T-10 hours (BH:D27)

August 31, 2011

I am writing this a little after 7am. I don't think I will be able to get back to the laptop before 11pm next today. My duties for the day start off with receiving Chalam's mother at the Railway Station. I look forward to seeing Chalam's mother again. She is right up there with Amma when it comes to not mincing words. When she came to the US for the first time, the immigration officer asked her if she had anything to declare. "I don't want to come here. but my son brought me here," she declared. There was no more customs checking. 

She never wasted an opportunity to tell all of us in US that, "America mohathile ungale mathiri ilainjarkal irikarathinale thaan India urupada maattame irikaruth" (India is not improving because youngsters like you are attached to American life). I had mentioned this statement a few days back when Leny chechi (neighbor across the street) remarked that I speak Tamil very well. I have mostly Tamilians friends in US, I reasoned. "Is it only friends or is there someone special?" Rema aunty asked out of the blue. I ignored the question and steered the conversation elsewhere. Next day my astrologer uncle told Rema aunty that according to her zodiac sign she is a very intuitive woman who can x-ray vision other people's secrets. I need more evidence to reconsider astrology!

When I woke up Sharath was online. Both of us had the same WTF reaction on seeing the passenger train arrival and departure website maintained by the Indian railways. Did our eyes deceive us? Did we actually see that more than a few trains arrived EARLY!!! Some as early as by 10-15 minutes. I don't know if this is the combined effect of the previous railway ministers Mamta di and Lallu ji but before I left India trains would arrive like most Indians, smugly late (which I think is a psychological overcompensation for coming too early elsewhere!) Some high class trains are VIPs here, conspicuously late. There used to be an amazing Guwahati-Trivandrum 'express' which was regularly one or two days late. Not that trains are not late today, but these early arrivals are a startling development. Sharath says it is the 'bleedy dedicated south Indian aged station masters and controllers' who are pushing these trains on time. I will spend some time with the railway website to see how the situation is in northern India.

Talking about punctuality, Mathrubhumi carried a stark half page photograph this morning on their metro supplement front page. It was the government sponsored public display to honor the dead body of 'Charchavedi Babu' (discussion-forum Babu), a silent force in the Thiruvananthapuram cultural scene. The exhibition hall with his body was deserted. There were only a handful of relatives sitting around the glass display case on which the name of the display case supplying company 'Ranjith' was written in tastelessly huge font with couple of cellphone numbers. 

'Charchavedi Babu' moved to Thiruvananthapuram 40 years ago as the editor of the Malayalam encyclopedia. He started the discussion forum as a weekly cultural gathering. Several prominent poets,writers, politicians and administrators have gained their prominence through 'charchavedi'. Little kids who sang the opening prayers at these meetings went on to become nationally renowned playback singers, K.S.Chitra and M.G. Srikumar. 

Every week Babu would send out hand written invitations. Over 1200 discussion forums, 400 poetry forums, 100 story-telling forums to date. The hallmark of the forum was that Babu would insist on starting the event on time even if the participants and audience are not there. 

40 years ago this was revolutionary. Even today, it remains revolutionary. 

Cultural and social luminaries and politicians would huff and puff to get to Babu's events on time. Babu passed away after teaching the value of time and punctuality to hopefully more than a few. But from the deserted hall with his dead body, such hope seems misplaced. Achan and his sister knew Babu. Aunty said she received the hand written invitations every week. She never went to any meeting of the forum. I don't remember seeing Babu though he was active with the nursery school I went to. Now after his death, I learnt about his work and I admire him.

Here ends the morning session of my writing. 

It is 10:30pm. Six hours and 200-odd guests later, just a handful of people are left at home. 

It rained heavily this morning completely ruining one set of carpet that had been laid on the street below the shamiana. Franctic prayers followed. New set of carpet was pressed into service. I went to the Railway Station to pick up Chalam's mom. We had the same Innova car that was used for the wedding invitation trips. But the driver was the younger brother of the previous driver. His name is Nishanth and he had returned from Muscat, six months ago. Ultra careful about the vehicle, he found the most roundabout routes to avoid traffic. I got to pass in front of Swati Thirunal College of Music which was established in 1939. I don't remember the last time I saw this college. 

First we went to the West Fort of the Padmanabhaswamy temple. An aunty had said that she would wait under the fort's huge stone arch. Last minute she cancelled. We drove out through the heavily congested East Fort. Padmanabhaswamy temple has ancient forts on all sides. The long rectangular wall surrounding the temple now survives only in pieces. The wall was built first and then the temple. The reason is obvious today after we know about the huge vaults and what is in those vaults.

Anantapuri Express carrying Chalam's mom was a traditional one hour late. So I got an hour to watch life pass by at the railway station. It was less crowded today because of the Ramzan holiday. Since it wasn't announced in which platform Anatapuri would pull up, I waited at platform 1. Thiruvananthapuram-New Delhi express was waiting for departure there.

At the information counter a distinctly north Indian looking girl spoke fluent Malayalam. Outside the information counter her distinctly north Indian looking boyfriend loitered. Rest of the Railway staff seemed to be very supportive of their relationship. She did not like me barging in to ask about a stupid little train's arrival time in the midst of her lovely world in that glass cage of "information". 

Just as the train gathered momentum, lots of people ran to climb on it. One poor man ran straight towards a police man who stopped him from catching the train. Appreciable concern for safety from the Kerala police. But I think there should be some thought given to the fact that running after trains and buses and jumping onto them is the only physical exercise most Indians get.

On the railway tracks, rodents that have lost the inhibition to exposure in broad daylight and presence of humans. 

