Barathidasan ***

Singarajapuram. Belying its majestic name, a small village of docile peasants. Among them, the exceptional Ponnayyan. Ponnayyan was a rich landlord. His ancestral property encompassed the village, and there was not a soul in Singarajapuram who was not in some way indebted and therefore subservient to Ponnayyan.

Ponnayyan was not an evil man. He had inherited his fortune from his father, and grandfather, who had been cunning businessmen in their own right, engaging in money lending and assorted businesses, not all above board. Ponnayyan continued dabbling in business, but he was a more ethical person. But he was ambitious. And when it came to ambition, he had no compunctions about stretching his ethics.

Barathidasan. A proud young man from the temple town of Thiruchi. He insisted that everyone address him by his full name. “My father named me Barathidasan in the hope and expectation that people would call be Barathidasan. So that’s what people should call me.” He would declare. Barathidasan had just been posted as the sub-inspector in the Singarajapuram Police Station.

Barathidasan was an honest and dedicated officer. His parents had died when he was a teenager, and growing up in the Ramakrishna Ashram in Thiruchi, he had worked hard and become a Police officer. It had been the realisation of his dream.

Barathidasan would stroll around the village of Singarajapuram. At times he would ride his motorcycle. The listless docility of the villagers appalled him. “You all are human beings like me. You can be something better. It is in your hands, he would exhort them. Most would smile politely, “சரி அய்யா." (ok, Sir). But he saw no life in their eyes. Barathidasan saw Ponnayyan as the exception. He had more ambition and vision that the rest of the Singarajapuram villagers put together.

And then there was Thenmozhi. What a woman. She looked divine. She moved with such elegant grace. Her voice was mesmerising. And when she looked directly at Barathidasan, her eyes were so deep and penetrating that Barathidasan was often rendered speechless momentarily. Barathidasan knew that one day, Thenmozhi would be somebody. He urged Ponnayyan to send her to college. Ponnayyan laughed. “பொட்ட புள்ளக்கி காலேஜ் எதுக்குப்பா ? (What does a girl need college for?) ” And dismissed the topic summarily. Barathidasan would smile and shake his head. Thenmozhi reminded him of his sister, who had died of cholera as a teenager.

Thenmozhi would stand behind the door of her house. Waiting for that moment. When Barathidasan would pass by on his motorcycle. Her heart would flutter. Shyly she would follow his form until it disappeared in a cloud of dust into the horizon. All day long she would lie on the mat in her room, dreaming of Barathidasan. Her mother sensed something was wrong. But even the perceptive Thangamma could not associate her daughter’s unusual behaviour to Barathidasan’s arrival in Singarajapuram. .

***

The news reached Barathidasan in a cable that morning. Police Chief Lieutenant Charles Taylor would be visiting Singarajapuram. And he planned to stop the night at the village.

Charles Taylor was the British Police Officer garrisoned at Theni. He commanded the British Police force in the Theni area, comprising more than a thousand men. It was rumoured that Lieutenant Charles Taylor had the ear of the British Resident in Madras. Which made him a very powerful man indeed. Lieutenant Taylor was a good man. He was still single, and loved all things Indian.

Barathidasan gave instructions to his men. A posse of policemen will meet the Chief’s party at the main road from Gopalanpatti, and accompany them to the village Police Station. The station was to be given a thorough cleaning, and decorated suitably. The village elders, particularly Ponnayyan and a few others will meet the Chief, and entertain him at a dinner. And after that, Lieutenant Taylor will spend the night at Ponnayyan’s mansion.

There was a flurry of activity over the next few days as Singarajapuram prepared to receive the VIP.

Ponnayyan’s eyes sparkled. He knew that the Chief’s visit was going to be a golden opportunity. He laid careful plans.

***

The dinner reception at Ponnayyan’s house was lavish. Lieutenant Taylor insisted on sitting cross legged on the floor for the meal, just like the locals. This endeared him to everyone. “துறை பாருங்க . தரையில உக்காந்து சப்பிடறாரு !” (look at the Chief. He is eating sitting on the floor).

