A short cut to Ramar Sethu
Karunanidhi : "Who is this Rama? From which engineering college did he gradute? Is there any proof for this?"
Advani :''Today a civil war is going on and the government of Tamil Nadu is adding to it"
My father : "Intha Rendu kezhathaiyum pidichu jail la pota Ramarum nimmadhiya irupar, sethu vum nimmadhiya irukum." * (chuckles)
* Translation :
'If both these old croonies are put in jail, Rama would be happy, and so will the bridge. '
Rush hour traffic. Zillion diversions. Buses that don’t stop for everyone. Share Autos to the rescue. He waits for one. Shifts his weight to his good leg. A blue ID tag dangles, from his white collar.
They whiz past him. The traffic police shoo them away. He holds his knee for support.
One crowded Auto stops for an extra ten rupees. He hops on beside the driver. Three of them perched on a seat for one.
He is not a local. Smiles make up for the lapses in language. He wants to get down mid-way. Another busy junction. The traffic constable brandishes his lathi. The auto driver mumbles his complaint.
He gets down and extends a ten-rupee note. A fare in excess of the distance he has traveled, but which the auto driver considers fair for the trouble caused. A Khaki coat’s righteous claim over the white collar.
He thanks the auto driver and limps across the busy road.
Yet another busy junction. The auto driver jumps down and runs behind his client. The auto stands idle, blocking the milling vehicles. The driver helps him cross and presses a 5-rupee coin in his hand.
Smiles cover up the lapses in language.
Charity Begins at home.
I am writing this on the last few days of my stay in a foreign land, on a business visit.
A charity sale was going on in our office. It was a cookie-candy-pizza sale as a fund raiser for the Alzheimer’s disease research.
Colleague: what is going on? Why are there so many cookies and Pizzas?
Me: It’s for charity.
Colleague: Charity? Is it free?
Me: No! It’s a fund raiser. Charity for the needy
Colleague: Oh.. Then India needs lots of charity.. Ask these people to give us the money..
Me: Why? To end up in the politician’s pocket?
Colleague: so what? We will fill up the politician’s pocket so much that some of it will at least overflow to the public.
Me: Our politicians will enlarge their pockets, if something like that happens.
Colleague: Then we would fill them up even more, so that something surely overflows.
Me: Or…. Better still… We could puncture the politician’s pocket…
Colleague: suddenly becomes mature, looks away and shrugs
***********************************************************************
Those wonder years in the wonder land..
There is this friendly cheerful lady in office. A single mom living with her parents, and her 4 year old daughter. Over lunch, I asked her about her daughter. Among other interesting anecdotes, she told me that her daughter freaks out her grandma with an imaginary friend of hers. The little girl used to say with a straight face, “Nana, I am not talking to myself. Can’t you see this girl sitting on the toilet seat? She is waiting for her momma and papa to come and pick her up...”
Kids imagine all sorts of things. I had imagined so many things. I always wanted a houseful of siblings. I had imagined an elder sister and a younger brother. So strong was my hallucination, that I went around telling children at school what my sister did to my hair and how my kid bro broke my toys. It wasn’t until a couple of standards later, that one of the girls from school came to my house and asked my parents for my akka and thambi. My mom had to bail me out, by saying they were cousins.
Then there was this game that I used to play with myself. I used to imagine a parallel universe where things happened opposite to the world as I knew it. When I cried, I imagined that my counterpart in the parallel world laughed. When I stood, she sat. When I slept, she was awake. When I said yes, she said no. There was no rhyme or reason to this little game. But I kept playing it. And it did amuse me a lot. I don’t remember when I stopped playing this game, and it is surprising that I still can recollect it.
Childhood is when reality is imagination and imagination becomes reality. Things didn’t have to exist to be true. As long as they kept you happy and amused. As long as you believed in them.
Then all of a sudden you grow up. Imagination becomes difficult. Or Art.
Beliefs become naiveté. Or do they? Some may linger on. I, for one, could use a parallel universe every now and then.
