LOVE

Love is eternal, love is universal, love is God, love is also selflessness.

The story ‘Gift of the Magi’ by O. Henry, is an ideal example for this. I am sure everyone must have read this story. For those who have not, here is a short summary. A young couple, very much in love, but very poor, got married and were happy together. For their first Christmas, they each wanted to give the other what he or she wanted most, or wished to have. The girl’s pride and joy was her long and beautiful hair. She had often seen a hair clip in a shop display, and wished she could buy it. The young man had a pocket watch given to him by his father which he valued very much, and hoped to buy a chain for it some day when he could afford it. Each one wanted to fulfil the other’s wish. So the girl had her long hair cut, sold it to the wigmaker, and with that money she bought the watch chain for her husband, had it packed and ready for him. The young man sold his watch and bought the hair clip his wife had been admiring. And when each saw the other’s gift they were so moved at the depth of love that had prompted such great sacrifices.

This kind of love is so selfless, caring and wanting to fulfil only the loved one’s need. .

There are different kinds of love – the love a mother feels for her child, which is different from the love a father feels for the child. They both want to give and do the best they can afford. They are both ready to sacrifice everything and anything for the child’s sake - the mother taking care of the child’s present needs and at times fanciful wishes, whereas the father sacrifices his luxuries to give his children a good education and a happy worry –less future. The bonding between brothers and sisters is also a certain kind of love, ready to help one another in any situation, even at risk to oneself.

The love between man and woman started with Adam and Eve, and will go on for ever, as long as there are Adams and Eves. This is a passionate love, wanting to be in each other’s company all the time, not willing to share or include anyone else. A saying in Thamizh goes, which translated means ‘Desire lasts for 60 days and infatuation for 30 days” (Aasai 60 naal, moham muppathu naal’ ). Love goes beyond all this. This kind of love which is from the heart lasts for ever. There is a Chinese saying, “Love marriage is like a kettle full of boiling water. With time this will become tepid, whereas an arranged marriage is a kettle full of cold fire set on a slow fire, to get to boiling point. This means the love will go on forever. In the bygone days there were child marriages with the couple growing up together in all phases of life. And when they reach old age, their love for each other is evident in all their spoken words and caring actions. My own parents stayed married for 70 years. I know how much they cared and respected each other’s feelings and thoughts. This did not mean they had no verbal fights or disagreements. Their love for each other was above all this.

Another couple, who were our friends, was the Warriers. Theirs was a love marriage in the 1940s. I have never seen a couple like them, so soft-spoken with each other, always caring for each other’s needs, and they stayed married till the end. An ideal love story.


Love for animals is another kind of love. Children who love pets are willing to go to any lengths to safeguard them. I remember how my granddaughters Parvati and Swati grieved when their father decided to give away Simba, one of their dogs, because he was a half-breed. They both, just young children, cried so much, that he had to drop the idea.

There are also cases of animals loving their masters so much that they are willing to die for them, and with them. I remember reading in the newspapers how an elephant sensing his mahout was dead, stood by his side day and night without food and water, till he too dropped dead. An Arab went on a mission on his horse. While returning, far from home, he head a heart attack and died. The horse brought the dead Arab home, not by carrying him on his back, but by holding his master by the belt with his teeth. Once he reached home, the horse too fell dead. A horse can go for miles with people riding him, but cannot carry anyone with his teeth.
How much the horse must have loved his master.

Love for one’s homeland is another aspect in this wide word – LOVE. You must have heard of the small Dutch boy who kept his country from being flooded by plugging the hole in the dyke with his finger for a whole night, till help came in the morning.

Love is Bhakthi – devotion to God, where the person forgets every need, and lives only to worship and serve God. There are many examples – to name a few, Kabir, Surdas, Tulsidas, Meera, Thyagaraja and Andal. All of them served god by singing His praises.

Love is all-embracing, ever forgiving, ever remembering, ever thinking of doing good to the loved ones, ever omnipotent, and that is God.
Love is God.

MADRAS THEN, CHENNAI NOW

The name of the city has changed - so also everything else in this once beautiful, large, spread out city, in the last fifty years.

Then Madras was the capital of the Madras Presidency which comprised today’s Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, Tamilnadu and Malabar (part of Kerala). My first visit to Madras was in 1945 as a young bride on my way to New Delhi. Whenever we came down South from Delhi to our home town in Kerala, we would spend a couple of days with our uncle and aunt in Monegar Chowltry, and so we visited Madras many times. In 1957, my husband was posted here for six months, so I actually got a feel of the city then. I came back to Madras in 1998 and have been living here with my daughter off and on, more on than off. In the last twenty years itself, Madras has changed so much, in many visible ways.

