Tales of South India

The Journey of Bharata Natyam

Source: Wikimedia Commons

Many, many years ago, in a world filled with bitterness, greed, jealousy and ugliness, the people of the earth yearned for something beautiful and enchanting, a thing of grace and wonder that would cut through the gloom and chaos and light up their world. In despair, they approached Brahma the Supreme Creator and begged him to create something which all the people could enjoy with all their senses, and which would take their minds off the wretchedness and misery of their lives.

A Grandmother's Tale: The Final Installment

Continued from here:

The next few days were pure hell. The wife was kept under heavy sedation so that she did not spin completely out of control after being bombarded with so much of bad news. The baby died, after a mere five days of life. The husband spent all his free time in the hospital, gazing at his slumbering wife, dreading the day she would have to deal with the horrors of reality without the numbing haze of sedation.

A Grandmother's Tale: Part 3

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The two pregnancies progressed well.  The wife, as the wife of a senior official at a British company, had access to the best medical care. She became the patient of the city’s top obstetrician-gynecologist, the one all the foreign ladies went to see. His office, sparkling white and cheerful, super-efficiently air-conditioned, never crowded, was equipped with the latest gadgets and technology. Some people (usually his Indian patients) grumbled behind his back (to his face they were all simpering adoration) that he was arrogant and conceited, that he became impatient and irritable if too many questions were asked, but, they hastened to reassure whoever it was they were complaining to (and perhaps themselves as well) that he was the best-qualified doctor in all of India, probably the world even.

A Grandmother's Tale: Part 2

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Bewilderment and surprise washed over me again. Faintly in the background, I could hear the clatter of dishes as my parents and the maid cleaned up the mess from the party. I knew I should have offered to help, but I wanted to be alone and did not bother. Instead here I was, feeling choked and claustrophobic with the stench of urine and my grandmother’s stale breath enveloping me. I took a gulp of air through my mouth.

A Grandmother's Tale: Part 1

Here's another "short" story that I'm forced to break up into parts so that you don't all run away screaming. And this one is specially for Flowergirl, Shyam and Srivalli , who asked so nicely!

I remember vividly, my fifteenth birthday. All these years later, the events of that day still stand before me in sharp focus. The passage of time has dulled nothing. 

I had a birthday party – the last time I had one. It was my farewell to childhood and a carefree, uncomplicated way of looking at life. And the beginning of acute self-consciousness and self-awareness, of a mindfulness of my (probably imagined) flaws, my mother’s moodiness and frequent silences, my father’s eagerness to please, the creaking strains in the relationships between the members of my family.

The Bharatanatyam Performance

Subramani was eight years old when he attended his first Bharatanatyam performance. His parents had to take care of a lengthy property dispute in the neighboring district, and because they did not want Subramani to miss school, they left him with his grandparents, who lived in the same town. 

Subramani was ambivalent about staying with his grandparents. His grandfather seemed to take an inordinate amount of interest in his studies, far more than was necessary, Subramani felt. And his grandmother took an inordinate amount of interest in his eating and religious habits, also far in excess of the norm, as far as Subramani was concerned. So, where he might have been able to take advantage of his father’s busy schedule or obsessive interest in the newspaper, and keep him in the dark about his uncompleted homework and failed tests, this was not possible with his grandfather.

Bangkok Blast: Day Two

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Today was our big sightseeing day, as it was my last full day in Bangkok. We woke up at 6.30am, and met as planned at 7.30am in our hotel’s restaurant for the free American Set breakfast. Expecting no more than coffee and rolls, we were pleasantly surprised to find that orange juice, eggs and bacon/ham/sausages/mushrooms were included as well. The menu card stated in a big, bold, strict, finger-wagging font that no more than one cup of coffee or tea was allowed per person, but that was fine by us.

Bangkok Blast

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Packed like sardines into an ancient Bangkok Airways aircraft, we bid farewell to Siem Reap and headed north to Bangkok, our final leg on this trip.

An hour later, we landed in Bangkok's gleaming, if somewhat sterile, Suvarnabhumi Airport. The airport was festooned with banners that proclaimed, “Long Live the King”, with photos of a grim and bespectacled, but youthful-looking King Bhumipol Adulyadej, or King Rama IX. As is so often the case, appearances were misleading: King Bhumipol is a ripe 80 years of age, but perhaps neither he, nor his adoring subjects, want to acknowledge this.