Does anyone think that Kareena Kapoor and Paris Hilton look alike?
Has anyone noticed that Urmila resembles Jeniffer Aniston?
Or Is it just me?
Hay in the Subway.
Moist Highway. Drying Sun. Milling morning vehicles. Sub-terrain Pedestrian pathway. Choc-a-bloc with arms laden with lunch boxes and scurrying legs. Away from the prying rays of the sun. Still Sequestered with little pools of inky black water.
An abandoned heap of hay. Soggy and damp. Condemned to decay.
A body slumped against it. Wrapped in rags, that could have once been pink or orange, or brown or may be even white. A lifeless head hanging down. A messy tuft of silver and grey.
Was he dead? Was she dead? Will they dispose it? Is he/she dying? Is he sleeping? Drunk? Did she shelter here from the nightly lashes of rain? Hungry? Will the sun breathe life into yet another life-form?
Joy Ride
A crowded metro bus. A family of gypsies. A mother, a father and a bunch of kids, of all ages. The adults carrying an infant each, balancing all their bags and wares.
A bus ride. Window seat. Sitting on par with others. What excitement ! Chitter chatter. Peals of laughter. The eldest is the noisiest. The others are too young to realize this unbridled joy. The mother watches them with sedate eyes. Her infant tugging her pleated skirt, that clashed with the rags wrapped around her.
The father holds on to his little one, like a beast of burden. The merry of his oldest stirs in him a vehemence, uncalled for. He swings around, and thrashes the lad.
Striken face. Bawls of shock, and bawls of pain.
Did the noise disturb his reverie? Was he embarrassed in front of the ‘saaamys’ and ‘ammas’ ? Was he afraid that some saamy or amma would scold him? What if the conductor pushed them out of the bus?
Or was he afraid of letting his son taste a joy that may not always be his ?
A high profile outlet of a well-known chain of jeweler’s stores. A young couple. Romance is in the air. The husband holds up many a necklace to see which suits his lovely wife the best. An adamant toddler, all of two years and a half, may be. Refusing to get down from her vantage perch, viz her mother’s hip.
Pink turns red, when the little one intrudes into the adult’s bliss. The mother struggles to balance both her burdens, small and big. The neglected husband stomps off. A bored child, slides off her hip. The sales persons watch the melee. The haggard mother is left confused and dazed.
Not even once did the husband offer to mind the child. Newly flaunted Gender Equality bowing down to stereotypes ingrained from childhood.
And the sales persons watched.
A high profile outlet. Professional service. Sans the personal touch.
Introduction:
I had a lovely evening tonight. I got to meet one of my best friends from college and we spent the evening watching a play. The play was in English, titled “Flame of the Forest”, and was by Madras Players in collaboration with JustUs repertory. The theme was based on Kalki’s Sivakami yin Sabhadam (The vow of Sivakami.)
The novel is a mini-epic in modern Tamil literature, and is a saga on the lives of Sivakami, the supremely talented courtesan of the Pallavas, her beau the crown Prince, Mamalla (after whom the sea-side head-away Mahabalipuram aka Mammallapuram was named)., and the culture loving king Mahendravarma Pallavan.
It was a special play to me, because, I, however hard I tried, have not been able to trace my ancestry beyond the limits of Chennai, both my parents having five generations behind them rooted in the port-city. When talking to other tamilians from Thanjavur and Madurai , places where the grandeur of the ancient dynasties still speak tomes, I have always felt small. Chennai has always had a relatively recent history, gaining much of its importance on account of being a strategic port for the British colonizers. And that isn’t something one can boast of as a proud heritage, compared to the Meenakshi and the Brihadeswara temples.
I have had a vague feeling that Sivakamiyin Sabhadam dealt with a time of history where the Pallavas were at their pinnacle, I had never dared to read the book, as it had poetic descriptions, the language being more than what my command over my mother tongue could take. I had been pestering people to read it out to me, but no one had had the time and patience for it. So I welcomed this play with glee, and the discovery that Chennai was indeed a part of the Pallava Empire came as a bonus.
