The hauntingly divine music came from the relatively deserted corner. The young man sat against the wall, eyes closed, lost in the ecstasy of producing the beautiful sounds out of his harmonica, which he maneuvered expertly against his lips. His red shirted companion sat nearby, holding the dholak against the side of his face, beating the skin to produce a rhythmic melody. Gopal produced an amazing tune from the bamboo flute. The combined effect was a melodious fragrance, elevating all within earshot to new levels of bliss. The predominantly red shirted audience sat silently, eyes closed in appreciation. They forgot everything else in those brief moments. A few others moved closer, curious at first, but soon getting magnetically drawn into the group.
***
The blaringly loud garbled announcement rudely interrupted the music.
There was an instant flurry of activity. The musicians hurriedly put away their instruments. The red shirts scurried away. There was feverish activity on the platform; red-shirted and turbaned porters rushed to board the train, even as it moved into the station. They ran alongside, scanning the insides for potential customers, leaping on board expertly once they did. Soon the black train pulled into the platform, hissing into silence like hot steel in water.
“Kaapi kaapi, chai chai,” the vendors were making brisk business. Friends and relatives moved along, frantically searching the train, peering through the windows.
Puvan was haggling with a Marwari family.
“Saab, pachaz rupiah. Char samaan heh. Samaan bada heh.” (Sir, 50 rupees. There are 4 big bags.)
“Ennappa, naanum Metras irukkaan. Enna emathureh,” the plump man spoke the little Tamil he knew. (I also live in Madras. Don’t try to cheat me.)
“Muppthu rupa than mudiyum. Ille vere aala parkaran,” his wife was loud and aggressive. (We can only pay 30 rupees. If not, we will call another porter.)
Puvan resignedly hoisted the bulging cases casually on to his head and hurried along, over bridges and weaving through the crowds. The fat couple ambled along, trying to keep up as they followed their suitcases, watching it bob like a boat over a sea of heads.
***
Veeran was talking to the two middle-aged Britons: Helen Macaulay from Bath and Maureen Waller-Price from Brighton. They were spending three or four months in India, traveling mostly by train and more or less enjoying the adventure. “We’d heard stories about delays, overcrowding, Indians not respecting your space and just general dirt,” says Helen to Veeran. “The reality has been a lot better than that, but it was disappointing to see cockroaches last night. One ran up my leg as I slept. Eeee. And the toilets? A bit gruesome,” Maureen shuddered.
“Madam, you will like India soon. You will enjoy your holiday.” Veeran laughed as he hauled the two suitcases.
***
Gopal walked slowly, taking off his turban and wiping his face. He had not got any customer this time. Competition was fierce, what with so many porters, not to mention the urchins. He handed over 2 rupees to the chaiwala, and took the steaming cup of tea. He squatted at the quiet corner of the platform. The tea was very hot… and had too much sugar in it... but Gopal relished the drink.
He watched as a few other porters counted their earnings.
***
Soon Puvan joined him.
“Enna, Gopal , sornthu ukkanthutte?” (What’s the matter, you look tired).
“Onnum kedaikkaleh. Sari va. Tee sappidaraya?” (Did not get any customer. Never mind, come. Want a tea?”
“Illa, venam. Mattikinenpa, oru settu kitte. Naalu immaam periya potti. Thookikinu roada thandi kondukinu poka sonnan. Kadaisila 30 rupa kuduthan. Che.” (No, thanks. I got a Marwari customer. 4 big bags, and he wanted me to carry it across the road. And he gave me just 30 rupees. Che.)
They squatted against the wall. Soon Veeran appeared.
“Dey, nallaneram poranthiruchuppa. Vellakari 500 rupa kudutha. Paaru. Briyani vangittu vanthirukken namma ellathukkum” (Good times are here for us. The white woman gave me Rs 500. Look, I brought briyani for all of us). He put down 3 packets. Gopal and Veeran smiled. They ate the rice hungrily. They downed it with sweet tea which they bought from a passing chaiwala.
Puvan went to the small store room, and took the rusty metal harmonica. Then he took the dholak, and the flute. Back at the corner, he handed the dholak to Veeran, and the flute to Gopal. Smiles broke their faces.
Moments later, they had transported themselves back to their own private heaven.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Mei ****
Voon had his arm intertwined with Mei’s. The couple walked at a leasurely pace. As they strolled, Voon held her hand. He looked at her hand, feeling over it. It was rough and calloused, almost scaly.
***
Voon held Mei’s hand lightly. The softness was unbelievable. He was almost afraid to hold her. She seemed so delicate and fragile. He looked at her lovely face. Flawless complexion. Immaculate features. He looked into her eyes. He could see a bright and beautiful future ahead for them.
***
As Voon felt Mei’s calloused palms, he looked at her shriveled face. She looked small and shrunken. Voon looked into her eyes. As he looked at her, everything she had done for him flashed in front of him. The years of cooking and cleaning and caring. The three beautiful children she had borne him, almost losing her life in delivering their firstborn. Day in and day out, slaving out of love and care. Her body had taken the punishment. As he looked at her, Mei looked up. But she did not see Voon. She was almost blind. And almost deaf too. But they didn’t need sight. Or words. They communicated at a more subtle level. To Voon, his wife looked more beautiful than ever.
***
Voon held Mei’s hand lightly. The softness was unbelievable. He was almost afraid to hold her. She seemed so delicate and fragile. He looked at her lovely face. Flawless complexion. Immaculate features. He looked into her eyes. He could see a bright and beautiful future ahead for them.
***
As Voon felt Mei’s calloused palms, he looked at her shriveled face. She looked small and shrunken. Voon looked into her eyes. As he looked at her, everything she had done for him flashed in front of him. The years of cooking and cleaning and caring. The three beautiful children she had borne him, almost losing her life in delivering their firstborn. Day in and day out, slaving out of love and care. Her body had taken the punishment. As he looked at her, Mei looked up. But she did not see Voon. She was almost blind. And almost deaf too. But they didn’t need sight. Or words. They communicated at a more subtle level. To Voon, his wife looked more beautiful than ever.
Velu Viduthi ****
Velu Viduthi. An unpretentious restaurant in Penang. Bhuvan’s favourite breakfast joint. Whenever he found himself in Penang, he would head to Velu Viduthi for breakfast. It was usually one of the high points of his Penang visits. Such was his devotion.
The décor and ambience at this place was nothing to shout about. In fact it was drab. The thosai was made on a griddle at the five-foot-way in front. And the inside walls were adorned with the mandatory calendars featuring various Hindu God-forms. In addition, a few curious pictures, depicting the owner and his friends and relatives, all men in spotless white shirts and white dhoties, taken in their native village in Ramanathapuram. One picture even had their family bull, posing with a few men.
The specialty was the thosai, and the coconut chutney that went with it. Heavenly. And the vadai was superb too. Bhuvan tended to overeat whenever he had breakfast at Velu Viduthi.
The owner and the people who served the food at Velu Viduthi were a reserved lot. When they spoke, it was mainly among themselves. Rarely to the customers. And Bhuvan hardly got a nod of recognition, although he patronized the shop quite often.
Bhuvan’s wife frequently accompanied him to Penang. She had her favorite eatery too. And it wasn’t Velu Viduthi. Vasugi had unadulterated contempt and derision for Velu Viduthi. “What a dump. How can you bear to eat the food there?"
***
Bhuvan was preparing to go for breakfast. “So will you have breakfast at the hotel as usual?” he asked his wife.
“I think I will come with you today.”
Bhuvan was taken aback. “I am going to Velu Viduthi.”
“Yes, I know. I will come too.”
***
“Madam. என்ன ரொம்ப நாளா உங்கள பாக்க முடியல ? வாங்க , வந்து உக்காருங்க. தம்பி இந்த table தொட . Madam, வட சாப்பிடறீங்களா? தோசை ?( Madam, why you have not come for so long? Boy, come clean this table. Madam, would you care for a vadai ? Thosai?) the man at Velu Viduthi gushed. Bhuvan was all but ignored, as the people at Velu Viduthi showered Vasugi with their hospitality.
For a few confused moments, Bhuvan wondered if his devotion had been misplaced. Then the thosai, vadai and coconut chutney came. Bhuvan took a bite. And he knew. Velu Viduthi was still the undisputed best .
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Contentment ***
Akila looked at the couple out of the corner of her eyes. The man was slim, tall and hunky. He couldn’t be much younger than Bharath. Why couldn’t Bharath maintain his figure? He just ate too much. And lazed around too much too. Akila was wistful, as she watched the man move gracefully. And his wife, she was such a slob. Short and disgusting – she sniffled all the time, and her laugh, so obnoxious. God, what did he see in her?
As she turned, she saw Jeevan. In his early forties, Jeevan was tall and distinguished looking. He dressed well, with a sophisticated air about him. An intellectual man if there ever was one. He was speaking of the economic crisis and his take of what the world should do about it. A group of men were listening intently. He was well read, and strongly opinionated in most subjects. He could hold a conversation on practically any topic. Akila thought for a moment of Bharath. All he could converse about was his office politics. And the Tamil movies. And that too only when he was not complaining about something about the home, or the kids. And Jeevan’s wife? An alcoholic wreck. In fact she was permanently parked at the bar already.
“Hi, Akila,” it was Haran. Haran was an artist. In fact he had just presented Bharath with one of his landscapes. A stunning piece of a glorious sunset, over a shimmering ocean. Akila had been mesmerised by the picture.
“Hi, Haran, I can’t thank you enough…” she started. He put up his palm.
“Listen, enough about that. Let talk about something else.” What a talented man. He painted effortlessly, and people lined up to commission him for a piece of his work.
Akila looked around. So many men. Handsome, accomplished, intelligent, talented, successful, interesting…. And she had landed Bharath. A paunchy, dull and boring man who never had anything interesting to say. Life was unfair. Surely she deserved better?
“What’s the matter dear? Life is unfair?” It was Bharath. He smiled at her.
How did he know? Akila always marveled at Bharath’s sharp intuition. Could he read her mind by any chance? She looked at him intensely.
“Come on Akila. Just be yourself. God has made you a wonderful woman. Hardworking, practical and a wonderful wife and mother. Your friends, associates and your employees think you are great. God knows what you should be, and what you need. Just accept it, and enjoy being you. And Akila, you have me, a wonderful husband. I love you the way you are. What we have now is the best for us. One who can never be satisfied is poor, no matter how much one owns.”
Akila was taken aback by his words. She thought for a moment. Then she hugged Bharath. “Yes, I have you. What more can I ask?”