Anantapuri pulled up in platform 5. It comes in mostly empty to Thiruvanathapuram after being crowded for most of its journey through Tamil Nadu. I was looking through sleeper class S7 through S5 when I heard the unmistakably voice of Chalam's mom calling out, "Mallu"!

She checked into the Keys hotel. Keys: we put you at ease says their slogan. Though the name is Keys,the hotel uses all card entry system. One of the weirdest design features I found was that the washroom for the ground floor restaurant was in the first floor and we had to take an elevator to get there. 

After she freshened up, we came home. Already there were around 50 friends and relatives having lunch. Chalam's mom was very pleased to see the photographs of her granddaughter. She slipped on the wet carpet on her way to visit Rema aunty's house. Luckily no injuries. The carpet in that part of the road was immediately removed. 

Socializing can be exhausting in the absence of alcohol. I have a cousin who has the amazing habit of saying how exactly things can go wrong. I will call him Murphy secretly from now on. Couple of my uncles came after a couple of drinks and so were in extremely good mood through out. More socializing followed mixed with periodic baseless fear that food might run out. From that fear comes elaborate backup plans which are dead on arrival.

The photographers showed up by 4pm. They lit up the dining room. Elaborate blessing ritual by senior relatives followed. We got a few family pictures taken. The photograph repeatedly insisted on titled heads and then would tilt the camera. 

My prospective marriage was raised at least 20 different times. Plenty of jokes and laughter. The kids really enjoyed playing hide and seek and having multiple helpings of black forest cake with ice cream.

One of my favorite aunts was sitting with a concerned expression on the verandah step. Her footwear was missing. Someone had taken them by mistake. I suggested that we enlist the services of our astrologer uncle to recover them, at least find out which direction they had gone. "They have gone the direction you are facing," he said. That was the direction of the shoe rack. We found a couple of ladies slippers on the rack which fit my aunt perfectly. She was about to leave happily with them when the astrologer uncle's wife shouted, "Those are mine. I need them for the wedding tomorrow!"

Late at night, went with some cousins and uncles to visit the venue to make sure that cooking for tomorrow's feast was in progress. Majority of the cooking team had already slept after finishing up the prep work. Tonnes of cut vegetables, huge brass vessels with melted jaggery and mashed ripe bananas. 75 kg of rice in a sack sitting by the side. Another 25kg sack with deep inferiority complex hiding behind coconuts on the other side. Two gigantic vessels full of milk. I presume there will be three kinds of 'payasam'. The decoration team has assembled more than a dozen huge brass lamps. 

Off to bed now. Big day tomorrow. Must get ready in my "mundu" (single piece waist cloth) and be at the venue by 8:30. My cousin told me that my responsibility is to put a sandal paste 'kuri' (vertical mark) on the groom's forehead, garland him, give him a bouqet and receive him and his family into the marriage hall. I haven't had a dress rehearsal for this performance. "Mundu" is a tricky dress with no zips or buttons...wardrobe malfunction would be hilarious!

Actually, Sir....(BH:D26)

August 29, 2011

Yesterday around noon, two young ladies in their early twenties, showed up holding Khadi cotton bags and folders. For those who remember the famous 'Chamko' detergent powder bit by Deepti Naval, I would say that these ladies presented a similar image except for the churidaar instead of saree. 

"Sir, we are conducting a survey of the educated families in the neighborhood," one of them said walking in through the open gate. My astrologer uncle promptly pointed to me. I asked them to come and sit down. We have plenty of plastic chairs on the verandah nowadays owing to the marriage.They sat down.

"Actually sir, we are from C.R.Y!"

"Oh!", I said, realizing that this was not going to end well. So there wasn't going to be any survey.

"We are from Chennai."

"Where in Chennai?"

"Actually sir, I am from Andhra Pradesh." The other girl only smiled.

"I see. Where in Andhra Pradesh?"

I expected her to repeat the 'Actually sir' mantra and reveal that she is from Chattisgarh. But no. She was from Cuddapah. The other girl smiled again.

"I am familiar with activities of CRY. The university chapter organizes a fund raiser dance night."

I think the girls misunderstood this to be a suggestive remark. I had no intention to make them dance. No smile. Quickly they pulled out more brochures. 

I had to diffuse the situation, "I don't like CRY for 3 reasons," I said going for the throat of the conversation, "I have never seen any testimonials from any kids whom CRY has helped succeed in the last 25 years." 

"Actually sir, 33 years!". Smile. 

"Ok, 33 years! why aren't these kids themselves volunteering now to sustain an organization that made them? Secondly, I have read that over 60% of every dollar raised goes into administrative expenses. Thirdly, I have been to the CRY HQ in Mumbai. It looks like a five star hotel and the top guns are all handsomely paid MBAs. The only sign of any poverty and charity in that office is the ever changing faces of malnourished, mucus dripping children who are featured in the CRY calendars."

If she had given me the clincher argument that something is better than nothing, I would have agreed though I wouldn't have paid. But she said,

"Actually sir, I have had the same questions. This is just a two day volunter work. We get travel and hotel allowance. "

"I see. How much is the minimum contribution that you will take?"

She showed me another brochure. Minimum Rs 4800. 

"Why?" 

"That is the amount that according to CRY's calculations a family of four would need." I didn't want to know the details of the calculations the MBAs must have put into come to that amount. I wasn't going to pay. 

"We are going to help families in 12 villages in the 9 districts of Kerala." 

"OK, which villages?" 

"Actually sir, I don't have those details." Smile.

"Can I know at some point which family my money goes to?" 

"No sir, CRY thinks it is not good for the children to know that they are receiving charity!" "Your brochure says 30% of funds go into marketing, so surely CRY is not a silent samaritan, a dark knight!" 

"I am only telling you what we have been told." Smile. 

"I can give you may be 200 rupees." 

"Actually sir, minimum is rupees 1200." 