The play did not delve into the facts, but was rather a character portrayal of Mahendra Varman, the artist-philosopher-king. Sivakami, the jewel of his court, also occupied a significant part of the script, having been the protagonist of Kalki’s work.
The Storyline:
The first act had Kanchi, the flourishing culture capital of the Pallavas under the threat of a siege by the Chalukya king, Satyashraya Pulikesi. Mahendra Varman, the ruler of the land, had spent time in inventing the seven string veena, and patronizing the sculpting of the Mamallapuram rocks, that he had been oblivious to the fact that Kanchi would crumble, should Pulikesi set foot in it. An unwilling but able military strategist, he keeps his foe engaged in minor skirmishes, while he buys time to strengthen his fort. He finds an energetic general in young Paranjyothi.
Sivakami, whose divine dance Mahendra Varman worships along with the rest of his empire, is in love with his only son Mamalla. The noble king stoops low to prevent royalty mingling with common blood, and keeps his son within the confines of his fort, and offers to send Sivakami (who lives in a forest, and is exposed to attack) to safety. Sivakami, full of desire and will, refuses to oblige.
The next act was a personal favorite. Mahendra Varma is playing his seven-string veena, while Paranjyothi brings in news of the siege being even real than feared. Paranjyothi implores Mahendra to don his war gear and get into the offensive. Mahendra responds saying “ I took so many years to discover that seven strings produced the most divine sounds. I have composed a new raga, and it fills me with joy”. The vexed Paranjyothi urges the King to stop playing his veena and to come out into the fray. Disturbed from his world of creation, and rudely brought back to the reality of destruction, Mahendra whips up the hidden vigour of his lineage and dons the war gear.
By a twist of fate, Nature intervenes with the monsoon showers, depriving the Chalukyas of their provisions. Mahendra extends a hand of friendship and invites Pulikesi to his capital. He treats his new friend to Sivakami’s divine performance, and shows him the art and architecture of Kanchi. He reveals his plans for a culturally rich sub continent, where only constructive forces exist.
But the Chalukya king has other plans. He captures Kanchi by deceit and fatally injures Mahendra, and takes Sivakami his captive. On the death bed, Mahendra vows to destroy Vatapi, the Chalukya capital to avenge Kanchi, and bring back Sivakami, the living soul of Kanchi.
Paranjyothi and Mamalla(crowned Narasimha Varma) fulfill his last wish. Paranjyothi disillusioned by the war, becomes a wandering mendicant, healing people in his wake, he who once had a gory glory.
Mamalla, pining for his love, disguises as a merchant of bangles and attempts to rescue Sivakami. But Sivakami refuses deliverance by stealth. The soul of Kanchi refuses to be redeemed unless by war and valour. Mamalla, fulfills his sweet heart’s desires. But is forced to marry the Pandya princess, to gain reinforcements for his revenge. Sivakami, who once demanded Vatapi to be burned to ashes, just as Kanchi had been, pleads to Mamalla to leave Vatapi unhurt. Her change is attributed to the nine years of confinement and the maturity having born with age. Sivakami returns to her homeland, but not to her love.
She dedicates herself to the temple, and becomes the chief devdasi.
The Play:
Mahendra Varman played by Deesh Mariwala, (a popular artist, as I gathered from my friend) played the character well, but that’s where the accolades end. He was faithful to the script (by Gowri Ramnarayan, who writes for The Hindu) but if at all there was any spark in his performance it was because of the script. The relevance of Mahendra’s dilemma to today’s world was brought out subtly. A man of finer instincts, a lover of art, a just king, a patron of all religions, a man whose diplomacy resembled the CBMs of the Indo-Pak Governments. He was a man who aspired for the Satya Yuga, the age of truth, fully aware that he belonged to the Kali Yuga, the age of treason. Gowri’s script has done complete justice to this, although my mother tells me that Kalki himself had vividly sketched the character so, in the original. An idealist at heart, he responds to calls of duty, strategizing like a fox to save his kingdom from the enemy’s preying eyes. However dear Sivakami and her art is to him, he gets malicious, in separating the lovers. He might be a secular man, envisaging a temple for every faith, but he is unable to let go his hold on caste differences when it comes to his own son, a prince by birth, falling for a lowly courtesan, however divine her art may be. The irony of his character, speaks of the momentary demise that all ideals undergo, when it boils down to one’s own self.
