Tales of South India

ABCD: Part 2

Continued from here.

And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, meet me, your narrator. My name is Nagamani Subramanian. I am 62 years old, a widow, and I live alone in a 3 bedroom flat in Alwarpet, Madras. My husband passed away, completely unexpectedly, two years ago, after a massive heart attack. For the first time in many years, almost my entire family gathered together in my home: my two sons and my daughter, my daughters-in-law, my son-in-law, my two brothers. Only the grandchildren, scattered in countries around the world, busy with college and work, could not make it.

The Adventures, Biography, Chronicles and Diary of an ABCD

Ladies and gentlemen, meet Maggie..errr...Maheshwari. Maggie is spending three months in Madras as part of a self-concocted self-discovery program, an explore-my-roots-and-heritage effort that many of her college friends are currently involved in.

The Cook

Shankari Mani had been married for 31 years. Most of those years had been lived in an independent house on a tree-lined street that overlooked a park in Sivaganga Colony. At the time of her marriage,  she was a qualified chartered accountant, an accomplished Bharatanatyam dancer, a decent club-level tennis player, a barely tolerable singer and a terrible cook.

Vignettes from Sivaganga Colony

Early every morning, just when Sivaganga Colony is stirring awake, the peace and quiet are shattered by a raucous cry that reverberates through its streets. It sounds like the anguished wail of some unidentifiable animal, but it galvanizes the housewives into action.

The Music Teacher

This is an old story of mine, one of my earliest, dusted off and polished up for your re-reading pleasure. Thanks, Lekhni, for spurring me to do this!

 

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?”

The Reluctant Maami

I'll come out and confess this: I am an abject failure. A bitter let-down to a proud tradition and lineage, one who failed after barely trying, who lacked even a pallid and watery version of a single attribute required for success.

A Day in the Life of Ejamanar

 This is dedicated, with tongue firmly in cheek, to my very own Ejamanar (note: Ejamanar, in colloquial Tamil, means Lord of the Household or something to that effect)

 The Cast of Characters

Ejamanar:  The Lord and Master of the Ejamanar household in New York, cut from the traditional lord and master mold. He takes his head of the household duties and responsibilities very seriously. Unfortunately, the rest of his family does not. Undeterred by this 21^st century attitude to his 19^th century ideals, Ejamanar never falters in his determination to keep his family, particularly his two children, firmly under his thumb and watchful eye. The children, however, under the strong influence of the Ejamanar genes (Ejamanar was notoriously rebellious and independent-thinking as an adolescent) pay scant heed to his remonstrations about the abundance of evil lurking in innocent corners. Ejamanar is an ardent exercise freak, profoundly scornful of “leftists” and a nightmarish driver who believes that any other vehicle on the street is superfluous and needs to come within an inch of being eliminated.

Mrs. Ejamanar: An independent thinker herself, at her most sullen and untalkative early in the morning, at the very time that her husband is at his most chipper and communicative. The current manifestation of her independent thinking is the fusion food she subjects her family to. Fearful of her unpredictable temper, they swallow her culinary concoctions in silence.

Thilakavathi:  The Ejamanars’ oldest child. She has her father firmly wrapped around her little finger. She is 18 years old, a rabid rap music fan, and enjoys wandering around the city at all odd hours. (A clarification: Ejamanar considers any hour an odd hour; Thilakavathi feels all hours are created equal, and are fair game for her peregrinations.) Father and daughter have argued endlessly about this; neither has budged an inch from their respective positions.  Of late, Ejamanar has taken to cunningly concealing his message and moral in long-winded anecdotes, which miss their target by a wide margin.

Chokkalingam: The Ejamanar Son and Heir. Fifteen years old, the abiding passion of his life is basketball, not academics, to his father’s never ending chagrin and anguish. Ejamanar’s repeated and enthusiastic efforts to switch his son’s passion to the wonders of the capitalist economic system have fallen on deaf ears.

Minor Characters:  

Ravanan, Head Clerk of The Ejamanar Corporation.

Cheran, Chozhan and Pandian: Ejamanar’s best friends and fellow scorners of leftists.

Ponnammal Goes to London: The Final Installment

Continued from here

I stared at Suji, shocked. I was too stunned to retort that Ponnammal was not going to a higher calling in London, she was not getting an education, she would merely be doing the same menial work, but in a strange place where she knew nobody, where there would be no one to help her deal with the new place, language, climate, customs, people….. But all I could do was stare back at Suji and then walk back silently to my flat. Once inside, I sat down, my head in my hands.  Yes, there was a lot of truth in what Suji had said. Who was I to judge what was good or not good for Ponnammal? She could certainly do with a break from her husband. Who was I to grudge her this opportunity? She was resilient, had coped with so many horrors in her life with dignity and pride, perhaps she would do the same this time as well. She was resourceful, so maybe she would learn to navigate her way through London.  Maybe she really craved some privacy, battered as she was now by the ceaseless demands from all around her. Maybe it would all turn out just fine.  But I would talk to Ponnammal about it and make sure that Suji had not twisted her arm into agreeing to go, and that she was at least aware of some of the issues she would face in London.

Ponnammal Goes to London: Part 4

Continued from here

In the meantime, Suji rattled on.  Her son would offer her a Rs. 1,000 raise in salary, which would be deposited directly into a bank account he would open for her. People like Ponnammal could never dream of such an opportunity, just think of how much her life would improve with the extra income.  She could fix the leaks in her roof, she could buy back all that jewelry that she had sold to the pawnshop, she could afford to eat better food….the words raced out of Suji’s mouth and it was as if she did not want any of her thoughts or doubts to overtake them.  Finally she stopped, and looked at me with a faintly challenging air. Would I be small-minded enough to deny Ponnammal this once-in-a-lifetime chance?