As she turned, she saw Jeevan. In his early forties, Jeevan was tall and distinguished looking. He dressed well, with a sophisticated air about him. An intellectual man if there ever was one. He was speaking of the economic crisis and his take of what the world should do about it. A group of men were listening intently. He was well read, and strongly opinionated in most subjects. He could hold a conversation on practically any topic. Akila thought for a moment of Bharath. All he could converse about was his office politics. And the Tamil movies. And that too only when he was not complaining about something about the home, or the kids. And Jeevan’s wife? An alcoholic wreck. In fact she was permanently parked at the bar already.
“Hi, Akila,” it was Haran. Haran was an artist. In fact he had just presented Bharath with one of his landscapes. A stunning piece of a glorious sunset, over a shimmering ocean. Akila had been mesmerised by the picture.
“Hi, Haran, I can’t thank you enough…” she started. He put up his palm.
“Listen, enough about that. Let talk about something else.” What a talented man. He painted effortlessly, and people lined up to commission him for a piece of his work.
Akila looked around. So many men. Handsome, accomplished, intelligent, talented, successful, interesting…. And she had landed Bharath. A paunchy, dull and boring man who never had anything interesting to say. Life was unfair. Surely she deserved better?
“What’s the matter dear? Life is unfair?” It was Bharath. He smiled at her.
How did he know? Akila always marveled at Bharath’s sharp intuition. Could he read her mind by any chance? She looked at him intensely.
“Come on Akila. Just be yourself. God has made you a wonderful woman. Hardworking, practical and a wonderful wife and mother. Your friends, associates and your employees think you are great. God knows what you should be, and what you need. Just accept it, and enjoy being you. And Akila, you have me, a wonderful husband. I love you the way you are. What we have now is the best for us. One who can never be satisfied is poor, no matter how much one owns.”
Akila was taken aback by his words. She thought for a moment. Then she hugged Bharath. “Yes, I have you. What more can I ask?”
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Lakshmipuram Moorthy *****
Moorthy was on a high roll. Everyone within earshot was looking at him in rapt attention. Some a little further away were moving nearer. For the people of the sleepy little village of Lakshmipuram, his words held a fascination.
“Do you think these politicians are sincere? They will promise you anything. Once they have your vote, they will steal everything they can. Do you know how many houses your MLA Tamaraichelvan has built.. ha. He wears huge gold rings on all his fingers. And whose money is it ? Yours. Uncle Kaliappan, you slog all day in the fields, and they tax you. That’s where your money is going – for the good life of the politicians.”
Talk of tax got Kaliappan all riled up. “They took away more than half my income this year. The thieves. I knew they are all crooks.” He fumed.
“The whole Government machinery is corrupted. Nothing moves without a bribe.”
Karuppayya snorted. “திருட்டு பசங்க . அந்த காலத்துல …. “ (crooks. In those days…) he stopped, realising no one was listening. Karuppayya was an ex-farmer, having lost his farm in a particularly bad year. He blamed everyone for what had happened. Except himself.
Moorthy works in Chennai as a dispatch clerk . In the course of his job, he comes in contact with many people of real and pretended importance. He commutes back to Lakshmipuram almost every weekend. On these occasions, he was a purveyor of inside news and gossip . To the people of Lakshmipuram, Moorthy’s visits were a welcome respite from their otherwise sedentary lives, and offered a window on the outside world. A nasty world full of crooked, immoral and dishonest people.
“Uncle, do you know how much bank staffs are paid ? Even the clerks get Rs30,000. Every month.” The villagers looked at him agape. It took a while for the magnitude of this princely amount to register.
“I don’t even make that amount in one year,” Kasi the temple priest sounded desolate.
Moorthy continued, “Hmm. And what do they do ? Sit around and chit chat all day. The officers get 3 times that amount. And who knows how much they get under the table?”
Kaththavarayan looked at Moorthy. He recalled his last trip to the bank in Tirunelveli, to check on his loan application. The clerks and officers had given him the run around. He had returned home empty handed.
Kalaivany was standing behind the pillar. Eyes downcast, she looked up whenever Moorthy spoke. Moorthy’s words were music to her ears. She didn’t care what he said. She just wanted to hear him speak. She was fascinated by his facial expressions, and his hand gestures. Moorthy knew Kalaivany was listening. And he piled on the bravado.
“Chennai people are all immoral. The way the girls behave – che - shameful. And the boys – you cannot trust them for a minute. In my job, I see and hear so much.”
The men moved closer, hoping to hear some juicy gossip. Moorthy was encouraged by the ready audience. The weekend trips became his regular fix, charging him up for the coming week of drudgery in his humdrum Chennai job.
Letchumanan looked dazed. He looked perpetually dazed. The retired postmaster did little thinking. His worldview was quite narrow, and most of it shaped by what Moorthy and others said.
Dheenadayal sat several yards away. He couldn’t help hearing Moorthy’s words. In his fifties, Dheenadayal was a teacher. A man of few words, he seldom responded to Moorthy’s tirades. Somehow this made Moorthy direct his attention more on Dheenadayal.
“Uncle. You are such a dedicated teacher. What have you got for all your years of slogging ? Do you know why you are not getting your due ? Because the great thief Pandian is Education Minister. He has stashed crores in Swiss Bank Accounts. Money which rightly belongs to the hard working teachers,” he taunted. Dheenadayal kept silent. He listened. He did not want to offend. He knew it would serve no purpose.
Moorthy saw Dheenadayal’s wife, Kalyani approaching.
“Aunty,” he called out, “I found out the most shocking thing. I personally heard this from someone in the Veperi Madam.”
Hearing this, Kalyani looked troubled.
“Moorthy, அபாண்டமா ஏதும் சொல்லாதப்பா . தோஷம் உண்டு .” (Moorthy, don’t make any wild statements. It is sinful.)
“Aunty. I too pray to Veperi Swamigal. His picture is in our house altar too. But this is the truth. I heard it from Sundararajan, who is an insider in the Madam.”
Dheenadayal signaled to his wife. “ஆத்துல உங்கம்மா தனியா இருக்கா . வா போகலாம் .” (Your mother is alone at home. Let’s go.)
“Uncle. Please don’t misunderstand. I am only telling the truth. Sundararajan saw it himself. Veperi Swamigal has been involved in some bad activities.”
“Siva Siva,” Kalyani put her hands on her ears.
“வா போகலாம் ,” Dheenadayal started to walk away, followed by Kalyani. The rest of the crowd moved closer, waiting for more sordid details. Letchumanan was even more confused now. Is he talking about Veperi Swamigal ? The Revered One that he and his father and grandfather had considered a divine being? The One whose picture was the centerpiece of their home altar ? Letchumanan shook his head vigorously, as if that would clear his mind.
“கேவலம் . சுவாமிகளுக்கு பெண் சகவாசம் இருக்காம் . கண்ணால பார்த்தவா சொன்னா .” (Even more shameful, Swami has illicit relationships with women. People have seen it with their own eyes.) Moorthy continued.
Dheenadayal walked briskly, followed by Kalyani. Kalyani was in tears.
Letchumanan looked intently at Moorthy. Moorthy smiled and nodded.
Prakash listened intently. Prakash was an avid scholar. He had read so much about the Swamigal, as he had about almost any subject. He listened a lot too. But never spoke. He was a mute.
***
Kaliappan was at the Taluk office. He had to get some papers signed.
“சார் , கொஞ்சம் உக்காருங்க . இத முடிச்சுட்டு உங்க விஷயத்த கவனிக்கறேன் ,” (Sir, please sit down. As soon as I finish this matter I will attend to you) the officer was courteous as always.
Kaliappan recalled what Moorthy had said. “You fellows are all like this. Corrupted. I know you are expecting me to bribe you. But I won’t. I pay taxes. I demand service.” He raised his voice. Several people looked his way. The officer was annoyed but calm.
“Ayya, I have dealt with you so many times. Have I ever asked for a bribe? Please don’t make wild statements.”
But Kaliappan wouldn’t stop. He kept shouting at the top of his voice.
***
Kasi looked at the deity. He had been serving the Temple for many years, but still lived from hand-to-mouth. Why was Mariamma not opening her eyes to his woes? The fat cats at the banks are making so much. But his earning was a pittance. Then Kasi saw the Undiyal, the donation box, located near the door. He looked behind him. There was no one around. He moved towards the Undiyal.
***
Letchumanan sat at his home altar. His eyes rested on the large picture of Veperi Swamigal. The vulgar images of the Swamigal with a woman played on his mind. He shook his head vigorously. But the images kept returning. Suddenly he grabbed the picture and threw it against the far wall, shattering it.
Letchumanan felt lonely and helpless. The One he had depended upon for help in every situation was no longer available. Only the vulgar images kept coming.
***
Karuppayya stopped his moped by the roadside. As he approached the wall to ease himself, he saw the poster. The larger than life image of MLA Tamaraichelvan smiled back at him. “திருட்டு ராஸ்கல் .” (thieving rascal). He sprayed Tamaraichelvan with urine. Then he saw the other poster. It was Veperi Swamigal. Karuppayya moved to the side and sprayed the Swamigal too.
***
Kalyani sat at the altar in meditation. She opened her eyes. Lighting the arathi, she saw the image of Veperi Swamigal, at the altar. Momentarily Moorthy’s words came to her mind. She pushed them aside. “Swami, அவன் தெரியாம ஏதேதோ சொல்லறான் . அவன மன்னிச்சுடுங்கோ .” (Swami, he is saying many things unknowingly. Please forgive him). She waved the arathi around the Swamigal’s picture.
***
Dheenadayal came down to the prayer room after his bath. As he sat at the altar, he prayed for the welfare of the world. “Samastha Loka Sukhino Bhavanthu.”
He opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the picture of Veperi Swamigal. He did not think of what Moorthy had said. Instead he remembered what the Swamigal had said. “Different people will say different things. Take only what is good. Take only what is beneficial. The rest is garbage. To be disposed of. And forgotten.”
***
Prakash sat in contemplation. He had seen with his own eyes the work done by the followers of Veperi Swamigal. Swamigal’s words had transformed millions, helping them to move Godwards. His words had inspired so many, making them moral beacons in society. Many thousands were involved with community service and educational projects benefiting millions. Then Prakash thought of Moorthy’s words. What he had said was improbable, and at the same time irrelevant. It would not detract from Swamigal’s message or mission in any way.
***
Kalaivany lay on her bed. She smiled as she thought of Moorthy. How dashing he looked in the blue shirt and black jeans. And he was so well informed. Everyone listened to him. He must be somebody in Chennai. And she giggled to herself as she recalled how he had kept glancing at her that morning.