Kudos to the script writer, be it gowri or kalki.
Sivakami, the younger version was played by Mythili Prakash. Her performances had more to do with dance, than acting. But that was nevertheless a treat. Priyadarshini Govind played the older Sivakami, the chief devdasi, and had also choreographed the dance sequences.
The stage setting had been quite lacklustre. Nothing spectacular for a backdrop, and the lights mostly yellow, served little more than to accentuate the silks and gold worn by the cast. Costumes were not garrish, as is the case with such historical plays, but that did have a downside as well. The grandeur of the King and his court were not brought out. He didnt even wear a crown.
But there were some impressive theatrics. Verses from the original were sung, and their meanings enacted or danced to, and explained in English, the translation paying attention to details and not ruining the beauty of the original. In one scene, where the declaration of siege is followed by diplomatic efforts of Mahendra, the happenings in between are gossiped by the courtiers who are busy getting the room ready for the entry of the two foe turned friends. The supporting cast go about getting the stage ready, while the play is still on. The setting for this scene was quite elaborate with lounges, umbrellas , and cushions, brass lamps, and flowers. All this would have taken more than a few minutes to get ready, and an unwelcome break in the flow.
V.Balakrishnan played many characters, notable among them being Paranjyothi and Pulikesi. He was so good, that I did not realise that Pulikesi and Paranjyothi were the same person, till he removed his head wrap(as pulikesi) during a fight scene. It was his wavy long hair that shook with the war moves, that gave him away. His diction and delivery were very good, but nothing much could be said of the expressions, while Dheesh (Mahendra) scored an edge over him in this department.
For the women, Mythili as the young Sivakami, had a soft but powerful voice and delivery, which emphasised the doe-eyed tigress that Sivakami was. Priyadarshini as the older Sivakami, was very convincing, her voice breaking with the weight of emotion. Both of them did not resort to any advanced theatrics, but did leave nothing to complain about.
Saving the best for the last. My most favorite part of the play was the concluding act. The time where the older Sivakami reminisces of her past. Her captivity in Vatapi, her pining for Mamalla, her fool hardy refusal of Mamalla's initial rescue attempts, and the rationale behind pleading for toning down the impact of a war that she had demanded from Mamalla. All these were performed as dance sequences that followed the english rendition of the verses. The dance was performed by Priyadarshini in the fore, with Mythili, as the younger Sivakami behind. Both their dances were choreographed similarly with subtle differences. Priyadarshni's brought out the emotions of a woman visiting her past, remorse and longing heightened. Mythili's was the new, raw feeling of the moment, the emotional roller coaster of the present. This attempt at a flashback, bringing out the then and the now, was very very novel and held me enthralled. The last sequence where Sivakami says that when she dedicated herself to the services of the temple "she lost herself in the divine. And she found herself in the divine", Priyadarshini's expressions and movements conveyed the soothing peace that she had immersed herself in, while Mythili's was rapture at a new bliss engulfing her troubled soul... Amazing synchronization by the duo. Was out of the world.
Stopped for a late night ice-cream, in Chennai's surprisingly not-so-balmy air, and came home with the satisfaction of an evening well spent.
Why do people commit suicide?
This was the thought with which I woke up day before yesterday morning. Sternly conditioned to abstain from uttering or thinking of anything remotely macabre by generations of superstitious matrons, I found myself propped up in bed in the wee-hours of a madras Monday pondering over this with clinical interest. Why would anyone want to seek peace in an unknown realm, than find a way in the known? How would life be, if one knew what comes after death?
