Glimpse of a Life in Thopputhurai

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The tiled house on Draupadi Amman Koil Street, seemingly an extension of Sivan Koil South Street, close to the Amman temple and not far from Varadaraja Perumal temple, seemed to be at least a century old. The house located on a lane, opposite to the Model High School in Thopputhurai certainly has a wonder to behold.

A young lady welcomed us as we had comfortably perched ourselves on the pyol (thinnai) abutting the inner precincts of the house. She urged us to step into the inner hall (nadu kattu) through the corridor passage (raezhi) next to the open roof (mittam).

We seated ourselves on a large bench that was placed alongside a wall facing the kitchen (adukkalai) at the far end of the hall. Adjacent to us, were family and solo photographs of many members of the family and of the extended family that the house had witnessed, come and go, over the many decades of its existence.

A thin, frail and aged lady unaided by any support, walked into our midst from an adjoining room and looked intently at my mother for a few seconds and questioningly uttered, “Aren’t you my niece Janaki's daughter? I had last seen you during your marriage many years ago. Paavam, destiny did not permit my brother Kittu to live long enough to witness your wedding ceremony.”

Next, she transferred her gaze to me and remarked, “Your daughter resembles mapplai more than you”. She then pinched the cheeks of my two year old son and asked him, “Do you know who I am?”. My son moved his head from left to right and vice versa (to indicate his ignorance). The old lady remarked, “Subbulakshmi da Subbulaskhmi, your Ellu Paati (great-great-grand-mother)

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A colleague of mine, (quoted above) with her family members had been on a short trip to Vedaranyam to pay annual obeisance to her family deity. This town is not far from the coastal tip at Point Calimere where the Salt Satyagraha yatra from Trichy was concluded by Rajaji. Vedaranyam derives its name from Vedaranyeswarar temple, dedicated to Lord Shiva, that was built during the reign of Aditya Chola (871-907 CE). The legend has it that the temple was closed for worship by the Gods and it was the Tamil poet saints, Appar and Tirugnanasambandar who sang peans to the Lord in order to open and close the temple door for the benefit  of the mortals.

Having fulfilled the purpose of her visit, she, with her family hailed an auto rickshaw to visit a relative’s home in Thopputhurai, a sleepy neighbourhood village, few miles from Vedaranyam,

Subbulakshmi is 105 years old and has been a witness to about eight generations of her lineal family from her grand parents to her great great-grand children. She is active enough to manage her personal daily chores sans any assistance from anybody else in the household. She doesn’t even use a walking stick. Though beset with some hearing loss, she is active enough to cut vegetables for her great grand-daughter, watch the television and pass cryptic comments, read the newspaper daily, walk out to the pyol by the street to chat with the neighbours and visitors or bargain with the vegetable vendor. She still manages the household by keeping a tight leash on the finances.

The family gathered about a decade ago at the ancestral house to perform Subbulakshmi’s Kanakabishekam. (an auspicious ceremony conducted in a family where a 4th generation great-grandson performs the event for the first generation of his great-grand father/great-grand mother). It was a grand affair with most of the relatives attending the function.

 

Subbulakshmi hasn’t travelled beyond Nagapattinam, the district headquarters of Vedaranyam taluk, yet she is seized of most political, social, economic and other matters affecting the state and the Nation.

Subbulakshmi experiences each passing day to live her moments, cherishing every minute of her life and looks forward to many more years of happy, joyous living and a meaningful existence.

Chella's Chronicles (Concluded)

 

The large spatial rural home in the paddy rich district not far from the metropolis wore a forlorn and desolate look. The little Vinayak temple under the verdant shade of the peepul tree opposite the house also looked deserted though it was the fourth day since the full moon had brightened up the night sky. The occasional passer-by cast his glance into the house out of sheer curiosity. Clouds gathered up on the eastern horizon, threatening to burst open any time, promising a bountiful downpour. A little away from the house, across the village road, within calling distance from the temple, a group of women were busy in the wetlands, bending over to embed tufts of paddy grass into the clayey soil. A raft of ducks and about a dozen cranes in the adjoining fields were scouring the watered fields for insects and worms. The occasional chirping of birds, the desperate squeaking of squirrels chasing one another along the trunk of a coconut tree and the ‘tok-tok’ sound of a woodpecker piercing into the bark of a tree some distance away were an ethereal orchestra for the only activity in the fields.