“Do you think these politicians are sincere? They will promise you anything. Once they have your vote, they will steal everything they can. Do you know how many houses your MLA Tamaraichelvan has built.. ha. He wears huge gold rings on all his fingers. And whose money is it ? Yours. Uncle Kaliappan, you slog all day in the fields, and they tax you. That’s where your money is going – for the good life of the politicians.”
Talk of tax got Kaliappan all riled up. “They took away more than half my income this year. The thieves. I knew they are all crooks.” He fumed.
“The whole Government machinery is corrupted. Nothing moves without a bribe.”
Karuppayya snorted. “திருட்டு பசங்க . அந்த காலத்துல …. “ (crooks. In those days…) he stopped, realising no one was listening. Karuppayya was an ex-farmer, having lost his farm in a particularly bad year. He blamed everyone for what had happened. Except himself.
Moorthy works in Chennai as a dispatch clerk . In the course of his job, he comes in contact with many people of real and pretended importance. He commutes back to Lakshmipuram almost every weekend. On these occasions, he was a purveyor of inside news and gossip . To the people of Lakshmipuram, Moorthy’s visits were a welcome respite from their otherwise sedentary lives, and offered a window on the outside world. A nasty world full of crooked, immoral and dishonest people.
“Uncle, do you know how much bank staffs are paid ? Even the clerks get Rs30,000. Every month.” The villagers looked at him agape. It took a while for the magnitude of this princely amount to register.
“I don’t even make that amount in one year,” Kasi the temple priest sounded desolate.
Moorthy continued, “Hmm. And what do they do ? Sit around and chit chat all day. The officers get 3 times that amount. And who knows how much they get under the table?”
Kaththavarayan looked at Moorthy. He recalled his last trip to the bank in Tirunelveli, to check on his loan application. The clerks and officers had given him the run around. He had returned home empty handed.
Kalaivany was standing behind the pillar. Eyes downcast, she looked up whenever Moorthy spoke. Moorthy’s words were music to her ears. She didn’t care what he said. She just wanted to hear him speak. She was fascinated by his facial expressions, and his hand gestures. Moorthy knew Kalaivany was listening. And he piled on the bravado.
“Chennai people are all immoral. The way the girls behave – che - shameful. And the boys – you cannot trust them for a minute. In my job, I see and hear so much.”
The men moved closer, hoping to hear some juicy gossip. Moorthy was encouraged by the ready audience. The weekend trips became his regular fix, charging him up for the coming week of drudgery in his humdrum Chennai job.
Letchumanan looked dazed. He looked perpetually dazed. The retired postmaster did little thinking. His worldview was quite narrow, and most of it shaped by what Moorthy and others said.
Dheenadayal sat several yards away. He couldn’t help hearing Moorthy’s words. In his fifties, Dheenadayal was a teacher. A man of few words, he seldom responded to Moorthy’s tirades. Somehow this made Moorthy direct his attention more on Dheenadayal.
“Uncle. You are such a dedicated teacher. What have you got for all your years of slogging ? Do you know why you are not getting your due ? Because the great thief Pandian is Education Minister. He has stashed crores in Swiss Bank Accounts. Money which rightly belongs to the hard working teachers,” he taunted. Dheenadayal kept silent. He listened. He did not want to offend. He knew it would serve no purpose.
Moorthy saw Dheenadayal’s wife, Kalyani approaching.
“Aunty,” he called out, “I found out the most shocking thing. I personally heard this from someone in the Veperi Madam.”
Hearing this, Kalyani looked troubled.
“Moorthy, அபாண்டமா ஏதும் சொல்லாதப்பா . தோஷம் உண்டு .” (Moorthy, don’t make any wild statements. It is sinful.)
“Aunty. I too pray to Veperi Swamigal. His picture is in our house altar too. But this is the truth. I heard it from Sundararajan, who is an insider in the Madam.”
Dheenadayal signaled to his wife. “ஆத்துல உங்கம்மா தனியா இருக்கா . வா போகலாம் .” (Your mother is alone at home. Let’s go.)
“Uncle. Please don’t misunderstand. I am only telling the truth. Sundararajan saw it himself. Veperi Swamigal has been involved in some bad activities.”
“Siva Siva,” Kalyani put her hands on her ears.
“வா போகலாம் ,” Dheenadayal started to walk away, followed by Kalyani. The rest of the crowd moved closer, waiting for more sordid details. Letchumanan was even more confused now. Is he talking about Veperi Swamigal ? The Revered One that he and his father and grandfather had considered a divine being? The One whose picture was the centerpiece of their home altar ? Letchumanan shook his head vigorously, as if that would clear his mind.
“கேவலம் . சுவாமிகளுக்கு பெண் சகவாசம் இருக்காம் . கண்ணால பார்த்தவா சொன்னா .” (Even more shameful, Swami has illicit relationships with women. People have seen it with their own eyes.) Moorthy continued.
Dheenadayal walked briskly, followed by Kalyani. Kalyani was in tears.
Letchumanan looked intently at Moorthy. Moorthy smiled and nodded.
Prakash listened intently. Prakash was an avid scholar. He had read so much about the Swamigal, as he had about almost any subject. He listened a lot too. But never spoke. He was a mute.
***
Kaliappan was at the Taluk office. He had to get some papers signed.
“சார் , கொஞ்சம் உக்காருங்க . இத முடிச்சுட்டு உங்க விஷயத்த கவனிக்கறேன் ,” (Sir, please sit down. As soon as I finish this matter I will attend to you) the officer was courteous as always.
Kaliappan recalled what Moorthy had said. “You fellows are all like this. Corrupted. I know you are expecting me to bribe you. But I won’t. I pay taxes. I demand service.” He raised his voice. Several people looked his way. The officer was annoyed but calm.
“Ayya, I have dealt with you so many times. Have I ever asked for a bribe? Please don’t make wild statements.”
But Kaliappan wouldn’t stop. He kept shouting at the top of his voice.
***
Kasi looked at the deity. He had been serving the Temple for many years, but still lived from hand-to-mouth. Why was Mariamma not opening her eyes to his woes? The fat cats at the banks are making so much. But his earning was a pittance. Then Kasi saw the Undiyal, the donation box, located near the door. He looked behind him. There was no one around. He moved towards the Undiyal.
***
Letchumanan sat at his home altar. His eyes rested on the large picture of Veperi Swamigal. The vulgar images of the Swamigal with a woman played on his mind. He shook his head vigorously. But the images kept returning. Suddenly he grabbed the picture and threw it against the far wall, shattering it.
Letchumanan felt lonely and helpless. The One he had depended upon for help in every situation was no longer available. Only the vulgar images kept coming.
***
Karuppayya stopped his moped by the roadside. As he approached the wall to ease himself, he saw the poster. The larger than life image of MLA Tamaraichelvan smiled back at him. “திருட்டு ராஸ்கல் .” (thieving rascal). He sprayed Tamaraichelvan with urine. Then he saw the other poster. It was Veperi Swamigal. Karuppayya moved to the side and sprayed the Swamigal too.
***
Kalyani sat at the altar in meditation. She opened her eyes. Lighting the arathi, she saw the image of Veperi Swamigal, at the altar. Momentarily Moorthy’s words came to her mind. She pushed them aside. “Swami, அவன் தெரியாம ஏதேதோ சொல்லறான் . அவன மன்னிச்சுடுங்கோ .” (Swami, he is saying many things unknowingly. Please forgive him). She waved the arathi around the Swamigal’s picture.
***
Dheenadayal came down to the prayer room after his bath. As he sat at the altar, he prayed for the welfare of the world. “Samastha Loka Sukhino Bhavanthu.”
He opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the picture of Veperi Swamigal. He did not think of what Moorthy had said. Instead he remembered what the Swamigal had said. “Different people will say different things. Take only what is good. Take only what is beneficial. The rest is garbage. To be disposed of. And forgotten.”
***
Prakash sat in contemplation. He had seen with his own eyes the work done by the followers of Veperi Swamigal. Swamigal’s words had transformed millions, helping them to move Godwards. His words had inspired so many, making them moral beacons in society. Many thousands were involved with community service and educational projects benefiting millions. Then Prakash thought of Moorthy’s words. What he had said was improbable, and at the same time irrelevant. It would not detract from Swamigal’s message or mission in any way.
***
Kalaivany lay on her bed. She smiled as she thought of Moorthy. How dashing he looked in the blue shirt and black jeans. And he was so well informed. Everyone listened to him. He must be somebody in Chennai. And she giggled to herself as she recalled how he had kept glancing at her that morning.
Tumah ***
Have been reading a quirky book : “The year of living Biblically”, courtesy of the younger son, who has of late been my chief guide pointing out the readable books and watchable movies. The character in this book, Jacobs, tries to live out the Bible – literally, leading to some hilarious scenes, especially in the parts when Jacobs tries to follow some of the more confounding provisions in the holy book.
But one part was curiously familiar. It concerns Leviticus 15:19, containing stipulations relating to women having periods – yes, menstrual periods. Apparently the Hebrew Bible forbids the faithful from touching a woman for the week following the onset of her period. During this period (the week long one), the woman is considered to be in “tumah”, a state of spiritual impurity. Another law decrees that everything upon which she lies or sits during this period of impurity shall be unclean.
The thing that came to my mind when I read this is the Hindu (or is it Brahmin?) practice which is similar. Even today there are households in India (including some of my relatives) who practice a form of apartheid on menstruating women. They are separated, and usually confined to a part of the house or a corner of a room. No contact is allowed with anyone. Anyone accidentally touching them will have to take a bath, and change their clothes. Generally clothes, water and food are conductors of the "impurity." Curiously, if you wore new clothes, or clothes just back from the dhobi, the clothes were immune from the “uncleanness”. In my grandmother’s home in Kerala, when the old lady was still alive, this practice was strictly followed, at the pain of a public tongue lashing by grandma. The joint extended family being a huge one (grandma had 12 children), at any given time there would be a handful of women going through their respective periods. The house had a “rendam kattu” , a separate area where the said women would be confined. Food would be delivered to them after everyone else had eaten. They would be required to retreat to the innermost areas while the person who brought the food served it on their plate - dropping the food items from a safe height, to avoid the possibility of contamination from the unclean plate. The women were said to be “theendal”. Many women welcomed this practice, mainly for the relief from the daily chores of the house.
I asked the wife if this practice still exists in any household she knows about. She thinks it does, in a little more watered down version. Naturally it is followed more strictly in houses where the older generation (especially mothers-in-law) are still around, and still exert their authority.
I wonder how many today find these practices absurd.