"Sorry" 

"No problem, Sir!"

They went to the neighbor's house where they had more success. Our neighbor's daughter was adopted 18 years ago, so they are softer towards child-based so-called charities. 

As soon as the girls left, my astrologer uncle said, "Naveen (his second son) had a job offer from CRY. He thought it would be great to work for a humanitarian cause. I thought so too till we both went to there HQ in Mumbai. The arrogance and opulence was unbearable." CRY should definitely work on projecting a frugal image. Projecting a poor-friendly image is easy. Ask any politician. Ask Team Anna. Ask Arundhati Roy.

Monday's sun rose with the news about a huge accident averted at the Nedumbassery International airport at Kochi. A Gulf air flight from Bahrain totally overshot the runway while landing and came to a halt in the muddy out-fields. Luckily only a handful of passengers had minor injuries. Bad weather and lighting was blamed. 

Five houses our neighborhood have together employed a night watchman. I am not sure if I have already mentioned about it disturbing cellphone ringtone. The blaring of "Kiliye Kiliye Manimanimegha Koottil", a hit song from the late 1980s wakes most of us up in the middle of the night. But at least the ring tone means he is not sleeping. Usually he snores away to glory. 

Few months back, he lost his watch. Since it was too shameful for him to admit that a watchman's watch was stolen, he kept quite. It was a miserable two days for him. Then he came up with an amazing story: "Poocha kondu poyi!" (Cat has taken it) "Poochakenthina watch, Bhaskara?" (What use is a watch to a cat, Bhaskara)

"pazhaya strap alle, athinu elliyudeyo meeninteyo manam thonnikanum" (The old strap must have smelled like rat or fish)

Next day Bhaskaran recovered the rodential chronometer. It has fallen under the bench on which he sleeps.

Ring tones here are mostly film songs. This is leading to an interesting psychological phenomenon. Beautiful lyrics and soothing background scores  by musicians like A.R.Rahman result in frowning faces and pouting lips because the receiver sees the unappealing id of the caller with whom his or her relation is no longer sweet. The sweetness of the music is completely overshadowed by the sourness of the caller id.

Statistically significant number of purdah, hijab and abaya wearing women and their accompanying men at the State Bank of Tranvancore branch office. I was about to make the wrong conclusion about the SBT being an Islamic bank when I saw a lady carry out some jewelry from her locker and remembered that it was Ramzan tomorrow. Or may be the day after depending on the moon. Because I was born to Hindu parents, I have missed out on enjoying festivals like Ramzan to their full extent. They have always remained restricted to school holidays and once in a blue moon Ifthar feast in my consciousness.  

Around noon rearranged couple of more racks of the shelf with dusty books. More priceless old school textbooks, collections of short stories, essays, Hindi works of Premchand were discovered and moved to the new book cases. 

In the afternoon, I finally got to meet my sister's fiancee. Cool dude. If I had met him in a bar casually, he would easily have joined our friends circle. At his home, I enjoyed talking to his grandmother. "I am an old ESSLC (English Secondary School Leaving Certificate). I have taken part in the freedom struggle and still try to live according to Gandhian principles." 

"I was upset that I couldn't go to work. So though I was cooking, I always had my ears open and listened to all the history lessons Sir was teaching." The 'Sir' she is referring to is Dr. A.G.Menon, her late husband, the author of the history book on Padmanabhaswamy temple that I had referred to earlier in these notes. I told her I finished reading that book and would like to do a reprint. "I have heard about some unauthorized copying on the internet," she said, "I alone own the copyright!" She is around 80 years old. She talked a lot more about history of Tranvancore and its royal family and the current political scenario. I told her I would bring a notebook next time to take notes. 

Back home in the evening, fewer visitors than yesterday. Tara had henna tattooing done on her arms and feet. She walked around the house like Giant Robot with rigid, inorganic limbs in the evening while waiting for the henna to dry. Two 16-17 year old girls, one of them the beautician's daughter, did the henna designs in a couple of hours. If both sides of both arms are done, then feet are free!  

The shamiana tent is done. Christmas lights and halogen lamps now illuminate the home and garden. The road will get a carpet tomorrow morning. 400 feet are expected to walk all over it before night fall.

It rained fairly strongly for a while after sunset. Lot of quick phrases of prayers arose in the house. Since our house is at the end of a steep downward sloping street, heavy rain brings water gushing down. That will make the arrangements a mess. So different mouths were offering prayers against rain. Some coconuts and other non-Lokpal monitored divine bribes have been offered. It is these same folks that were complaining about lack of rain last week. If prayers of all the wedding parties worked, Kerala would have been a dry state. May be that is how the drought that ruined Indus valley civilization started. 

It continues to rain as I finish typing this out...

Visitations (BH:D25)

August 28, 2011

I believe that I become a bit more stupider if I don't read a couple of pages of a good book on any given day. This is my favorite superstition. Yesterday I didnt read anything, so this morning I woke up feeling like a better idiot. To make up for it, I took up M.P. Veerendra Kumar's book in the morning itself. 

Amma and Tara went to the local Devi temple to sanctify the marital locket. This bit of gold is called the 'thaali' and is shaped euphemistically 'like a heart'. Before leaving, Amma had made another one of those Kerala specialities: Shrimp 'theeyal' with pearl onions. When I went to dispose the waste after breakfast, I noticed plenty of rice from yesterday dumped in the garbage can. The same Hindus in the house who had gone to sanctify the thaali are responsible for the wasted food which is super sacred according to Hinduism. There need not be religious discipline to prevent wastage of food. It is plain and simple common sense. I am deeply hurt when I see lots of food wasted. But it looks like I have to double down and bear it for the next few days. Affluent India seems to match US in wasted food, pound for pound!