Barathidasan sat next to him, talking to him, in English. The Chief spoke to the gathering in a smattering of Tamil. Ponnayyan beamed.

***

“Barathidasan,” Lieutenant Taylor pronounced the name immaculately. Who is that demure girl we saw at Ponnayyan’s house?”

Barathidasan looked at the Englishman for a moment. “It is Ponnayyan’s only daughter Sir. Her name is Thenmozhi”.

“Hmmm…. She’s a real beauty.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Barathidasan looked at him.

***

Hardly a week had passed when Lieutenant Taylor arrived in Singarajapuram again. This time unannounced, all the way from Madras. Everyone was curious why the Chief had come again, so soon after his first visit. He went straight to the Police Station, and asked Barathidasan to take him to see Ponnayyan.

And in the following months, Lieutenant Taylor became a common face in Singarajapuram. He came almost every week.

***

“Ponnayyan,” Lieutenant Taylor began uncertainly, on one occasion.

“Yes Saar?”

“I guess you are perceptive enough to realise that I am smitten with your daughter, Thenmozhi. …” Taylor paused, and looked down.

The emotions washed over Ponnayyan. His only daughter Thenmozhi… how could he marry her off to this white man? Would Thangamma agree? What would the villagers say? Would Thenmozhi agree?

On the other hand, Lieutenant Taylor was a fine gentleman. And he was a powerful man. He could move things in Madras. How is he inferior to any of the young men here in Singarajapuram? Or Theni? Or Thiruchi or Chennai? Or anywhere for that matter? He had to convince his wife and Thenmozhi.

Ponnayyan reached out and caught hold of the Lieutenant’s hand. Lieutenant Taylor looked up at Ponnayyan. They smiled into each other’s eyes. It had been too easy, thought Taylor.

***

“Appa, I won’t do it,” Thenmozhi screamed. Amma please tell him. I hate the white man.” She was in tears.

Ponnayyan was furious. ”What’s wrong with you? Where can you find such a fine gentleman? He is handsome, rich and powerful. You are so lucky.”

“Appa… I can’t…. I … I… I am in love with Barathidasan…” Thenmozhi ran away into the house.
Ponnayyan sat down stunned. He stared at his wife. She was equally in shock.

****

Lieutenant Taylor heard the news within days. He was crushed. Devious thoughts appeared in his mind.

****

Barathidasan was stunned to receive the telegram. A transfer? So soon? He had been in Singarajapuram for hardly two months! The order was signed personally by Lieutenant Taylor. He was to report to the Police Outpost in Gummidipoondi. The following week.

****

Barathidasan waited in the verandah outside the Police Captain’s house. The Police Chief was George Mc Clough. As he waited, he heard muffled voices. A woman’s voice. He looked inquisitively at the sentry. “The Captain’s wife, Lizzie. A stunning beauty,” the old man whispered, winking mischievously. Barathidasan looked at him quizzically.

Soon the Captain stepped out, followed by Lizzie. The Captain was a tall gaunt Scot in his late fifties. But he looked haggard, with bloodshot eyes. His walk was unsteady too. He was obviously inebriated. And Lizzie, a copper skinned redhead, with flashing dark eyes. Barathidasan could not take his eyes off her. And she in turn, smiled at him, invitingly. She couldn’t be more than 30. Barathidasan was repulsed by this loose behaviour. Lizzie moved quickly towards Barathidasan and grabbed his hands.

“Hi, you must be Barathidasan. Welcome.”

She stood uncomfortably close. Barathidasan could hardly breathe. And then the Captain lurched forward, and grabbing Lizzie by her arms, pulled her away roughly. He glared at Barathidasan.

“You …. You stay away from my wife. Or I’ll skin you alive. You understand?”

“Yes Sir.”

