A South Indian Reverie

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It was the early hours of what is generally considered evening in these parts. The sun, not having lost its intensity just yet, forced the skin to perspire. I walked out of the Mat-science building, tired from a long day’s work, but not unlike myself, lost in thought. The security guard waved as I passed through the gates. He knew I wasn’t a student here and that I should sign in his book every time I entered and left. But he didn’t care. He liked me. Always with a smile, he’d let me pass. I came here every day religiously, spending the better part of my day working on my project. However, I was about to leave Madras, and with it, leave everything that I held dear. One of these days, I thought to myself, I would not walk out of this gate another time. Even if I did, I’d have to sign in at the register. I wouldn’t be recognized. I was being slightly melodramatic. But I do have a habit of making a big fuss over small things.

I made my way to the village for my evening snack, two slices of yellow butter-cake, a spicy vegetable-puff, and to wash it down, a cup of hot chai. The village was a quiet place. It did not really feel like I was in a bustling metropolis. As I walked through it, I saw a cow standing next to the trash, chewing her midday meal, apparently enjoying the peace and quiet as much as I was. A small brown dog lay beside the cow, equally lost in reverie. She would usually follow me when she saw me there, wagging her tail. But today, she had decided to dedicate her attention to the trash-can instead. Nearby, a lady who had a vegetable shop was preparing for the evening flock of customers. She undid a fresh bunch of drumsticks and placed them on the blue plastic mat laid out in front of her tent. She had already laid out the radishes, gourds, okra and yams. Right beside her lay a green, rusty, weighing scale. I thought it looked kinda neat!

On the other side of the street was a small temple. It was so small that the priest could barely stand in its dark chambers. The Shiva deity, shrouded by the immediate darkness of the cellar in which he was kept, was only barely visible because of a solitary lamp that the priest had lit. The garlands that usually adorn the idol were nowhere to be seen. The flowers that adorned him in the morning, now dried and wrinkled had all been piled up in a neat mountain in a pit next to the temple. The thattu with the depparadhanai, kunkumam and vibhoothi lay before the Lord’s feet. I think Lord Shiva was not yet ready to meet his devotees. He was still getting ready.

I walked past the temple and turned right. There was my favourite tea shop. The tea and the cakes they sold were simple but charming. I settled myself in the relative comfort of a plastic chair that was laid out in the shop under the noisy, black ceiling-fan. The shop owner, upon noticing my presence, started brewing milk and warming some puffs. Here, I never have to tell people what I want. They knew exactly when to expect me, what I will order, and they didn’t ask me what I wanted every time. I shared a warm camaraderie with them that transcended caste, religion, age, and even gender. “Sappitaacha?” they ask, seemingly enquiring about my lunch, but in actuality, showing friendly concern. Anna placed my food in front of me and smiled. I smiled back. I simply sat there and took in everything slowly, relishing every moment- the crows’ cawing, the hum of the ceiling fan, the stray dogs sniffing around for lunch. This is my home, I thought.

Paati always said that I will learn to appreciate what I have only when I lose it. Paati was always saying such things. All paatis do. They know exactly how you are going to feel even before you feel something. I didn’t understand her then. But now, having just a few days before my flight, I was slowly beginning to see what she meant. I began to feel a little guilty. All my life, I had constantly been dreaming of going to the West. To the lands where the roads are smooth, the buildings are tall, but where the food is bland, and my home is far. I wanted to work hard and make a name for myself. But is it really worth leaving home? At the time, I thought it was. But sitting in that tea shop, I thought, maybe not? I wasn’t sure anymore.

I had always loved a good vengaiya dosai with sambar. Not the way Saravana Bhavan makes it; the way Amma makes it. She puts curry leaves, chillies, and small pieces of ginger along with the onions. And she always roasts the dosai in ghee. You can smell her dosais a mile away. You can’t match the feeling of contentment when you come home from a tiring day at school and you see those crispy dosais on the table, enticing you with their smell. You get closer and take a look at what is inside the paathram: vendekkai sambar—my favourite! When I see dosai and vendekkai sambar on the same day, I tend to become extra absent-minded. I will forget to wash my hands. My mother, expecting nothing less from me, will be waiting there to twist my ears and send me to the bathroom.

We have a garden in our backyard. I like to seat myself in the backyard right under the mango tree in the evenings. Or on the roof, on top of the water tank. You can see all the way to the sea from up there. I’d take in the salty sea breeze, the cacophony of the crows, the bats that fly in complex spirals, the scurrying squirrels, the sparrows that always flocked to the arali flowers in the evenings, the purple sunbirds drinking sweet nectar from the parijatha flowers. You will also see cows returning home from wherever it is they go off to every day. If you knew where to look, you might just see a woodpecker perching precisely on a specific coconut tree at the same hour every day. Oh, and you cannot miss the parakeets! Sitting on the telephone lines, they’d go“Keech, Keech, Keech” all evening until sunset.