After-life or After-death has been the mirage over which the religions of the world have rooted their foundations. From the cyclic theory of the oriental religions and the tangential moksha, the linear ideology of the occident culminating in the pearly gates to heaven or the pit below, to the zany experiment born in the mind of Douglas Adams, this ambiguity has given rise to it all.
The circumstances that had me wondering on such lines, were quite uncanny. I was totally sleep-deprived, and had read the papers before going to sleep. Had glanced upon the crime section, which I don’t usually dwell much upon. Had a weird dream, and woke up to listen to a suicide case of a woman, and her husband’s role in it, being read out by the unemotional mechanical voice of a regional channel news reader.
I walked through the day pre-occupied, with such questions in mind, wondering for the first time without any emotion, even detachment.(And yes, detachment, too is an emotion.)
Before I went to bed that day, I had mentioned my weird morning to one new friend, that I had stumbled upon in orkut. That night I had a weirder dream. A barren village, parched mud tenements. The houses grow and multiply, but the inhabitants perish. People wonder about some curse, seeing healthy ones perish. A lone man, an outcast whose tobacco-stained teeth and cracked feet are my only impressions left of him, keeps muttering to himself. “All will be well, when the good people will come” is what he keeps repeating to himself. When the village folk finally heed to his words, and exasperatedly ask “Who will send the good peole you keep mumbling about?” “GOD”, someone yells, and it all comes reeling into wake-fulness. The clock showed 2 am. I was so sleepy, but too confused to sleep, that the room started spinning. I called out to my father, who was sleeping beside me. He just patted my head and I don’t know when I fell back to sleep.
I don’t know if it’s a premonition of sorts. My mom just says it’s the novels I read. Or perhaps the impressions I form of my observations. Or that I was merely stressed.
I don’t know what it was. But it was mighty strange.
Read some book, some time back, not able to recollect, where some character says that aliens keep tab of us by stealing our consciousness during our sleep. If it is H2G2, I shall be pretty much convinced they have done a rush job with mine yesterday night…
The Fallen Lord of the Bridge
Nightly Prowls of the straying Southwesterly winds. Showers that moisten a dry metropolis. Every street that is some street, every gully that is some gully sequestered with miniature ponds of brown, green and gray. Tyre trenches cut patterns in the soft earth. Twin puddles of emerald. Bright verdant new leaves of spring seeking kinship with the shy hidden moss. A bridge of hardened cement. Work abandoned in the rain.
A man in brown shirt and blue lungi. Sleeves rolled up. Lungi drawn in carelessly between his legs. The Lord of the bridge. A head of tousled lifeless hair, bent down. Loss and weariness screaming out his drooping shoulders.
Is he broke? What ails him? Did an elusive sweetheart shatter his heart? Has a dear one left him to face the world alone ? Did he lose a job? Was it aching bones? Was he a criminal on the run, catching his breath? Was it guilt that weighed him down? Was he shutting out hungry faces back home? Had he bowed down in resingnation to a cruel fate? Was he contemplating something deeper? Perhaps the futile search for the meaning of life?
..............Or was it hangover from the night’s toddy?
Came across this article while browsing through Wikitravel. Written in 2005 by a foreigner touring Chennai and India, on his first impressions.
Felt nice reading it.
Some excerpts:
"Chennai has a population of over six million, although when out and about and caught in the crowds I often feel that the total population of India just happens to be on the street I am on. No matter how many times I walk through the city, I am still fascinated by what I see. I recently took a walk through the crowded Triplicane area of the city at dusk and became part of the neon-hazed vibrancy. A cacophony of vehicles horns mingled with voices, overrun by the haunting call to prayers from the city’s largest mosque."
I have my own memories of evening walks in Triplicane, where I spent a significant portion of my summer vacations (My granny's place). Despite the summer heat, evenings in this sea-side locality were of intense activity. Home to a majority of the city's muslims, it also houses an ancient Vaishnavaite temple. My relatives still live on a street which has a temple at one end and a mosque at the other. The temple end has a Hindu name, and the Mosque end a Muslim one. Even during the Ganesh Chathurthi riots in the '90s this street was by and large peaceful, the residents living in blissful harmony for generations.