A Trip to Angkor Cambodia: The Last of the Temples

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We staggered out of the air-conditioned cocoon of our restaurant, squinting into the sun-bleached air. The temperature was rising, steadily. The bustling crowds we had seen a short while back had thinned, sensibly keeping indoors for the hottest part of the day. We, however, still had a few temples to visit. This was our last day here, and so, heroically braving the heat, we left to see some of the oldest temples of this civilization, collectively called the Roluos Temples.

Lolei detail

Knock, Knock!

Knock Knock
Who’s there?
I Tag!
I Tag who?
I Tag you!

Don’t say you hadn’t been warned: I did say “bad, sad and plainly mad”, and I do have to uphold my motto, poor grammar notwithstanding.

A Trip to Angkor Cambodia: Day 3 - Angkor Wat!

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Buddha shrine, Angkor Wat
 

This was our last full day in Siem Reap, and we saved it for the Big One: Angkor Wat. We allowed ourselves the luxury of sleeping in a little longer (the tyrant was reset to awaken us at 6am), since Sarng advised us that arriving there too early was not a good idea, as the place would be thronged with people all trying to catch a glimpse of the temple at sunrise. Angkor Wat actually faces west, unlike the other temples, and is supposed to be at its most spectacular at sunset, but the sunrise views are also said to be lovely.

A Trip to Angkor Cambodia: Day Two

 

Banteay Srei Temple

Continued from here

The plan was to see some of the farther-out temples today, and to reserve the Big One, Angkor Wat, for tomorrow. So, early in the morning, after equipping ourselves with a generous supply of 10 baguettes (yesterday's 2 baguettes were pitifully inadequate), we departed for Banteay Srei, a temple about 20 km north of Siem Reap. It was a lovely drive through very scenic, although poor, Cambodian countryside. On either side of the road were cashew, mango and banana trees, many of them laden with early-season fruit. Most of the village homes were made of wood, and were atop stilts, with bicycles, farm equipment, and cattle kept in the area underneath. In spite of the very evident poverty (there were no power lines in sight, and apparently many of these villages lack electricity) everything was very clean.

A Trip to Angkor Cambodia: Day One

Continued from here:

(A note to my readers: I apologize for the messed-up formatting of this post.  After spending an entire morning cursing and trying to fix it (more the former than the latter, I must confess), I gave up in despair. Rahu Kalam, perhaps?)

 

Golden Temple Villa: our hotel in Siem Reap, Cambodia

Prelude

I got off the plane at Siem Reap, into the blazing heat of a tropical afternoon. What a change from the sleet, wind and miserable cold in New York! I had a joyous reunion with the rest of my group, which had arrived earlier in the day from Madras. Along with them was our guide for the trip, Sarng, a gentle, always-smiling young man whom you took to instantly.

We decided to stop on the way to our hotel to buy our passes for the various temples. En route, we passed Angkor Wat! I could not believe my eyes. What a miracle modern travel is! Just a few hours on a plane, and you emerge into another world altogether, so different from the one that was left behind. I could not believe that we were looking at the Real Thing! As in the case of  the Taj Mahal and so many of the world’s wonders, no picture can actually do it full justice, but not everybody is lucky enough to be able to see it, so here is one, taken from our vantage point across the moat.

Angkor Wat from across the moat: first glimpse!

A Trip to Angkor Cambodia

 

Deep in the Cambodian jungles lie some of the world’s most astonishingly beautiful temple ruins. Built between the 9^th and 15^th centuries, during the years of the Khmer Empire, they are mind-boggling in their sheer exquisiteness, complexity, intricacy, variety, symmetry and numbers.

Aunt Lakshmi: The Final Installment

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            Sumi looked helplessly at Sundar.  They both got up, unsure of what to do next.  Kanakambal, realizing that she was wasting her energy, had shut up.  She strode up to Sumi and Sundar. Hands on her hips, she launched into another tirade. “Now, will you tell me what is the meaning of all this? How dare you bring this devil to Bombay, to poison the air of this city? What is everyone going to say? Everything is ruined now, and all because of you (vicious glance at Sumi) and her. I knew that Lakshmi was possessed by the devil, that’s why her husband threw her out.  I kept quiet, to preserve my family’s good name. Oh, God, what sin did I commit that something like this should happen to me? Now with her in this city, I cannot go ahead with Malini’s wedding…” She was getting hysterical now. 

Aunt Lakshmi: Part 5

          
Continued from here:

 
             Next, Sumi called Kanakambal to tell her that she would not be able to attend the Nischithartham function, and why.  Kanakambal, her hands full with all the hassles of getting a daughter married, listened with growing irritation.  The moment Aunt Lakshmi’s name was mentioned, she exploded. Her loathing for Aunt Lakshmi exceeded that of her daughter, Sundar’s wife. 

