November 2, 2011
The warning that 'god is always watching' is nowhere else in the world more true than it is in India. It is not just the super stars among the 330 million Hindu gods who stare down on one from every possible platform, but Jesus, Buddha, Mecca Kaaba, Arabic words from the Holy Quran and and numerous dear departed Hindu saints also get stuck, nailed or hung all over the place to be part of this divine Orwellian overseeing. Admittedly, Jesus and many of the saints have their eyes cast upwards with a marked disinterest in the worldly proceedings while the Buddha seems to have closed his eyes in complete resignation. I think we should wait to find out if getting an international racing circuit named like him will make any difference to his attitude.
The company of gods is felt much less at home for me because all of them are positioned in a vantage point of collective judgment in the designated puja area in the hall upstairs. I do spend a sizeable chunk of the day in that room which doubles these days as the home library and used to be my study in the 90s. Several of the notes in the past three months have been written under those watchful eyes. In my bedroom, in diametrically opposite corners, I have the elephant-headed god, Ganesh, symbolically represented in a woolen wall hanging and a full fledged god's own elephant, Guruvayoor Valiya Keshavan, as a laminated photograph. A painting of Guruvayoorappan appears on the top left corner of this photograph, not quite in his rightful position, i.e. on the elephant. Other than this, I am smugly confident about the absence of supervision, of this really super kind, in the other rooms that I frequent during the day.
But as soon as I step out of the house, divine eyes are upon me from all directions: from the electric lamp posts via posters announcing local temple fests, from idols stationed in niches atop houses, from the swinging fabric banners spanning the width of the street, advertising 10,20 or 30-day rituals. Get into an autorickshaw and there they are, watching you from inside the windshield in miniature sticker form. This morning, the rickshaw had two stickers side by side. One was a single image of Ganesh, seated, surrounded by silhouettes of his various other representations. Right beside this image was another sticker of the Shiva household, jostling for space on a raised pedestal which is actually meant for a couple. But then so is the Bajaj scooter that is treated as family vehicle frequently. Talking of vehicles, this picture did have the bull, the rat and the peacock on the floor. In this family snap, Ganesh was leaning onto his dad while Karthikeya was sitting on his mother's lap.
Most of the rickshaws play it safe by having their favorite Hindu god or goddess juxtaposed between Jesus and Mecca. I am a bit worried about the strict Wahabbis finding out about the representation of Mecca on a dynamic surface. Obviously, this image is not going to be facing the direction of the real Mecca at all times. May be there is a market for gyroscopic or magnetic Mecca representations which can always swing into the proper orientation. The erring rickshaw drivers currently have their hands intact. No idea for how much longer.
Yesterday there was news about a section of devotees at the Beema Palli mosque in Thiruvananthapuram objecting to the presence of members of other religions. They might only be trying to degrade themselves to the level of various Hindu temples that have signboards restricting entry to only Hindu believers (whatever that means!). This is the trend of our times.
In a city where gods flourish, dogs can't be far behind. It seems that that city corporation must sterilize at least 25,000 dogs to make any headway in keeping the stray dog menace in check. Every day, 100 people are taken to hospitals because of stay dog biting within the city limits. Dogs are delivering litters even inside government hospital buildings. Malayala Manorama newspaper pointed out that quick treatment is certainly an advantage for common folk who get bitten inside hospital premises.
It rained so heavily this morning, starting from 3 am, that we were afraid we may not make it to the hospital for the blood tests. Luckily, the rain slowed by 7am. The rickshaw took us through the highway, avoiding the bumpy, damaged, flooded road. Comfortably route. It adds hardly half a mile to the total distance.
Visitors were leaving muddy footprints on the smooth white tiled hospital floor. A dedicated cleaning staff in a bright red coat that read "Vital" on the pocket declared war on this dirt. She had a prominent squint in her left eye and an even more prominent mark of saffron on her forehead where her hair was parted. Emphatically married, her devotion to the task was impressive. As soon as any feet, big, tiny or limping, left its mark on the way to the reception counter, she would swoop down with the mop. Every few such moppings, she would expand the cleaning operation to the entire reception area. Most impressive. Achan and I sat in two on the cushion chairs in a corner reading for the two hour interval between the blood collections. By 10am, the on-demand cleaning operation was passed on to another staff member. Darker and bulkier, she had a blue coat which also said "Vital" in white on the pocket. The lightning quickness was missing this time.
The sample collecting nurse told me that they perform the glucose test usually for pregnant women. I wondered if reading about Ravana's pregnancy in Ramanujan's essay on Ramayanas had any miraculous effect on me. When I went to produce an urine sample, I sneezed to double check if any baby would come out my nose, Sita-like.