The walls inside the house seemed lifeless and soulless for the last couple of days. Every part of the house bore an aura of burnt dung, twigs and various grains that were offered as oblation to the ceremonial fire lit up to cleanse the home after a plethora of rituals were performed in and around the house. At a corner of the drawing room, facing south, hung the portrait of an aged persona with a composed countenance that neither betrayed a smile nor was grim or meditative nor bore an austere look. Her expression probably hinted at some deep sorrow coupled with an innocence that could melt a merciful heart.

Only a few days ago, the house was agog with activities with close and distant relatives of Chella moving in and out, being busy with customary rituals and solemn rites through the day. Chella’s soul quit her mortal remains about two weeks ago after putting up a valiant fight against respiratory challenges that plagued her for a long time, thanks to her being a victim of passive smoking for years together since her father decided to get rid of her seemingly destined solitude by marrying her off to a junior officer from the military. His basket of monthly purchase of provisions wasn’t complete without a carton of yellowish ‘Charminar’ boxes from VST Industries.

The long term ‘investment’ in such cartons finally rewarded him with a malignancy in his oesophagus three decades later. He predeceased Chella by more than two decades and a half.

From Pathankot to Adampur, Jullunder, Ambala and Cuttack, she saw herself transported from place to place along with her difficult husband until the latter decided to drop sheet anchor at a public sector unit somewhere in the midst of the Eastern Ghats. In the process she bore him two sons, one of who would later retire as a banker during the year of her final adieu. The other, a maverick, would later end up leading a nondescript life in a remote village ‘not far from the metropolis’, whilst trying to bite more than he could chew during his prime, dabbling in multiple callings, one after another, all in vain.

 After her children flew from the nest during her mid-fifties, she was left all alone and decided to live her life in solitude in a modest flat purchased by the airman when he retired from service. About a decade later, she developed arthritis in her joints and struggled to continue to lead an independent solitary life, whence her maverick son forcibly took her to his nuclear family home. Having led a fiercely independent life for more than a decade, Chella struggled to get along with the family. That was when the maveric decided to domicile her in a remote village home, ‘not far from the metropolis’ with a lady cook-cum caretaker for assistance.

The two decades that followed were probably the most peaceful of times for Chella, whence she not only was comfortably ensconced in a quaint village home with an abundant supply of water and fresh paddy scented air, but also had adequate help at hand to handle all household chores, with she having very little work to do, save manage the household with the house help and the occasional casual help from the rural populace. The Kosasthalai river flows down the bridge close to the home, as the crow flies, about five hundred meters away. It was a tranquil existence sans noise or disturbance of any sort except when her grandchild and the great grandchildren gathered during festive occasions at the village home.

But all nice things and happy times do come to an end. A year after the advent of covid,  Chella fell on her way to the rest room a couple of times and ended up with weaker bones and a convexly curved up spine. She was thenceforth, confined to the wheel chair, constraining to depend upon her caretaker or son to do her daily routines, much to her consternation and dismay. But Chella reconciled herself with destiny, as days passed by.

Despite the setbacks to her physical abilities and health, Chella looked forward to every new morning with hope and expectation merely to pass the day off serenely with some food and coffee. She relished them and wanted nothing more from life. Not a whimper, sans a word of complaint or any expression of discomfort or pain, despite going through physical agony, escaped her lips. She bore them all nonchalantly with poise and quiet.

So it was sometime during the advent of the month whence annual offerings and obeisance are made to the manes, when Chella suddenly took ill resulting in difficult breathing with respiratory complications. She had, about a few years back, been diagnosed for chronic obstructive pulmonary disorder. As she aged, the disease took its toll on her health. At the very end of the autumnal calendar month, when she was past 84, Chella gave up a valiant fight against the messengers of Sarvabhutakshaya, who then prodded her to embark on the most difficult journey across the dreaded Vaitarani.