Aunt Lakshmi: Part 4

Continued from here :

            For Sumi, there was a grace period of a couple of hours. She had written to Kanakambal that she would be staying with a friend who would pick them up from the station.  This was a lie.  Sumi had no friends in Bombay and no relatives other than Aunt Lakshmi’s son and daughter-in-law, and she had no intention of staying with them.  Kannan had made arrangements for them to stay in his company’s guest-house.  Sumi and Aunt Lakshmi would take a taxi there. 

Aunt Lakshmi: Part 3

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The day of the departure for the wedding arrived. The weeks leading up to this day had been strained and quite peculiar, to say the least.  Sumi loved weddings. Memories crowded her mind about all the weddings she had attended during her growing up years.

Aunt Lakshmi: Part 2

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Summer had arrived. By seven in the morning the sun, cruel and harsh-yellow, was already beating down hard. Cool, dewy early mornings had become hot, dusty early mornings. The parched, cracked road sent up waves of heat, which wrapped itself around everything, along with a gritty coating of its constant companion, dust. Water became scarce, and on many days, all that came out of the taps were a hollow, gurgling sound and a few drops of murky brown liquid.  Dhanam was in a foul temper all the time, and banged around the apartment muttering under her breath. Palani dragged himself around the scorched streets, his cart bearing wilted greens and shriveled tomatoes, his voice hoarse and tired from calling out his wares.  Even Aunt Lakshmi took to spending her day lying down spread-eagled on her bed, fanning herself with the day’s petroleum-scented newspaper.  Only gentle Sumi remained soft and calm as ever.  She made cool lemon drinks for Dhanam and Palani, even slipping in an ice-cube if Aunt Lakshmi was not looking.  In the afternoon, while Aunt Lakshmi talked sleepily about her grandfather's pet buffalo and her sister's daughter-in-law who tried to fool everyone by using an instant-idli mix and passing it off for the real thing, she pressed a cool, damp towel to her forehead and massaged her feet.

Aunt Lakshmi: Part 1

Another longish short story, serialized. I should come clean and warn you: this story is not longish, it is l-o-n-g, added to which it has elements of the mad, sad and bad.

During the course of her life, Sumi had come across many aunts - Punjabi aunts, Gujarati aunts, Tamilian aunts and even a mixed-marriage aunt.  All of them, mixed-marriage aunt included, had certain characteristics in common.  They were short and overweight, they talked at the top of their voices, they had endless appetites while claiming that they hardly ate, and they had a keen ear for gossip. When Aunt Lakshmi came to stay, Sumi soon realized that she was Aunthood taken to its highest degree.  She had a prodigious appetite, a shrill penetrating voice, and knew all the news from every possible side of the family.

'Tis the Season for the Season

The city of Madras is magical in the months of December and January.  The blazing heat of the summer is but a dim memory, and the monsoon-lashed skies have calmed into a brilliant blue. The days are perfect, mild and sunny, and the city goes about its business with a cheery spirit that is infectious.

And the Mystery Place is.....

First, a tantalizing glimpse:

And now, the answer.....

Far, Far Away from South India....A Travel Series

I love travel - reading about it, dreaming about it, and best of all, actually doing it. In the past couple of years, I have been supremely fortunate in having had the opportunity to travel to a range of places, rich in history, monuments and natural beauty. I think they are some of the world's most amazing locales.

Let me share with you some of the sights I saw on a trip I made recently to a place - I won't tell you where, right away, but will tease you with a few photographs, and let you do the guessing. If you are not in the mood for that, be patient, wait for a few days, and you will find out!

Chaami

With this story, I plead guilty to breaking the most basic, key rule of blogging: keep it short. I beg your indulgence, and hope you enjoy it anyway.

To all of you who celebrate it, happy Thanksgiving. To those of you who don't, take heart, the weekend is just around the corner. Onto the story...

Ever since I was a small boy, I have been bombarded by this refrain from my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, neighbors and random visitors to my home: If you don’t watch it, you will end up like your Great-Uncle Chaami.

On a Hot Day in August

A promise: this will be a brief (and hopefully painless) lesson in history. For those of you whose hearts start racing (for all the wrong reasons) and whose mouths go dry and who convulse in horror at the mere mention of history - don't worry, I understand. Memories of unendurably boring history classes are seared into my brain, to remain unerased by time or age. In school, our history "lesson" consisted of the teacher reading out, verbatim, as many pages from the history text book as she could fit into the lesson. For an entire hour, we were subjected to her low drone, completely devoid of any tonal variation. Those of us (which, on most days, was most of our small class of 12) who attempted to relieve the dreary tedium of the "lesson" by talking to our neighbors or falling asleep were made to stand on our desks for the remainder of the period. Perhaps you have similar memories of history class. So, if you fear that a short, heavily diluted (and very likely inaccurate) history lesson might do irreparable harm to your psyche, go ahead and scroll down to the pictures. I won't feel hurt.