From up there, you can also see the local MRTS trains passing by every ten minutes. It amuses me even now to wave at the people standing near the footboard to see if anybody waves back. I did this first when I was 2, and I do it even now at 22. Some things in life simply don’t change. Trains and train-stations can leave behind very intense memories. Who has not had tearful goodbyes and ecstatic reunions at railway stations? I still remember the exact spot where I said goodbye to my friend. These memories never leave you. You tend to remember a lot more about train journeys simply because these journeys are often coupled with strong emotions. But I really don’t need any help remembering train journeys when there are vendors selling tomato soup, cutlets, and Madhur vadas. The vadas are served hot as soon as the train crosses Jolarpettai junction. Yes, on trains, I know exactly what food to expect when. Many people don’t like train food. I love travelling with those people because, then, I can eat their share as well! I love stealing milagai bajjis from them because people invariably find it too spicy.

Perhaps the only place where you get equally good milagai bajjis is at the beach! I love going to the beach in the evenings. You can lie down in the soft sand while the chilly breeze from the sea blows at you. The steady sound of the waves crashing against the sands, the medley of sounds, smells, and sights you experience exclusively at the beach, sootta-cholam and Kili-mangais served with hot chilli powder and salt, watching boys fly kites, they are all just perfect for me! I can stand on the wet mud right by the shore and just lose myself in the breeze. I love to get my legs wet from the crashing waves. It’s a humbling feeling to stand there and wonder at how these very waves that have the potential to end so many lives in a matter of seconds were gently caressing my feet the way a mother would, her son.

I suddenly wished that I could play my flute at the beach. I couldn’t believe I was just thinking of this now! What have I been doing all these years?

Speaking of the flute, I love the kutcheri season in Madras. Very few people are so lucky as to live in a place where all the Sangeetha vidwans and vidushees arrive every year without fail, to sing to their heart’s content. Where else on this planet will this happen? Last season, having realised that that was going to be my last music season, I attended 16 kutcheris from start to finish. Europe may have fancy operas and orchestras, but they will not find me in them. No, sir! I love the atmosphere in a sabha. People don’t care much about being proper. They make appreciative clicks with their mouths, wave their hands as if in ecstasy, beat their thighs in unison with the musicians and cheer them on with claps. You will find mamas saying “Besh, Besh!” and perhaps, a mami saying “Aha, adbutham”, or “Sabash!” The musicians enjoy themselves no less. Sanjay enjoys himself so much that his face contorts in strange ways. His expressions are like those of a storyteller, for his facial expressions betray the story he is trying to tell, through his sangathis. He will wink at Varadhu anna and share a sly-smile when he cleverly twists the sangathi. Varadhu anna, on the other hand, who is trying hard to remember what Sanjay is singing so that he can follow up on the next thalam with his violin, will immediately light up when he hears the brilliant twist in the sangathi. He will then follow it up with another twist of his own that will make Sanjay visibly happy. Venkatesh mama, upon hearing the sangathi, will smile his broad smile which gets shrouded in his beard. He will then proceed to beat the mridangam even faster to keep up with Sanjay’s pace. When you look at his hand, you will not get to see his fingers move. You will only see a brown haze, which you must infer to be his fingers. While all of this is happening, the audience is seated spellbound! It is impossible to think, feel, or hear anything else because the musicians’ energy reverberates throughout the hall. They will manifest in the way the mamas and mamis start putting thalams even more loudly, providing a very strong rhythmic context to the song. On occasion, they will burst into applause even before the song ends because it is impossible to not do so after a point. The entire hall is exuberant. Nowhere else in my life have I experienced such a rush of euphoria!

And now, I have to leave all of this and go far away. I don’t know when I will come back home. Like paati said, maybe I am appreciating these things now because I am going to lose all of them very soon. In that sense, maybe it is good that I am leaving Madras. I never again want to take all of these things for granted. But I have lived in this place for 22 years! What have I been doing all these years, groaning about problems that, honestly, seem insignificant right now? I concluded that my biggest flaw is that I never live in the present. I seem to have forgotten to relish these moments when they did pass in copious amounts throughout my life so far. I was too preoccupied.

Just like I am too preoccupied now to enjoy my tea. “Enna thambi? Tea kudikaliya? Aarida pordhu!” came the gentle admonishment from the shopkeeper for not drinking my tea while it was still hot. I realised that I was doing it again—being too busy to relish what I had right in front of me. I smiled to myself and sipped my tea. Then, I took a bite of the vegetable puff. The crackle of the wheat flakes gave way to spicy potato stuffing inside. Mmmmm! That was good! I took another bite, and another, and another, until I had reduced it to a few crumbs. Then, I worked my way through the cake with equal enthusiasm. And before I knew it, my food was gone. It had disappeared, leaving a smile on my face.

I had finally seized the moment.

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