But one part was curiously familiar. It concerns Leviticus 15:19, containing stipulations relating to women having periods – yes, menstrual periods. Apparently the Hebrew Bible forbids the faithful from touching a woman for the week following the onset of her period. During this period (the week long one), the woman is considered to be in “tumah”, a state of spiritual impurity. Another law decrees that everything upon which she lies or sits during this period of impurity shall be unclean.
The thing that came to my mind when I read this is the Hindu (or is it Brahmin?) practice which is similar. Even today there are households in India (including some of my relatives) who practice a form of apartheid on menstruating women. They are separated, and usually confined to a part of the house or a corner of a room. No contact is allowed with anyone. Anyone accidentally touching them will have to take a bath, and change their clothes. Generally clothes, water and food are conductors of the "impurity." Curiously, if you wore new clothes, or clothes just back from the dhobi, the clothes were immune from the “uncleanness”. In my grandmother’s home in Kerala, when the old lady was still alive, this practice was strictly followed, at the pain of a public tongue lashing by grandma. The joint extended family being a huge one (grandma had 12 children), at any given time there would be a handful of women going through their respective periods. The house had a “rendam kattu” , a separate area where the said women would be confined. Food would be delivered to them after everyone else had eaten. They would be required to retreat to the innermost areas while the person who brought the food served it on their plate - dropping the food items from a safe height, to avoid the possibility of contamination from the unclean plate. The women were said to be “theendal”. Many women welcomed this practice, mainly for the relief from the daily chores of the house.
I asked the wife if this practice still exists in any household she knows about. She thinks it does, in a little more watered down version. Naturally it is followed more strictly in houses where the older generation (especially mothers-in-law) are still around, and still exert their authority.
I wonder how many today find these practices absurd.
Mothers .... and mothers-in-law ***
Have you noticed how mothers are celebrated with so much hoo-hah ? No it’s not that I have anything against mothers. My mum was such a lovable individual herself. And my wife is a loving mother to my sons.
But the part that irks me is when everyone talks about “mother’s love” and how it is so selfless. If you really think about it, mother’s love is really quite selfish. She loves her children. Now what’s so selfless about that ? As a matter of fact, this focus of love on her offspring could itself be a drawback when it comes to loving others. How does a mother take it when her darling child (particularly son) begins to love another woman ? That’s when the mother begins her transformation into a mother-in-law. Now everyone knows that a mother-in-law is a stereotype villain. The so called “mothers” love somehow mutates and manifests itself as mother-in-law behaviour.
But the part that irks me is when everyone talks about “mother’s love” and how it is so selfless. If you really think about it, mother’s love is really quite selfish. She loves her children. Now what’s so selfless about that ? As a matter of fact, this focus of love on her offspring could itself be a drawback when it comes to loving others. How does a mother take it when her darling child (particularly son) begins to love another woman ? That’s when the mother begins her transformation into a mother-in-law. Now everyone knows that a mother-in-law is a stereotype villain. The so called “mothers” love somehow mutates and manifests itself as mother-in-law behaviour.
Monday, June 15, 2009
The True Guru ****
“Aummm…… Aummm…. Aummm..”
Roger Pendleton sat cross legged, amidst the thousand other sadhaks. There was absolute silence. Absolute peace. In front, on a slightly raised platform, sat Swami Satgunananda. He was an embodiment of love and compassion. He was the spiritual beacon , guiding the lives of the thousands who were his devotees. At this ashram , in the foothills near Darjeeling, Swamiji , as he was fondly known, guided his devotees in managing their lives. “Go inwards. Find your God. He resides within you. He is waiting for your call.” Swamiji would urge. But many could not find this inner source. They wanted answers from Swamiji. Sometimes he obliged. He knew they were just children. Finding their way in the vast spiritual wilderness.
Roger, like many other devotees, also sought advice and solace from Swamiji. Every year, he spent many months at the ashram. For much of his 50 years on this planet , Roger had led a Godless life. He had been unprincipled, and ruthless, with little consideration for truth or right living. Eventually, he found himself on the receiving end. His business partners, his family members, even his wife and son had conspired to cheat and swindle him, until he was left with almost nothing. That was when he turned to God. He decided to travel to India, and soon found Swamiji. Roger found peace, at last.
***
Swamiji Satgunananda had many disciples, and chief among them was Adbuthananda and Vedananda. Swamiji never lost an opportunity to show his pleasure with the spiritual progress shown by his two favourite devotees. It was said that Swamiji was grooming them to succeed him. Swamiji was rumored to be in his nineties, although he looked barely 70. As for their part, Adbuthananda and Vedananda were the humblest beings in the ashram. They were constantly at the beck and call of Swamiji, and took upon themselves the most menial tasks in the ashram. Vedananda would not think twice before scrubbing the community toilets at the ashram. And Adbuthananda could often be seen sweeping the grounds before dawn, keeping it spic and span. They were model devotees, for everyone to emulate. Then one day, all of a sudden, Swamiji attained Samadhi.
***
Roger was in Birmingham when he heard about Swamiji’s Samadhi. He felt a strange feeling of loss. But by then, he had understood Swamiji’s words. “Go inwards. Find your God. He resides within you. He is waiting for your call.” Roger knew that Swamiji had been preparing his devotees for this day.
***
Two years later, Roger decided to make a trip to the Ashram in Darjeeling. When he arrived, he was surprised to find the Ashram closed.
Some enquiries led him to Vedashram, located not far away, and led by Swamiji Vedananda. He found many familiar faces, and was soon enjoying the familiar peace and joy. Soon it was apparent that Adbuthananda was nowhere to be seen. Curious, Roger asked, and was surprised to be told that Adbuthananda had broken away, and started his own Ashram, in nearby Swarampore.
“But why did he do that ? Weren’t both Adbuthananda and Vedananda model disciples of Swamiji ? Weren’t they the anointed successors ? ”
“We don’t know. All we know is that Swami Vedananda is our Guru now.”
***
Roger traveled to Swarampore. On an idyllic hillside was the beautiful Adbhuthashram. Inside, devotees sat in peaceful meditation. Swami Adbuthananda’s devotees recognized Roger, and invited him in. Roger enjoyed several peaceful days at the Ashram. Then, one evening, Swamiji Adbuthananda gestured to Roger. As they sat together. Roger decided to ask the question that continued to bother him.
“Swamiji. I was at the Vedashram earlier, and the devotees there believe that Swamiji Vedananda is their Guru. And here, the devotees consider you as their Guru. Who is the true Guru ?”
Swamiji smiled. “I am sure you have not forgotten what our Swamiji Satgunananda always said. He always urged devotees to find their own God. Within themselves. But until we do, we need our Gurus. For the devotees here, they see me as their Guru. For those at Vedashram, Swamiji Vedananda is their Guru.”
purnamadah purnamidam
purnaat purnamudachyate
purnasya purnaamadaya
purnameva vashishyate
Translation:
That is complete, this is complete
From that completeness comes this completeness
If we take away this completeness from that completeness
Only completeness remains.
Roger Pendleton sat cross legged, amidst the thousand other sadhaks. There was absolute silence. Absolute peace. In front, on a slightly raised platform, sat Swami Satgunananda. He was an embodiment of love and compassion. He was the spiritual beacon , guiding the lives of the thousands who were his devotees. At this ashram , in the foothills near Darjeeling, Swamiji , as he was fondly known, guided his devotees in managing their lives. “Go inwards. Find your God. He resides within you. He is waiting for your call.” Swamiji would urge. But many could not find this inner source. They wanted answers from Swamiji. Sometimes he obliged. He knew they were just children. Finding their way in the vast spiritual wilderness.
Roger, like many other devotees, also sought advice and solace from Swamiji. Every year, he spent many months at the ashram. For much of his 50 years on this planet , Roger had led a Godless life. He had been unprincipled, and ruthless, with little consideration for truth or right living. Eventually, he found himself on the receiving end. His business partners, his family members, even his wife and son had conspired to cheat and swindle him, until he was left with almost nothing. That was when he turned to God. He decided to travel to India, and soon found Swamiji. Roger found peace, at last.
***
Swamiji Satgunananda had many disciples, and chief among them was Adbuthananda and Vedananda. Swamiji never lost an opportunity to show his pleasure with the spiritual progress shown by his two favourite devotees. It was said that Swamiji was grooming them to succeed him. Swamiji was rumored to be in his nineties, although he looked barely 70. As for their part, Adbuthananda and Vedananda were the humblest beings in the ashram. They were constantly at the beck and call of Swamiji, and took upon themselves the most menial tasks in the ashram. Vedananda would not think twice before scrubbing the community toilets at the ashram. And Adbuthananda could often be seen sweeping the grounds before dawn, keeping it spic and span. They were model devotees, for everyone to emulate. Then one day, all of a sudden, Swamiji attained Samadhi.
***
Roger was in Birmingham when he heard about Swamiji’s Samadhi. He felt a strange feeling of loss. But by then, he had understood Swamiji’s words. “Go inwards. Find your God. He resides within you. He is waiting for your call.” Roger knew that Swamiji had been preparing his devotees for this day.
***
Two years later, Roger decided to make a trip to the Ashram in Darjeeling. When he arrived, he was surprised to find the Ashram closed.
Some enquiries led him to Vedashram, located not far away, and led by Swamiji Vedananda. He found many familiar faces, and was soon enjoying the familiar peace and joy. Soon it was apparent that Adbuthananda was nowhere to be seen. Curious, Roger asked, and was surprised to be told that Adbuthananda had broken away, and started his own Ashram, in nearby Swarampore.
“But why did he do that ? Weren’t both Adbuthananda and Vedananda model disciples of Swamiji ? Weren’t they the anointed successors ? ”
“We don’t know. All we know is that Swami Vedananda is our Guru now.”
***
Roger traveled to Swarampore. On an idyllic hillside was the beautiful Adbhuthashram. Inside, devotees sat in peaceful meditation. Swami Adbuthananda’s devotees recognized Roger, and invited him in. Roger enjoyed several peaceful days at the Ashram. Then, one evening, Swamiji Adbuthananda gestured to Roger. As they sat together. Roger decided to ask the question that continued to bother him.
“Swamiji. I was at the Vedashram earlier, and the devotees there believe that Swamiji Vedananda is their Guru. And here, the devotees consider you as their Guru. Who is the true Guru ?”
