Vettangudi - A Deserted Bird Habitat

Writing about beautiful places, eye catching landscapes, pristine hillsides and exotic places is cliche. Lets also explore the untold stories of natural history that were once occupying the pride of place among the former category. May be this could help to restore the lost glory and in case it doesn't, at least help revel in nostalgia for people who matter in/for such places.
 
Ever since I bought my new Royal Enfield (my first bike experience in half a century), I have been on a plenty of road trips to explore roads less taken, across the state and beyond. This has given me a an unbridled sense of joy and new found freedom.

In a recent bike trip to a pilgrim center, Tirukoshtiyur near Tirupattur (a Divya Desham temple forming one of a chain of 108 temples spread across the South), I decided to explore the surrounding geographies for anything interesting to see and to write home about.


Vettangudi is a place I identified in the maps that is not far from this pilgrim center. This place, I learned then, is a bird sanctuary and preserve that sees a variety of pelicans, herons and similar species of birds flocking together during winters from November to February.

At a rough distance of about 8 km on the state highway from Tirupattur that goes down to Sivaganga, one finds the Vishnu temple mentioned above that is dedicated to the Lord with a special sanctum for Ramanujam (of Sriperumbudur) who popularized the secret mantra of Vaishnavaism. Another road that branches to the right of the state highways takes one to Madurai via Melur. At an approximate distance of about 11 kms on this road from Tirupattur, one comes across an arch to the left that welcomes visitors to the bird preserve, Vettangudi. Alternatively, if one has to travel from Tirukoshtiyur, a village road from this temple leads directly to the TPT-Madurai highway in about 9 kms. From here a left turn and a further ride of about 3 kms, leads one to the same place. I took the latter route to the site for the obvious reason.

A further ride for about 500 metres takes one to the heart of the preserve. To my dismay and utter shock, I notice that the lake is bone dry with hardly any bird in sight. Parking my "chariot of a bike" in the cool shade of a giant jackfruit tree, I proceeded to explore the environs for any sightings. Walking up on a well laid out path along the banks of what was once supposed to be a meandering water body, all I could see was a couple of cows grazing on the bed of the slender shaped lake with a forlorn little egret peering into a damp patch for insects.

Climbing up a watch tower near the lake, I reached the top without much ado. As far as the eye could see, I could only notice large patches of shrubs drying up under the hot sun, amidst parched lands that depicted a tell tale story of woes that the bird heaven must have underwent in the recent past. Climbing down the tower in utter disappointment, I was greeted by an old man idling away on a stone bench on the banks of the dry rivulet.

I went down and sat next to him. I decided to look at the past glory of the reserve through his seemingly omniscient eyes which also seemed to bear testimony to a lifetime of pain and struggle. Striking up a conversation, we went on thus....

Me: Why this state of affairs here, Periyavare?

He: Sir, don't you know that our region has been reeling under severe drought for the last three years or so? How can birds survive here now.... just as my children and grandsons have left this village for good?

Me: Pray, Whats your name, what do you do for a living?

He: I am Madhava Perumal. I used to till my land until a decade ago. At my age, I can hardly engage in any vocation. I am 87.

Me: Tell me about the history of this bird reserve.

He: This place was taken over by the forest department about 40 years ago when a variety of birds started taking refuge in the water bodies that were formed on spilling over from nearby irrigation lakes. Ever since, this place was breezing with visitors and local people who used to flock every weekend for leisure. You would have noticed the sanctuary admin office of the Govt at the entrance of the road, that has now been locked and deserted for years. I haven't seen anyone from the Govt department here for ages! For the past 3 to 4 years, scanty or no rain has put paid to our place.

Me: What kind of species flocked here in the past?


He: The sanctuary has since gone dry and is bereft of any bird species now. We used to see a wide variety of birds...Neelachiruvi (Blue winged teal), Karandi Vayan (Spoonbills), Vellai Mookan (White Ibis), Saambal Kokku (Grey Heron) and a plethora of other birds that converged here during the cold season.

Me: Did you study? You seem to be familiar with Tamil Literature (He often quoted lines from Tiruvachakam and Thevaram, medieval Tamil texts of the Sangam period that dwelt on religion and ethics)

He: I studied up to the 6th Form. During those days, we studied, not to pass exams, but to gain awareness of our history, geography and literature, the last being our guiding principles in life.