****

Barathidasan was alone in his tiny quarters. It was almost dusk, and he was lying on the coir rope cot, reading the newspaper. There was a soft knock. And then the door flung open, and against the orange evening sky stood a shapely figure. It was Lizzie. Barathidasan scrambled to his feet, and pulled on a shirt.

“Maam. You should not come here maam.” Barathidasan stammered nervously.

Lizzie giggled hysterically. She was obviously drunk. She lurched towards him and as he tried to stop her fall, they both rolled on to the coir cot. Lizzie hugged Barathidasan closely. She was giggling.

“Maam. Please maam. You have to go.” Barathidasan was terrified. And then they both heard the heavy footsteps. And in a split second, Captain Mc Clough was at the doorway. And in the next moment, a deafening blast. And a second one. The Captain’s revolver exploded in quick succession. The room was splattered with the remains of Barathidasan and Lizzie.

****

Ponnayyan sat in the corner, his head hung low. His face was stony. His wife’s high pitched wail broke the silence. The villagers rushed to the house, and stood in shock. Thenmozhi lay lifeless in a heap, the rope still wound tightly around her neck.

“படுபாவி பய. கிளி மாதிரி இருக்குற இந்த பொண்ண விட்டுட்டு அந்த வெள்ளகார சிறுக்கிய போயி துரத்தி .....கடைசில செத்து போயிட்டானே ?” (What a rogue. He left my pretty daughter and went after that white slut… and died in the process.”) Thangamma wailed.

***

Lieutenant Charles Taylor rushed to the scene. As he saw Thenmozhi’s lifeless body, he staggered. He stood uncertainly for a few moments. Then he turned, and walked out.

Then the shot rang out. The villagers and Ponnayyan rushed out. Lieutenant Charles Taylor lay on the ground, face up. A large gaping hole marked where his face had been.

The Scoop ****

Sundaram lay in his hammock chair. He munched the potato chips as he lay watching the late night news on the TV. The tower fan rotated slowly, enhancing the natural breeze coming from the luxuriant foliage surrounding the place. He switched off the light and TV, and lay down to sleep. The noise of the traffic on the nearby roads was loud, but for Sundaram, it was muted, buffered and filtered through the thick green shrubbery.

As he lay on his bed, Sundaram felt a sense of bliss. It had been 5 years now, since he moved to this place, and things were highly satisfactory, to say the least. And it was completely free. A peaceful place, close to all amenities. Yet away from the public’s prying eyes.

****

Roy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. His day had not gone well so far. First his editor had chewed him up for not coming up with any stories for the week. Then the call from his wife nagging about the unattended repairs in the home. And she needed money to buy provisions. Again. And now, he was stuck in this traffic. Roy looked out of the car window absent mindedly, at the rich green wall of plants below the highway ramp. All of a sudden the bushes parted, and a neatly dressed grey haired man appeared. But as the bushes parted, Roy glimpsed something that he couldn’t believe. As it sank in, Roy’s face lit up.

***

Of course it had not been like this at first. Sundaram had through his ingenuity, availed of basic needs. A small tap installed by the landscape department was just at the edge of the road, and he connected a hose to his rudimentary bathroom, filling the large drums and cans from time to time. And using his electrician’s skills, he had connected an extension from the dangling loose wire from the street light above, giving him a constant supply of free electricity. The other small comforts he had improvised over the years – a basic toilet and bathroom over the drain, plywood and zinc sheet hut, insulated by green plants growing pergola style, rudimentary furniture, TV, a small fridge, an electrical stove and so many other things. Sundaram lived under the ramp at one the busiest intersections in the city.

***

Sundaram was sweeping the front of his house, gathering the fallen leaves in a pile. Glancing up, he was startled to see the smiling young man.
“Hi. Don’t worry, I’m a friend. I saw you just now, and I was curious. Can I sit down?” Roy sat down on the small plastic chair.
Sundaram sat opposite him uncertainly. To Sundaram, the human interaction was a refreshing experience. He had been used to the solitary life for far too long. Soon, they began chatting. And Sundaram opened up, relating his story in all detail.