Swamiji smiled. “I am sure you have not forgotten what our Swamiji Satgunananda always said. He always urged devotees to find their own God. Within themselves. But until we do, we need our Gurus. For the devotees here, they see me as their Guru. For those at Vedashram, Swamiji Vedananda is their Guru.”
purnamadah purnamidam
purnaat purnamudachyate
purnasya purnaamadaya
purnameva vashishyate
Translation:
That is complete, this is complete
From that completeness comes this completeness
If we take away this completeness from that completeness
Only completeness remains.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
The break point ****
“Muthu, better hurry. We are late.” Thirunavukkarasu was calm as he spoke to his driver. He was riding the Merc with his Executive assistant Suresh to a meeting with the Minister. Suresh was briefing him in preparation.
Both Thiru’s and Suresh’s phones kept ringing incessantly. As they discussed the meeting with the Minister, they spoke briefly into the phone on and off. Once in a while, Suresh would hand his phone to Thiru.
“The Minister is likely to bring up our marina Project at Penang. He wants that to move fast. His men are also lining up for some contracts. We may need to oblige. The earthworks are the safest. Probably you could start off with that offer, and see how it goes.” Suresh was as competent as they come.
“One sec, its Philip. Yes, Philip?”
Suresh waited, shuffling the notes.
“OK, that’s fine. OK. Yes, we need to show we care. These people were driving our project. Make some publicity on the compensation. Get our managers to visit the families. OK. Fine.” He cut the call and turned back to Suresh.
***
As they left the Minister’s office, Thiru was upbeat. “That went well. What do you think?” he liked to get Suresh’s opinion.
“I thought he was too eager. We should tread carefully.”
“Well he is a politician. So we know his agenda.”
“Sir, we have to get to Dang Wangi. We have an 11 am meeting with the OCPD. And after that, lunch with Tan Sri Suffian . That’s at Bangsar.”
The phone rang. “It’s my wife. Yes Hema? Umm. Yes. I remember. Of course la. But lunch is out. Maybe tea at about 5 this evening la. OK, will do. Bye Hema.”
“Sir, Board meeting at JSB is at 7 pm.” Suresh reminded gently.
“Ya, I know. But Hema wants to set up a discussion with her brother’s friend. He wants to discuss some business with me. I just can’t put that off any longer. Should be able to rush to JSB. Just call Hema later and set up a tea meeting at a suitable location.”
Suresh’s phone rang. “Yes, Suresh here. Oh, ok. Sir, the Temple Secretary.” He handed the phone to Thiru.
Thiru was a dynamo. Active in his numerous companies, he was into Social activities too. Chairman of a couple of temples, and playing key roles in Social Service organizations, sports organizations, his daughter’s PIBG committees, while giving equal importance to family matters. He juggled so many roles that any other person would be dizzy even remembering what they were. And he was never rattled, no matter how many crises came along. Suresh was close to Thiru, and was always with him. Even Suresh marveled at Thiru’s energy, and unruffled manner. Somehow Thiru managed to divide his time ingeniously, giving his friends, colleagues, business associates, employees and family the impression that he valued them equally. Thiru was respected and loved by one and all.
***
It was almost midnight. Thiru was about to call it a day. As he switched off the bedside light, he had a thought. So much of the world seemed to depend on him. The companies, the organizations, Temples, his family …. the list went on. He smiled and closed his eyes. Sleep was almost instantaneous.
***
Suddenly he was awake. The green display of the clock showed 04:00. He felt dizziness. And a heavy pressure on his chest. He instinctively turned to wake Hema. But as he turned, he stopped. He suddenly saw everything so clearly. He had to go. Without a second thought, Thiru silently padded out of the room, packing the bare essentials in a sling bag.
***
A year had rolled by. Thiru looked 10 years younger. He was a clerk at the printing office. His boss was Mr Ho, the owner. Thiru rode a Honda 70, to travel the 8 km from his flat to the office. He ate breakfast, lunch and dinner at the only Indian shop in town, run by Chettiar. His day would start at 7 am. He would ride his bike to Chettiar’s shop, and sit and have a leisurely breakfast – just idlies, and Nescafe, while he read the newspaper – poring over every page. By 8.30, he would be at his workplace. For lunch, he would ride out to Chettiar's again, and have a hearty banana leaf meal. Then back to work, until 6 or 7, depending on the work to be done. Then off to Chettiar’s again – dinner was simple: a couple of chapattis and a glass of milk. Then back to his flat. Some reading before bedtime – Thiru read voraciously, spending a big chunk of his RM 1000 salary on books. During weekends, he read all the time, just taking a break in the afternoons for a refreshing nap.
Thiru worked diligently. But spoke little. Chettiar had initially tried making conversation with Thiru. But Thiru mostly grunted. It was the same story at his workplace too. Mr Ho didn’t mind. Thiru was an honest and hardworking worker. That’s all that mattered to him. But everyone liked Thiru. He was just a man of few words, they all thought.
***
It was 10 years since Thiru had left Kuala Lumpur. He had not looked back. It had been a clean cut. Thiru was at peace. He slept like a baby. His life was as simple as it could be.
Then, the abrupt thought came.
What was happening to his family ? His wife Hema, and daughter Shailaja? They had been so dependant on Thiru. How were they coping ? How about his companies ? Without him there to make the decisions, and handle the crises, how could they manage ? And all the charities, the clubs, the Temples ? What were they doing ? Thiru decided to go back.
***
Arriving in Kuala Lumpur, Thiru looked so different: in his French beard and cropped hair. He had lost more than 20 kilos, and in his trim form, looked much younger. No one could recognize him.
Thiru staked out his office, and his house. Everything was going on smoothly. No one missed him. Nothing had come crashing down. In fact, his businesses seemed to be more prosperous than ever. His wife and family were carrying on as though nothing had happened. Thiru felt a distant detachment.
***
A few days later, he was back at his job at Mr Ho’s printing press.
Mr Ho came up, and put his hand on Thiru’s shoulder. “Thiru, good to have you back. Things almost came to a standstill when you were away.”
Both Thiru’s and Suresh’s phones kept ringing incessantly. As they discussed the meeting with the Minister, they spoke briefly into the phone on and off. Once in a while, Suresh would hand his phone to Thiru.
“The Minister is likely to bring up our marina Project at Penang. He wants that to move fast. His men are also lining up for some contracts. We may need to oblige. The earthworks are the safest. Probably you could start off with that offer, and see how it goes.” Suresh was as competent as they come.
“One sec, its Philip. Yes, Philip?”
Suresh waited, shuffling the notes.
“OK, that’s fine. OK. Yes, we need to show we care. These people were driving our project. Make some publicity on the compensation. Get our managers to visit the families. OK. Fine.” He cut the call and turned back to Suresh.
***
As they left the Minister’s office, Thiru was upbeat. “That went well. What do you think?” he liked to get Suresh’s opinion.
“I thought he was too eager. We should tread carefully.”
“Well he is a politician. So we know his agenda.”
“Sir, we have to get to Dang Wangi. We have an 11 am meeting with the OCPD. And after that, lunch with Tan Sri Suffian . That’s at Bangsar.”
The phone rang. “It’s my wife. Yes Hema? Umm. Yes. I remember. Of course la. But lunch is out. Maybe tea at about 5 this evening la. OK, will do. Bye Hema.”
“Sir, Board meeting at JSB is at 7 pm.” Suresh reminded gently.
“Ya, I know. But Hema wants to set up a discussion with her brother’s friend. He wants to discuss some business with me. I just can’t put that off any longer. Should be able to rush to JSB. Just call Hema later and set up a tea meeting at a suitable location.”
Suresh’s phone rang. “Yes, Suresh here. Oh, ok. Sir, the Temple Secretary.” He handed the phone to Thiru.
Thiru was a dynamo. Active in his numerous companies, he was into Social activities too. Chairman of a couple of temples, and playing key roles in Social Service organizations, sports organizations, his daughter’s PIBG committees, while giving equal importance to family matters. He juggled so many roles that any other person would be dizzy even remembering what they were. And he was never rattled, no matter how many crises came along. Suresh was close to Thiru, and was always with him. Even Suresh marveled at Thiru’s energy, and unruffled manner. Somehow Thiru managed to divide his time ingeniously, giving his friends, colleagues, business associates, employees and family the impression that he valued them equally. Thiru was respected and loved by one and all.
***
It was almost midnight. Thiru was about to call it a day. As he switched off the bedside light, he had a thought. So much of the world seemed to depend on him. The companies, the organizations, Temples, his family …. the list went on. He smiled and closed his eyes. Sleep was almost instantaneous.
***
Suddenly he was awake. The green display of the clock showed 04:00. He felt dizziness. And a heavy pressure on his chest. He instinctively turned to wake Hema. But as he turned, he stopped. He suddenly saw everything so clearly. He had to go. Without a second thought, Thiru silently padded out of the room, packing the bare essentials in a sling bag.
***
A year had rolled by. Thiru looked 10 years younger. He was a clerk at the printing office. His boss was Mr Ho, the owner. Thiru rode a Honda 70, to travel the 8 km from his flat to the office. He ate breakfast, lunch and dinner at the only Indian shop in town, run by Chettiar. His day would start at 7 am. He would ride his bike to Chettiar’s shop, and sit and have a leisurely breakfast – just idlies, and Nescafe, while he read the newspaper – poring over every page. By 8.30, he would be at his workplace. For lunch, he would ride out to Chettiar's again, and have a hearty banana leaf meal. Then back to work, until 6 or 7, depending on the work to be done. Then off to Chettiar’s again – dinner was simple: a couple of chapattis and a glass of milk. Then back to his flat. Some reading before bedtime – Thiru read voraciously, spending a big chunk of his RM 1000 salary on books. During weekends, he read all the time, just taking a break in the afternoons for a refreshing nap.
Thiru worked diligently. But spoke little. Chettiar had initially tried making conversation with Thiru. But Thiru mostly grunted. It was the same story at his workplace too. Mr Ho didn’t mind. Thiru was an honest and hardworking worker. That’s all that mattered to him. But everyone liked Thiru. He was just a man of few words, they all thought.
***
It was 10 years since Thiru had left Kuala Lumpur. He had not looked back. It had been a clean cut. Thiru was at peace. He slept like a baby. His life was as simple as it could be.
Then, the abrupt thought came.
What was happening to his family ? His wife Hema, and daughter Shailaja? They had been so dependant on Thiru. How were they coping ? How about his companies ? Without him there to make the decisions, and handle the crises, how could they manage ? And all the charities, the clubs, the Temples ? What were they doing ? Thiru decided to go back.
***
Arriving in Kuala Lumpur, Thiru looked so different: in his French beard and cropped hair. He had lost more than 20 kilos, and in his trim form, looked much younger. No one could recognize him.