What really attracted me in Madras on my first visit was the beach, the Marina beach, which at that time was considered the longest beach in the world. It was just a long and wide spread of sand up to the waves from the road. There were only a few sellers of eatables scattered over the place, and we really relaxed going there. And look at today’s’ beach. It is now crowded, not only with men, women and children, but also by so many brick and mortar constructions, and so many temporary constructions, too. And a car park between the road and the waves. I find this beach very different from what I had seen on my first visit, very crowded and very commercialized like many beaches in other parts of the world. The only thing that attracts me here on the beach now is the row of statues - very beautiful, imposing and artistic.

To those who come to the beach for the first time now, it will seem wonderful, but for old-timers like me who have seen the old Marina, this is a disappointment. At the same time this is called progress.

Madras of those days was a very laid-back city, very quiet and peaceful. The roads were deserted most of the time with only a few cars plying here and there, and fewer buses. There were no auto rickshaws, no two-wheelers (like scooters and motorcycles) but for a few cycles. Another commuting facility which the city boasted of was the tram service, running from the Town area via Royapettah up to Mylapore, Luz. I remember those tram rides in Madras in the late 40s. Now Mount Road, called Anna Salai, is so congested and crowded with vehicles of all sorts, including bullock carts. One finds it very difficult, tiresome and time consuming to cross Anna Salai at any point. Chennai city has become a moving city like any other metropolis anywhere else.

In the old city of Madras there were no high rise buildings, only single bungalows surrounded by courtyards on four sides and pukkah walls. Today all the single storey buildings have been pulled down, with multi-storey buildings taking their place, changing the skyline of the city.
The shops were also fewer at that time - unless one went to China Bazaar, Flower Bazaar Pondy Bazaar and Luz Corner, which were known as shopping centres. When we were living here, our house, a beautiful bungalow, was on a road off Mowbrays’ Road, (now TTK Road). The few shops in our locality used to close by 8 pm. One evening I found I had run out of salt. And to buy that packet of salt my husband had to drive me all the way to Pondy Bazaar. There too, there was only a single provision shop open, where we found our salt. What a difference to today’s night life in the shops.

Then there was the mother of today’s shopping malls, the Moore Market, where you could buy and sell everything. Any visitor to the city was treated as a hero on his return home because he had been to ‘pattanam’, the name given to the city by people in the interior south. The womenfolk in his family in the villages would boast no end, showing off their celluloid soapboxes and powder boxes bought in Moore Market. Chennai city now boasts of malls in every area, crowded with so many consumer goods and so many eating places, full of people all the time.

In the Madras days, there were only a few choice eating places like Dasaprakash, (near Egmore) catering to vegetarians, Ambi’s Café and Ramakrishna Lunch Home (both in Parry’s) and Swami’s Café, (near present day Sathyam theatre) to mention a few. We went to Dasaprakash, especially for the ice creams - the children simply loved the big cups of ice cream. Ice cream was not available in so many places then. I still remember the taste of hot adai served with a blob of butter on it for breakfast at Swami’s. Whenever we visited Madras from Pondicherry for a day, our favourite place for lunch was Ramakrishna Lunch Home. And the children and I used to tease my husband saying that it was because it carried his name that he patronized it. Close to this was the famous 777 Pickles and Appalam shop, where we never forgot to pick up two or three of both to take home. Today there are a minimum of two or three eateries in each street.

Music and art flourish here now. The British left in 1947, but it took a long time for the British influence to leave us, resulting in a dearth of great musicians in the late 20th century. Now all that has changed. Where girls once learnt singing, only as a passport to get married, we find now there are many great female musicians. Among the musicians are well-educated professionals, who are world famous for their music, like Sanjay Subrahmaniam. Art in any form is well-encouraged, exhibited, and well-received.

Madras city had only a handful of theatres in the fifties, one or two of them screening only English movies. We used to go to the night shows on the spur of the moment, for there was no advance booking. I still remember seeing ‘Bhowani Junction’, which was set in India. Tickets were available on demand any time. I also took my mother-in-law to many Tamil movies for the afternoon show. Now, I think one has to plan ahead even to have some entertainment like watching a movie. Entertainment at home is available at the touch of a button on the TV.