Me: Where are your children and the grand ones?

He: Some of them are in Madras. They earn enough to feed themselves. I had been there recently for a month, but came back here. This is a place I love, whatever be the state of affairs here. I have seen life here through vicissitudes of time and certainly hope for better days to come.

Me: Whats the nature of the village economy now?

He: This village abutting the water bodies is known as Kollugudipatti. Farming was our only vocation until sometime back. With no rains, we have abandoned the lands. Earnings from tourists was a mainstay for sometime. Now this is also gone. Some have sold their lands to eke out a living. Some of us depend on doles from our children and grand children....Life goes on irrespective of our struggles for existence!

He: There are about 70 houses here, half of them occupied, the rest peopled but they, hardly occupied!

Me: Why can't you dig bore wells to source water for farming?

He: The Costs are too prohibitive and we cannot bear the electricity charges as free energy is available only upto an inadequate limit...and then resources are hardly available to till, sow, upkeep or harvest. We cannot afford the machines. Hence we are attuned to be content with a sqaure meal or two if we are sometimes lucky.

As I bid farewell to him after parting with a "Red Fort" note (he was pleasantly surprised), Madhava Perumal thanked me, not before looking up into the sky, sighting a heron bypassing the reserve.I was reminded of the Salil-Majrooh composition......Life seems to be..."Maya"!

 jaa re, jaa re ud jaa re panchhi
 bahaaron ke des jaa re
 yahaan kyaa hai mere pyaare
 kyun ujad gayi bagiyaa mere man ki
 
 naa daali rahi naa kali
 ajab gham ki "Sookha" chali
 udi dukh ki dhool raahon mein
 

 jaa re ye gali hai birhan ki
 bahaaron ke des jaa re
 yahaan kyaa hai mere pyaare
 kyun ujad gayi bagiyaa mere man ki
 jaa re....

...And mulling over Mahakavi Bharathiar's eternal lines.. 

காண்பதெல்லாம் மறையுமென்றால்        
மறைந்ததெல்லாம் காண்பமன்றோ           
நானும் ஓர் கனவோ                                           
இந்த ஞாலமும் பொய்தானோ....                   

Muthulakshmi

I first saw Muthulakshmi about a decade ago as a lean but an active woman in her early seventies, trying to eke out a living by running errands for people who temporarily employed her or by resorting to odd jobs in the vicinity of her hut, masonry being one of them.

During those times when the economy was driven by recessionary trends, I had identified a piece of land measuring about 8 cents by a village road, not far from another piece of half-an acre farmland, both of which had come up for sale in the rural district of Tiruvallur, about 50 kms from "Singara Chennai". Having not much to do in the city after the devastation in the markets, I decided to 'do' what I had wished to do for a long time ever since I had had enough of city life. I decided to move to the rural countryside and do 'nothing' in the guise of 'looking after my farm' and 'taking care of my aged mother'. I could fancy myself enjoying a siesta after a sumptuous meal on a jute woven cot under the shade of a neem or a peepal tree at a corner of a paddy field on a hot sunny day! This, I thought is bliss one could die for!

Having purchased the land, I proceeded to build a small house by the forlorn road, overlooking the paddy fields. Within a week of commencement of construction,  Muthulakshmi accosted me as I was about to leave the site in my car and bade me to get down to talk to her on some "serious business".

She took me on by asking, "I come from my place that is across and beyond those paddy fields. How can you employ non-locals for a civil construction in our locality when we people from this village hardly have any means of livelihood?" I retorted, "Pious lady, I need more people for the job, please bring a half a dozen of your tribe for the odd masonry work." Muthu blinked and looked at me in the eye, "What do you think of me? Don't you see that I am fit enough to help build great homes? Look at the double storey construction opposite to the Panchayat office...I was the most  indispensable person responsible for the cool comfort that this corrupt Sarpanch has been basking in for a good time now." I then asked my contracted engineer to accommodate her and left.

On an occasion when I had once come on a weekend visit to monitor the progress of my new home under construction, I found Muthu haggling with the contractor over wages payable to her for the week. On enquiry, I surmised that her demands were legitimate and that the contractor was trying to stick to a shoestring budget by squeezing work out of her and trying to make a fat margin from the project. I promised Muthu that I would compensate her for such shortages at the end of the project and brought peace with her.