Thiru staked out his office, and his house. Everything was going on smoothly. No one missed him. Nothing had come crashing down. In fact, his businesses seemed to be more prosperous than ever. His wife and family were carrying on as though nothing had happened. Thiru felt a distant detachment.
***
A few days later, he was back at his job at Mr Ho’s printing press.
Mr Ho came up, and put his hand on Thiru’s shoulder. “Thiru, good to have you back. Things almost came to a standstill when you were away.”
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The Symphony ***
“Carrots. Yes carrots. That is the solution.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
"No. I wont. I just wont"
“Didn’t you say you were worried about the crunch at your office, that you may be looking at a drastic pay cut?”
“Why did Mira get married at this time, if she knew what was coming?”
“Why are you talking about Mira? What she does is none of our business.”
“Mira? Which Mira? Tell me la.”
“ OK, its like this. We have to form a legal company. To speed things up, we could buy one off the shelf.”
“And how would that help?”
"No. I wont. I just wont"
“Just imagine. With our own company, we could venture into so many things. Really diversify. And we don’t have any stupid bosses to answer to.”
“Sounds good. But how about the risks? And how do we solve Mira’s problem?”
“She did consult her parents, if that’s any consolation.”
"And the crunch? The pay cut?"
“How about potatos? They’re cheaper?”
“Listen. There are set ways of doing these things. We cant just do what we like.”
“I tell you what. Lets talk to Mira. Maybe she will reconsider. And we all can have the cake and eat it too.”
"No. I wont. I just wont"
“I think I will go ahead and set up the company.”
Just then Ben entered. “Time for exercise. All of you out to the yard.”
They all trooped out silently.
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
"No. I wont. I just wont"
“Didn’t you say you were worried about the crunch at your office, that you may be looking at a drastic pay cut?”
“Why did Mira get married at this time, if she knew what was coming?”
“Why are you talking about Mira? What she does is none of our business.”
“Mira? Which Mira? Tell me la.”
“ OK, its like this. We have to form a legal company. To speed things up, we could buy one off the shelf.”
“And how would that help?”
"No. I wont. I just wont"
“Just imagine. With our own company, we could venture into so many things. Really diversify. And we don’t have any stupid bosses to answer to.”
“Sounds good. But how about the risks? And how do we solve Mira’s problem?”
“She did consult her parents, if that’s any consolation.”
"And the crunch? The pay cut?"
“How about potatos? They’re cheaper?”
“Listen. There are set ways of doing these things. We cant just do what we like.”
“I tell you what. Lets talk to Mira. Maybe she will reconsider. And we all can have the cake and eat it too.”
"No. I wont. I just wont"
“I think I will go ahead and set up the company.”
Just then Ben entered. “Time for exercise. All of you out to the yard.”
They all trooped out silently.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
The rise & fall of Parthasarathy ****
“அய்யா , சன்னாசி மகன் போயிட்டான் அய்யா ,” (Ayya, Sannasy’s son passed away) Muthiah stood by the roadside. He was breathless, having run all the way from the edge of the town, where Sannasy lived. Seeing Parthasarathy’s car, he had waved him down.
“அட பாவமே . நேத்து கூட பார்த்தேன் , நல்லா இருந்தான் … , சரி முத்தையா , வண்டில ஏறு . ராபெர்ட் , வண்டிய திருப்பு . சன்னாசி வீட்டுக்கு போகணும் .” (Oh, what a pity. Even yesterday I saw him, he was fine. OK, Muthiah , come, get in the car. Robert, lets go to Sannasy’s house).
***
Muthiah hugged Sannasy and comforted Sannasy’s wife, Valli. “ஆண்டவன் சொதிக்கறான் . கவலை படாதீங்க . எல்லாமே நல்லா முடியும் . ராபெர்ட் , வேண்டிய ஏற்பாடு பண்ணையா .” (It’s all a test by God. Don’t worry, everything will be ok. Robert, do whatever is needed). Sannasy and Valli were in tears. The whole community watched as Parthasarathy, a high caste aristocrat, and village zameen, hugging someone of their community – the outcaste Pallars. Parthasarathy became one of them, bathing the body, carrying the hearse, and following up to the cremation ground.
Parthasarathy was loved and respected for this characteristic. He truly treated everyone as his own. Whenever anyone in the village faced any tragedy, Parthasarathy would be there, offering solace, help and assistance. The villagers would approach him for all kind of help and assistance.
“My daughter wants to go to the city. She wants to study to be a doctor. Please advise her sar. Is that suitable for a girl ? Is it possible for us ?” Vengaiah stood with his hands folded. His daughter Thenmozhi stood behind him, eyes downcast. Mookan looked at Vengaiah sadly.
Parthasarathy looked at Thenmozhi. She looked up at him, and their eyes met. Her eyes were pleading. Parthasarathy could sense the yearning in her heart. He looked at Vengaiah. “Vengaiah, times have changed. Nowadays girls are studying many things. There are girls who are in many professions and top positions. Your daughter has the capability. She has the interest. Let her go. You will not regret it.”
Vengaiah was shocked. “அய்யா , நாங்க …” (Ayya, we…)
Parthasarathy put up his hand. He stood up, and held Vengaiah by his shoulders. “Don’t worry. Everything will be ok. I will take care. “
Vengaiah was overcome with emotion. “அய்யா …” he tried to fall at Parthasarathy’s feet, but Parthasarathy stopped him. “போ , போயி செய்யவேண்டியதை செய் ”. (Go and do whatever is needed). Vengaiah’s daughter was in tears.
As they moved away, Mookan came up, his eyes moist. “Sar, my wife is in the hospital. “ He related his problem, and Parthasarathy gave his solution.
***
Parthasarathy’s father, the late Kathiresan Ayya had been a respected elder in Mullaikurichchi, a small town near Madurai. Ever since Kathiresan Ayya passed away, Parthasarathy had taken over his father’s role. He gave advice, financial help, mediated and resolved disputes, and even offered faith healing and spiritual advice.
Parthasarathy was wealthy and successful in business. He donated large sums for the benefit of the community. The Village Temple, community halls, a school and even a college, wells, roads, hospital and all manner of community facilities were built with funds donated by him. Several youths and children were in schools and colleges, fully funded by Parthasarathy. Everyone in the village without exception had benefited from Parthasarathy’s, one way or the other.
Parthasarathy’s advice and views were accepted and revered as though they were divine. As a Shiva baktha, Parthasarathy did regular Abishekam for the Shivalinga, which he had specially obtained from a Holy man in the Himalayas.
The daily Shivalinga abishekam and pooja had started out as family prayers, conducted by Parthasarathy, in the presence of his wife, Amirthavalli and son, Kishore. It soon attracted many villagers, and soon it became the norm for a large crowd to attend the daily prayers, after which Parthasarathy would listen to the people’s issues and offer advice, and assistance, blessings and solace. Word spread, and soon, people from neighbouring villages began coming too.
***
“அய்யா வீட்டு சிவலிங்கம் மேல் விபுதி வந்திருக்கு ,” (Vibhuti has materialised on Ayya's Shivalingam). Kamakshi was breathless with excitement. As the word spread, a large crowd had gathered at Parthasarathy’s house. It had been early that morning. As Amirthavalli had entered the pooja room, to get ready for the abhishekam, she noticed the Shivalingam covered in a heap of fine fragrant vibhuti. Initially she thought her husband might have done a vibhuti abhishekam, and left the Shivalingam covered in the ash, although she knew that was highly uncharacteristic of him. She called out to Parthasarathy, and the moment he entered the room and saw the sight, tears formed in his eyes. “சர்வேஸ்வரன் நமக்கு ஒரு தரிசனம் கொடுத்திட்டார் ,” (the Lord has blessed us with His divine presence) his voice trembled as he said it. But there was more to come. The vibhuti manifestation became a daily occurrence, sometimes spreading to the walls and the pictures of other deities nearby. Every morning and evening Amirthavalli would collect the Vibhuti and pack it into small packets to be given away to everyone who came. The news spread far and wide.
“Ayya has been especially blessed. His heart is pure gold. God himself has recognized Ayya’s divine character.”
“அய்யா வாரி வாரி கொடுத்தாரு , இப்போ ஆண்டவன் வாரி வாரி கொடுக்கறான் .” (Ayya gave generously, now God is showing His generosity to Ayya).
Somehow the vibhuti manifestation elevated Parthasarathy to a level which he had not achieved with all his philanthropy, and service to humanity, and love and care. He was a demi God to the simple folk of Mullaikurichchi. Even Maheshwara Ayyar, the respected temple priest acknowledged Parthasarathy’s special position. “அய்யா ஒரு தெய்வீக பிறவி . அந்த ஆண்டவனே அவரை அனுப்பி வச்சிருக்கார் , நமக்காஹ. நாம எல்லாம் ரொம்ப குடுத்து வெச்சிருக்கோம் ”. (Ayya is a divine incarnation. The Lord Himself has sent him, for our sake. We are very fortunate). Hearing this from Maheshwara Ayyar further authenticated the exalted place which the villagers of Mullaikurichchi had created for Parthasarathy.
***
It was the day before Shivarathri. Maheshwara Ayyar had turned up at Parthasarathy’s house before dawn. “அவர் குளிக்கறார் . கொஞ்சம் இருங்க அய்யா ”. (He is in his bath. Please come in and wait.) Amirthavalli led Maheshwara Ayyar into the house. Maheshwara Ayyar sat for several minutes. Then, he got up , deciding to go into the prayer room. As he entered, he saw Parthasarathy. He was kneeling at the Shivalingam. Plastering the Lingam with vibhuti, which he took from a small sack. Maheshwara Ayyar could not believe what he was seeing. Could it be ? Could Parthasarathy actually be faking the vibhuti manifestation ? He could not control the storm of emotions he felt at that moment. “Parthasarathy Ayya… என்ன செய்யறீங்க ” (Parthasarathy Ayya, what are you doing) he shouted out.
Startled, Parthasarathy stood up. He turned to Maheshwara Ayyar, still holding the tell-tale sack of vibhuti in his hand. Tears formed in his eyes. He brought the sack up and looked at it, almost surprised to see it in his own hands. At that moment Amirthavalli came in, carrying the kuthuvilakku. Taking in the scene, she immediately understood what had happened. The kuthuvillakku fell from her hands. She burst into tears, turned, and left.
***
The Parthasarathy household is deserted. A year after the incident, Parthasarathy is alone, and desolate. He looks sickly, and his body is a skeleton, with his clothes hanging loosely on his frame. He seldom goes out of the house. The Villagers shun him. The Shiva Temple which Parthasarathy built is closed and barricaded. So are the Community halls, schools, college and hospital. Parthasarathy’s wife had left him, taking their son with her to her parents’ house. The house is silent. The poojas have stopped.