When I came to live in Madras from Delhi in 1956, I used to mostly wear cotton sarees. A friend of mine told me that if I wanted to be acknowledged by the Madras ‘in-set’ I should wear Kanjeepuram sarees and plenty of ornaments – an idea I rejected. In Chennai today, you can see anyone under the age of 50 wearing jeans and tops, or salwar suits very comfortably, with sarees reserved for special occasions. I have seen professors, teachers and lawyers going to work then, wearing the dhoti in the traditional panchakacham style with turban, which has disappeared along with the traditional nine yard saree – both are now worn only on the day of the wedding. The 'pavadai daavani' (long skirt and a half sari) costume, which I consider very elegant for a teenage girl, cannot be seen any more. In my younger days, nobody wore 'pavadai daavani'. We all graduated straight to sarees from skirts or long skirts and blouses. But it came into vogue in the fifties. Later I felt a great fascination for this costume. While we were in Madras, my sister came down for a short visit with her children and their cousins. We decided to go to Moore Market, and my sister made me wear her teenage daughter’s 'pavadai daavani',and I did so happily, feeling very trendy.

People in Madras generally were, and still are very generous and helpful. In 1967, we were at Vummidiar’s to buy a pair of bangles for our eldest daughter’s valaikappu. She was expecting her first, and the bangle ceremony is one of the important events connected with the pre-natal ceremonies. We had just chosen a pair of 'kadas' (thick bangles) and were looking at it, when a lady walked in, saw the one we had selected, and wished to buy it. When she realized we were buying it for our daughter, she apologized and wished her a safe delivery and left. I shall never forget her kindness.

The city is still changing, and I wonder what it will be like fifty years from now.

This piece appeared in the February, 2009 issue of Eve's Touch, a Madras/Chennai publication.

BEFORE THE FIRST BABY ARRIVES. . .

Last week my daughter Raji had a call from her son Sriram giving us the happy news that there will be an addition to our family around the first week of July. It will be their first baby and we are all very much thrilled, in fact we are all still in that euphoric state. Both sets of grandparents have mentally started looking forward to their next trip to the US, waiting for instructions from the children as to when to go there to help.

Me being what I am, I have started thinking about those bygone days when things were entirely different. My mother has told me about a lot about the way people lived in those days, about traditions and customs. These traditions and customs continued till the early part of the 20the century, with the joint family system being prevalent. It was the elders who decided everything. When a daughter-in-law conceived for the first time, it was the father-in-law who conveyed the good news to her father on a post card, though they would be living within a distance of 10 miles. The very next day her family would come over to her in-law’s place with sweets and fruits to show their happiness and to congratulate each other.

Even in those days it was a well-known fact that the third month of pregnancy was a risky period. So to safeguard the pregnancy, and also to pamper the young mother-to-be in her morning sickness period, she would stay with her parents for a month.
After that in the fifth month, the ceremony known as ‘valaikaapu' would be celebrated. It was a social function, when the young mother-to-be’s hands would be decked with gold, silver and glass bangles. Usually, the ceremony would be conducted at her mother’s place and ladies (friends, relatives) were invited to partake in the function, including folks from her in-law’s place. A professional bangle seller would be invited to supply glass bangles not only to the mother-to-be, but to all women present, who were allowed to choose whatever and however many they felt like having.

I had also witnessed the valaikaapu ceremony of my older sisters, when I must have been 10 and 12 years old.
One thing that stands out in my memory is the taste of the savoury that was made for this function called ‘varavarisi’. Though it is more than 60 years since I last tasted it, I can still remember and feel its taste. Some 10 years ago, I tried to make it, but did not succeed fully. The taste did not come anywhere near the one of the bygone days.

My theory for the reason for the function is that the different kinds of bangles on the hands would distract the onlooker’s attention from the growing girth of the waist of the expecting mother, and avert the ‘evil eye’.
This function may be compared to the one in the United States – the ‘baby shower’.

At the baby shower, the expecting mother is invited to a friend’s place where other friends gather and shower her with gifts needed for the baby. And there is much rejoicing and music, and roasting and toasting.

In the eighth month the ceremony called ‘Seemantham’, a religious ceremony is performed at the husband’s place, conducted with Vedic rites by learned priests. This ceremony includes the husband, too.


This picture was taken at the ‘Seemantham’ of Raja, my husband’s brother, which we conducted in Pondicherry at our place (in 1960). You can see that his wife’s hands are already sporting the bangles.

The 'Seemantham’ is followed by ‘Poochoottal’, which means decorating with flowers.And the expectant mother's hair is bedecked with flowers. This is done by the husband’s sister who also offers her a new saree. A ceremony called ‘Appam kozhakattai’ follows, when two kinds of sweets are prepared, and offered first to the mother-to-be and distributed to all those present. There is much singing and rejoicing.

All this changed in the 1940s, when young men from South India started going to the north, mainly Delhi, Bombay Karachi and Calcutta, in search of jobs. Once they settled down there, with a good job in the government or a well know n company, they were considered eligible for marriage. Even before they could realise what was happening, they were asked to tie the knot (thrice!) around the neck of the girl chosen by their parents, and settled down as family men.