The house was soon completed and was nestling beautifully amidst the coconut and neem trees and overlooking the paddy fields which brought in fresh paddy scented air into the parking area and the tiny garden.

As is the custom in rural TN, all workers were presented with new clothes during the house warming ceremony and I did not forget to get a nice saree for Muthu. She took it gleefully but reminded me of my offer to compensate her work, notwithstanding this gift, considering the fact that all and sundry were given such gifts by default on such occasions.

Thereafter, every time I visited my countryside house, Muthu, if she spotted me, would come running after my car and ask for the promised gift, and I would get away by making some excuse and that I would get it done during Diwali. Diwali came and went  and then it was promised for Pongal but all I did was forget my promise, yet Muthu very optimistically but tirelessly kept reminding me about my unfulfilled obligation.

A few years later when I had shifted lock, stock and barrel to the village, I found Muthu squatting in front of my house in a pitiable condition. She looked frail, sick and weak, fighting for breath, holding on to a twig of a walking stick with tattered clothes and tears welling down her cheeks that told a thousand words about her agony. Her son and daughter-in-law had reportedly driven her out of her native home!

I asked my cook to give her some food and satisfy her hunger. I also pushed some money into her palms. She then left bidding me, "Mavarasana iru Raja, Ne nalla irukkanum" (Approximate translation: I bless you a king's life, you will do well). She then made her way to a nearby free medical dispensary run by a Hindu religious mission.

The next time when I saw Muthu, she was begging for alms at the Sarpanch's house where she was rudely turned away by the women folk of the house. She turned around and on seeing me, tears welling down her eyes, rushed to my car and beseeched me for some money or to buy her food. I sent her to the local restaurant and called up the cashier to do the needful. From then on it was a common sight to see her languishing hither and thither on Vinayak Temple Street, begging for alms. I had given standing instructions to my cook to feed Muthu whenever she knocked at our door.

Strangely, for an interval of time lasting about six months, Muthu seemed to have disappeared. I was wondering whatever has happened of her...had she abruptly left the village for an old age home run by the Hindu religious mission?  or had she left for the local taluk headquarters where one of her brothers had a vehicle repair and maintenance shop? or Was she..?

Then finally last week, she made a sudden reappearance at my door,  squatted as usual and was trying to communicate with me in sign language as I was removing the car from the portico. This time she was on all fours and had seemingly crawled all the way to my door. The emaciated lady had noticeably lost her speech. I did not respond as I was in a hurry to reach a place where I couldn't afford to be late or so I thought. She was desperately trying to communicate something to me (as I reckoned after the episode) It did not seem to be about alms or food. I had ignored her, but called up my cook and asked her to feed Muthu.

The next day morning, a bright Sunday (20th March), I got up to the sounds of drum beats and "Oppari" * coming from a distance from across the paddy fields.

(* Oppari...Google...)

The OCC Market & Beyond : Games Unheard of.

Scene: A group of 5 boys aged about 8 to 12 years.

Circa 1974
Time: About 11 in the morning

Venue: G Zone – the triangular piece of land within the intersection of three roads...1. The perpendicular arterial road from the rear gate of the HAL hospital going down to H Zone, the primary vernacular school via G Zone, 2. The road adjacent to the Nursery (later the deer park) winding in to the G Zone to merge with the former, 3.  The ‘blind-end’ road from the type IV quarters (that then housed the Tiwaris, the Singhs, the Sahas, the Madhava Rao’s, the Kadagatturs, the Heatons et al) converging into a kutcha path cutting across the ‘Hospital road’ and the ‘Nursery Road’…….(uff..! identifying the venue is good as writing an entire episode, wonder why the roads were never named in the township!....on the flip side this at least necessitates the need to rekindle one’s memory, thereby drawing interest from some of the named constituents!)


The smell of the rain-soaked earth after a bountiful downpour is typical of a hill region. I loiter barefoot around surveying the triangular piece of land. My olfactory nerves seemed to be overworking on my cerebellum so much so that my salivary glands adamantly reciprocates back to the brain. I stop short of picking up a handful from the ground, thanks to the prying eyes of Mahinder who just descends on the scene. Mahi is the unquestioned leader and a “proclaimed” dada of the mohalla. Mahi and I show up in front of G-125 and yell out for Madura Venu to join us. Venu, ignoring a frown from his mom, gladly jumps out of his verandah again ignoring his mom’s warning, “Orey donga, vellu..vellu..malli ikkada vachina tarvata champestanu". While Mahi enjoyed an unbridled freedom to roam around the neighbourhood like a sacred temple bull, I found it generally convenient to slip out noiselessly without anyone noticing at home. We then go further down the road in the direction of the nursery and stand in front of Ravi’s place like carol singers, pull him out and walk back. We soon meet Ashish, a thin lanky bhadralok neighbor, who pleads company for whatever the gang was planning to do.