***

It was on page two of the Moon Newspaper. “Man makes comfortable home below highway ramp”. The story was accompanied by several pictures of Sundaram in various poses around his “home”.

Mr. Simon, the editor of the Moon was pleased. The story had certainly been a good one for the paper. He had praised Roy for the scoop.

Tuan Zakaria was furious. How could his officers and workers have been oblivious to this activity? A man building a home with stolen water and electricity supply, all under their very noses? It was unacceptable. He wanted a full investigation, and the negligent officers would be hauled up. He ordered all the illegal structures cleared. On top of that, the bushes and shrubbery would also be cleared, to prevent anyone else from moving in.

The political parties jostled with one another, pointing fingers and offering aid to Sundaram. A low cost flat was offered. “We will not stand by idly and watch when a needy member of our society is living in abject poverty. We will do all we can to give him a dignified place to live.” Declared the Chief Minister.

A major corporation offered to pay his rental and utility bills for a year. A supermarket donated provisions. Well wishers collected more than RM 20,000, which they handed over in a brief ceremony reported by the Moon on its front page. Several individuals claiming to be Sundaram’s long lost relatives appeared to embrace him back into their fold. Sundaram’s life was turned upside down.

Sundaram sat in the tiny living room, looking out through the metal grill. The paint was peeling off the walls, and water dripped from the bathroom ceiling. The flats were squalid, rats and cockroaches were everywhere, and crime was rife. He was afraid to go out after dark. He had been mugged twice. Life was a struggle. There were so many bills to pay. And it was a mere existence. He longed for his carefree days in his old home.

Determinants **

It’s always determinants. It still has a value associated with it and can be computed in all ordinary circumstances. But why should we go to such trouble? That is a question worth pondering. When we make a matrix of the resultant impacts, the clearer picture emerges. An expression which provides important information of the coefficients when it corresponds to a vector space: in the first case the system has a unique solution. This also sometimes implies that the transformation has a geometric interpretation, associated while reversing its orientation.

That is an essential tool in a compact notation that would otherwise be unwieldy to write down or use in any way. Although most often used in cookery for instance they can come with entries in a non-commutative ring.
This grows rapidly with the weather prevailing. Also the care given to detail has a broad impact. Which is surprising, given the indeterminate divergence in these two issues.

This rule, often called the Rule of Sarrus is a mnemonic for this formula: the sum of the products of three diagonal north-west to south-east lines of matrix elements.
This property is a consequence of the characterization given above of the determinant as the unique n-linear alternating function of the columns with value 1 on the identity matrix.

It can then be concluded that the determinants have the unique characteristic of determining the end of the determinate equations.

The disambiguation in Indian music **

The music originating from India includes multiple varieties of folk, folk, popular, pop, classical music and R&B. India's classical music tradition, including Carnatic and Hindustani music, has a history spanning millennia and, developed over several eras, it remains fundamental to the lives of Indians today as sources of spiritual inspiration, cultural expression and pure entertainment. India is made up of several dozen ethnic groups, speaking their own languages and dialects, having very distinct cultural traditions.
The two main traditions of classical music are Carnatic music, found predominantly in the peninsular regions, and Hindustani music, found in the northern and central regions.
Hindustani music is an Indian classical music tradition that goes back to Vedic times around 1000 BC, and further developed circa the 13th and 14th centuries AD with Persian influences and from existing religious and folk music. The practice of singing based on notes was popular even from the Vedic times where the hymns in Sama Veda, a sacred text, was sung as Samagana and not chanted. Developing a strong and diverse tradition over several centuries, it has contemporary traditions established primarily in India but also in Pakistan and Bangladesh. In contrast to Carnatic music, the other main Indian classical music tradition originating from the South, Hindustani music was not only influenced by ancient Hindu musical traditions, historical Vedic philosophy and native Indian sounds but also enriched by the Persian performance practices of the Mughals. During the Medieval age especially in the Mughal era various Gharana got famous due to excellence and class in type of musics like raga.
The present form of Carnatic music is based on historical developments that can be traced to the 15th - 16th centuries AD and thereafter. Carnatic music is completely melodic, with improvised variations. The main emphasis is on vocal music; most compositions are written to be sung, and even when played on instruments, they are meant to be performed in a singing style (known as gāyaki). It is foundation for most music in South India, including folk music, festival music and in last 100 years in film music.

