September 12, 2011
"Shall we?" Amma parted the room door curtain and asked. She wanted to start a routine of morning walks from today. I was game. Off we went to Kanakunnu palace. There were no Onam revelers here in the morning. Crows had taken their place. In just as many numbers! The ocean of people had receded leaving behind hills of paper and plastic garbage. The litter scattered all over stunk up the place. If there had been as many garbage bins as policemen yesterday evening, things would have been much better.
Like true Indians, we "got used to the stink" in 5-10 minutes and proceeded with our walk. Much less garbage at the amphitheater named Nishagandhi auditorium. Some very creative mind came up with that name, so appropriate for an auditorium that specializes in night shows. Where culture blooms at night like the flower, Nishagandhi ('night fragrance':Dutchman's pipe). The 'gandhi' bit of the name is pronounced with shorter 'a' unlike the father of the nation, Mahatma Gandhi.
Amma pointed out one of the popular TV serial actors doing stretching exercises on the palace lawn. I thought he had passed away. May be it was a character he played in some TV series that had died. These serieses last 10-12 years, slow and boring as real life, most often. Actors become the characters.
The swing hanging on a tree right outside the palace excited Amma. She wanted to swing. It was her 34th wedding anniversary. She could use some swinging, I thought. As soon as she got into the rhythm, the child in her took over. "Thenni nokkatte" she was seeking my approval to stand on the swing and oscillate wider. "Angu mukalilathe kombu vare thodam," (then I can touch the top most branch)she boasted giddily. I said no with a shake of my head. She obeyed. Brief role reversal.
I owe 50 paise to the milk booth owner for the three "covers" (as plastic bags of milk are known here) of milk I bought on the way back from the walk.
"Swami Agnivesh speaks out against human gods" announced posters plastered on the walls on the side of the main road between Statue Junction and Ayurveda College Junction. Achan and Iwere on our way to the bank. It was hilarious to see the picture of Agnivesh, dressed in flaming saffron with a turban imitating Swami Vivekananda, expressing his disgust against human gods! What category does he count himself in?
Talking of gurus and swamis and sages, I was reading in the Mahabharatha about Matsyagandha (fish-scented one) and sage Parashara. Matsyagandha was working as a boatwoman and was tasked one day to transport a bunch of sages across the river. Parashara is aroused seeing her beauty. I mean total arousal. Like Kalmadi on seeing cash. While the boat is in the middle of the river, he says he will giver her anything if they could do it right there, right now. This is written much more elegantly in the Mahabharatha, I am just paraphrasing to convey the jist.
Matsyagandha: What? Here? Now?
Parashara: Let's rock the boat some more!
Matsyagandha: I know you are stud sage and all and can give me some awesome boons...but look there, look there, all those other sages waiting on the river bank can see us.
Parashara: So what? It's nothing they don't know.
Matsyagandha: You shameless sages...I am shy!
Parashara: Woah! Shyness makes me want to even more. Let me magically create a dense mist around us. I respect your privacy!
Matsyagandha: Yea, but I am like a cultured Indian woman. Dad has already listed me on matrimony sites. I know you, being the sage type, won't be interested in marriage. What'll happen to me in the marriage market if someone finds out my virginity went overboard in the middle of the river?
Parashar: They don't call me sage for nothing. After we are done, your virginity will be restored...
Matsyagandha: Surgically?
Parashara: Nah...magically! No scars!
Matsyagandha: Neat...one more thing...
Parashara: Ask away...my boom, I mean, boon is waiting...
Matsyagandha: I am sick of smelling like fish. Make my body fragrant.
Parashara: Simple...done!
Matsyagandha is transformed into fragrant "Yojanagandha" (one whose fragrance can be felt even one yojana (5 miles or so) away)
Parashara blows.
Thick mist.
Matsyagandha too.
Two minutes later.
Mist clears.
A sage's two minutes are equivalent to 200 of common man's minutes.
Magical pregnancy from magical misty copulation results. Rapid growth of foetus. Matsyagandha who is now Yojanagandha seeks refuge on an island (Dweepa) on the river Yamuna and delivers a baby boy. Because he is born on a 'dweepa', he is called Dwaipayana. He goes on to become sage Veda Vyasa who authors Mahabharatha in which the story summarised above, about his own parents, is included. Also included is the story of why Matsyagandha became Matsyagandha. If the foggy censoring makes the tale above PG-13, Matsyagandha's birth story is outright R-rated.