Parthasarathy , the human being, was elevated to a divine status by the villagers. The divine aspect that was manifesting in Parthasarathy’s human body so strongly, encouraged them to do so. But alas, Parthasarathy was but a Human. He had the divine in him. But he had the devil in him too. Just like everyone else. And one day, in a moment of weakness, the devil had taken over….
Sheena the animal lover ***
Sheena was outraged. How dare this monster kill the poor creature in cold blood. Yes it was a stray, but it is also a creature of God. She had witnessed the horror as she sat at the sidewalk café with her friends, sipping the coffee. On hearing the shot, Sheena had reacted in an instant. She ran to the man, grabbed his air gun and whacked him across the shoulders with it. The man staggered at the force of the blow. Luckily Ram and Latha ran up, and grabbed Sheena, and pulled her back to the coffee shop. The enforcement man was not really hurt. But he was angry. “Kali ini kau nasib baik. You cuba sekali lagi… hah… saya panggil polis,” he shouted at them before he was accosted by his colleagues from the dog catching crew, and they went away.
Sheena was shaking. “He is a monster. I am not letting this go. He has not seen the last of me. Just watch.” She was seething with anger. “The poor creature. What did it do to him? He killed it in cold blood”.
“Come on, Sheena. Cool down.” Latha held her shoulders. “Let’s go away from here.”
“Yeah, I’m hungry. Let go grab a bite.”
They left in the car. There was silence in the car. They knew Sheena needed some space. She had to cool down. She was such a lover of animals. She couldn’t see how people could bring themselves to hurt the poor things.
Soon they were at their favourite shop. Fatty Leong’s Eatery. They went in, and Fatty was there. “Hai, Miste Lam … today wai so rate ? Kam Kam, your favolate taber lesev for you…. Ah Soong ah, 唔該埋 單 唔該 埋單唔 該埋單 ,” Fatty called out to the server.
Ah Soong handed them the dog eared menu books. The three of them made a show of going through the menu, but they always ordered the same things. Every day.
“Ah Soong ah, get us some chicken soup to start la.”
“You got roast suckling pig today ? Yes ? Great, we’ll have that”. This was Sheena’s favourite. She loved roast suckling pig.
Sheena was shaking. “He is a monster. I am not letting this go. He has not seen the last of me. Just watch.” She was seething with anger. “The poor creature. What did it do to him? He killed it in cold blood”.
“Come on, Sheena. Cool down.” Latha held her shoulders. “Let’s go away from here.”
“Yeah, I’m hungry. Let go grab a bite.”
They left in the car. There was silence in the car. They knew Sheena needed some space. She had to cool down. She was such a lover of animals. She couldn’t see how people could bring themselves to hurt the poor things.
Soon they were at their favourite shop. Fatty Leong’s Eatery. They went in, and Fatty was there. “Hai, Miste Lam … today wai so rate ? Kam Kam, your favolate taber lesev for you…. Ah Soong ah, 唔該埋 單 唔該 埋單唔 該埋單 ,” Fatty called out to the server.
Ah Soong handed them the dog eared menu books. The three of them made a show of going through the menu, but they always ordered the same things. Every day.
“Ah Soong ah, get us some chicken soup to start la.”
“You got roast suckling pig today ? Yes ? Great, we’ll have that”. This was Sheena’s favourite. She loved roast suckling pig.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
For the gullible: a newspaper, a “fighting cock” politician, a “has been” party, and a pseudo Datukship **
For a while now, the credibility of the mainstream media (especially the print media) has been pretty low. Everyone thought they had hit rock bottom around March 2008, as they tried to outdo each other, in blowing the BN trumpet in the most unabashed manner.
A few days before the Penanti by-election, I came close to throwing down the paper in exasperation. On the front page of the STAR was an earth shattering news item. Aminah, (huh?) the independent candidate for Penanti was jubilantly holding up a CD. She claimed that it contained a recording of evidence that PKR leaders met up with her, and offered her:
the Deputy CM’s post if she won the by-election
The Penang Municipal President’s post if she withdrew. On top of this, she would also be compensated RM 80,000 for her expenses so far.
Then, on Page 15, poor Jocelyn tried to please the powers that be, by making a brave attempt to play up Aminah, as a “fighting cock”.
The results came in, as everyone was yawning. And Aminah managed a few hundred votes, while losing thousands of ringgit as she lost her deposit. And she claimed to have proven that PKR had lost its popularity. How pathetic can you get?
Then, a news item about the fighting clowns in PPP. Murugiah was sacked from the PPP, a mosquito party to begin with, although it claims to have a half million members. Then Murugiah did a Zambry. He gathered a crowd and got them to “Crown” him President. Poor chap did not realise that Presidents of political Parties (even a “massive” Party like PPP) do not wear Crowns. In the meantime, supporters of Kayveas were angry. One of them said Murugiah’conduct was giving the BN a bad name. But BN got Zambry to do a worse stunt in Perak, crowning the joker Ganesan? And speaking of bad names, PPP itself is one. But that was not all. Mr Baradan, that fearless epitome of press freedom spoke of the looming PPP court battle as though this was an event of great National significance. Interestingly he came close to comparing the circus put up by Murugiah to the Perak circus. But he ducked at the last instant, comparing it to the “under the tree” Assembly Meeting. Well saved.
And finally, the Chairman of the Malaysian Council of Datuks slammed the door on “foreign” Datuks. Apparently some enterprising characters had set up a Sultanate in Southern Philippines and for a fat donation, were dishing out Datukships. And gullible local rich folk were flocking to these pseudo Sultanates.
A few days before the Penanti by-election, I came close to throwing down the paper in exasperation. On the front page of the STAR was an earth shattering news item. Aminah, (huh?) the independent candidate for Penanti was jubilantly holding up a CD. She claimed that it contained a recording of evidence that PKR leaders met up with her, and offered her:
the Deputy CM’s post if she won the by-election
The Penang Municipal President’s post if she withdrew. On top of this, she would also be compensated RM 80,000 for her expenses so far.
Then, on Page 15, poor Jocelyn tried to please the powers that be, by making a brave attempt to play up Aminah, as a “fighting cock”.
The results came in, as everyone was yawning. And Aminah managed a few hundred votes, while losing thousands of ringgit as she lost her deposit. And she claimed to have proven that PKR had lost its popularity. How pathetic can you get?
Then, a news item about the fighting clowns in PPP. Murugiah was sacked from the PPP, a mosquito party to begin with, although it claims to have a half million members. Then Murugiah did a Zambry. He gathered a crowd and got them to “Crown” him President. Poor chap did not realise that Presidents of political Parties (even a “massive” Party like PPP) do not wear Crowns. In the meantime, supporters of Kayveas were angry. One of them said Murugiah’conduct was giving the BN a bad name. But BN got Zambry to do a worse stunt in Perak, crowning the joker Ganesan? And speaking of bad names, PPP itself is one. But that was not all. Mr Baradan, that fearless epitome of press freedom spoke of the looming PPP court battle as though this was an event of great National significance. Interestingly he came close to comparing the circus put up by Murugiah to the Perak circus. But he ducked at the last instant, comparing it to the “under the tree” Assembly Meeting. Well saved.
And finally, the Chairman of the Malaysian Council of Datuks slammed the door on “foreign” Datuks. Apparently some enterprising characters had set up a Sultanate in Southern Philippines and for a fat donation, were dishing out Datukships. And gullible local rich folk were flocking to these pseudo Sultanates.
Pattabhiraman ***
Pattabhiraman unlocked the front door of his house. “அம்மா , நான் வந்துட்டேன் .”
(Amma, I am home). He put the packets on the small table in front of his mother, and proceeded to unpack them.
“இத பாரு . உனக்கு பிடிச்ச இடியாப்பம் , சொதி . வடையும் இருக்கு . சாப்பிடு .” (Look, I have brought your favorite Idiappam & sothi. There is vadai too. Eat)
He started to eat. His mom just sat there. Staring past him at the scene outside the window. She didn’t say anything.
Pattabhiraman was getting impatient.
“அம்மா , என்னம்மா இப்படி இருக்க ? நேத்து ராத்திரியும் சாப்பிடல . இப்பவவும் சாப்பிடாம உக்காந்துகிட்டு இருக்க . இப்படி அடம் பிடிச்சா நான் என்ன செய்யறது ? சரி , வா , நான் ஊட்டி விடட்டுமா ? Umm. இந்தா . Aaaa.... ammm.... வாய தெரம்மா ... பாரு ... எல்லாம் கீழ விழறது . ச்சே .”
(amma, why are you like this? Even yesterday night you did not eat. Now too, you are not eating. If you are stubborn like this what can I do ? OK, come, I will feed you. Here, open your mouth... look, everything is spilling to the floor).
Patabbhi picked up the pices of idiappam that had fallen onto his mothers lap. He used a small towel to wipe her mouth.
“சரி , வட சாப்பிடறயா ?” (OK, do you want some vadai?)
Ammini ammal did not reply.
“என்னம்மா என்கிட்ட கோவம் ? சொல்லும்மா . 2 நாளா பேச மாட்டேங்கற , சாப்பிட மாட்டேங்கற ... இப்பிடி இருந்தா உன் உடம்பு என்னத்துக்கு ஆறது ... அடம் பிடிக்காத , வா ... ummm ummm, சாப்பிடு .” (Why are you upset with me ? last 2 days you have not spoken to me. And you are not eating. If you carry on like this, what will happen to your health ? Dont be stubborn, come, eat). He brought some of the vadai to her mouth. But Ammini ammal did not even look at him.
Then there was a knocking on the front door.
“டேய் , பட்டாபி , கதவ தொரடா .. ” (Dey, Pattabhi, open the door) it was Venkittu mama, their neighbour.
“இதோ வரேன் மாமா .” (I am coming mama).
Pattabhi put down the vadai and ran to the front door. Venkittu mama entered.
"டேய் , என்னடா வாடை ? எங்க அம்மா ?” (Dey, what is that smell ? Where is amma?) he wrinkled and held his nose.
“இதோ இருக்கா மாமா . மாமா , நீங்களே பாருங்கோ மாமா , நேத்துலேந்து எங்கிட்ட பேச மாட்டேங்கறா . ஒன்னும் சாப்பிட மாட்டேங்கறா . நான் சொன்னா கேக்க மாட்டேங்கறா . நீங்க சொல்லுங்கோ மாமா .” She is here mama. Mama, please talk to her. Since yesterday she is not speaking to me. And she has not eaten. She does not listen to me. Please tell her mama).