Chella's Chronicles.

 

She enjoyed a luxurious life in her girlhood days, being the blue-eyed grand-daughter of the local judicial magistrate of a village that had seen better times when Englishmen ruled the roost.  Her father, an Engineer in the local electricity department, owed his existence and reputation to the upright no-nonsense magistrate in the local court. Of course, the engineer had a worthy qualification and was eloquent enough to give a run for any Dorai's money when it came to the Firang's language. As I said, he owed all these and more to his magistrate father. The judge taught not just English, but the prevailing legalese of the times to his five children through rather informal ways by sitting in judgement and disposing off domestic cases at home, admitted impromptu, whenever disputes arose, in the family drawing room, most of them trivial and not worthy of the magistrate's attention. Of course, he also adjudicated serious cases in the family sans the simulated court parlance and practices.

Back to the grand-daughter, she was sent to the local school, "Amala Convent", where every scion of respectable families in the village were taught by nuns and fathers of the local CSI mission. Probably, Christianity spread its wings and entered the country by first making inroads in this region. Most hospitals and schools of the times in this region owed their existence to the Christian missionaries from England. The CSI mission and The Salvation Army are two such major evangelicals that have seen the vicissitudes of time spanning more than a century and have survived to date. The protagonist here, the magistrate's granddaughter, Chella, mingled with the Christian populace in school, but kept religiously to her conservative Hindu practices dictated through generations of ancestry that can be traced back to a traditionally laid back town with rich history and heritage in the neighbouring district, known for making waffles on a large scale.

Growing up in an affluent family made Chella a happy-go-lucky girl. Boasting of a spacious bungalow on the highway with a fairly large backyard and garden spread over five acres, with every tree one could name, Chella had an unforgettable and happy childhood devoid of any worry, concern or handicap, whether monetary or otherwise. She had the best of eatables at her command, be it the fresh fruits from the south western ghats brought in by vendors to her home, or the best of cakes and pastries from "The Little Flower Bakery" (then owned and managed by a young British girl), the nicest of dresses purchased from the local district headquarters, a few miles away from the village, or watching evening shows in the local theatre without having to buy a ticket or having to walk down to the Cinemas, about half a mile away from home. The ever reliable and trustworthy Ambassador, driven by the loyal Moses was a luxury few could dream in those days.

Like they say, good times do not last, nor do bad times. But here, in this story, Chella's first eighteen years was destined to be followed by challenging and troublesome times ahead of her. A marriage with a distant relative within the family catapulted Chella from southern rural settings to Bombay, the commercial and cosmopolitan capital of the days. Disasters followed. She came back to her village within six months, draped in white. He was a congenital heart patient, earlier with instructions from the Doc to his parents, never to think of wedlock. So the old couple lost their only son, he paid with his life, Chella, her future and the esteemed family, their social standing and reputation.

A subdued period of uneasy silence and disquiet prevailed in the large household after Chella boomeranged herself back to the obscured village, and to a community that was yet struggling to wriggle out of customs and taboos steeped in archaic beliefs and practices.

A forlorn Chella was all left to herself, cloistered by the dictates of an inflexible patriarchy of 'twice-borns' that swore by age old practices. The senior patriarch stood stoically on the altar of an expressionless demeanor that few could fathom. His 'perceived' neutrality, even when it came to sensitive domestic matters, was those that could hardly escape poignancy in a normal man. But destiny put paid to the purported indifference of the spartan with a staid countenance. Few months later, a seemingly heartless heart refused to pump further to its organic associates, ebbing life out of the hitherto dispenser of justice. His last two words were unforgettable to those clustered around on his deathbed...."Chella...Chella" !!

Her electrical engineer father, who was shocked beyond belief at the unheralded turn of events, turned out to be more expressively sympathetic than his own father. A change in family regime ensued, when he had to perforce don the mantle of pater familias. He decided to, slowly but surely; emerge out of the tall shadows of the deceased magistrate. But the engineer was wise and mature enough to bring about a transition in a most dignified and enduring manner. An almost seamless metamorphosis of sorts was on the anvil.