An Unforgettable Experience ***

Raveenthran was thoughtful. Across him, Megala sat looking at her brother. They were in Megala’s high end penthouse in Singapore.
“You know, Ravee, here we are enjoying such a good life. We have everything, the luxuries of life. And if there is one person we should be thankful to, its achchan.”

“Yes Meg, I have been thinking about that too. I have an idea. Achchan’s 60th birthday is coming up next month. How about we give him a surprise treat he would never forget? We will spare no effort to show Achchan our gratitude!”

“Ravee, I’m all for it.” Megala was enthusiastic.

***

Achuthan was clearly uncomfortable in the suit. He could hardly sit comfortably. The armpits were too tight, and he was so stiff. Ravee was driving the sports car himself. Too fast. Megala was sitting beside Achuthan in the back seat. She was going on and on about their life in Singapore. The price of their penthouse suites. Their cars. The expensive holidays they had gone on. Their servants. And on and on. Achuthan was happy that they were living a comfortable life. He had made sure they had a good education. And that they got a leg-up to move along in life. And after that he had moved back into the background. His two children appeared to have done well indeed.

But as the car sped along, Megala’s continuous bragging and condescending conversation began to bear down on Achuthan. He was feeling a little nauseous. And a headache was coming on. He also noticed that Ravee’s wife glanced back at him occasionally. Achuthan knew instinctively that she was not very pleased, seeing this old shriveled man sitting in their car.

Soon they were at the restaurant. It was a Spanish restaurant, explained Ravee. The best you could get outside of Spain itself. Authentic Spanish. Each dish went for a minimum of S $ 150, Ravee gushed.

Achuthan looked glum. His suit was choking him, the temperature in the restaurant was freezing, and the food stank to high heaven. The only items on the menu which he could eat were the salads. Achuthan stabbed at the cold vegetables with his fork, washing them down with the cold water. Meanwhile Ravee, his wife and Megala were having a great time enjoying the Morcilla and jamón , the sopas y ensaladas, the chuletas , the cerdo all washed down with the immaculate Vino Rosado.

And then the massive cake arrived. Achuthan stood, feeling like a fool as he cut the cake, while his children and the restaurant staff sang the birthday song. Later everyone ate the cake except Achuthan. It was too sweet for him.

The birthday gifts were beautifully packed. A Patek Philippe Sky Moon Tourbillon watch, costing S$ 35,000 from Ravee. An original Forzieri Italian silk tie from his daughter, and gold plated cufflinks from his daughter in law. Achuthan looked at the gifts. He had no use for any of these.

After the meal, they went to the opera. Tickets were S$ 1000 apiece. The world famous soprano Angela Gheorghiu was on. The high pitched performance lasted 3 hours, which Achuthan endured. Sitting in the deep leather seats, awkward in his ill-fitting suit, stomach rumbling from the meagre vegetables he had eaten for dinner. By the end of it, he had developed a splitting headache.

The next morning, they were at the airport, to send off their father.

“Achcha, it was the least we could do for you. We arranged the best of everything. We hope you enjoyed it all.”

“I was so overwhelmed. I am proud that my children are so loving, and are doing so well. Thank you so much for such a nice experience.” Achuthan gushed uncharacteristically.

“Achcha, why don’t you come and stay with us permanently?” Megala asked.

Achuthan shuddered imperceptibly.

