினைப்பேன். தொலைக்காட்சிகளில் தப்பி ஓடும் இலங்கை அகதிகளைக் காட்டும் போது, அவள் அங்கே இல்லை என்று சந்தோஷப் படுவேன். என்னுடன் வயலின் வாசிக்கக் கற்றுக்கொள்ளும் கிருஷாந்தி யாழ்ப்பாண தமிழ் பெண். மட்டகளப்பிலிருந்து இல்லை என்றாலும், கீதாஞ்சலியை பற்றி ஒரு முறை பேசி இருக்கிறேன். ஆனால், அவள் எங்கே இருக்கிறாள்?

எங்கே இருக்கிறாய் கீதாஞ்சலி? நலம் தானே? திருமணம் ஆகி விட்டதா? குழந்தைகள் இருக்கின்றனவா? தாயகத்தை எப்போதாவது திரும்பி சென்று கண்டதுண்டா? பிரிட்டிஷ் மக்களைப் போல் ஆங்கிலம் பேசுகிறாயா? உனக்கே உண்டான அந்த இனிய யாழ்ப்பாண தமிழில் இன்னமும் பேசுகிறாயா? பிபா எப்படி இருக்கிறாள்? வளர்ந்து பெரியவளாகி இப்போது கண் கவிரும் கன்னிகை ஆகி இருப்பாள். அம்மா எப்படி இருக்கிறார்கள்? அப்பா? தனது குடும்பத்தை இரண்டு முறை வேரோடு அறுத்து கண் காணா தூரத்திற்கு கூட்டி சென்ற அந்த விவேகமான அப்பா எப்படி இருக்கிறார்கள் - வேலையில் இருந்து ஓய்வு பெற்று, இலங்கையில் காணா அமைதியை வேற்று நாட்டில் அனுபவித்து கொண்டுஇருக்கிறாரா? ஷங்கரும் சுதாவும் இப்பொழுது வாலிப முறுக்கில் இளம்பெண்களைகவர்ந்து இழுத்து கொண்டு இருப்பார்கள். என்ன தொழில் செய்து கொண்டுஇருக்கிறார்கள்?

இன்டர்நெட் உலகின் ஏதோ ஒரு மூலையில் இதைப் படித்தால், திரும்பி வந்து உன் தோழிக்கு ஹலோ சொல்வாயா? எனக்கு தெரிந்த, எனக்கு தனிப்பட்ட முறையில் நான் கவலைப்படும் யாழ்ப்பாண தமிழர் நீ மட்டுமே. உனக்காக, ரணமான உன் நாட்டில் அமைதி நிலவ வேண்டும் என்று வேண்டுகிறேன். நீ அங்கே திரும்பி சென்றாலும் சரி, செல்லா விட்டாலும் சரி, நீ விட்டு சென்ற உன் நாட்டு மக்கள் நம்பிக்கை என்ற காற்றை சுவாசிக்க வேண்டும், நல்ல எதிர்காலத்திற்கான கனவைக் காண வேண்டும். நொடிந்து போன தம் வாழ்க்கைகளை மீண்டும் சரி செய்து அமைதியின் பாதையை அடைய வேண்டும். சிறு பிள்ளைகள் துள்ளிக் குதித்து பள்ளிக்கூடம் போக வேண்டும். ஆடவரும் பெண்டிரும் தத்தம் வேலையில் மும்முரம் அடையவேண்டும். வீட்டு முற்றத்தில் வயதானோர் எல்லாம் இப்போர், தூக்கத்தில் கண்ட ஒருபயங்கர கனவே, சீக்கிரம் மறந்து விடும் என்று நினைக்க வேண்டும். நீயும் உன் நாடும்நன்றாக இருக்க வேண்டும் - நீ எங்கே இருந்தாலும்!

Where are you my friend?

This morning, all news channels were constantly relaying one news. Prabhakaran is dead! There was a constant show of videos, of air raids bombarding the small piece of land that was the LTTE's last hide out, of Prabhakarn in his military fatigues, him getting married, spending quality family time with wife and children, his son playing with an inflated doll figure, his speeches, the peace conference in 2002, of Mahinda Rajapakse dramatically kissing the Sri Lankan earth on his return from a foreign jaunt, of various so called experts offering their views on the scenario, jubiliant people in Sri Lanka waving flags and shouting etc. Through all this, I was thinking of only one person. Geetanjali. Where are you my friend?

It was 1983. I was in my 7th grade. The Tamil problem in Sri Lanka had just snowballed into a big crisis. I heard an English word for the first time ever - A-G-I-T-A-T-I-O-N. To me it meant, a month of holidays in all Government run and aided schools in Chennai. No school, no uniform, no catching the 8.20 AM bus to school and the 5PM bus back, no home work and the best part of it all, no Baptista Miss, my monstrous class teacher. It also meant grouping with friends in the car shed of K Block of our colony, playing cards, I Spy, Dubba, Seven Stones and other games all day. The massive influx of refugees on the shores of Tamil Nadu, the opening of refugee camps in Mandapam, the heroics of Kuttimani, Jagan, Thangadurai and the stories of their torture in the hands of the Sri Lankan Army, Amirthalingam, Prabhakaran, Padmanabha, TULF, LTTE were all just news items to read in the newspaper every day. Reading the newspaper had become a part of my life 3 years earlier. I just circled difficult words in the newspaper to learn meanings from my Oxford Dictionary. Refugee, Agitation, Ethnic Minority were all mere words. All that was to change and very soon.