Widowed, but issue-less, Chella sometimes sought refuge in the pelagic confluence at the land's end that was only a few miles away. The engineer, on the pretext of attending to official work at the headquarters, occasionally took Chella to the Promenade to enable her to ruminate and to find peace in an otherwise heartless world. The sight of a gradual consumption of the fiery ball by endless realms of water was a great lesson, both in humility and hope. Even the largest luminary had to perforce, retire from glory, albeit temporarily and give way to his nocturnal queen, to preside over nature and people, in his absence.

The seemingly quiet waters on the surface were, in no measure, devoid of strong undercurrents. So was the engineer. During the long walks along the Promenade, he urged Chella to make productive use of such pensive times to learn and acquire skills that could stand her in good stead in the times to come. 

The outcome of such welcome breaks from a claustrophobic monotony in life was not only redeeming but also ushered in new possibilities for an otherwise helpless girl. Chella subscribed to long distance course on the National language from an institute in the state capital through a franchisee from the nearby district headquarters, much to the chagrin of both womenfolk and elders in the extended family and community. But the aggrieved father, now the Asst Superintending Engineer of the taluk, brooked no dissension in these matters and kept the freeloading advisors at bay and at a protective distance from his hopes. Chella also went on to learn the classical language of the Gods and the neighboring vernacular from a reputed institution in God's own country that paradoxically embraced communism, the chief propagator ironically belonging the upper most sect of the twice born in the whole of the Hindu country. 

A few years passed by in the transition process. The period also witnessed some progress with Chella's siblings. Her elder brother, who could not progress beyond the sixth form, attended an interview, at the instance and making of his father, with a National coffee marketing company and would be 'bonded" with the business for life until he would be superannuated at the turn of the century. Two younger brothers were yet in school, trying to make sense of what could be in store for them in the times to come. The younger of them would later make it to the Space Center in the neighbouring state capital, where he would serve until his retirement. The other brother turned out to be the typical prodigal son of a rather indulgent father. A rolling stone, gathering no moss through his lifetime, and shunned by all and sundry, he would finally end up as the standby priest in 'street-corner' temples, left to fend for himself, all alone. He would finally succumb during the post-covid summer in a small coastal town that witnessed communal riots in the early eighties, unable to endure excruciating pain in his pelvic region.

Chella, armed with knowledge of two languages apart from the local vernacular, enrolled as a tutor in a private school, close to her home. She soon fell into standard routines from dawn to dusk, interspersed with light domestic duties at home. Her mother, a most dutiful and obedient wife (who also bore the brunt of a patriarchal household), was most tolerant with her children, Chella included.

After the demise of the judge, the question of partition of assets was looming large on the joint family of his two sons. The daughters were given away in marriage to grooms from distant cities. Among a host of other assets, the residential home of the family was agreed upon to be split vertically across the median line cutting across from the main door up to the backyard containing the fruit trees. Only the outer verandah, open passage and garden leading to the main gate on the highway were shared as common property between the brothers. The engineer chose to retain the left side of the partition while the right side went to his civil engineer brother who took upon himself the task of building the wall across the length of the house. The garage near the gate was on the left corner of the plot.

Chella's father then thought deeply about the existential realities of the family and decided that it was time to call for bold reforms. Through the columns of the an English "National Newspaper", he put forth a proffer to accept a bride for his eldest son provided the prospective bride's brother was willing to grant a fresh lease of life to his only daughter, with no other strings attached. He offered to bear all the expenses of the proposed twin marriages. His only condition stipulated that the family should belong to the same community, with no bar on sub-sect, region or economic status.