I was reading about Aryabhatta being a Malayali and the Kerala-equivalent of Sisyphus called Naranathu Bhrantan (the mad man of Naranam) when astrologer uncle showed up in the morning. Looks like he enjoyed yesterday's session. We had hardly started talking when Amma's MSc class-mate and later RBI collegue aunty and family showed up. She had miraculously recovered from blood cancer 6 years ago. She had needed plenty of blood for transfusion. Her husband said that it was the volunteers of the communist party and its subsidiaries who had rushed to their help and provided blood. It was nice catching up with them after 16 years. 

The shamiana dudes continued working all day. The pvc type roofing was finished. The decorative bits will go up tomorrow. These workers have no care for the garden and the pots. The uncles who had assembled in the morning were happy to be supervisors with their Hindi bits. The Hindi regimen administered was so severe that the workers started asking for water in Malayalam: "Bellam" (for vellam=water).

We discussed with the second youngest uncle about the new Tamil Nadu tradition of someone going into trance right before the wedding. He reminisced a story from his village childhood. The local oracle would prance around with 'the god inside him'. The whole village was supposed to give him tender coconut as offering. His legitimate and illigetimate sons would assemble at the performance venue. The 'god' would miraculously always pick the oracle sons to receive the tender coconuts that devotees offer. The last act of the performance involves the oracle swinging from one of the roots that hang from the banyan tree. Tired of his partial treatment towards his sons, my late uncle, cut half way through this root one night before the performance. After he landed hard on his ass from the cut root, the oracle, rather the 'god inside', stopped the practise of handing out coconuts to the sons.

Uncles, aunts, cousins, nephews, nieces: steady stream all day. One of my 'technically' aunts, whom I consider as a cousin, came with her family. She had lived with us while she studied for her M.A in Malayalam. Now she is busy typing out her dissertation for a Phd due for submission in mid-September. Yesterday, when I was cleaning out one rack of a shelf with very old, tattered, dusty books, I recovered one of her notebooks on the "history of Malayalam literature". I moved it to one of the new shelves for reading later. She is doing her PhD under the director of Kerala manuscript library. The exciting doctoral work suggests that a hitherto un-credited work preserved in cadjan leaves is authored by Kunjan Nambiar, the creator of the art form called Ottamthullal. I hope to read it next month. She promised to lend me a few other Malayalam classics.

Jan lokpal, the temple treasure and astrology remained the most popular topics for the day. A cousin's husband, who is prone to arguments, insisted today that bears are herbivores. I told him about the documentary Grizzly Man. "That must have been just done for movie. In reality, the dont eat any meat," he continued. I head-bobbed. My cousin must be having a lot of arguments with this husband at home. Another niece whom I had likened to the actress Kajal Agarwal is now very shy around me. "She likes being compared the actress, but she wants to appear modest," her mom explained.

"This one looks like an actress?!", another nephew was incredulously dismissive. His dad had promised to come back to pick him at 7:30pm. I told him that we should impose of fine at the rate of 2 rupees for every minute his dad was late for the first hour and 5 rupees per minute after that. He got busy looking at his watch and the wall clock and calculating how much fine money he is bound to make. Someday he will work for Jan Lokpal. Turns out his dad was delayed waiting for his elder brother who was stuck in an 8am to 8pm entrance coaching special Sunday!

My youngest cousin (son of my youngest uncle) who is in 3rd grade gave me a new nickname: Dialog Bachchan. It is an innocent age. So I can be pretty sure, I overdid talking today!

State government has declared a holiday tomorrow for Ramzan. Central government offices and schools will be open. Less visitors are expected tomorrow. Which means I will have more time to read and hopefully return to the less stupid non-Dialog Bachchan existence.

All That Glitters....(BH:D24)

August 27, 2011

It is almost 6pm and finally, I have some time to myself. By the time I had woken up, Amma was already back with vegetables from the Palayam market. Expecting a steady stream of visitors, she wanted to finish up the cooking as early as possible. Around 9am, my second youngest uncle and the astrologer uncle and wife showed up. The astrologer uncle was all raring to go about cosmic radiation and influence on birth, but first I had to do security guard duty.

Spy thriller mode. I was to use my worn out A&M backpack to transport cash and jewelry. Before getting to the bank, we had to stop at Bhima jewelry to collect the wedding ring. It had been given for engraving Ajith's name. Bhima jewelry sits between Jayashree silks and Bhima silks. This was my first visit to a full fledged gold shop in the new India.

A tall, well built security guard with neatly trimmed mustache opened the door for us. I thanked him. He was pleasantly surprised. Two young ladies in what appeared to be the Bhima uniform saree were at the door to do the traditional 'namaste'. An old man standing next to them identified Amma since she has been a recent frequent visitor. He immediately collected the receipt and went to fetch the ring. 

The ground floor of the shop had neat neon signs hanging over the different sections: lockets, rings, chains, coin/bullion. The neon was out on the necklace sign. Wall to wall glass show cases housing glittering gold. Upper level of the wall was painted with the most amateurish mural I have ever seen: elephants that look like inverted pears and female forms that looked like they had the opposite of liposuction performed on them. 

Since almost all the other major jewelers in Kerala are Christian owned and operated, it looked like Bhima was playing the Hindu card to the hilt. All the salesmen and women had at least two marks on their forehead:sandal, ash or saffron. Gold prices might have been skyrocketing but there were enough customers on this saturday morning to keep all the sales folks busy. The necklace segment seemed a little less crowded. A young salesman was utilizing the opportunity to chat up a pretty salesgirl. I was afraid that if he leaned any more with his elbow onto the glass counter tops, they would crash. Bending of the backbone seems to be physical reaction that the presence of a pretty woman brings about in most young men here. Nothing is straight. Culture! The guy the cash counter had the universal expression of someone secretly surfing the web during office hours.