"I watched boys play cricket in the back streets and children flying kites from rooftops. I looked at the intricately drawn kolams on the floor, drawn by women at the entrances to homes, and watched both young and old stop to offer a prayer at a streetside shrine. Someone asked “Which country?” as he passed by. In response to my answer, he smiled, gave a head wobble and continued on his way, content in the knowledge he had “met” a foreign visitor. "
The Kite flying was something the little kids in the house used to look forward every evening. Trying to cut the thread (termed "deal") of the other kites, deftly manouevering your own for a narrow escape from a sly neighbor; it was a colorful fete, that made me a sky-watcher for life. (Being the youngest cousin, I was usually left to watch the skies, holding the "maanja" thread reel).
Praying at a street side shrine is a very frequent practice amongst chennai-ites. People walking on a crowded street, suddenly stop in front of a Ganesh enshrined on a building wall, stalling the human traffic behind them, jerk their slippers free, and start veneratively slapping their cheeks. Though not a stranger to the scene, I have always found this practice rib-tickling much to the chagrin of the elders in the family.
"I ate like a king in an up-market restaurant and minutes later passed a street dweller eating rice and sambar (spicy gravy) from a banana leaf while squatting on the pavement."
The innumerable "Kai-yenthi" (literally translated means 'hand-held') bhavans, the mobile street side shops that feed the millions under and slightly over the poverty line, (sometimes, others too) are fascinating to watch. The brisk business they do in the limited space and infrastructure that the push-cart shall permit leaves one amused. Though they do mess up the environment around them, they have been a boon for many a famished stomach.
I liked the article not only because, it brought back some memories of my hometown. It gave a valuble insight into something that I have been feeling towards my adopted city as well. (as a quote from Pico Iyer)
"we start out by laughing at what we regard as the follies of another culture. Then we move towards bewilderment as we begin to leave parts of our own culture behind. Eventually, we end up somewhere completely different from where we set out. Hopefully, that new state of mind is better than the place we left behind and is much closer to the culture we find ourselves in. "
When I first came to Bangalore, I was so overwraught with home-sickness and was frequently prone to comparing it with my home-town. Though any outsider would prefer Bangalore's climate to Chennai's, I was busy convincing myself that I would never like this place.
But, when found myself telling people 'how this is like- in- bangalore', and 'how this is not like- in -bangalore', every single day of my recent three week stay in Chennai, I realised how much I had grown to relate myself with my surrogate city, and how much I missed it. Its was not just the roads, the climate and the culture. I had even started to cherish the general hospitality with which Bangaloreans had treated me , a stranger. Although, I have had my share of mishaps, they evened out in the end.
Maybe, as the author of the article says "Incongruity is the essence of modern India....You can’t change India, India changes you.” Perhaps, this is the case with anyone trying to blend in an new society.
Wrote the following letter to "The Hindu" regarding an article of the editor's daughter topping an US university. This kind of a propaganda is demeaning to any real achiever, something akin to blowing one's own trumpet. I am not sure how much of my letter would be published, if at all it is published. Here it is below :
Dear Editor,
This is in reference to your “news item” on Ms Ram’s academic achievements. I have been a staunch defender of “The Hindu” whenever someone said that it is not what it used to be. For in today’s world of frenzied media activity, I was of the opinion that “The Hindu” retained a certain appreciable degree of sanity.
But this particular coverage of Ms. Ram’s achievements and profiling of her academic career came as an assault to my beliefs. Publishing something that would be better off as an “advertiser’s feature” in the middle of the news section (thankfully, not as an editorial) seems to put “The Hindu” on the same standing as the TV and newspaper endeavors of Tamil Nadu’s leading political parties.
The common reader of a paper like “The Hindu” doesn’t generally expect to see blatant propaganda of any sort, leave alone the academic glory of the editor’s family member. Of what good, would this bit of news do to me, as a reader hard pressed for time to keep pace with the news, I fail to follow.
