Madurai

And so you are back.

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And so you are back. After many miles of journey. Roads. Hills. Air. Air pockets. Fields. Villages. Malls. And all of that.

You are back to where you live. And you wonder how right they were. When they said ‘time flies’. You feel this time around, time took the expressway !

But then, its still isn’t long off your memory. One look at the 2500 plus snaps clicked over the 15 days, and your mind rejigs and brings to the fore the exact feeling at the moment captured on camera. You realise you itch to tell the world as many stories as there are photographs. And then you choose some in random.


Like this one. When your heart skipped a beat to see a seeming synchronicity in randomly arraigned coconut trees set against a blue backdrop on the banks of a spanking new highway. Made on agricultural land.

Or to see this man pedal his bicycle, with a lady seated behind. And wonder, when last you saw this scene. And then have your taxi driver tell you that these villagers pedal 17 kilometers one way, to reach the nearest hospital. And your eyes auto squint, thinking of life.


Or to see a far away temple set in the middle of banana plantation. And look towards the sky in awe and wonder about this concept of the ‘faith’ ! And think of the tall towers of Meenakshi temple. And then the small precincts of the family temple. And see faith standing on firm foundations.


And then, you saw stern faces stare at you as they traveled in a lorry meant for goods. And think of the stern face & heaps of abuse hurled by the passenger sitting next to you on the flight, because the air hostess didn’t respond ‘in time’


And you think of this boat. By that lake in Berijum. And reaffirm. That nature soothes a lost soul. Like no other.

And as the memory still is fresh and tumble in one after another, you realise. You are back. With new respect. For life. For living. For people. For dreams. For mother Earth. And your own self.

That you saw what others saw. Yet saw what many others didn’t.

And as you type that line, you wonder, if that sounds boastful. And then, you recall conversations with many here. Those stoical faces and ‘ah-there-you-go’ smiles. And you let that line remain.

And you know. You can go on and on. But you realise. You have got to stop somewhere, somehow. You are thankful for many things. And one of them, is for the love of readers of this blog. For that, you realise, you ought to be immensely thankful.

So you quickly end, where it all started. By stating, ‘And so, you are back’.

Bound by chains !

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My morning walks acquaint me with scooters. In chains ! For a few days, i didn’t quite know what these scooters bound in chains signified.

Some wise man had said that man was born free, but was found in chains everywhere. But scooters ? This was indeed new.

And then, I was introduced to a ‘driving’ school for women. Which parked their bikes here. All chained together.

And in the morning, when the learners come up, the locks are removed and the unchained scooters come alive with an array of women with scooters marked ‘L’ signifying ‘a learner’.

‘Learning breaks down chains’ they say. Seems to be true here. And right here, it’s the chains that were latched on by the learning school ! The belief in the securing objects reigns here.

When not in use, objects are chained. There is still hope that the mind stays unchained. To the dark ages of the past.

In the name of God

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This is a ubiquitous scene in temples down here. An elephant and a mahout. And of course, devotees laden with belief !

With a synchronized precision that will give a Russian gymnast some competition, the trunk is extended. A coin or two is propped into the trunk by the devotee. The trunk is then lifted and placed on the head of the devotee ! Blessings from the elephant God himself !

And of course, after some coins gather, the mahout has his way of getting the coin laden trunk to where he sits !
And at Meenakshi Amman temple, this elephant must have been doing this blessing act for some time now. For not only does the precision show, there is an elegance to it.

And the mahouts don’t even bother to stand. Any management type would be quick to classify this as a ” ‘mature process’ that runs by itself !”

Animal rights activists could cry foul. Mahouts hear a divine music in the coins that a wave of a trunk can bring. The devotee seeks blessings with faith. The elephant perhaps is now accustomed to be a stand in for God himself.
Of course, all in the name of God ! Who looks on. Perhaps with a smile. At his own creations. And their many actions.

In praise of braids

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The braids have almost but disappeared. (Except in rope designs, ofcourse). In the neighbourhoods that I live in. Or maybe, I am not looking thoroughly. But their omni presence in smaller neighbourhoods bring about the curiosity about what makes them disappear from the big cities !