(For a wonderful personal memoir and history of Madras, go here )

On a hot day in August (possibly July) 1639, Francis Day, an ambitious and industrious (and, some gossipy tongues maintain, a womanizing, alcoholic, gambling-addicted) employee of the English East India Company, set off on a voyage down the Coromandel Coast of India in search of a suitable piece of land for a factory. He went with the blessings and high hopes of his boss, Andrew Cogan, who was the Chief of the Machilipatnam factory.

The Good Boy

  
Padmanabhan had always been, as his mother proudly told her large circle of family, friends and acquaintances, a good boy. A perfect child. Obedient, studious, polite and a great help around the house. And a big bore, muttered the jealous and fed-up relatives and friends. Visiting Padmanabhan’s parents’ home was always a mixed bag. On the one hand, Rajammal, his mother, was a superb cook, and visitors were assured of at least one new piece of gossip. On the other hand, there was Padmanabhan, fondly referred to as Paddu.

Poor Paddu. It was not his fault, really. He would be reading quietly in his corner, or working on his sums, or pacing up and down the garden, reciting entire chapters of history which he had committed to memory. Minding his own business. But as soon as the meal was finished, and the visitors started preparing for a quick getaway, Rajammal would strike. “Paddu,” she would screech, “Paddu, my golden child, God’s favorite, come here for a minute and say hello to Maama and Maami!” The visiting Maama and Maami would groan silently and steel themselves for a long drawn-out extension to their stay.

Reminiscences on a Sleepless Night

This is a simple, short short story for those of you still reeling from the Mr. Narayana Murthy saga.
While the story that follows is purely fictional, the kind of events depicted were probably quite common in 18th century and early 19th century India (I cannot speak with any authority on how things were carried out before that). I have vague memories of my great-grandmother talking about how her marriage was arranged in a manner very similar to that described in this story: she came home from school one evening to find that her future had more or less been decided. All that remained was for her to be "seen". Without further ado, onto the story:

A Tale of South India

Please don't groan. This is not a bad, sad or plainly mad tale. It is relatively short. Relatively.  Because, once I start writing, I find it hard to stop. But today, I thought I'd spare you (by and large) the verbiage. And give you something to smile about.  I guarantee it. Promise.

A Matter of Taste

"Ah, good taste! What a dreadful thing! Taste is the enemy of creativeness": Pablo Picasso

The town of Suchindram is in the far south of Tamil Nadu, a mere blink of an eye from Kanyakumari, the Land’s End of India. It is a morning’s (or afternoon’s) drive from Kerala’s capital, Trivandrum, past the chaotic jumble of its outskirts, through dusty, potholed roads and bustling villages and sudden glimpses of a landscape of breathtaking beauty. All around Suchindram is the South India of one’s dreams: dense banana groves, swaying coconut trees, paddy fields ploughed by sloe-eyed oxen, the fertile land a glossy, emerald green as far as the eye can see.

To Fuse, or Not to Fuse?

When it comes to the fusion-is-good versus fusion-is-evil debate (be it of music, dance, food, you name it), I am one of those with one foot firmly on either side of the issue. A bit of an awkward position, considering the size of the barrier between the two camps, but I have managed to keep my balance. No, I am not a wishy-washy, undecided, please-and-agree-with-everybody person, some freakish mishmash of clashing impulses, or a bizarre mutant born of a marriage of incompatibles. It’s just that I have heard (and seen/eaten) the best and worst of fusion. And so, I support both sides. It’s that simple.

An Afternoon in Long Island

I am such a devoted fan of Balamurali, that I will go almost anywhere to hear him sing. Sadly, this includes such towns as dot the over-manicured and annoyingly perfect  landscape (which many find pretty) on either side of those abominations that scar Long Island from end to end, the Long Island Expressway, and the Northern State Parkway. Let me curb myself firmly before this becomes a full-fledged rant against Long Island or its ugly step-sister,New Jersey. They don’t deserve a place in this blog.

Mr. Narayana Murthy Hopes: The Final Installment!

