Tales of South India

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

Continued from here:

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

Continued from here:

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!

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 cram 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 textile 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's, 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.