I was one such bride. Delhi in those days was very, very far off from our native place in Kerala – a distance of three to four days’ journey by train. Today the world has become small and closer. When I conceived for the first time, we were the ones to write to our respective parents, informing them of the news. In those days it took more than a week for a letter to reach our parents, unlike today, when one can reach anyone on any corner of the earth at the touch of a button in a few seconds.

I was the first one in the family to leave our native state immediately after marriage, and settle in Delhi. My sisters and my elder brother were settled in our native state (another sister was in Delhi, but she came there only after two of her children were born). It was the same with my husband’s family also - he was the first to go to Delhi in 1940. So to accommodate and suit our convenience, all the traditions and customs had to be changed. So the 'valaikaapu' and 'seemantham' were performed on the same day at my husband’s parents’ place, when we went down south, as directed by the elders in the family.

I went to my parents’ place for the delivery from there. And believe it or not, my husband first saw his first-born when the baby was six months old, when we joined him in Delhi.

This system continued with Raji, my eldest daughter also, in the late 1960s.
Amongst later couples, the trend changed. Many fathers-to-be don’t go through the ‘seemantham’ ceremony, whereas their wives look forward to the ', varavarisi' ceremony which is then conducted at their mother’s place where they come for the confinement. In my own family, the 'valaikaapu' ceremony for my two younger daughters was conducted like this, in the 7th or 8th month of pregnancy when they came home.

Another trend in the lifestyle was created by the 1970s when young men after getting their Master’s degree started moving to the US for higher studies. Our son Bala was one among them. Nowadays every family has at least one son or daughter in the US. They come home to get married to their own chosen partners, or in some cases, chosen by their parents. Some get married in the US itself. Children born in the US automatically become US citizens, so all these young people settle there and have their babies there. So it is for the parents, or at least the mother, to help out in these times.

The parents go there with happy thoughts of conducting 'seemantham' and 'valaikaapu', or at least the 'valaikaapu', ready with sarees, veshtis and bangles. A few parents going there are lucky; the children go through the functions willingly, or at least oblige their parents.

Even if the parents find it difficult to go to help out with the baby, the father-to-be is well trained to take care of the newborn baby. He is also present when the baby is born, and the first one to have a look at the baby. The new father also gets maternity leave of two months.

In the 1980s when my grandson Kartik was born, both grandmothers were unable to help them for various reasons. My daughter-in-law Jaishree had a baby shower, arranged by her friends and colleagues. My son Bala managed his office (he was running his own advertising agency), took care of his wife, cooked for her and bathed the new born in the traditional manner (by massaging the baby with oil before the bath) and took great pride in doing that.

My grandson Sankar, whose daughter was born there about four years ago, was very good at changing diapers, and giving her baths, though both I and my daughter were there to help out. He enjoyed the role thoroughly.

This is the situation now – I wonder what the future hold for today’s children.
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Recipe for Varavarisi.
Ingredients:
Channa whole (kadalai) – one cup
Urud dal whole – one cup
Moong dal (pacha payaru, green gram) – one cup
Lobiya (Vellai payaru, black eyed peas) - one cup
Moonfali (Verkadalai, Peanuts) – one cup
Horse gram (Kollu) – half cup
Mochai kottai ( a kind of broad bean, its English or Hindi equivalents is not known to me) - half cup
Rice – half cup
White Til - ( vellai ellu, Sesame seeds) - two table spoonfuls.

For the masala: add one teaspoon of chili powder (or according to taste) with one tablespoon of salt, half a teaspoon of asafetida (hing, perungayam) powder, and pinch of turmeric powder to a cup of water. Mix well and keep aside.
Break a coconut, and remove the flesh from the shell, cut it into small pieces and deep fry in oil and keep aside.

Clean and soak all items separately overnight. Next morning drain off the water and dry the grains separately, spread evenly on a cotton material on the floor.

Heat a kadai, (or wok) and slowly roast each of the dried pulses separately, one after the other. When they are nearly roasted, add a spoonful of the masala mixture to each of the pulses, and roast till all the water is absorbed.

Remove from fire, and cool separately. When everything is really cool, mix all together really well with the coconut pieces, and store in airtight containers. This will last for more than a month.
This is very rich in protein, which is a must for the expectant mother.

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Valaikappu Picture courtesy Internet

TRIBUTE

DATED DECEMBER 12, 2008

Till yesterday, we were seven.
Today we are only six.

Today my brother Ambi (Mama) is no more. He was my older brother, but was called Ambi (younger brother) by our parents and everyone in the family. He was the second among us, but was the oldest son.