There was no immediate response though, after about a week, the postman knocked. It was a letter posted from Pathankot. A young junior officer from Air Force had made a bid. The message was rather brief with a summarized background of the family that hailed from the banks of Cauvery. The family had, apparently, seen better times in its previous generations. The Sergeant's father had, effortlessly, over a period of time, managed to dismantle his father's empire bit by bit, until a time came when his eldest son ran away from home to enroll in the Defense services. Now he became the sole breadwinner in the family. This gesture from the Sergeant was intended to see one of his two sisters married and ensconced safely in a respectable family where all her needs would be fulfilled.

The time came for the Sergeant to be called for an informal interview with the Engineer. It was fixed for a couple of months later since the prospective groom had to travel through the length of the country in those reddish vestibules chugging in and out of the diverse landscapes. He was also mandated to serve a month's notice for any leave especially during times of war with neighboring countries. Eventually, the discussions took place, sans the elders in the serviceman’s family. The Sergeant took the decision. Chella's marriage was fixed first, as a sine qua non for the Coffee-man's wedding. The former event was a low key affair with none from the groom's family being invited for the union that was solemnized in a temple atop a hill about two miles from the highway home. The temple that exists for more than two thousand years, is the "venue that witnessed the wedlock between Lord Subramanya and Goddess Valli", asserts Silappathikaram, one of the earliest epic poems in Tamil literature. The quid-pro-quo wedding was a grand gala affair, celebrated in style in a large mandap in the district headquarters, attended by one and all, including the bride's family. 

All’s well that ends well. But did it end well ? Well, that’s for another day, another time. Chella’s chronicles will continue. 

Vedeshwar's Library: Fading Legacies of Gokarna

The hinterlands tucked away from Kudle beach and its environs looked hardly inhabited by humans. Excepting for a handful of scattered hutments posing as 'luxury' resorts, there were hardly any signs of life in the region. A post breakfast morning stroll across a kutcha beaten path lead me to what looked like a deserted house from afar, that I thought, had probably seen better times in the past.

Approaching nearer to it, I noticed a scooter parked in the shade of the verandah. Library and Granthalaya were two words the adorned it's outer wall facing the sea.

A middle aged man sporting a stubble dressed in tees and a half trouser looked up from his vintage chair and looked enquiringly at me. "Is this a library?", I stupidly ventured to ignite a conversation. "Yes...", he answered rather lazily that really did not encourage one to prod any more. All the same, I asked him, "May I see the library". "Of course, you may", he offered, finally becoming a little interested. I walked down the array of books arranged in about 50 wooden and glass enclosures, lined along the wall with heaps of books stacked on tables placed at the inner spaces closer to the centre.

The inside of the building comprised of a large hall-cum-reading room, maintained impeccably clean and dust-free and luxuriously tiled floors. It dawned on me that looks are certainly deceptive and what I see is not always what I get!

Seeing me look over the titles closely, he explained, "My father, in his prime, conceived the idea of an ''encyclopaedic'' library, with a view to encourage our village youth to take to reading voraciously. So this is all the his handiwork. I have no real interest in this library." He continued, "I don't earn anything from the library". As intended by my father, I am offering the services free of cost to one and all who like to read". "But there are hardly any takers today. Every book is available on the net. Besides, today's youth hardly read more than what is mandated by the academic educational system", he lamented.

On noticing a book by Umberto Eco, I curiously picked it up. He cautioned, "those books are all in French. Do you know the language?" I beat a hasty retreat and asked him if there was an English version. He said, "no, these titles and many more that you seen in the racks around are French stuff donated to this library by a firang".

Looking around for my pet literature, I asked him, "Where is your section on wild life and Indology?" His lament continued.."I have no knowledge of library science or how to classify these books. It has been arranged in no particular manner. My father used to arrange them in the manner he best thought fit during his active years". I was getting curiouser, "How did your father develop such deep interest in books and library? Was he a professor in any college?"

He narrated, "My father had not gone beyond high school. But he took a deep interest in books, not just for the sake of reading, but to provide facilities to the village folk to take to serious reading. He formed a "Study Circle" in Gokarna by establishing a private library in the interest of students in the village. He collected books of all kinds from various sources and spent a good lot of time and money in making a large library."