And besides, if Ms. Ram is an exceptional budding journalist, then, let her be profiled in the supplements concerning education, and not in the main newspaper. A feature of this nature befits a person who has won a prestigious award for her professional acheivements, which is not the case here.
All around the globe, in the hallowed portals of many a glorious institution, Indian students are topping the ranks every other year. Not all of them get featured even in the corner of your weekly supplements.
A decade back, I would be fully confident that such a letter of criticism would definitely be published, but yesterday’s story hints at an attitude that would rather send this letter to the trash. Please maintain the quality of unbiased and sensible news reporting that “The Hindu” has been known for all these years and kindly refrain from sensationalization of this caliber.
Regards,
SuCh
I planned to get ready early today. But by some celestial conspiracy, couldn’t make it on time.The last bus that stopped at my bus-stop had left. I caught an auto to the next stop. There was a bus due there in the next 5 mins. I tried to keep the fare ready, so that I need'nt waste time in paying for the auto.
I could not find my purse . I pulled out all the articles that populated my overloaded bag. All those things I had been searching for since time immemorial materialized out of the frantic exercise.
Rummaging through all the rubble, I fished out a 100 Rupee note and a 5 rupee coin, stuffed in some inner compartment of my bag, lying forgotten for days.
In compliance with Murphy’s laws, it so happened that the auto driver had to say that he did not have a ‘single paisa’ on him, me being his first savari for the day. I asked him to wait, got down and began asking all those fellow employees who were waiting for the bus. Some pretended not to hear, some shook their heads in denial even before I could address them. Some were deeply engaged in a telepathic conversation with the crow on the tree above. Most gave a very toothy grin, that made me feel that they were happy not to have been in my shoes. Perhaps they didn’t realise I was not begging but was just asking for change.
I would have asked atleast a dozen, when one lady finally felt it appropriate to check her purse before she answered. She had a fifty rupee note, which offered me. I took it and asked for name so that I could return it to her. She said “First pay the auto driver, I ll tell you afterwards”.
I went to the auto driver, imploring him to accept the 50 rupee note, and somehow come up with the change (as they do, sometimes). But Murphy struck again, by providing me with a “truthful” auto driver (a rare species), who genuinely did not have a ‘single paisa’ on him. Just then, someone else who was late and was hurrying for the bus came by. I stopped him with the same request. “Do you have change for 100 Rupees?” By now the question had become so trite to me, that I hardly expected an answer. That guy took out his purse and looked into it, despite his haste. All that he had were 100 Rupee notes. “How much do you want?”, he asked. The auto driver offered “hathu rupai saakamma” meaning “10 rupees is enough” (I was supposed to pay Rs 12). The good samaritian then fished out all the coins he had, and managed to bring out 5 rupees, that with my 5 rupee coin would make the needed 10. I thanked him profusely; I thanked the auto driver with equal fervour and gave the fare. I asked for my benefactor’s whereabouts, but he said “Its just 5 rupees, don’t bother returning”. I returned the 50 bucks to the lady, and thanked her for her genorosity. And waited for the bus. (Murphy got bored, I guess, the bus mercifully was late.)
This incident actually took me back to another point of time, where the bus I was travelling in, met with an accident. Many of us got injured. The rest, who were unharmed, simply got on to the next bus and went to office. The less injured had to help carry the severely wounded to a nearby polyclinic.
I was appalled at the lack of concern these people have towards their fellow employees. To think of the apathy, they would show towards rest of humanity, would leave me in shudders.
Although many corporates involve themselves in community service and the like, much of it is voluntary. I really feel that making this mandatory, would help sensitize these people ,with their minds as confined as their cubicles, to the world outside.
A Rickety Truck. The Cargo – Human. Migratory workers. Crossing borders. Packed like sardines.
A woman past her prime, eyes abalze with the fire within. Standing steady as the vehicle coughs and splutters in the traffic. Inches from her feet, playful youngsters chitter away, perched precariously on a ledge. One lad turns with a sudden jerk.