‘It takes a while’ said a young mom back in the city. And went on to explain that hair has to be oiled well, combed free of small intertwining, and then, carefully ‘woven’ together and finished with a flourish with a striking red ribbon! (statutory disclaimer: This is both a recounted and translated version. So, mistakes could exist in the order and content. Please do not attempt it in this order, without expert help).

With fast lifestyles, TV and late nights, there’s just about time to make it to the school bus before the helpful school bus driver’s second honk! And of course, with twin careers (both in knots) and thoughts braided within the brain, who wants one (or two) more outside? And not in the least, the kids!



But, this is still in vogue. Atleast in South India. Atleast in villages. And most definitely, in certain sections of society. Where the hair is worked on with care. And the braids come on with a certain shiny oily elegance. Finished with love and a flourish of white Jasmine to go with the gloss of oiled hair topped with a blazing red of the ribbon.

I am told by people with insider information, that this process helps in strengthening hair! I have the faintest of ideas. The balding plate is further excuse. The closest that I have come to such knotty affairs in recent times is knowing Lolla Kutty has a group on Facebook. (Of which I am yet to become a member. Ok ?) Just saying.

The travelers roving eye spots many things. Many stay knotted in the mind or on the camera. Some find a way to the blog. This was one such.

Sticking the neck out..

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A wedding invitation bearing my name ‘& family’ came my way. And ofcourse, i went.

And brought to mind typical weddings and their decorations back in Madurai. The Mumbai wedding is slightly different. It retains all the glitz and is a little more racy. The eye is on the watch and the thought is with the 9.07 PM local that needs to be ‘caught’.

But the point is this. That across India, for every marriage, many converge. And each wedding is a very typical, Indian moment. For every marriage, many converge. ( usually in multiples of many hundreds). All eat. Most see. A few wish. Some other wedding ‘proposals’ exchanged.


Everybody gets photographed and videographed. And form a queue that will walk upto the bride and groom to gift or thust a cover (ofcourse with cash inside ) into a sweaty palm of a tense bride. Or groom, for that matter.

When feisty youth used to course my veins i used to abhor attending weddings. For it was the time when the other ‘uncles and aunties’ would be concerned about what i was doing.

Which was exhibited with a casual question on ‘how much do you make ‘ as though it was the number of dosas that had gone in since morning. (And in any case, the question rather had been about the dosas).

And ofcourse, that was followed by a by-the-way comment about how their son was was basking in the Mediterranean and the daughter was waxing eloquence in London or someplace else, you only saw on National Geographic.

But the point is this. That the great Indian wedding is an inescapable part of us. There is music. There is dance. There are pretty women. And handsome men. And ofcourse, some great food.

And in the midst of all the din & decoration, often less talked about is the good that it does to economy. For the wedding season spurs many businesses on. From the decorator to the dance party, everybody makes some dough. And by the way, the jeweller is not someone that i am going to talk about.

This picture landed in my in-box from a friend, who wanted to establish that the recession was far away from ‘happening’ in Kerela’s weddings. Now, this surely had my eyes perk, and the ears twitch.

What the world wears for its wedding is a matter of personal choice and consequently – none of my business.

But you know…i am just concerned. Of the neck.

The Iron in town !!

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Of the many businesses that you see on wheels, here is one that i don’t get to see that very often in Mumbai ! Wearing pressed clothes is indeed a pressing requirement ! And how about a ‘presser’ on wheels !


In the southern districts we have this push cart iron. The chap who ‘irons’ , ushers his cart around and presses your clothes for a fee ! A common sight in Madurai ! Its not common in the big cities where electricity rules and ‘powered’ irons press !

So, theres this chap who comes home pushing his cart around. He carries with him a simple soul. And will charge your a rupee to press shirt. Perhaps two. And he has a cart which consists of a ‘bed’, a solid stone slab for keeping this solid brass iron and a slot for storing his coal !

And Yes. He uses coal !



Now that’s some heavy duty metal ! It indeed is heavy ! The chamber that houses burning embers of coal sometimes look downright scary. With a feisty burning crimson ! And when he presses your shirt, with the might of this muscle, the crimson coal and the hardened metal, you can almost hear your shirt squirm !