“Well Meg, Achcha seems comfortable in India. We can just help him out - once in a while. I am sure he prefers it there.” Ravee’s wife answered, almost too quickly.

“Yes, I prefer a simple life. I am comfortable. I am happy that you all are doing well. Thank you again.”

***

Achuthan sat on the porch of his house. It was a hot day, but here on his shady porch, it was cool and breezy. The coconut palms and the acacia tree branches swayed gently, soothing swishing sounds. The chirping birds added to the myriad sounds from the lush gardens surrounding the house. There were fruit trees, and flower shrubs and bushes, with the substantial vegetable patches at the back.

Achuthan had just had his lunch. His favourite ladies fingers and eggplant sambar, with olan. The papadam and potato chips were standard, as were the vadumanga pickles, which made the thairu chaatham heavenly. Achuthan was so fortunate to have Unni Nair as his cook cum general helper. Achuthan treated Unni more like a brother than as a paid servant.

Now Unni appeared, bearing a tray of nuts – peanuts, cashews, hazelnuts, almonds, and another tray of cut fruits – papaya, pineapple, banana.

Achuthan closed his eyes momentarily. Life couldn’t get better.

Later, he went in for a short afternoon nap. In the evening a relaxed oil bath, soaking in gingelly oil for a couple of hours before bathing in warm well water. In the evening, a short drive in his MPV to the Bhagavathy temple with Unni, followed by a simple meal at Krishna Bhavan nearby, before returning home for a few hours in front of the TV and then, off to bed.

Just before he slipped into a deep sleep, he recalled for a moment his Birthday treat. He shuddered. It had been the most unforgettable experience in his life.

Existence ***

Ramanathan furrowed his brows. His head spun. His head spun whenever he thought too hard. And here he was, thinking hard about… He didn’t even remember what it was he was thinking about.

Ramanathan sipped the glass of warm water. It was already cold. As he sipped it, he shuddered. The room was cold too. In fact the room was freezing. Ramanathan began to shiver uncontrollably. The glass shook violently, spilling some of the water on the carpet. Ramanathan closed his eyes. It will be over soon. He knew it. It had happened before. It always got over in a while. He gritted his teeth. And then his teeth began to chatter violently. And soon his whole body was shaking. Ramanathan saw the room in a swirl of colour. He was lying on the floor now. The cold tiles sending piercing pangs of pain through his body. He tasted blood in his mouth. He realised that he must have bitten his tongue. Soon the spasms subsided. Ramanathan lay exhausted. His breathing was heavy. His chest heaved. But his eyes were half closed. The rest of his body lay stock still. Ramanathan felt a wave of nausea. Suddenly he began retching. Dry painful retching that brought the bile to the back of his mouth. The taste was bitter. And the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. Another wave of nausea. Ramanathan turned over on to his back. Above him, the ceiling fan swirled at a thunderous speed. Ramanathan pictured it coming loose from its moorings and crashing down on him. He closed his eyes. A serene calmness enveloped him. Gradually his breathing returned to normal. He was sweating profusely now. It was unbearably hot. And the fan was sending forth fumes of hot air. And the floor felt unbearably hot. Ramanathan was drenched. And then he drifted into a fitful sleep.

Ramanathan awoke with a start. An incessant sound rang from somewhere. For a moment he looked around, dazed. Where was he? He could remember nothing.

He tried to get up. But his body was not responding. He saw the room as a hazy grey void. He realised his eyes were closed. But he could see the shadowy shapes around the room. And then he saw himself. Lying in a shapeless heap on the floor. And then everything was crystal clear. It was the library of his home. And the incessant sound was the doorbell. In a moment he could see outside his front door. Mr. Michael, his kindly old neighbour stood stooped on the porch, ringing the doorbell. Ramanathan felt a curious disinterest. His consciousness felt so light and expansive. The next moment, he felt he was everywhere. He knew everything, past, present and future. He was one with existence.