Amma told me that the entire second floor was dedicated for bangles. The third floor had silver jewelry. Tara had ordered some silver toe rings. After we got the gold ring, we waited for the toe-rings. While leaving thanked the doorman again just to see his surprise!

From Bhima to the bank was a short drive. Passed in front of a gift shop that wanted to be hep in emphasizing that it is "the" gift shop by naming itself stylishly as "de gift shop"! Achan wanted to withdraw whatever was there in the account in that bank branch. This was the largest amount of Indian money I have ever handled. Unless Lokpal fails and I go into politics, this record will be maintained. We cleaned out the locker and filled up my A&M backpack. I exited the bank pretending to be an aged student still struggling to clear entrance exams. Gold is worth its weight in gold. 

Back home, couple of hours of intense discussion on astrology, science, psychology and neurosciences. It is very difficult to debate with this uncle. He is so pleasantly disposed that he agrees with diametrically opposite viewpoints simultaneously! Everything makes him smile. 

Youngest uncle came by in the afternoon since two of his elder brothers were around to chat. My oldest cousin (who is as old as the youngest uncle) also came. The discussion turned to black holes, relativity, big bang etc. But then it routinely swung to the other extreme with the astrologer uncle reciting some Sanskrit verse and reiterating that the ancient sages knew everything. The quality of ideas traded was choppier than recent NASDAQ history. 

Went with Amma to buy some bakery snacks for the evening visitors. Veggie puff and black halwa. A bakery chain that started as a single shop called Ambrosia now has four other outlets and a bakery segment in all of the Spencers grocers in the city. The puffs are debilitatingly huge. 

In the evening, the shamiana folks came to set up the frame. 

"Is it ok if the drains point to the neighbor's yard?"

"No" 

"Then it won't be symmetric with the driveway." 

"That is ok!" 

Everyone in the shamiana team, except the supervisor, is from north India. 

Achan had made an offering of 101 coconuts to the Ganapati temple in connection with the wedding. So by 4pm, we were on our way. Couple of autorickshaw drivers refused us because it is too crowded to go to that area of the city in the evenings owing to the brand new rush to see Sri Padmanabhaswamy. Finally a kind rickshaw driver took us. 

45 minutes to cover 4 kilometers! In-rickshaw entertainment was provided by a young lady in a scooty and a young man in a Yamaha motorbike stuck in traffic right in front of our rickshaw. They were thoroughly enjoying the slow moving traffic by exchanging knowing glances, mouthing choice words and once in a while, txting each other. The only rush that happens in rush hour traffic here are the hormones through their systems. 

101 coconuts come in a sack worth thousand rupees. Achan remembered his childhood when he used to buy 8 coconuts for a rupee. We started the breaking. All the offered coconuts of the day were still lying in the rock pit, so we had to be more accurate than Indian bowlers to hit the stone and crack the nut. Achan gave up after 25. I love smashing coconuts. Tried and succeeded in not thinking about the massive Toneform bra billboard right outside the temple while handling the coconuts. I was nearing half century when a temple staff dropped a massive spade into the pit to pull away some of the accumulated coconuts. While he was doing that, other devotees continued to throw more. Pieces and coconut water flying all over the place. Enough coconut water splashed on us to make it look like we had put in an effort.

We decided to try a roundabout un-congested route for the way back home. It was difficult to get a rickshaw. One driver who we waved to drove away saying "cannot stop cannot stop!". I hope he didn't mean his brakes had failed. 

This route took us near Central Theater, an old theater, which these days runs only dubbed sleazy Tamil and Telugu movies. Achan reminisced that this theater used to run only the movies made by the production banner called Udaya Pictures in his childhood. They would play all the movie songs using outside speakers. 

"How many times I have stood in this queue?" he said when we went past the ticket counter. After a pause he said, "There was no restriction in those days for me for watching movies. I would say I am going to watch a movie. Achan would say nothing." 

Looks like grandfather was pro-entertainment. 

"I didn't have time to go for movies till 12th," I said, "After that I have also been a regular!" 

I have never watched a movie in Central Theater. May be for Achan's old times sake, I should go watch "Kaamagni - Adults Only"....alone!

One of Tara's teachers from high school sent her sister over as representative to meet and greet Tara. She wanted to see the wedding saree and the jewelry. "My mother always wanted to see the brides in their wedding saree beforehand." She was trying to transform into her deceased mother. "My son always wanted to be a chef. He wanted to do hotel management. We got him admission in the best school in New York. Paid the first installment of fee as well. But his visa application was rejected. Till this day we don't know why. May be because he already had an MBA," she spoke mostly in English.

Unexpected downpour at sunset drenched the shamiana workers. Idiyappam and stew for 25 people came over in a kinetic Honda. 25 people did not come over. It must have rained on their plans. Neighbors pitched in to finish up the dinner. 

Shamiana men continued to work after dark. They went into the thorny lemon bushes to fix a pole. Achan warned them, "avide mullunde" (there are thorns there). Then he realized that they don't understand Malayalam. So he switched to textbook Hindi from his school days, "Udhar us paudhe pe kaante hai!"

Chit chat with neighbors over dinner brought up the matter of a new marriage "tradition" that is gaining popularity in Tamil Nadu. Right before the main ceremony, a pre-decided god will enter the body of a pre-decided relative. He or she will pretend to be delirious and in a trance for a while, then bless the bride and groom and collapse 'unconscious'. All the guests at the wedding stand bowing in reverence while this nonsense goes on. We thought about assigning our second youngest uncle a diety to trance into and prance about during the wedding. 