He was my friend – yes, my friend - when I was about fourteen or so. My older sisters had got married and left home. He used to tell me so many things that were happening in the world and our neighbourhood. He used to tell me things that would interest a girl of my own age, like new cinemas being produced with new stars. I heard about M. S.'s 'Savithri' first from him. He even discussed the famous Lakshmi Kantham murder case. Lakshmi Kantham was the publisher and editor of a yellow journal bearing his name.

Some memories remain vivid. I remember the evening I went with him and Vijaya Manni (my sister-in-law) to the famous 'Ayyappa' drama by TKS Brothers. Our car gave us trouble and would not start on our return trip. There were no taxis in those days, and he brought us back home in a bullock cart.

He was a jolly person, and along with the husband of my oldest sister, used to tease me a lot when I was a very small child. When I grew up he once told me that ear drops did not suit me. I removed them at that very moment and never wore them again. When I got married he told me, "You took off your earrings when this Ambi told you to, now you wear them when your Ambi (my husband was known as Ambi in his family) wants you to." I respected those words so much.

He was a father figure to me. Thatha (our father) was always busy with his judgements and court work, and in the evenings with his tennis and Masonic Lodge. So I always approached Ambi to get permission to go to excursions with my classmates, or to go to a picture, or whatever else I needed.

He was eleven years older than me, and was my friend, philosopher and guide. When I got married he advised me not to say anything negative about life at my in-laws to anyone. I took him in earnest and never breathed a word to anyone about what happened within the four walls of my home.

Whenever we met at Lakshmi Nivas (the name of my parents’ house) afterwards, he used to talk to me about many things that troubled him. I was proud to be his confidante.

He was very proud of his job as a judge. He had told me that he never encouraged divorce and advised couples who approached the court for divorces not to go through it and give themselves another chance.

I was very close to him and I always had respected him and the advice he had given me time and again. I can never digest the thought that he is no more. As long as I remember him, this memory of mine will keep him alive for me.

The photo above was taken when he was about 35 or so.

MY GRANDMOTHER

Like every child in each family we also had two grandmothers, Paati and Karamanai Ammai. Paati was our father’s mother. We never got to know her well, for she stayed alone in her own house, after her husband’s death. Paata passed away when their eldest son, my father, was only 22 years old. Even when Paati visited us, she never stayed for a whole day, always in a hurry to return to her place. When we visited her also she had no time for the kids. I came to know later on that she was like this with all her grandchildren, had no patience or time for them. She passed away soon after I got married.

Karamanai Ammai

My other grandmother was the one who helped my mother in bringing us up. Her name was Parvathi. She lived in Karamanai, a suburb of Trivandrum, on the banks of the river Karamanai. It was then a Brahmin settlement, comprising nearly ten streets, lined with row-houses, all double-storied, with common courtyards and separate backyards. We called her simply Karamanai Ammai. (Karamanai Mother).

Karamanai Ammai slept with us, woke up with us, laughed and cried with us, nursed and tended us in our sickness, told us stories, scolded us for our misconduct, praised us to the skies even for our small successes and good conduct. She endeared herself to us to such an extent we always wanted her to be with us, fought with each other to sleep by her side at night. She taught us what life was, to use discretion, to talk less and work more. She disciplined us to be self-sufficient, to run all our errands inside the house, and not depending on others to do things for us.

Her favourite proverb was, ‘Uthadu theyamal ullangal theyanam.’ Which means, ‘Instead of wearing out your mouth, use your feet’. This is engraved so deeply in my mind, even today as far as possible, I try to do things for myself. Her favourite curse for her grandchildren was , “Nasamattu poka”, which literally means “Be free of all that is bad and unwanted.”

It was she along with the midwife who helped us deliver our babies. It was her strict rule and order that during the labour, we should never make a groan or grunt which may be heard by the others waiting outside the room. We sisters instilled this rule in our daughters also at the time of their confinement, and if Karamanai Ammai was alive today, she would be proud of her great granddaughters. My sisters and I always went to our parents’ place to have our babies. In those days one did not go to the hospital to deliver babies. The midwife used to come home to check us periodically and help us with the childbirth. After that it was Karamanai Ammai, who took charge of the new mother and the baby for the next four weeks. She would herself prepare the lehiyam (special medicine) which was a must for the next 90 days.

When we were little girls along with her storytelling, she taught us a little about sex also. I remember one or two of those stories. A poor couple was cutting grass in the fields, when they heard an announcement that the Maharaja was coming that way. Immediately the woman undid the mundu (piece of cloth worn like a skirt) she was wearing around the waist, and covered her breasts with it. When asked why she did that, her answer was that what she was born with was nothing to cover, but what she had developed after growing up, should be hidden from other eyes.