Geethanjali Manickavasagam came to our school sometime in 1984. She was taller than me, little darker, longish oval face marked by a few pimples, ever smiling, curly hair forced to retreat into two pig tails, she was not a child - she was already getting the curves of a woman. She spoke differently, always respectful, speaking in a dulcet voice and oh yeah, there was the sing song Sri Lankan Tamilian accent at all times. She lived barely 10 homes away from the school on the same street. She lived on the 1st floor of her home with her parents and 3 younger siblings. Shankar, Shudha (I presume his name was Sudhakar but that's how she called him) and the toddler Bibashini. The brothers studied at Santhome School, also nearby. Her mother was constantly fussing over the children, taking care of them, always protective over Biba. She spoke like all Sri Lankan Tamils, with respect towards even the toddler. Biba, inga vaanga! Now, that was shocking for a Madrasi like me who was used to auto fellows yelling over you on the road - voottula solltu vantiya?

Geetanjali as I always called her (she didn't have a nick name Geetha, Geethu nothing) was good at everything. She was good at studies, always pulling in the top 10. She painted well - we went for drawing and painting classes at the Soviet Cultural Centre on Kasturi Ranga Road together. Before leaving for classes, I went to her home, played with Biba, had bun and jam at the bakery at the end of the street and took 27D to the Centre together. I used to return home alone. She was brilliant at sports. Very athletic, she sprinted naturally, played basketball, threw the javelin like a pro. She was sweet towards everybody. She managed to get on the right side of even Baptista Miss (I would exhaust 3-4 blog pages just writing on that tyrant). I never felt jealous about her. I was always happy to be her friend. A little proud too that I knew her.

I don't remember specific incidents about her now. I think of her and I only have pleasant feelings flood over me. Her family must have been going through a very harrowing time but always presented a picture of happiness and unity. I saw her father once or twice but never spoke to him. I moved to my 9th grade. And, suddenly, she stopped coming to school. There was no sign of her. I went to her home and they had already moved out. We got to know that the family had moved to London. She wrote one letter to Baptista Miss sometime later. She had asked about all her friends, including me. I never got to see the letter, Baptista never showed it, but kept it. I wish I had taken it from her or atleast asked. I would have known a return address. I never heard from her again. She is just a memory.

I don't have many pictures from my schooling days. But, I have one. Of Geetanjali, Bhargavi, Sudha and me with Baptista Miss. I wish I can search on Google by uploading a picture and it will automatically age the person and find her for me. I have tried for years to find out about her. When I got on to the Internet first sometime in 1995-6, I searched for her name on Yahoo. It became a ritual. Every year, I would type her name and all details I knew about her with various spellings. She came from Batticaloa or Mattakalappu as she called it. In 2002, I got back in touch with Raju and Byrav (my classmates from an earlier time) after 20 years using Google. That renewed my faith. 7 years since, I have continued my search. I have not found her yet. When I travelled from the US to India via London, on my flight ex-London, there was a Sri Lankan Tamil seated next to me. I asked her about Geethanjali. As if every Sri Lankan Tamil in London or UK would know each other. When I went to Colombo twice in 2005, I thought of her - this is her homeland. but she was not there. Every time somebody spoke about Sri Lanka or Jaffna, I would think of her silently. When the TV channels showed fleeing refugees, I used to feel glad she was not there. Krishanthi, my fellow student from the violin class is also a Sri Lankan Tamil and not from Batticaloa. Never mind, I asker her about Geethanjali. But, where is she?

Where are you my friend? Are you okay? Are you married? Do you have kids? Have you ever seen your homeland again? Do you speak English with a British accent now? Do you still have your uniquely Yazhpana Tamil accent? How is Biba now? She must be a grown up woman now! How is your mom? How is your father? That valiant man who uprooted his family twice to give them a better life, is he now gracefully retired and enjoying peace in a far away land? Shankar and Shudha must be strapping, young handsome men, flooring and wooing girls in their own way. What are they upto these days?

Somewhere in the Internet world, if you read this, will you come back and say hello to your friend? You, really are the only Sri Lankan Tamil I care about, very personally. And, for your sake, I hope, peace comes back to your ravaged land. Whether you go back or not, I hope that the people you left behind in Sri Lanka will finally be able to breathe an air of hope and dream of a better future. I pray they will be able to piece back their shattered lives and just get on with their daily rituals - kids skipping on their way to school, men and women getting on with their work, old people sitting in the verandas and talking about the war like it was just a nightmare they woke up with and will forget soon. I really wish you and your home land well, my friend. Wherever you are.