Ponnammal Goes to London: Part 3

Continued from here

After more than two years of working for me in prickly hostility, Ponnammal permitted herself to relax, oh-so-imperceptibly.  But the real turnaround came when my daughter, Chitra, was born.  From the moment she set eyes on her, Ponnammal was completely bowled over. The complete change in her demeanor astonished me and it took me a while to reconcile the new Ponnammal with the old. But there was no going back – the new Ponnammal was here to stay. Ponnammal would rush through her cleaning work (and I did not have the heart to scold her about the unswept corners and the growing accumulation of dust on everything) and cooking (here, though, there was a marvelous transformation – an amazing variety of exotic dishes now started appearing out of the kitchen) and then settle down to what she considered the most important part of her day – playing with Chitra.  It was such a joy to watch the two of them together – Ponnammal, with not a trace of her former stiff, prickly self, rolling on the floor and abandoning all dignity in her efforts to make Chitra laugh, and Chitra, a look of pure adoration and joy in her eyes, chortling in her high baby voice, begging for more, not allowing Ponnammal a second’s respite.  I could only shake my head and smile.  

Ponnammal Goes to London: Part 2

Continued from here

I enjoyed spending the occasional afternoon with Suji when all the chores were completed, and some sweet tea and a gossip session seemed in order.  Suji’s fund of information about the building’s residents seemed to be inexhaustible. She had a real knack for extracting life details from people.  She was a caring and careful listener, inserting a pertinent question or two to keep the narrative going, her expression of perfectly blended concern and interest in only what was being told to her, of nothing else mattering, spurring her audience to confessions they would not have made to others. 

Ponnammal Goes to London: Part 1

I am a simple person.  My needs are few, my demands uncomplicated, my pleasures humble and plain. I am happy to eat bland thayir saadam day after day if I need to, I remain unruffled by the frequent power cuts that plague our neighborhood, and I frankly don’t care if it is the DMK or Congress which is in power, it’s all the same to me. There is, however, one thing, or rather, one person, that I absolutely cannot do without.  That is my maidservant, Ponnammal. 

Mallika Grows Up: The Final Installment

The monsoons arrived that Saturday morning.  The wind and rain went crazy, lashing into everything with a fury the city had not seen in a long time. There was no electricity. In the middle of a prolonged hammering of thunder, Mallika called, anxious that her parents should not think that the lunch was off.  She had cooked her father’s favorite potato curry and her mother’s favorite rasam. She warned them that her street was flooded and that they should park on the main road which was just a five minute walk away.  Oh, and they were not to wear any fancy clothes or footwear as they were likely to get soaked. 

Mallika Grows Up: Part 3

The house they had found was in one of the poorer neighborhoods in town.  They had the entire ground floor, which consisted of a living room, dining area, kitchen, bathroom and one bedroom.  There were four boys and two girls (Subadra’s stomach lurched when she heard this; this fact would definitely have to be concealed from Mrs. Iyer who would make it known to this neighborhood and beyond that Subadra’s daughter was – and her voice would drop here, Subadra could just imagine it – living with strange men, and foreign ones at that, everyone knew what kind of morals they had) and the only saving grace was that they were all from Mallika’s university.  There were three dancers, a poet, a violinist and a singer (this last being Mallika, the physicist-turned-singer).  Only Mallika and one of the boys was Indian, the others were American, French and Australian.    

Mallika Grows Up: Part 2

“Amma?”  Mallika’s voice had slightly hysterical edge to it, or at least it seemed that way to Subadra’s overwrought imagination.  Possibilities, all dire, raced through her mind.  She had been mugged, dumped by some boy, failed her exams, or….. (Her mind barely touched this one, and retreated hastily from it, unable to bear the thought)….raped.  Why did she let her go to America?  Why had she allowed herself to become so enamored of Ivy League prestige that she could sacrifice her daughter to its powerful pull?  Guilt seared through her as a small voice in her admitted that she had actually enjoyed her freedom from the day-to-day chores of motherhood. 

Mallika Grows Up: Part 1

So many people moan and complain about today's youth: they are selfish and irresponsible, they have no values or ideals, they are lazy, they are materialistic, they have unspeakably horrible taste in music and clothes....To them, I say, bah! I have met so many youngsters, and have enjoyed talking to them and hearing their views. They are bright, motivated, opinionated, confused, angry, idealistic, rebellious, disillusioned, great believers in dreams and following them - in short, everything they should be at their age, at any age, in order to be fully and truly alive. I always come away with a great sense of hope and conviction that our future could not be in better minds and hands. This story is dedicated to them, and to anyone who is young at heart!

When the phone rang in the afternoon, Subadra was fast asleep, having spiraled deep into a sweaty, zombie-like dream world induced by the intense April heat. Groaning, she got up, wincing at the catch in her back as she staggered hurriedly to answer the shrill call. At forty-two she was quite striking looking, although she was hardly pretty in the traditional Indian sense. She was too dark-skinned, for one, and her arms, neck and ears were bare of any jewelry, unusual for an Indian woman. Those who looked beyond these trivialities marveled at the luminosity of her skin, her smile, which was warm and unrestrained, her glossy hair, and most of all, at her eyes. They were huge and lined with kohl, her only concession to make-up. Shy eyes, but if you looked closely, there was real kindness in them, and intelligence and humor, too. Now, however, rudely roused from her afternoon slumber, she looked a mess. Her sari and blouse clung to her back and legs in sweaty, crumpled patches and she had black, raccoon-like rings under her eyes where her kohl had smudged. She got to the phone on the fifth ring, ready to snap at whoever was stupid enough to call at this hour.

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

Continued from here:

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

Continued from here:

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.

Aunt Lakshmi: The Final Installment

Continued from here:

            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

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.

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:

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.

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.

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.