Walking back from the hospital, we saw a snake slithering on the narrow water drain that was half full because of the rain. Around 4 feet in length and slender, it hid where the drain passes under three concrete slabs that bridge the street to the gate of an old, tile-roofed, house. A mini-moat with a vicious aquatic serpent hidden underneath. The house is obviously an illusion. In another dimension, it must be castle of a wise, wizened wizard.
While waiting for a rickshaw on the highway, we realized that we were standing at a bus stop. We decided to wait another 5 minutes for a rickshaw and take a bus after that. An old man led three cows with huge udders to an abandoned field beside the highway.
During our rickshaw ride this morning, we had overshot the intersection to the hospital and had to turn around. The driver wasn't sure of the location of the Maharajas road that leads to the hospital. There were two rickshaws parked on the highway side. Our driver tried to slow down and ask those drivers, but the driver of the first one was peeing and the driver of the second one was defecating. Scenes from a highway 7:30am.
We took a fast passenger bus back till Palayam. Sitting in a bus gives a different view of the city. The upper storeys of buildings and elevated signboards grab attention. They tell the story of mostly financial enterprises and private banks. Quite a few computer training institutes too. Citizens of other countries are blissfully ignorant that most of these businesses are 'international'.
From a rickshaw, the cemetery needs to be assumed from its high stone wall, but from a bus the life inside the cemetery is visible. Three or four teams of workers digging. Even in the absence of rain, some visitors with umbrellas. A woman securing a yellow marigold garland to a black tombstone. With her outstretched arms, it looked like she was hugging it. Garlands in varying stages of decay on the visitor-less tombstones. Two petty shops on either side of the gate. One selling garlands and flowers. The other incense and joss sticks. Neatly carved, monopolized market. The business of death.
My admiration for a beautifully branched almond tree outside the State Drug testing lab was cut shot by the pressure of an elbow on my shoulder. I was seated on the aisle next to one of the support poles in the bus. A lady who had anchored on the pole had now shifted her weight onto my shoulder as she bend down to pick up her handkerchief. Seemingly oblivious of her utilization of my anatomy, she stood back up, uncomfortably close. If our sexes were reversed, this incident would have surely led to a harassment charge. The bald, grey haired uncle sitting next to me couldn't take his eyes off this lady. I think her vision led to a few new hair strands sprouting in his shiny head. She must have been in her late 30s. Her dark skin displayed the hairlessness that is usually the characteristic of the East Asian races. Perhaps there was the union of an Egyptian slave sailor with a Chinese craftswoman at port Musiris two thousand years ago in the wee hours of a morning when the Northwest monsoon thundered down on the beach.
The rickshaw driver who took us from Palayam to Vellayambalam wore white gloves. Not the motorcycle kind but neatly knit, white ones. It wasn't a hallucination triggered from my reading Oscar Wilde under the influence of glucose. From the pockmarks on the exposed parts of his skin, I think he had some kind of allergy.
We stopped at the 'haritha' vegetable shack to pick up ingredients for an 'Aviyal'. The knife was well-behaved today. When we neared the milk stall, a mongoose ran across the street. I told him that there is a water snake under concrete slabs covering the water drain that runs outside Lords hospital in Anayara. I hope he understands Malayalam. If it is too far for him, he can call up his friends in that area. Every mallu and his mongoose has a cellphone these days.
The milk shop inside the colony is called "Amma Milk Stall". It might be a tribute to the shopkeeper's mother but it alludes unfairly breastfeeding in my mind. The old man, who takes turns manning the shop with his son, complained about inflation. "Oru muringakka ezhu roopa" (one drumstick is Rs 7). Within the purchase of 2 plastic "covers" of milk, we reached the consensus that further inflation and petrol price hike are desirable so that our patriotic pride in Ambani being one of the richest men in the world, can stay intact.
Back home, lunch was great because Amma had made her signature 'verumpuli' curry. Carl Linnaeus might insist on calling it by its scientifically correct name: Pettu puli, the pettu suffix confirming its association with post natal care. Achan keeps reminding me that this is a recipe that floored my paternal grandmother in the first days that Amma had moved in after marriage. It has been impressing many guests since then including most recently, Chalam's mother. There is a quantitatively perfect addition of sauteed and powdered fenugreek that she does which Achan deliberately hasn't learnt. Deep brown in color, this curry goes perfectly with rice, chappatis and even bread!
Jeevan called from Chicago yesterday. Pleasant surprise. Even more suprisingly, Amma did not monitor the conversation. I think she took note of my resentment at her hanging around for a telephone conversation and a video chat I had the day before. It was fantastic to catch up a good old friend.
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