The boys gang up and arrive at the scene. One could notices the boys trying to pound something to shreds on the flat ground, each of them religiously taking turns to decimate it using a sharp slender iron rod by flinging it on the damp surface. Drawing oneself closer to the boys, one notices that there is no specimen of any insect or any reptile for that matter. The boys, one after another, seemed to be merely trying to deeply embed the sharp weapon within a circle marked for the purpose into the ground with all their might. One of them, Venu, fails to secure a hold on the ground as the rod falls flat on the ground, much to his chagrin. The others in the gang yell out victoriously and rejoice by dancing around the poor guy whose face turns pale on the prospect of undergoing something not very pleasant. Venu, a short stocky boy of 9, nevertheless looked sporty enough to take up an unseen challenge.

Mahi, the well built and muscular 'Punjabi Puttar' instantly took charge, picked up the rod from the ground, looked menacingly at Venu, bullying him, “Ab ayega mazaa, dekthe raho…tu aaj ghar nahin lautega”. Venu: “Abe chal chal…mere paanv mein utna hi dam hai jitney tere haath mein”. Mahi now goes about his job seriously, pricking away with the rod into the earth as he walks mechanically in the direction of the OCC market. All others follow him hurriedly in awe, struggling to keep pace with him until they are confronted with a road running up to the sub post office. The gang advises him to take the footpath running to the post office to avoid the macadam road. But Mahi is not the one to step back…he first issues a stony glance at the gang then turns around, sets his sight on the sparse grassland across the width of the road, and takes aim. Hurling his body into the air, he releases the rod mid-air with all his might, falls about three feet short on the road, slightly injuring his knee in the process. But Lo and behold…the rod stuck deep into terra firma about two feet from the edge of the road at a saving gradient of 20 degrees from the surface. Hurrah!, exclaimed the gang, giving a well deserved pat to Mahi, who held his head high despite the injury. Mahi, now, brimming with over-confidence, speeds away his way to the road overlooking the K Zone. He stops here at the next obstacle, does a repeat of his earlier stunt…..but fails miserably this time!

The ferrous weapon landed on the road a little short of the footpath and pathetically rolled back bringing a couple of speeding cyclists to a sudden halt. They gave a strange look at the boys, gesturing warnings by waving their forefingers in air and cycled away.
Now Ravi, a sober guy of few words, picked up the relay rod, walked back to the edge of the road from where Mahi flung it, and took position. He surveyed the earth across the road, held the rod at its edge and unassumingly flung it across the road. Hey presto! The weapon stuck on the ground across the road like a javelin at a 45 degree angle from the surface. Shabbash Ravi….all of them jumped and yelled in chorus. Now Mahi was acutely embarrassed, but hid his emotions and instructed the boys to get going with the marathon. Nobody dare compare this feat with his long jump stunt for fear of being thrashed by the bully!

Ravi went about his work mechanically, much to the dismay and panic of Venu, worked along the nursery border, took a detour from OCC market and set his sights in the direction of the factory siding. But as luck would have it, he faltered in his next step, fell flat on the ground but not before releasing the rod. It rolled down after hitting a stone.

It is now my turn to work the baton away. Venu heaved a sigh of relief, now that the stalwarts of the game are out. I am not a known expert in the game nor had I a physique like Mahi to boast of. All the same, I trudged about 300 metres before I slipped on a marshy land with the baton being unable to secure ground in the process.

Ashish, a slim and lanky tailender, finally took charge of the relay. He sped away in the direction of the sukku railroad.  Surprisingly, he emerged a dark horse as he worked his way professionally for a good distance. Worry was writ large in Venu’s countenance when he started to plead with Ashish to stop and declare!  But Mahi intervened and refused to relent and ordered Ashish to carry on, all the while holding Venu by the scuff, lest he runs away! Finally Venu begs of Mahi to stop the process with tears welling up in his eyes! The noon siren then blows out from the distant Sunabeda HAL factory premises, signaling the obvious!