Perhaps Tara's wedding can be the trend setter by importing this tradition from Tamil Nadu.

A House Prepares (BH:D23)

August 26, 2011

"I am going to the Konjiravila Devi temple," Amma announced as soon as I woke up. I coughed hard twice to emphasis that a cold bath won't be prudent. No bath means no temple. Amma drove off with another silk & gold offering. This offering was promised by my paternal cousin sister.

This tradition of making offerings on behalf of bride and groom is very prevalent. It is assumed that the bride and groom will be devout Hindus who will have no issues visiting temples and sitting around for hours of rituals. To avoid this fate for my sis and her fiancee, Amma and Achan made it a point to ask our relatives to avoid making such offerings. If at all they wanted desparately to have their own favorite diety's divine intervention, they can route it through Achan and Amma instead of that couple. 

When Amma came back, she had the 'prasadam' (ambrosia) from the 'Ganapati homam' (ritual for the elephant god). It was a sweet mix of avil (flattened rice), pori (puffed rice), jaggery, banana and coconut. It is stuff like this that help me get over my disdain for organized religion, occasionally. 

Mohanan in action

Mohanan the gardener arrived by 10am. Armed with pruning shears and a pruning knife, he went about administering some tough love to the plants. 

The garden became a battle field.

Mohanan like Karthaveerarjuna, the legendary prince with a thousand arms. 

Green heads and limbs lay helter skelter. 

Periodically, Achan would appear like Florence Nightingale in a lungi and carry off the dead and dismembered in a coir basket to the burning pit in the backyard.

I shouldn't call it a pit. It might have been constructed according to strict Yajur Vedic measurements. In the backyard, Achan assumes the role of a Samayajulu, responsible for keeping the sacred fire burning. All the dried coconut fronds that have been accumulated go into the pyre along with the fresh greens that Mohanan was piling up in the frontyard. 

Achan playing Somayaji

The rising smoke snakes upwards in search of the Hindu heaven.

My second youngest uncle also came in the morning. "I will come everyday till the wedding," he said. He is single-handedly standing in for all the "family elders" who are supposed to conduct the marriage. "Aliya, njan shirt azhikkan ponu!" (Brother-in-law, I am going to take off my shirt) This is his standard declaration to Achan (his brother-in-law) that he is going to dive into doing chores for the day. 

Despite the preparation of the tapioca and fish curry keeping her busy in the kitchen, Amma found the time to come to the garden, give a few instructions to Mohanan and make some complaints about stuff he had already done under Achan's instructions. Even the most incompetent management consultant will not attest that Achan and Amma are doing a good job of selling the idea of married life to Tara. I think this is true about 95% of parents! 

Daughter's marriage is like a medical/engineering exam for the old parents. The performance anxiety, the peer pressure, the fear of failure, fear of memory lapses, it's all there. By fear of failure, I mean the event not going smoothly. The success or failure of the marriage is of least concern. After all, thousands of coconuts have been broken for the gods, how can the marriage fail?!

The afternoon Malayalam news on Surya TV had a report on the acute shortage of engineering professors in the state. The 9 government engineering colleges alone have 99 vacancies to fill. There is a 30% shortage of faculty in the private colleges as well. "Did you hear this?", Amma asked. "Loud and clear," I said.

Went with Amma and Mohanan to the Rose society to see if we can get some rose pots for the garden as part of Amma's 'full flower garden for the wedding' project. The roses at the Rose society were all in the just-grafted stage, so no sales for another two months. On the way back stopped by the Shalimar nursery that is right outside our housing colony. Only an old lady manager was present. Mohanan went about his business of choosing plants. Amma supervised. 

I stood outside the gate watching traffic and pedestrians go by. One man passed by digging deep into his ear with a ball point pen cap. Two boys strolled down, shoulder shoving each other from side to side. Spencers groceries was being repeatedly entered by housewives in churidars who exited with plastic bags to show they have spent! Reminded me of a scene from Shekhar Kapoor's Bandit Queen!

A statue of Sri Narayana Guru sits housed in a glass case atop a three storey building of the SNDP (Sri Narayana Dharma Paripalanasangham - Society for preservation of Sri Narayana's way of life). This building houses the organization's library as well. When it was constructed, this statue must have had Sri Narayana overlooking the Vellayambalam-Sasthamangalam road towards Sasthamangalam. But after that the new 7 storey building housing Spencers, Kuwait airways and apartments came up in front of it. So Sri Narayana's gaze is now fixed into somebody's living room.

Mohanan bought plenty of different varieties of palms and some other plants. He got to work as soon as he got home. Achan and my uncle assisting him and sharing stories. As the palms were potted and some other plants displaced, the discussion ranged from Kathakali to politics. Uncle wasn't much of a kathakali fan. His boyhood association with Kathakali was restricted to collecting the fallen glitter and other bits of costume from the previous day's performance. Achan had fond memories of going to watch all night Kathakali performances as a boy. He rattled out the names of famous artists and an incident about being terrified when he snuck into the make-up room once. In the days before wide spread electricity, the looming Kathakali figures would surely have given a scare. It seems there was an illiterate minister in Kerala some decades ago who insisted on keeping his underwear in the refrigerator. That was another story. Talk about chilling! 

By evening, carpenter Rajendran showed up. Few mirrors, bathroom shelves and door bolts needed fixing. Lot of activity going on in the house.

My cousin came after his class. He is attending a two month course on higher surveying. That course, with an 8 hour exam, must be cleared for his promotion. He showed me all the log tables they are still using. Calculators are not allowed! Even today, the government issued book for the course is a tattered volume by a James Pryde from the 1950s. Worth Rs. 8 in that era. He said they are using a theodolite from the last Maharaja's time for the lab sessions. Past must be perfected for promotion!