Here's the one-line version of what the original epic spends plenty of verses in detailing:
King Vasu of Chedi experiencing spontaneous ejaculation while thinking about his wife when on a hunting trip, collects the semen on a leaf and for delivery to his wife, passes it to an eagle who is attacked by other eagles mistaking the package for food causing the seminal leaf to be dropped into the river which is then consumed by a fish that becomes pregnant with twin human babies who are born when a fisherman catches and cuts it open.
The female baby in the twins born with a fishy smell becomes Matsyagandha who is brought up by the fisherman.
It must be the impact of prudish Victorian missionaries that Indian gurus today resort to celibate chest-thumping (their own chest, I mean). Otherwise why should there be so much care to hide their flourishing sex lives or artistically lived homosexual lives? Shouldn't they proudly announce that they are following the traditions of Parashara?!
The epics are full of the epic exploits of Indian sages. It is nearly impossible to read the Mahabharatha with flaccid attention!
While Achan got busy in the bank filling out numerous forms and presenting proofs of identity, I went to check out the nearby store of the grocery chain run by the Aditya Birla group. These stores are called More. Unfortunately they insist on writing the name in Malayalam. The Malayalam word for buttermilk is Mooru. So when one sees English "More" written in Malayalam letters, it feels as if an order for buttermilk is being placed rather forcefully!
When I walked into 'More', all the yellow uniformed salesgirls were being occupied by a bunch of young men. Wholesale flirting! The guys had combed their hair with an upward twist in front as if to reiterate their rooster status. The girls were all smiles and approved the dalliance with intermittent bouts of laughter, sweet like the rings of shredded coconut that come embedded in the cylinder of breakfast 'puttu'.
The store was pretty much like Spencers grocers. Though these are categorized as supermarkets here, they are only a little bigger than the average "Indian" store in the USA.
The appearance of the manager from his dungeon deep inside the store scattered the circle of love. I believe the girls are given strict instruction to personally attend to each customer. And they have their assigned aisles. I was asked thrice whether I found what I was looking for. "Veruthe chumma" (Just browsing) I replied thrice.
I believe the manager Prospero watching me (in my 'Texas is a state of mind' t-shirt) on his crystal CCTV screen instructed his nubile Ariels that I shouldn't be spared. One of the girls started following me around. I didn't know the mantra to create a thick mist around myself to hide in.
Several times I changed my lane within the narrow aisle, put on my blinkers, allowing her to pass.
But she insisted on tailgating.
High beam.
She wasn't going to let me leave the store empty-handed.
My mind was busy coming up with an innane question to engage her with. Distract, lie and flee was the strategy-to-be. Finally, it came, "ee More-inu vere kadayile?" (Meaning 'Does 'More' have other outlets?' as well as 'Aren't there other stores for buttermilk?').
The Prospero-quenched flirting a while ago had primed her to appreciate my weak attempted adianoeta.
"Undalo Sir?!" (meaning 'yes sir' as well as 'you have had lunch?' returning my buttermilk reference), "Ambalamukku, Plamoodu,..." she rattled off a few more place names, but she had me at Ambalamukku.
"Ambalamukkil undale...appo njan avide ninnu medicholam" (There is one at Ambalamukku, then I will buy stuff from that one).
On that aisle, between the plastic-bag-imprisoned fragrance of cardamom and cinnamon on one side and the bottle-sealed taste of hot, lemon pickles on the other, we parted.
I think she was disappointed.
Once he was done at the bank, Achan led me to his new favorite barbershop. On the way, I noticed what looked like a pond at the end of a side street. "Is that a pond there?", I asked. "It could be," Achan was a bit ashamed of being unsure about a part of the city he grew up in. We decided to check it out. It was a sizeable pond in front of the Rishimangalam Krishna temple. Two old, white-bearded men were bathing in two of the 4 rows of steps leading into the pond. A painted statue of the blue Krishna dancing on the head of the evil serpent black Kalliyan rose in the center of the pond.