Mahi, after all, had a soft heart hidden within a tough and cantankerous outer demeanour. The leader calls off the onslaught finally at an approximate distance of a kilometer and a half from the “G Zone Capital”.

Venu now was faced the onerous challenge of literally hopping back all the way to the “Circle” whence the onward journey commenced. Embarking on the hop-trot, he initially covers a distance of about 300 metres before he tires himself out and pleads for a few minutes of rest. “ok”, says, Mahi, “but don’t ever dare to rest your other feet on the ground until we reach the game circle”.  The poor victim meekly agrees.

After a few minutes, Venu is back on track, Mahi leading “responsibly” from the front and with the rest of the gang bringing up the rear. Shortly before reaching the “OCC market bend”, the burly husk of Mahinder panics all of a sudden and retraces his steps towards the gang!

The gang then looks above their shoulders across the landscape and are shocked! Venu’s dad is seen walking down hurriedly from the OCC (with his eldest daughter in tow). This is a surefire promise of a disaster looming large in front of the gang! This short elderly no-nonsense person soon accosts the gang. Seeing the plight of his only son, he swiftly delivers a resounding slap on Mahi’s face with a reprimand marked by the madrasi-telugu slang…”tum kya samjta apne ko..tumara baap ko bolke aisa peetega…tum gar ka bahar kabi neiy ayenga”. Then turning towards me, he warns in tamil (slang) “unga appa ta solliduvaan, nalla adi vaangi taruvaan” (meaning…will tell your dad and ensure that you are adequately beaten up by him). He seemed to be unaware of Ravi’s identity. Ashish hid behind some bushes well in advance and hence escaped the wrath of the aggrieved father.

Pulling away Venu, catching hold of his large locks, he is dragged away with intermittent slaps and kicks all the way back home!

On a Bus Trail in the rural heartland of Tiruvallur

The board on the creaking red coloured vintage bus which almost blocked the driver’s view of the road ahead announced its incredible arrival into the taluk bus stand from a godforsaken village on the other side of the state border in AP.  Phew….the name, “Placepalayam” (that’s how the British rechristened the village for reasons best known to them!) made one wonder whether the driver was on a desperate trip to get into the Guinness Book of World Records. The “place” was surely about 50 kms from where I had planned to board the bus that had another 35 kms to cover to reach the intended destination.

The vehicle bending sideways holding itself precariously to the poor wheels on its left with the right wheels hardly having any work to do, made a screeching halt as the driver pulled up. Boys holding on to the metal pipes above the door opening (there was no sign of the door though) and the men threatening to pull the bus down on its side dropped on to the ground after letting go their hold on the vehicle. Pandemonium broke loose as women, children and men attempted to disembark against a large gathering trying to force their way into the bus. Shouts, screams, angry epithets flowed freely in the air for some time until some of them found a solution. Passengers near the windows began to exchange babies and children and baggage from across the window while the competition ran unabated at the door openings. The melee at the opening was also soon sorted out when a short plump lady hurled herself out of the bus, bringing with her a wave of half-nickered lilliputs and a few more plump specimens of her own tribe. Now there seemed to be a huge hollow in the vehicle which was instantly filled up by the boarders of all hues and shapes.

I managed to get through the front opening and stayed put near the gear box. After a plethora of calls, shouts, confirmations, ousters and then the final whistle from the harassed conductor, the driver put on the gear and pressed the accelerator as it was raring to go. The bus was packed with people like sardines, three sitting in seats meant for two, some of them on seat railings with their legs spread to the next railing across other torsos seated below. Those who couldn’t get a foothold did not regret putting all their weight upon those who did. And those who did had little option as this was a small price they had to pay for ‘standing on their own feet’. The unstated rule mandated every passenger either to carry another or be carried by another. Even the poor driver wasn’t spared. A boy of seven sat on his shoulders dangling his legs down attempting to assist his carrier by lending two ‘helping legs’ to steer the vehicle! As for the conductor, about a dozen people closed in upon him with a protection ring that even a 'Z' category wouldn't want. He occasionally thrust his hand out of the melee to ask for money in exchange for bits of paper that entitled one to disembark anywhere up to the destination!