The story so far

Mr. Narayana Murthy has a chance to redeem himself

 

Mr. Narayana Murthy tried to put the horrors of the morning meeting behind him and looked ahead to the duties of the day. He was determined that the French Consul’s wife’s lunch would surpass all previous lunches and set a new standard. And he, not the Manager, not the Head Waiter, would get all the credit. To this end, he began to order his staff about and made a great nuisance of himself while ensuring that the tables were set just so, and that the freshest and loveliest roses adorned the table where the French Consul’s wife and her group would sit.

Mr. Narayana Murthy Hopes: Part 4

The story so far

Mr. Narayana Murthy’s daring and unusual dinner of the night before

 

All his life, Mr. Narayana Murthy had never strayed from his pure South Indian Brahmin vegetarian diet. Not once. He refused to even try North Indian vegetarian food; he loathed North Indians, those loud-mouthed Hindi-speaking barbarians who were always reeking of onions and garlic. It was not that he was unaware of other cuisines; as Head Butler of the Main Garden View Dining Room with 25 years of loyal service at the Oxford and Lawn Club, Mr. Narayana Murthy was in fact extremely knowledgeable about the French, Italian, Chinese, Thai and other cuisines that were served there. However, he had never once tasted any of those exotic dishes (even the vegetarian ones); if anything, he was repelled by their buttery ostentation, the overly fussy garnishes and complete absence of chili powder. He had never once been tempted.

Mr. Narayana Murthy Hopes: Part 3

 The story so far 

Mr. Narayana Murthy gets ready for his Morning Meeting

 

Mr. Narayana Murthy got off the bus, and took a deep breath of diesel-choked air to brace himself for the day ahead. He checked his watch to make sure that he would not be late (his new Manager was ridiculously prickly about tardiness) and then walked slowly towards the Employees’ and Servants’ Entrance of the Oxford and Lawn Club. He punched in his time card in the Employees’ Office and entered the Employees’ Locker Room with an air of great disdain.

Mr. Narayana Murthy Hopes: Part 2

The story so far 
 

The Oxford and Lawn Club 

 
Ahh… the Oxford and Lawn Club! It was the city’s most prestigious, most eminent, most sought-after, most talked-about Club. It was referred to as The Club by everyone in this city: awestruck outsiders who had no hope of ever being admitted through its hallowed portals, or even getting a glimpse of its impeccably groomed grounds and proud British architect-designed colonial-era buildings (where Robert Clive himself was rumored to have danced, and where his ghost was said to wander about, disconsolate and gaunt, at midnight every full moon); and also its coolly casual and nonchalant Members who liked to mention The Club and their membership in it whenever possible, but oh-so-subtly, and in an offhand and indifferent manner that befitted their rarefied status.

Mr. Narayana Murthy Hopes: A Longish Short Story in Installments: Part 1

Mr. Narayana Murthy’s day begins badly

 

Mr. Narayana Murthy’s day began badly, as usual. In spite of his meticulous adjustment of the window blinds every evening, somehow, every morning he woke up with a dagger of piercing sunlight shining directly into his eyes. His head ached and his stomach rumbled uncomfortably. And, the very instant that he opened his eyes, his wife’s shrill shriek cut through the hot, heavy morning air, causing him to close his eyes and clutch his head with a moan of agony.

A Tale of Two Libraries

A lighthearted story for the holiday season, which would effortlessly qualify for the "plainly mad" category. While places (and possibly people) like those written about in this story must exist in real life, here they are purely products of my imagination, and bear no resemblance to what I have seen and heard.

The city of Channallur in South India was what the travel books called a "bustling metropolis". It had several million residents, a couple of factories set up by assorted multinational companies, a dozen colleges, apartment buildings of every hue and shape - and two Foreign Libraries. These, the Imperial (British) Library and the American Library, were held in high regard by Channallur’s citizens.

The Music Teacher

 

                                                                         
He stood at the front gate, a short, tubby man, young but balding, his forehead liberally smeared with holy ash, a large red dot in the middle. He hesitated a little before sliding the bolt back and opening the gate. The barking of the resident dog sent him scampering outside, bolting the gate safely behind him.

 

“Who is it? What do you want?”

 

A voice floated out from indoors. The house was the most unusual one he had seen, with nothing where he was accustomed it to being. Kitchen smells wafted to him from upstairs; every house he knew had the kitchen downstairs, at the back. He could hear voices, and the dog barking again, but had no idea where these sounds came from. He peered about, trying to locate their source.

 

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

 

The voice rang out again, a note of irritation in it this time. Feeling slightly foolish at appearing to speak to nothing, he raised his voice and said, “Namaskaram, I’m Natesa Iyer, music teacher. I was told that there is a child here who wants to learn music.”