One good tradition about the wedding is the great food. Even the run up to the wedding means some mouthwatering snacks at home. Today's special was 'Pazhampori', fried plantain fritters. Eating it with hot tea is an experience. The piping hot pazhampori has two levels of heat. First, when the fried sweet batter coating is bitten into, hot air escapes and fills the mouth. Then the plantain itself presents some heat when bitten into. It is impossible to eat with the normal chewing action. All of us sat around going 'hoo haa hoo haa' with the fritters in our mouth, like those tribal dancing songs shown in Bollywood movies. The tribal singing went on for half an hour! Mohanan joined in giving his implements a break for a while.

He left only after sunset. He needs to return on Sunday to finish up. More visitors continued through out the evening. Pleasant conversations. Some more intriguing stories about relatives that'll form excellent source material for dramatic scripts. 

Final visitor for the night was the close family friend uncle who is a high ranking Reserve Bank office. He retires next month. He had graduated with an engineering degree from BITS-Pilani in the early 1970s. Before packing my suitcases last month in USA, when I was cleaning out the old ones, I found a list of medicines in his handwriting. He had bought them for my first trip to US in 2000. Currently, he is one of the officers in charge of the splendid back up systems that RBI maintains in different locations in the country. This network is on par with, if not better than, NASDAQ and NYSE back up systems. 

In an incredible coincidence his elder son is getting married on the same day at the same time as Tara but in the district of Kollam. He had promised Tara that he would come for her wedding no matter which city he was working in at that time. Now, in a happy twist, he will not be able to keep that promise.

After retirement, uncle is entertaining plans of starting a Mathematics and Physics coaching center here in Thiruvananthapuram. I hear him loud and clear! 

We dropped him back to RBI visiting officers quarters after dinner. It was 10:30pm. On the road that leads from Vellayambalam to the Kowdiar Palace of the royal family, the public works department was repairing some potholes. Seeing this reminded me that Onam is here. I had noticed some laborers painting the public buildings as well couple of days back. In the heat of the marriage, Onam had skipped my mind. The biggest annual event of Kerala. I will be here for it this time after 15 years!

Food & More (BH:D22)

August 25, 2011

Since I had some time for myself in the morning, I tried to summarise the story of Vararuchi. It appears at the end of this note. 

As soon as we finished breakfast, a Bajaj scooter arrived carrying the guy responsible for catering. The two-wheeler is an impressive hauler. This man left no doubt about his profession. He overflowed our cushion settee. Rema aunty promptly came over because this was going to be an exercise in opinionation and deliberate choice: The menu selection for the previous day and the wedding feast.

Tara and I tried to escape upstairs but were caught. 

Our "opinions" matter, we were told. 

A big lie! Any conversation in which we begin to express our thoughts hastens towards the fatal mantra called "That is how it is traditionally done here!". Once this mantra is invoked, the discussion ends. 

After half an hour, the menu for the day before the wedding day was fixed. Dosa (+two chutneys), Idiyappam (+ potato stew), Chappati (+veg korma). Achan's all veggie agenda won! Since it is a public holiday (Ramzan), 300 people are expected. 

The next major deliberation was about the welcome drink on the day of the wedding. Don't let the word drink mislead you. Hindu weddings are still largely non-alcoholic affairs, so we are talking about fruit juices. Apparently, some complaint was made about the lack of welcome drink during the engagement ceremony four months ago. 

O The Catastrophe! 

Of course, absence of welcome drink was significant. The absence of both bride and groom at that ceremony didn't matter. I don't think their presence matters even during the wedding. 'Traditions', guest list, status and wealth display are paramount concerns. 

After some heated back and forth, "common place" lemon juice was thrown out of the window and neoconservative 'mango juice from extract with a hint of mint' won. Achan wasn't ready to lose this round totally despite the two women ferociously attacking the lemon juice. The attack only intensified when the caterer tried to sell the lemons too. Finally, defeat was admitted. But Achan insisted that simple, colorless water should also be kept along with the 'mango juice from extract with a hint of mint' because many people don't drink anything with 'color'. 

As the discussion continued towards the wedding feast, Tara and I asked to be excused to go the post office to collect her registered mail that postman Kutty had 'intimated' about.

Sasthamangalam Junction

The Sasthamangalam post office operates out of a converted home. The middle chair in the 'counters' room was empty. Two ladies, one young and one old, occupied the extreme chairs. A queue, with severe identity crisis and self-doubt, languished horizontally across the counters stretching towards these ladies and thinning in the middle. It had no sign of life! No movement! Future looked bleak! 

Tara got a call and went outside to attend it. 

Suddenly a beautiful lady arrived from an inside room and occupied the middle chair. This must be how goddesses appear in folk tales and legends! The queue immediately shrunk towards her just like a centipede folds into its center when poked. This unexpected shrinkage squeezed me out. I waved the white intimation form in surrender. Luckily, the pretty counter lady saw it. "The postman is inside, you can go in" she said. 

We went in through the erstwhile living and dining rooms towards the kitchen. The staff was still treating the dining room as a dining room by having breakfast there. 

Once more, I waved the magical intimation form. It worked. Postman D.S.Kutty appeared. 

He verified that my sister was my sister and then opened an antique wooden box. All kinds of unclaimed, abandoned, comatose post from the time of Warren Hastings were in it. 

'Pazhamkanji' is the name of the dish made by adding water, yogurt, chilies and pickle to previous day's rice. It is a much maligned poor man's lunch. I love it because it is cold and refreshing and all the water means less rice consumption. I had some Pazhamkanji today as well before I was pressed into bodyguard duty. I was thoroughly unqualified for it especially after the pazhamkanji. 

Amma needed to take some gold out from one bank locker and move it to another bank's locker.