Karamanai Ammai was born in the 1870s. She got married before she was eight years old, as was the custom in those days. What really intrigued me was that she started running her house for her husband when she was barely 11 years old, just a child and not a woman yet. My grandfather was a school teacher, and he was sent to a distant town (from Karamanai, part of Trivandrum) to teach. So Karamanai Ammai was sent with him to cook for him and generally take care of him. Nowadays one cannot even imagine such an idea. Even at the tender age, she was able to stop the landlady, a widow in whose house they lived, from pilfering her kitchen provisions. She used to insert a stick from the broom in the container in a particular way. If the container was tampered with, the stick would be out of place, which helped her to tackle the old lady.

Once they settled down in Karamanai, she became very friendly and popular with everyone in her neighbour hood. She was ever ready to help and advise everyone who approached her. She was listened to with respect and love, and was generally known as Parvathi Chithammai.
Though my grandfather’s pay as a school teacher was very low, she used to help people both in kind and cash. She even managed to save enough money to leave a substantial amount for her four children when she died in 1959.

My grandfather, Karamanai Appa, passed away when I was four years old. Still, I remember him - a pious, god-fearing man, loving and caring to his grandchildren, he always had a stock of crystallized sugar and dried grapes to give us whenever we visited him.

She had four children, three daughters and a son, and my mother was the eldest. Our uncle (mama) and his wife were childless. Though my aunt conceived many times, no child survived. In those times women who were childless were looked upon with disdain, and excluded from auspicious occasions. Karamanai Ammai was entirely different. She never let her daughter-in-law down. My mami was the one to lead in all auspicious occasions, whether it was a wedding in the family or kaapu, the seventh day ceremony, of the new born baby. There was so much affection and understanding between them.

My mother, seated centre, with mami on her left. The other ladies are my sisters, and the children my nephews and nieces.

A neighbour of Karamanai Ammai had two daughters of marriageable age, ten and eight. They had fixed the marriage of the older child. Karamanai Ammai suggested that they get the younger one married on the same muhurtham , to cut down expenses. She herself chose the girl’s mama (maternal uncle) as the bridegroom, and she allowed her friend to borrow her daughter-in-law’s wedding sarees, ornaments and a few silver pieces for the occasion. Our mami also raised no objection. Everyone in the locality applauded the generosity of my grandmother.

My grandmother was very shrewd, at the same time very diplomatic and solving her own and others’ family problems. I used to feel that given the chance and proper education, she would have been a good match for any of today’s well-educated, highly placed women in any capacity. The pity is that such women were born a hundred years before time, and lost their chance to become celebrities.

My father had great respect for her wisdom and shrewdness. He consulted her in many family maters, including his sisters’ marriages and settling them down. With her limited resources, she helped my parents also, helping them to settle down in Trivandrum.

Here is a story which shows how much my grandmother was respected by young and old. My mother, a native of Karamanai, never got over her love for a bath in the river. Living in the city, she just could not find the time to go to the river everyday. But once a week, mainly on Saturdays, after my father left to go to the court, she used to take me and my sisters to Karamanai to give us a good oil bath at the river. One day, after bathing in the river we went to our grandmother’s place for lunch. Suddenly while eating my mother remembered that she had folded a Rs.100 note in her saree pallu when she left home. And that it must have fallen in the water when she was undraping the saree to take a bath. When my grandmother heard this, she stopped eating at once, and went to the river bank, where there were a few late bathers and children playing. On enquiring, she found that a poor boy had found a Rs. 10 note floating in the water and had taken it home. It took some time to locate the boy. On being asked about the money, he did not admit at first to finding it. But the very sight of my grandmother made him come out with the truth. He had taken the money to the local (and only) grocer, got half a rupee’s worth of one day’s requirement (like rice and other condiments) for cooking, and had given the change to his mother. My grandmother heard him out, and took him along to the grocer, and challenged him. The grocer came out with the truth, and said that the boy had mistaken Rs. 100 note for a Rs. 10 note. He also admitted that he had already stocked his shop with groceries he had bought with the money. He requested my grandmother not to go to the police, and that by next morning he would come home and pay her the full amount. Such was the respect she commanded.

In those days Rs. 100 went a long way. One could buy enough groceries to last a year. Or six to ten silk sarees, or about 25 cotton sarees. And more than eight sovereigns of gold. (A sovereign is 8 gms of gold, and costs about Rs. 10, 000 today).

The pictures above were taken by my younger brother Moorthy, an avid and enthusiastic photographer.

MY GURU

Anantharama Iyer was his name. He entered into our lives - mine and my two older sisters as our tuition master, when we were 8, 10, 12 respectively. Our father came to know about our poor performance in the term exam of the school year. So this person became our tuition master.