Call me old fashioned. Call me backward. But, there is a certain charm in this cart. And in the iron. The iron that houses the crimson coal that can kill either with the heat or with the weight ! And of course, the lazy elegance of his pressing of clothes. A ‘lazy nonchalant elegance’ that would get David Gower some company.


It may be a common sight down there! And it indeed is something to experience. To just stand there and see your shirt pressed with a rather different energy !

A charm that resembles a old world locomotive that is gushing into a station ! Perhaps its to do with the coal. Perhaps its got to do with the heat. Perhaps it is do with the steady solid style.

Or just perhaps, its the nostalgia of the old times. Or of another place.

Where ‘pressing’ gets a languid tone.

Stable story !

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This is a real life story. Set, far away from Mumbai’s Mahalakshmi Race course and the Mahabaleshwar mountains. Down in the deep plains is Madurai !

And there, there is this horse stable. A stable that adorns the display rack of a lonely house. Maintained immaculately by the lady of the house, and looked at longingly, from a distance by the man.

These are horses. Looking artistic to them. For the strange, inanimate objects that they are, they seem to carry life. They were mere objects on many retail shelves. But that was before they were picked up with care.

Over time, each one of them came to signify one member of the family.

There was one for the man of the house . Another for the lady. One each for the sons. Each signifying and standing for the real ! Each figure matched by the living’s characteristics. And so they were reared at home. By the lady and man. Quite unknown to their sons.

And when the daughter-in-laws came into the household, horses were added to the stable. And when a young one arrived, a pony took its rightful place. And of course, there is more space.

And when the sons, the daughters-in-law and the grandson are busy running their own courses much away from Madurai, the lady of the house dusts this stable clean. With a dry cloth. And then with a wet cloth. Wet with a tinge of a lonely tear, sweat and toil of many years, to make the family run its course.

And so, this inanimate stable which takes a life of its own adorns this house. Inanimate it is, to the rest of the world. For the man and the lady, the horses themselves seem to leap to life. Every time they look at them. And even when they don’t.

And so, this is the story of the stable. A stable that adorns the display rack of a lonely house. Maintained immaculately by the lady of the house, and looked at longingly, from a distance by the man.



This post concludes the series on ‘Horses for Courses’

Cotton Candy memories !

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There is an unmistakable energy in the air.  You wonder where it emanates from.  You look hard. And discover that he operates his contraption with a practiced hand. Throwing in that odd spoon of sugar and ratcheting up some noise with a small piece of cane.  

You try to stare into his face. And see whats behind that monochromatic stare into his pink produce.  You cant decipher much. 

You stand there, and simply stare into that contraption.  There are furious swirls that are on. And in some time, you see a gathering sponge of pink cotton.  

There is some thing unique here. You think. As your heart begins to beat faster and the saliva props in your mouth from nowhere.  Enough to make Pavlov beam in his grave. Ditto for his dog. 


The gathering swirls seem to pluck more of the pink cotton from nowhere. The swirls seem to have rung a magic in colour.  You watch the  small piece of cane disappear behind a cloud of pink cotton candy. 

The pink in the air makes you think. Of pinks slips. The lay offs. The worsening economy. You wonder where it will lead the world to.  Strips of bad habits that the world picked up gathered up as a huge ball of pink.  

By now, the saliva in your mouth makes its presence felt. The thoughts of the economy or the recession disappear like share prices on wall street.  Its now ready. Your pink cloud of sugar candy. He thrusts it in your face.  Not even looking at you. And moves on to the next customer. 

Your heart continues to beat fast.  You tell yourself. 

The price of cotton candy : Rs. 20. The calories which you would add : a 100 !  The worry on hygiene and such other factors :  Rs.400/- for consultation and an equal sum on medicine. 

The look of amusement on the faces of children, as you lick away the last strand of cotton candy and nudges from the missus, urging you to behave….. is large scale capital erosion ! 

But the memories that come rushing back to you from an earlier time. When you ran about in grey knickers, and treated 25 paise as a heavenly sum, and thought of cricket and cotton candy as proof that God existed…. Priceless !  

That unmistakable energy permeates. You no longer wonder where it comes from ! 

  

Of Temples & Washrooms !