On our way back, Tara called to say that 'Mable maami' (Mable aunty) had come and was waiting. So we dropped the plan to shop and returned straight home. Mable 'maami' was the fisherwoman who came home almost every single morning for the first 12-13 years of my life. She is the root cause of my enormous appetite for all things fishy! Now she delivers fish to my cousin's family who live in our old house. She had been asking them when I was coming back and as soon as she heard that we were all back, she came over. Afflicted with a mild bout for Chikungunya last year, it was difficult for her to walk. Yet she carried a vessel full of 'aavoli' and 'kozhiyala' fish on bus and on foot for over 15 kilometers. 

While she had lunch, she narrated the story of her grandchild born with a heart condition and the mulitiple operations that the baby needed. That little one is now 6 years old and slowly catching up on her growth. A few doctors were featured in this story but god was the superstar according to Mable. All of Mable's children are married and she has a total of four grandkids aged 6 through 9. 

"Have some more rice, Mable," Amma said, "Venda chechi, unni kuttante chiri kandappo thanne enniku niranju, " she replied . (No sister, I am full on seeing Unni's smile). Here, among family and friends, I am Unni. Usually, statements like her reply, maudlin, day time soap-ish, make me go vehemently sarcastic. But in her case, the radiant sincerity silences me. I am aware of my inability at this point in life to fathom the unconditional affection of the people who have seen me grow from a helpless baby to a confused teen. 

Perhaps couple of decades from now when I see the kids of today, for whom I am an uncle, all grown up as young men and women, I might understand better Mable and her long walk, cheerful smile and the light in her eyes when she looks at Tara and me. Till then I can only admire with an immense sense of gratitude and stand in silence, watching her clean up fish deftly, just as I used to 25 years ago.

And she did bring up my marriage. There is an engineer girl in Singapore that she knew!

  

Amma, Rema aunty and Tara went to buy the final set of rings and necklaces. I went with Achan to arrange for the shamiana (decorative tent), tables, chairs, display lights, generator etc for the day before. By the time the shamiana dudes showed up, Amma was back, so she took over the directing. 

It continues to drizzle and the night is cool. I was envious to read the facebook statuses this morning about rain in College Station. Thiruvananthapuram made up for it by evening. The plants are a happy green tonight. Tomorrow, their keeper, gardener Mohanan will be coming!

Now the Vararuchi story:

Vararuchi, the son born to the Brahmin wife of Govindacharya, grew up to be an excellent but arrogant scholar. He was included as a gem in the court of King Vikramaditya in Ujjain. This is supposed to be some time between 5th-8th centuries. I wince each time I see Indian historians gloss over the dates and then state that dates are not important but attributing a long chain of unsubstantiated adjectives to the personalities is important. 

One day, the king asked the court to tell him the most important verse of the epic Ramayana. All courtiers including Vararuchi are stumped. The haughty Vararuchi refused to admit defeat and asked the king 40 days time. Towards the end of 40 days, he had no answer. Frustrated and ashamed, he was resting under a tree when he overheard two prophetic birds talking on top of the tree. One of them was saying that the idiot Vararuchi who does not know that such and such verse is the most important one in the Ramayana is resting under this tree. The other said, "that idiot doesn't know that he is bound to marry the "chandala" (untouchable caste) girl born today near by!"

Vararuchi was happy to finally learn the most important verse in the epic, but he was terrified about the fate of marrying a chandala girl. He returned to the court and pleased the king with the answer. Then he told the king that the kingdom will be ruined unless a chandala girl born the previous night was finished off. How could the king disobey such a great scholar?! Vararuchi's goons then set the girl afloat in the river after nailing thorns of 'kara' tree on the top of her head.

17 years later, Vararuchi continued to be haunted by the thought of fate overtaking him. He went on a pilgrimage. In a far away village, when he rested for a night, a poor local Brahmin asked permission to feed him dinner. To avoid accepting his offer, Vararuchi put forward impossible demands. He said, "I will come for dinner if you can feed Devas and Asuras before me, offer me the food of heaven and earth, give me three people to eat after dinner and provide four people to carry me after that." The Brahmin was bewildered but his daughter, Panchami, who overheard this told her dad not to worry. 

Vararuchi was served honey, ghee and bananas (food of Devas) followed by ginger and pepper (of Asuras). He was offered steamed food which represents heaven and earth (I have no idea how that works). After dinner, the daughter brought Vararuchi betel leaves, areca nut and lime to make 'paan'. This made up for three people. After that she showed him the bed with 4 legs, equivalent to four people, to carry him.

Pleased with this girl's brilliance and beauty, Vararuchi married her. While in bed, he carresed her hair. Ah! there is a sensitive side, you see! However, this caused her to shirk in pain. Vararuchi wondered why. She told him that she was adopted after being found floating in the river with thorns nailed to her head. The wound still hurt. Vararuchi was horrified that fate caught up with him. He asked Panchami to pack her bags. She was to accompany Vararuchi in the battle against fatalism that he planned to wage across the length and breadth of the country. 

This travel brought Vararuchi to south India where Panchami gives birth to 12 children. When each baby was born, Vararuchi would ask her, "Does it have a mouth? If so the god that made the mouth, will also give it food! Abandon it!" 11 such babies were abandoned. About the 12th baby, the hurt motherhood made Panchami lie. Wishing to keep at least one baby, she told Vararuchi that it had no mouth. Vararuchi asked her to keep it in that case. Happy, she prepared to feed it when she realized that its mouth had indeed disappeared! This baby died soon after and is enshrined in the Vayilakunnilappan (the mouthless diety on the hill) temple in Kerala.

Brief treatment of the other illustrious 11 children of Vararuchi and Panchami will be narrated in the coming days.