He was formidable to look at. Dressed in a 'panchakacham veshti' and an 'angavastram' to cover his bare torso, he had a 'kudumi' (the way the purohits of today have their hair styled and most Brahmins of those bygone days). He had three fingers of 'vibhoothi' (sacred ash) pattern on his forehead, with a sandal paste 'pottu' in the centre - and always a two days growth of beard on his face. He was tall and hefty, with broad shoulders and a broader waist. Just looking at him gave us the shivers.

He was a teacher in the Model School for Boys, teaching Mathematics and Sanskrit. He was good in these two subjects. He soon found out that though we had nothing to do with Sanskrit, that we had no interest in Maths also. He changed all that very soon.

Every evening by the time we came back from school, we found him waiting for us. There would not be enough time for us to change our clothes, or take our coffee and tiffin. Coming home before us, we found out in due course that he would have had his share of coffee and tiffin at our place, for he came here straight from school to teach us. By the time we three sat in front of him with our home work, almost everyday he would start napping, snoring loudly. This noise used to wake him up with a start. Then he would remember where he was and what he was supposed to do. So by turn, he would look into our notebooks, find the mistakes we had made, explain the problem, and make us do the work again, while he went back to sleep. If ever he found out that we were making the same mistake again, well, our thighs would be turning red and blue in colour, because of his hard pinching. It was terrible.

Once our tuition time was over it gave us utmost pain and at the same time pleasure in comparing the marks on our thighs and finding out whose was worse. We never had the guts to complain about this to our parents, for we knew that we wouldn’t get any open sympathy from our mother.

This master of ours had endeared himself to our parents by conversing with them about their favourite topics. My mother’s weakness for pooja, her commitment to certain ideas and beliefs prompted him to suggest to her to conduct 'Bhagavathi Sevai' every month. He added that if this pooja was conducted every month on my father’s star, it would benefit him professionally and personally. My mother who always had my father’s welfare at heart agreed to this. So from that month onwards the 'Bhagavathi Sevai' was conducted for the next so many years with the tuition master turned into the vadhyar (priest) to conduct the pooja. And my mother had the satisfied feeling that the Devi’s blessings were showered on us.

I had nothing against this, but being the youngest , he roped me in to help me with drawing of the design for the base of the padmam, with different coloured powders all made at home, and very organic. It was a very intricate pattern. So every month for many years to follow, I was the one to assist him in this. And he in turn would bless me with a prosperous life with a good husband.

With my father, this master of mine had another trump. Knowing that my father was suffering from back pain, he suggested ‘sooriya namaskaram’. He became my father’s physical instructor and initiated him into it. By 6 am everyday he would be at our place for that purpose, and see that my father did the 'sooriya namaskaram' properly. Well, this did help my father to get rid of his back pain, and at the same time helped the tuition master to get into my father’s good books.

With all his family commitments, he did not ignore his daily tasks as a tuition master. He made us learn the multiplication tables up to 16 by heart. He made us do sums mentally and give him the answer swiftly. So this helped us a lot. He had a way in handling all subjects. I some of the lessons he taught me which made life easier for me in school. When my turn came to help my children with the home work, I automatically followed his method, minus the pinching – not fully minus, a little tap here and a minute pinch there, helped both the teacher and the student.

My tuition master was a great Ayyappan devotee. I imbibed this kind of Ayyappan devotion from him. He used to go to Sabarimala every year for more than 25 years, walking all the way from his home in Trivandrum, all the way to Sabarimalai, a long, long way. And walked back, after offering prayers. It used to take more than a month for this. And the forests were infested with wild elephants and tigers. Every year after his return form Sabari malai he had so many thrilling and frightening stories to tell us. All this only increased my devotion to Swami Ayyappan.

The last time I saw the Master was about 40 years ago. Yet I remember him very well. And today I write this with tears in my eyes and pranams in my mind. He was a great man in his own way. Long live his ilk.

NAVARATHRI . . . .

ALSO KNOWN AS BOMMAI KOLU. . . .

Maiji's Kolu in 1978

. . . .is enjoyed by women and girls all over South India. Now is the time of the year to celebrate the bommai kolu (dolls arrangement). I went to see the bommais (dolls) on sale near Sri Kapali Temple, and was happy to see so many of them.

Click on the picture for an enlarged view

My first recollection of this nine-day festival is that a kolu would appear overnight in our pooja room like magic. Arranged on nine steps covered with a white cloth, the images of all the gods and goddesses, along with the family’s collection of curios, arranged artistically under a canopy of white cloth, edged with red and green frilled border, and decorated with rainbow coloured paper garlands, it would seem to us children like a magic show.