Venkittu approached Ammini ammal cautiously. He touched her arm. Then her forehead. She was cold as ice. Ammini ammal was dead. He turned. Pattabhi was hungrily eating the idiappam.
(Amma, I am home). He put the packets on the small table in front of his mother, and proceeded to unpack them.
“இத பாரு . உனக்கு பிடிச்ச இடியாப்பம் , சொதி . வடையும் இருக்கு . சாப்பிடு .” (Look, I have brought your favorite Idiappam & sothi. There is vadai too. Eat)
He started to eat. His mom just sat there. Staring past him at the scene outside the window. She didn’t say anything.
Pattabhiraman was getting impatient.
“அம்மா , என்னம்மா இப்படி இருக்க ? நேத்து ராத்திரியும் சாப்பிடல . இப்பவவும் சாப்பிடாம உக்காந்துகிட்டு இருக்க . இப்படி அடம் பிடிச்சா நான் என்ன செய்யறது ? சரி , வா , நான் ஊட்டி விடட்டுமா ? Umm. இந்தா . Aaaa.... ammm.... வாய தெரம்மா ... பாரு ... எல்லாம் கீழ விழறது . ச்சே .”
(amma, why are you like this? Even yesterday night you did not eat. Now too, you are not eating. If you are stubborn like this what can I do ? OK, come, I will feed you. Here, open your mouth... look, everything is spilling to the floor).
Patabbhi picked up the pices of idiappam that had fallen onto his mothers lap. He used a small towel to wipe her mouth.
“சரி , வட சாப்பிடறயா ?” (OK, do you want some vadai?)
Ammini ammal did not reply.
“என்னம்மா என்கிட்ட கோவம் ? சொல்லும்மா . 2 நாளா பேச மாட்டேங்கற , சாப்பிட மாட்டேங்கற ... இப்பிடி இருந்தா உன் உடம்பு என்னத்துக்கு ஆறது ... அடம் பிடிக்காத , வா ... ummm ummm, சாப்பிடு .” (Why are you upset with me ? last 2 days you have not spoken to me. And you are not eating. If you carry on like this, what will happen to your health ? Dont be stubborn, come, eat). He brought some of the vadai to her mouth. But Ammini ammal did not even look at him.
Then there was a knocking on the front door.
“டேய் , பட்டாபி , கதவ தொரடா .. ” (Dey, Pattabhi, open the door) it was Venkittu mama, their neighbour.
“இதோ வரேன் மாமா .” (I am coming mama).
Pattabhi put down the vadai and ran to the front door. Venkittu mama entered.
"டேய் , என்னடா வாடை ? எங்க அம்மா ?” (Dey, what is that smell ? Where is amma?) he wrinkled and held his nose.
“இதோ இருக்கா மாமா . மாமா , நீங்களே பாருங்கோ மாமா , நேத்துலேந்து எங்கிட்ட பேச மாட்டேங்கறா . ஒன்னும் சாப்பிட மாட்டேங்கறா . நான் சொன்னா கேக்க மாட்டேங்கறா . நீங்க சொல்லுங்கோ மாமா .” She is here mama. Mama, please talk to her. Since yesterday she is not speaking to me. And she has not eaten. She does not listen to me. Please tell her mama).
Venkittu approached Ammini ammal cautiously. He touched her arm. Then her forehead. She was cold as ice. Ammini ammal was dead. He turned. Pattabhi was hungrily eating the idiappam.
Monday, June 1, 2009
The Dream ****
Odongo sat, leaning against the shady tree. The heat was suffocating. And after the rains, the humidity was so high that he was drenched in sweat. He used the dried leaf to swat the flies occasionally. He looked out at the cows. There were 28 of them. And 8 were his. He had worked hard to earn them. His father Ogwambe was a hard man.
“You have to work hard,” Ogwambe would often repeat to Odongo. “Hard work is the only thing that will help you.”
Odongo attended village school. It was a disused cow shed. Wemusa, their teacher was at least 100 years old. He spoke so softly that no one heard him. And often, he would stay silent and still for such a long time that Odongo sometimes thought Wemusa might have died.
At school, Odongo at next to Nabinye. Nabinye was a dreamer. He wanted to become a lawyer. In the Big City. Everyone knew about the big city. But no one had been there. “One day I will go to the Big City. I will become a lawyer. I will wear a shirt and pants and tie. And everyone will stand up when they see me. I will be rich. I will buy a big house. In the Big City.” Nabinye would go on and on. Odongo listened. But Odongo had his own dreams. His dreams were different. He dreamt of having 20 cattle. With hard work, he could achieve his dream in a few years. He looked across the class-room. At the corner desk sat Munyiga. With 20 cows, Munyiga would be his. Munyiga’s father M’wale had told Odongo. “I want you to come with 20 cows. And take Munyiga.” And Odongo had replied, “Yes, Sir. I will come with 20 cows. And take your daughter.” Then Odongo had looked at Munyiga, standing silently at the kitchen door of their hut. But Munyiga had just turned and moved away.
***
Many years later
Odongo felt uncomfortable in the starched yellow shirt, and khaki pants. His clan accompanied him. In front was Ogwambe. Flanked by his 3 wives. Then came Ogwambe’s brothers, uncles, cousins and all manner of relatives. All of them were chattering away at the top of their voices. They were full of admiration for Odongo. He had managed to get the 20 cows is such a short time. And all his cows were so healthy. On top of that, Odongo looked so smart in his yellow shirt and khaki pants. He even wore an old pair of shoes, which he had cleaned and polished for the occasion. In the middle came Odongo, with his friends jostling him. There was much giggling and good natured jibes and insults. Odongo was very happy.
Soon they were at M’wale’s hut. As the party approached, M’wale came out to greet them. He looked grim. “The sun has set,” he began.
Ogwambe was taken aback. There was frantic whispering among the relatives. Ogwambe looked at M’wale. “We have come with the offer of the cows as you wished. My first born Odongo has 20 cows. He has come to ask for your daughter, Munyiga.”
They all sat down. M’wale looked at all of them. “The sun has set.” He said again. “Munyiga belongs to another man now.”
There was a hushed silence. Odongo could not believe his ears. “But you promised. You said 20 cows. I have the 20 cows. I worked hard for them. I want to marry Munyiga,” he sounded shrill.
M’wale looked at him sadly. “The sun has set.” He said again. “Munyiga is another man’s wife now.”
As he spoke, a man came out of M’wale’s hut. He was a Big City man. He was dressed in a smart suit. And shiny shoes. He held a hat in his hand. Most of the group stood up instinctively, as they saw the man. Slowly Ogwambe stood up, followed by his wives, and other relatives. Odongo was the last. As he stood up, recognition dawned on him. And as Odongo watched, a figure slowly appeared behind the man. It was Munyiga. She held on to Nabinye’s shoulder, and looked out defiantly at Odongo. She had had her dream too.
Slowly Ogwambe nodded at M’wale. “The sun has set.” Ogwambe turned around and started walking slowly. All the others followed suit. Only Odongo stood for a long moment, looking at Nabinye and Munyiga, standing at the doorway of the hut. Then he too, turned around and walked back to his village. And his cows.
“You have to work hard,” Ogwambe would often repeat to Odongo. “Hard work is the only thing that will help you.”
Odongo attended village school. It was a disused cow shed. Wemusa, their teacher was at least 100 years old. He spoke so softly that no one heard him. And often, he would stay silent and still for such a long time that Odongo sometimes thought Wemusa might have died.
At school, Odongo at next to Nabinye. Nabinye was a dreamer. He wanted to become a lawyer. In the Big City. Everyone knew about the big city. But no one had been there. “One day I will go to the Big City. I will become a lawyer. I will wear a shirt and pants and tie. And everyone will stand up when they see me. I will be rich. I will buy a big house. In the Big City.” Nabinye would go on and on. Odongo listened. But Odongo had his own dreams. His dreams were different. He dreamt of having 20 cattle. With hard work, he could achieve his dream in a few years. He looked across the class-room. At the corner desk sat Munyiga. With 20 cows, Munyiga would be his. Munyiga’s father M’wale had told Odongo. “I want you to come with 20 cows. And take Munyiga.” And Odongo had replied, “Yes, Sir. I will come with 20 cows. And take your daughter.” Then Odongo had looked at Munyiga, standing silently at the kitchen door of their hut. But Munyiga had just turned and moved away.
***
Many years later
Odongo felt uncomfortable in the starched yellow shirt, and khaki pants. His clan accompanied him. In front was Ogwambe. Flanked by his 3 wives. Then came Ogwambe’s brothers, uncles, cousins and all manner of relatives. All of them were chattering away at the top of their voices. They were full of admiration for Odongo. He had managed to get the 20 cows is such a short time. And all his cows were so healthy. On top of that, Odongo looked so smart in his yellow shirt and khaki pants. He even wore an old pair of shoes, which he had cleaned and polished for the occasion. In the middle came Odongo, with his friends jostling him. There was much giggling and good natured jibes and insults. Odongo was very happy.
Soon they were at M’wale’s hut. As the party approached, M’wale came out to greet them. He looked grim. “The sun has set,” he began.
Ogwambe was taken aback. There was frantic whispering among the relatives. Ogwambe looked at M’wale. “We have come with the offer of the cows as you wished. My first born Odongo has 20 cows. He has come to ask for your daughter, Munyiga.”
They all sat down. M’wale looked at all of them. “The sun has set.” He said again. “Munyiga belongs to another man now.”
There was a hushed silence. Odongo could not believe his ears. “But you promised. You said 20 cows. I have the 20 cows. I worked hard for them. I want to marry Munyiga,” he sounded shrill.
M’wale looked at him sadly. “The sun has set.” He said again. “Munyiga is another man’s wife now.”
As he spoke, a man came out of M’wale’s hut. He was a Big City man. He was dressed in a smart suit. And shiny shoes. He held a hat in his hand. Most of the group stood up instinctively, as they saw the man. Slowly Ogwambe stood up, followed by his wives, and other relatives. Odongo was the last. As he stood up, recognition dawned on him. And as Odongo watched, a figure slowly appeared behind the man. It was Munyiga. She held on to Nabinye’s shoulder, and looked out defiantly at Odongo. She had had her dream too.
Slowly Ogwambe nodded at M’wale. “The sun has set.” Ogwambe turned around and started walking slowly. All the others followed suit. Only Odongo stood for a long moment, looking at Nabinye and Munyiga, standing at the doorway of the hut. Then he too, turned around and walked back to his village. And his cows.
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