Barbershop is a nook of intense socio-political activity in Kerala. In the cities and villages, this is where tremendous debates on global politics and international economics continue relentlessly. All the barbershops subscribe to numerous newspapers and magazines, so lot of folks who have no hairy business also hang around the place to chat, vociferously agree and vehemently disagree. An older popular movie scene which shows a discussion going on in a remote Kerala village barbershop about Kofi Annan's Israel visit is not an exaggeration.
At Suresh's 40 sq-ft, single chair shop today however, I was the only customer. Suresh's head resembled the rapidly disappearing forests of northern Kerala. Perhaps he practised a bit too much on himself. It was a quick and elegant operation. While he was getting started with the side and back trimmers, a quintessential Malayalee named Baiju showed up with the opening salvo, "Onam okke adichupolicha Sureshey?" (Did you have a great Onam, Suresh?)
"Nale koodi undalo" (it is on till tomorrow) Suresh engaged him.
"Entheru Onam ithu?" (What kind of Onam is this?) Baiju plunged into pessimistic criticism immediately after the elevated opening.
He continued, "kollavunna otta cinema illa. Kore naalu koodi njan adyamayittu oru padama 45 minute kandirangi, Ulakam chuttum vaaliban. Matte kuttychathan padathinu ticket illa, randu vattam poyi nokki." (Not a single good movie is running. After a long time I walked out of a movie in 45 minutes, Ulakam Chuttum Vaaliban (Globe-trotter Prince). There are no tickets available for that other Kuttychathan (friendly chthonic spirit like casper) movie. I tried twice.)
"Aa theater sheriyalla...Shriyil alle?" (That theater is not good...Shri, isn't it?)opined Suresh while mowing my nape.
"pakshe athil alle system ullu....matte DTS," (But it is the one with the system...that DTS) Baiju explained.
The Kuttichathan movie being referred to was, in its original form, India's first 3D movie released in 1984. I have vague memories of being thrilled about the glasses. It was a great movie for kids. It got dubbed into all the major Indian languages. Few years ago, an updated version came out and now the production house is milking it to the maximum by bringing out frequent re-releases with minor changes. But as long as there are kids, this film will be a sure hit.
Suresh did the best he could with my hair and warned me about the low roof of the shop as a I got up.
Right across from his barbarshop is the Sree Chithira Thirunaal Granthashaala. This library was opened in 1914 and continues to operate the old building next to the High Court. Outside the gate, the date of establishment is engraved in stone using Malayalam numerals. The library has a priceless collection of cadjan leaves and around 100,000 books. A huge portrait of 'Vayanasala' Kesava Pillai, the founder, stands framed on the wall, welcoming visitors. It is difficult to make out the books he has kept his hand on in the painting.
Vayanasala, meaning library, is a nickname Kesava Pillai received because of his love for reading and setting up libraries. Later in the evening, Rema aunty said that one of the arranged marriage alliances that had come for her 30 years ago was from the youngest son of Kesava Pillai. His 16th son. Clearly, reading and establishing libraries wasn't his only love. Or may be it was!
I had left my copy of engineer's bible: Kreyszig's Advanced Engineering Mathematics back in the US. Light headed after leaving Suresh's shop, I decided to check out the pirated and second hand book selling stalls outside the public library for Kreyszig. Every single stall owner recognized the German legend's name. Unfortunately there were no fool who had sold his or her copy to facilitate my second hand ownership.
All that the young men at the stalls could offer me was Grewal's text. I browsed through a browned copy. It is a cheap, incomplete imitation of Kreyszig. At the final, 28th stall, we found brand new copies of the Malayalam translations of the Rigveda and the 108 Upanishads. Totally worth Rs.900 together!
Aadivedavum vedantavum aayirathil thaazhe! (Oldest Veda and Vedanta for under a thousand!)
Rain dampens Onam celebrations yet another evening. Sitting on the verandah typing this out, the light of the laptop display attracts winged ants swarming up in the rain from unseen crevices. Would-be queens and their mates, whose time on this planet is running out, seek the nonexistent warmth of the lcd screen. On this wet night, new colonies of hardworking ants will be established. Future E.O.Wilsons will find the meaning of life in them.
Happy 34th Wedding Anniversary to my parents!
Tomorrow night is the grand finale; the spectacular procession of the Onam celebration. "Rain, rain, go away. Come again another day..." my Rick Perry-prayer to the weather gods!
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