The bus pulled itself, spraining its neck to the left, setting off a cloud of dust as the driver shifted the gear further. A cool breeze from across the paddy fields blew in through some escapable gaps in the windows and provided some relief to the commuters. The bus meandered its way through the fields and across a rivulet until it came to a halt near a teashop with a couple of lungi-clad youth idling on a slender bench. “ERNANKUPPAM”, announced the conductor making full use of his larynx not before blowing the whistle to silence the crowd! A craggy old woman with a basket of millet got down from the front, grumbling about the 50p change that she was denied by the “whistleblower”. A farm worker with a long sickle in hand boarded the bus sending shivers across those who noticed his weapon. Shouts and counter-shouts followed until it was resolved that the sickle was to be kept in the custody of the driver below the steering!

The vehicle resumed its incredible journey across a clear road and picked up speed to cruise at about 40 kmph! The driver now seemed destined to make up for the time lost until then and steered the vehicle confidently avoiding oncoming tractors and cyclists with a deft hand. And then all of a sudden the driver applied the brakes, raising an alarm of sorts across the entire bus. A flock of geese suddenly appeared from nowhere and trotted their way across the road, holding all their heads high with the 'god-given' right of passage. A boy of eleven, tending the flock walked across coolly, ignoring the bus. 

The scene inside the bus was a comic sight to behold. The boy perched on the driver's shoulders landed on the steering with his grip firmly held on to the driver’s matted locks, the driver looking down aghast! The carriers fell over the carried, transposing their earlier positions! Those on the seat railings surged forward to land on passengers seated in the rows ahead, those on the edge of the seats unseated to land on the carried and the carriers! But lo and behold, the conductor came into full view of the passengers as the protective ring around him decided to temporarily dismantle by blowing themselves to smithereens!

The driver restarted the engine and the drove for a while until a hamlet came into sight. A young dusky woman in her thirties yelled at the driver asking him to stop. The driver obliged…not before hearing rants from some passengers questioning his wisdom in attempting to make an unscheduled halt. The driver then drove on nonchalantly notwithstanding snide remarks from the naughty ones suggesting his motives! Soon the conversation among them drifted to the poor management of the transport corporation and the dire need of the hour for the Government to give away the passenger transport business to an enterprising individual like Ambani (who would be expected to sell tickets dead cheap like the mobile services! And yet maintain the best fleet with responsible employees). A small boy of nine hearing the conversation, quipped, “Ambani has better things to do than manage a horde of Tamil speaking drivers for you rotten brutes”. “True, true”, lamented an oldie, adding, “Only God can throw light on when we will be redeemed of our plight”. The little upstart, retorted again, “Not to worry grandpa, by the time that happens, you would have reached your heavenly abode!”

Winding its way further up on a gradient amidst paddy fields the bus soon headed towards what seemed a large expanse of water. Soon a large lake came into sight with pelicans and flamingos abounding on its sun-shone surface. A cool breeze wafted from across the water body into the bus as it neared the banks of the lake. Soon enough the conductor whistled, “VISHNUVAKKAM”, and then came the announcement, “Passengers for Kilanur, and Meyyur may also get down, Don’t expect the bus to go up to your godforsaken doorsteps”. At least a dozen disembarked here, one of them murmuring, “I know how many times you hijacked the public vehicle to your wretched doorstep!” Soon there was commotion at the rear end of the vehicle. A couple of cops had got into the bus with a hand-cuffed accused in tow. When the conductor looked askance at them, they said, “the jeep has broken down, we need to take this blackguard to the magistrate court.” He merely nodded his head sideways with anxiety writ large on his face and turned away. An old haggardly lady questioned authoritatively, looking at the accused, “What did you do?” The handcuffed one remained silent as one of the cops retorted, “You old one, shut up, otherwise this rotten guy will hack you the same way he did this morning at Sitanjeri.” The lady turned away in fear, casting furtive glances now and then at the accused.

In the meanwhile, I was lucky enough to 'perch' myself on a seat adjacent to the window on to my right. The trapeze acts for the last thirty minutes in the bus exhausted me enough to become drowsy, fanned by the fresh paddy-scented air coming in from the fields. I do not reckon how long I slept, but that should have been at least half an hour before the conductor woke me up, tapping me on my shoulders, “Saar Avadi....Would you mind getting down unless you want to travel back to Placepalayam again?”