His gaze falls upon the plush air-bus of an IT company. He scans every single passenger, reclined in varying degrees - dozing, fretting, and relaxing after a ‘tiring’ day. His face contorts. As his eyes meet mine, in the last seat, I search for my feet, fleeing from an inexplicable guilt.
His jolly companion taps him on the shoulder, realising his friend’s silence. The contortion breaks into a loud laugh. He points out to each one of his ‘specimens’. Fun and merry continues. Unwinding, after a ‘tiring’ day.
Even in this age of pink valentines , inflation and gun culture?
Or is it an amaranthus that blooms only in the mind of the poet?
Are these merely words mouthed by tragic heroes of the days gone and days to come….untouched by time then, now and later?
There is this lady who comes to my bus stop. Her husband drops her everyday on a two wheeler, with a little toddler perched up in front.
She comes to the bus stop in the nth moment just managing to catch the bus. Her son makes his dad go by the bus till it takes a turn, and mother and child keep waving at each other.
Sitting next to her, I enjoy this daily routine, as I see the mother’s face brighten despite the tell-tale signs of an extracting process of getting ready for work. She dressed well, a smart professional. But not as meticulously as a single woman. A tiny diamond stud sparkled on her nose, totally out of place with her attire. A mixture of tradition and modernity.
She reminded me of my own mother, in a remote way. My mother was a first generation graduate who proceeded with her masters as well. She chose to work only after I reached a stage where I didn’t need her attention much. Although I might appreciate her choices more now, there was a time when I was ashamed of and disappointed with her. She never dressed well. She wasn’t smart and trendy like the other mothers. She didn’t converse fluently in English. This was because English became her medium of education only in college. I did not see that she managed so well, inspite of only a few years aquaintance with the language. I was embarassed at her vernacular influenced diction. Inspite of the fact she was the person who introduced books to me, I was annoyed at her ignorance of Enid Blyton and Nancy Drew. Although, she read Tintin and Disney out to me, I grew up to despise her indulgence in Shivashankari and Mangaiyar malar.
There was this one incident that remains fresh in my memory. It was parent-teachers meeting in school. My father was glued to the TV. There was a cricket match on. My mother was getting ready to come to school with me. She wore a traditional cotton sari and jasmines in her hair. Many may not be able to relate to what followed, but just to give a background; I was studying in a school that had only the posh kids in town as students. My parents, prompted by the desire to give me the best, even if it was beyond their capacity had enrolled me there. I was watching my mom getting dressed in this fashion, with mounting apprehension. She then applied talcum powder that caked a little here and there. That was it. A bawling 5 year old shook the household. Even my cricket obsessed father was forced to look up. My demand – Amma should not come for parent teachers meeting. Let Appa come. Otherwise I will never go to school in my life again. My confused parents kept asking me what the reason behind this sudden strike was. In my own infantile set of morals, I did find the real reason cruel. But still, I did not relent. I kept on reiterating my demand, avoiding the why of it. My mother tried all options. She finally hit the bull’s eye. And I nodded teary eyed, half red in shame, half red in guilt. My dad was irritated. He started on a reprimand, when my mother started laughing, and went in to change back to her home clothes. My father was forced to give up his cricket match and come for the parent teachers meet.
Years later, when I was watching the re-run of Malgudi Days on TV, I was reminded of this incident where Swami goes through a similar predicament with his granny. I recounted this incident, asked my mother why she had given in to my tantrums. She smiled and said that my complaints were nothing. One of her sisters had introduced their own mother to her friends as the lady-help in the house, just because she wore her hair in a high bun which wasn’t in vogue then. It seems my aunt repents it till date, and all her siblings still taunt and tease her with this.
May be the reason why I see beauty in the odd diamond stud on the nose of the lady next to me , is because my mother simply smiled that day, two decades back. My mother had the choice to be modern and hip. And the means. But she chose not to. Those were her choices. She dared to be different. She was traditional. I would teach my children to appreciate their tradition. To be proud of it, and not embarassed by it, like the way I was. But then again, may be not. They could learn by themselves, just the way I did.