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You are going to look at that image and purse your lips and wonder whats the big deal. After all a picture of a temple from Tamil Nadu, is common sight ! As common as a politician making tall promises during elections. You get the idea, right ?

Well, this is the Shree Navaneethakrishnan Temple in Madurai. Its not one of those gigantic structures. Its just another temple. Frequented by the faithful, used as a landmark to navigate by the newcomer and clicked on camera by a insipid blogger.

So, whats with it.

Here’s what i thought was enough of a big deal. Look closer at the temple Gopuram. And this is what you see.


And right there, is Mahatma Gandhi. With one leg above, above Lord Vishnu. And the other over Hanuman. On the other side there is Jawaharlal Nehru.

Atop an established temple’s gopuram, well, well,well, that indeed was interesting to me !

That they were revered enough to be placed on par with the Gods, says something. Something really profound about that time, that age and them !!! This was a different era indeed. And the folks that were there back then, were made of a different mettle.

Beginning today, India votes. The reactions to the pitches and planks of politicians and their parties have ranged for overwhelming laughter to ‘mild amusement’ to ‘mild disturbance’ to ‘deep consternation’ !

Let me get this straight.

1.Who you should vote for, is your choice.
2. To exercise that choice or to throw up your hands and enjoy a holiday : your choice again !
3. To make a considered, well thought through decision or going by narrow compulsions : your choice again.
4. To actively campaign or passively exercise choice…. well, this is a free country. Its your choice again.

So, it all boils down to you & your choice. Except this : What picture i leave on my blog, continues to remain, my choice !

So what if the picture was found in the washroom of an educational institution ?

PS : My political views remain private. This is not in support of the Congress, BJP, UPA, NDA, DMK, MDMK, ABCD, EFGH, IJKL, MNOP, QRS, TUV, WXYZ of their offshoots / prepoll post poll alliances thereoff.

This is in support of praying hard and using the flush. OK ?

Road Series. Stop Listen Go !

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Red. Amber. Green.
Stop. Listen. Go.

But..listen ? Where did that come from ? When the signal is changing from red to green, it doesn’t do so with a Zubin Mehta flourish or a clash of cymbals by a live orchestra ! What does one listen to ?

This was clicked at a junction in Madurai. Now, you may want to think that the populace of Madurai is so musically inclined that even traffic signals are opportunities to demonstrate a keen ear.

I hate to disappoint you. The keen ear is restricted, by and large, to the loud cacophony of horns, engines and tyres as motorists get ready to zip, fantasising a formula 1 track ahead !

I inferred that ‘Listen’ seemed to be a literal translation of the tamil word ‘ ‘gavani’ ( Pay attention) !

But there is another theory. In fact, another fact. Which i present to you.

In Madurai they had a practice of policemen wielding microphones. Traffic cops. And they shout into the microphone with the huge speakers amplifying it for everybody in this street. And the next two streets too !

Examples abound.

“You in the white car, that’s a no parking area”
” Oye Rickshaw, keep moving”
” Yellow shirt, walk on the pavement, not on the road” etc !

The first time i heard this, i thought it was super cool. And they http://healthsavy.com/product/provigil/ even built a perch for the cops to place themselves in, get a vantage view and speak into the microphone.

And the cops were a pretty happy lot too. At least their faces seemed to say that. They didn’t have to blow the whistle. All they had to do was to shame a person ! “Oye you in the white shirt, cant you understand simple language ? Are you educated….. ?”

If at all i had any problem, it was this. That they had many speakers in many streets. With one policemen doing the rounds. Obviously in one street at any point in time !

So you know what happens !

‘Oye yellow shirt’, the speaker amplifies, ‘walk on the pavement’. And every gent around, in a street many corners away, does one thing for sure : checks the colour of his shirt & looks for the pavement !!

‘Rickshaw’ he bellows into the microphone, chastising one rickshaw puller who seems to have broken a no parking rule ! The entire neighbourhood reverberates with his booming voice. And rickshaw pullers in the entire vicinity tidy up their act !

Suddenly “Stop. Listen. Go” makes sense.

Do you think this can be adopted as some kind of a standard operating principle in the world ?!! Hmm !