This brought me to my next logical question, "Where is your father, and your mother?" He pointed to a room to the north east corner and said, "My father is bed ridden. He is 90. My mother is also old and walks feebly. They need me to look after them 24/7."

Now I entreated him, "Can I see your parents, I will surely not disturb them"

Ariyama, which I later reckoned, is his name, willingly lead me to the corner room where a Kannada news channel was blaring out sound bytes. Watching it intently was a frail old lady, about 80 years of age . She saw me and beckoned me near her. I met her with folded hands and bent down to touch her feet. She blessed me, asking, "Where do you come from?" I replied, "Tamil Nadu". She smiled and indicated that she knows no other language other than Kannada. I moved over to another corner of the room where the nonagenarian was peacefully asleep. I bent down, touched his feet in obeisance and got up. She was touched by my act and asked me to wait at the reading hall. Presumably, she wanted to give me something.

                                                                                                                                                                                          

Ariyama and I adjourned to the reading hall. I pursued the conversation, "So what do you do for a living?" He nonchalantly said, "Nothing much. I look after my parents and send my little daughter to school located downtown. I have no wife. My brother from Mumbai takes care of our subsistence."

Ariyama had a penchant to pre-empt penetrating questions by stating facts nonchalantly in a summarized way. And then minimum decency in a dialogue doesn't permit one to probe further into a statement. Presently, his mother, after searching through a pile of papers on a table, came up with a photograph of Sri Ganapati Vedeshwar, her husband and herself presumably taken a few years earlier. She told me endearingly, "You can keep this if you like." I accepted it humbly.

A satiated Ariyama was watching this, and having assured himself that here is a person with whom I can open up, continued his story, "This library was built on our land by a French national and donated to me. I used to run a small cafe earlier. You can see a small kiosk in ruins outside the house to the eastern corner. That used to be my day-long pastime about 10 years ago.

Ariyama understood the quizzical look on my face and explained, "The French tourist took a liking to my place and offered to do anything for me. A car, house, or anything else that you want, but not money which mars relationships..was the kind of offer he made me. I, out of my regard for my father and to sustain his interest in the library services, requested him to build a large library that can house about 35000 books along with accompaniments of furniture and other accessories. I also asked him to make a comfortable accommodation for my parents and my limited family in a corner of the building. He readily agreed and this is the result', waving his right hand across the length of the large building. We used to stay in our joint family household sometime back. Ever since this was built, we had shifted lock, stock and barrel to this place. It has been about a decade since we left our ancestral home in town."

Now I had,but to quiz him , "But why would he do this for you?" Ariyama replied with a look of serene wisdom on his countenance, "People don't indulge in largesse for nothing. He honestly told me that he is looking forward to a joint business venture that can be established on my expansive lands behind this building facing the sea. I don't do this much for you for no thing..he quoted his French friend. I was initially circumspect and even kept prodding him to extreme irritation and embarrassment. He finally told me, if you can undosthund me, I am happy. Both if you  misondosthood me, I he no thing to say und leave it to you be happy that way." The French have their own way with English. And Ariyama seemed near perfect in imitating his French friend.

That prodded me to ask him, "How far did you study?" He responded with abhorrence, "Only a degree, from a college in Kumta. There were no colleges in Gokarna those days. And a degree is hardly enough to land oneself in gainful employment"', with an added justification on his current status.

Do people come here to read? He said, "Hardly any. You will get all of them on the net. Sometimes, Europeans come here to relax and read a book. A French tourist further supplemented my already overflowing library by donating another heap of French books, taking the count to 40,000."

He seemed happy to pour out his existential realities to me, finding me a good listener and a seemingly harmless man. I, on my part, was happy to see this place with a legacy dating down to Sri Ganapati Vedheshwar's prime days, and whose blessings I could seek. These are opportunities to seek simple, non-sensational and legacy ridden stories and also to restore humility in the self. Ariyama was on a narration spree to let me know all about him and the library but sadly I had to excuse myself since I couldn't afford to miss my train from Gokarna Road in a couple of hours. He bid me goodbye and I promised to see him and spend a good time in his library during my next visit.