In a single night after we children were sent to bed, my mother with the help of my elder brother and sisters would have the show ready. For the rest of the 355 days these dolls and everything else were stored in my mother’s tallboys in my mother’s store room. During Navarathri in the evenings, my sister and I, dressed in our best pavadai uduppu (long skirt and blouse) were sent to neigbouring houses to invite the womenfolk there to visit our kolu and accept manjal kumkumam (auspicious objects). In the homes where they had also arranged kolu, we would be welcomed, seated on a pattupai,(silken mat) asked to sing a song, and finally treated to the sundal and any sweet prepared as neivedhiyam (sacred offering to the gods), along with vetrilai pakku (betel leaves and nuts), coconuts, and blouse pieces as gifts. We used to feel like VIP s, when we returned home with our loot. All the while my mother too would be doing the same to visitors at our homes who would have come to invite us. Those ten days were really fun for me and I enjoyed them thoroughly.

When I got married and set up my own home in Delhi, I was astonished to find that kolu was non-existent in the north. Very few families belonging to the south, about four or five had kolu. When my eldest daughter was one year old, I started the kolu with a handful of bommais, typical Delhi made ones – I thus introduced the festival of kolu to my neighbours. These dolls were sold in readiness for Diwali festival pooja, performed to welcome prosperity.

My first kolu was a very small one with just two steps, two feet long and one foot wide. I enjoyed this, and my husband also encouraged me no end. From that kolu, in a period of twenty years, my kolu grew in size and shape, decorated with all the frills my mother had, and also admired by one and all. I am not boasting, but my kolus were well appreciated, and I enjoyed readying them.

Come September, I would start planning for kolu. Apart from the seven steps, I enjoyed having some side shows on the floor, all prepared and made at home with the help of my children. One year it would be a small town with a temple with four towers in the centre, small shops selling things one sees in the towns, around the temple walls; small lanes with bullock carts. Sometimes it would be a hill temple with fields around, and the rich crop nodding their heads, (the crops were grown using fenugreek seeds) and a park with children playing.

One year in Pondicherry I made a model of the whole length of Rajpath of New Delhi, from the Secretariat to Indian Gate, with the lawns, the fountains, and all the buildings including the Parliament House. Everything was hand made with cardboard. Another year it was the seafront of Pondicherry with the sea and the waves, and the buildings on the seashore. Another year I made the map of India, marked the main cities with important buildings, and people dressed in the costumes of the regions.

After coming back to Delhi, I created theme-based sideshows like the Fairy Tales and Nursery Rhymes.

A week before kolu started I would be ready with my plans and start to prepare the hills, the fields and parks with loose earth carried in from outside by the bucketful. The mud was moulded by hand into various objects like walls, shops, huts, with windows and doors. Ice cream cups painted red were used as pots for plants and shrubs. My father-in-law took pleasure in teasing me that the whole room was now a dump. At the same time he would be the first to admire all the handiwork I had done. And gradually we had collected a large number of bommais, all big and small from Trichy, Chingleput and Pondicherry, including the famous Bunrutti bommais.

Yesterday at the shops I found that everything I made then was available readymade – including plots of grass!

My centerpiece was a Lakshmi, about a foot tall, sitting on a lotus flower, six inches high and size of a dinner plate. Two elephants, big, white ones stood on either side of the Goddess with a garland each held in its trunk.

My last kolu was in 1978 in Delhi. Somehow with elders no more, and the older children leaving home, and us moving to a smaller house dampened my enthusiasm. My only regret now is I never thought of taking any photos of the kolu in Pondicherry – they were worth it. My consolation is that my last Kolu in 1979 was photographed and published in the Indian Express newspaper of New Delhi. The kolu had fewer dolls that year, only those that had escaped an attack by white ants, caused by a leaking pipe in the storeroom. I managed to salvage many by repainting and touching them up.

At the kolu in Trichy, with newly bought bommais, I had also made a park with a pond in which fish and swans were swimming and a stork waiting on the edge, as though ready to catch a fish. My first guest was the Collector’s wife. We were meeting for the first time, and both were nervous to start the conversation. Finally she asked me “Do you have a cook?” The question was put in Tamil with only the word cook in English. Before I could say No. my four year old, Viji, came out saying, “Yes, we have one, standing on one leg!” and pointed to the stork. Poor girl – she thought our visitor was asking for a stork. In Tamil the word for stork is ‘kokku’ which sounds like ‘cook’. Anyway that broke the ice and conversation flowed easily.

Now all my dolls are decorating the kolus of my friends and relatives, to whom I gave them away. Only two dolls, a Lakshmi and a Saraswathi, more than 50 years old, remain at Raji’s place – a reminder of the days gone by.