Ghost on call

Kurali–Gnyamali had to be summoned. The brouhaha (make that brouhaha…hahaha) kicked up by Ganga, Kishmu and their entourage had wreaked havoc on Sitamma’s
nerves.
“Kurali-Gnyamali, come immediately!” Sitamma screamed. There was instant
silence. Those were the days when instant coffee had not arrived in the small township where Sitamma lived. But instant silence was very much available—especially when the name of Kurali-Gnyamali, the instant silencer, was conjured up.

The gang huddled into a corner, looking subdued. “Stay this way,” ordered Sitamma and hurried into the kitchen to giggle in peace. The gang squeezed itself into the corner. Legs, hands and heads merged to look like a single respiring, perspiring organism. Like a king spider with tentacles swaying up and down and up and down and up and down. Armed with multiple heads and innumerable legs, it looked like it had descended on this world to preserve and protect the spider species. The king spider started to move slowly, hoping that Kurali- Gnyamali would not make an appearance. Until Kishmu, who was scared of anything with more than two legs, spotted a real spider bungee jumping in his direction from the ceiling.
“Aiyyo!” he screamed loudly. Instantly the king spider disintegrated into human beings of various shapes and sizes. Everybody except Kishmu thought that Kurali-Gnyamali had actually arrived. There were shrieks, yelps, screams, cries, screeches, bawls, shouts, barks, yells and howls which resulted in a strange mishmash of sounds.
“Kurali-Gnyamali!” Sitamma screamed again from inside the kitchen, unable to bear the hullabaloo. Immediately the entire bunch fled the house, from raw fear.
“Who is Kurali-Gnyamali?” Amirthavalli asked when the gang reassembled under their favourite tamarind tree.
“Kurali-Gnyamali…you don’t know Kurali-Gnyamali?” asked Kishmu.
“No, we don’t,” said Rangan a little angrily.
“Mmmm…” (Kishmu was doing some fast thinking. He had never thought about it at all, except that whenever Sitamma mentioned the name Kurali- Gnyamali, he and his brother Ganga froze with fear.) “Are you going to tell us or not?” demanded a voice from somewhere in
the group.
“They are Sitamma’s ghost friends,” Kishmu said quickly. “They can appear anywhere. They recite Kurals, which is why the name Kurali. They tell stories and even find lost things.”
“Yes-yes! They are very good at finding lost things,” chipped in Ganga who couldn’t forget the time when Kurali-Gnyamali had retrieved his Tamil classwork notebook from god knows where. What had happened on that eventful day was this. It was the day the school was reopening after the Dusshera holidays. Ganga was packing his bag for the day and just couldn’t find his Tamil classwork book. Now Ilango vaaddiyaar, a die-hard Tamil pundit and a terror among the boys, was well-known for the choicest Tamil phrases he used to scold students who forgot their
notebooks at home. Even hard raps from his cane were easier to bear than listening to confounding abuses like Kodari kambe, Eena puzhuve, Brahmahathi and Tamil drohi . Not knowing what to do, Ganga resorted to the only solution he knew, which was running to Sitamma and begging for her help.
“How many times have I asked you to check your timetable at night and pack your bag?” emanded Sitamma.
“This is not the first time something like this is happening. I always seem to be the one finding your geometry box, your school badge, your diary and also getting your father’s signature on the test papers.”
“Amma, please…one last time. I have looked everywhere but can’t find it,” pleaded Ganga.
“ Oho! If you have really looked everywhere then I’ll have to ask Kurali-Gnyamali,” said Sitamma.
Ganga had no time to ask who this Kurali-Gnyamali was. He was in a tearing hurry to reach school on time, failing which the headmaster would cane him in front of the entire assembly.
“Okay, please ask this Kurali to find my notebook,” Ganga begged.
“That is not so easy. You have to pay Kurali-Gnyamali a dakshinai, a fee to find your notebook,” said Sitamma.
“How much? I have only saved ten paise since last year,” said Ganga.
“No need for hard cash,” retorted Sitamma dryly. “All you have to do is run around the house thrice and clap your hands over your head saying, ‘Kurali-Gnyamali find my notebook, Kurali-Gnyamali find my notebook, Kurali-Gnaymali find my notebook.’ Only then will you get your notebook,” concluded Sitamma.
Ganga was dumbstruck, but not enough to give up the only chance he had of finding his notebook. It was sheer luck that his younger brother Kishmu had already left for school. Otherwise he would have become the laughing stock of the entire neighbourhood. It was either the disgraceful exercise of running around the house clapping his hands over his head or being admonished in front of the assembly on the very first day of the new school term.
“Let all disgrace happen within the compound of one’s own house,” Ganga muttered to himself and stepped out. He started running around the house mumbling, “Kurali-Gnyamali find my notebook, Kurali-Gnyamali find my notebook, Kurali-Gnyamali find my notebook.”
“Louder,” yelled Sitamma from inside.
So Ganga raised his voice a bit during his second round. He was finding it quite difficult to chant these stupid lines and clap at the same time. “Still louder,” persisted Sitamma mercilessly until Ganga was literally screaming. “Kurali-Gnyamali find my notebook, Kurali-Gnyamali find my
notebook, Kurali-Gnyamali find my notebook.” Meanwhile, and unfortunately for Ganga, next-door Kuzhali was drying her tresses on the terrace when she heard Ganga’s voice. Now Kuzhali had a soft corner for Ganga, though he was younger than her and despite Ganga’s obvious dislike for her. Whenever she crossed his path, Ganga used to cover his nose so as to not breathe the same air as she did. Despite his rude behaviour, Kuzhali still liked him. When she heard Ganga chanting what sounded like her name, she interrupted him. “Are you calling out for me?” she asked coyly.
“Shut up and po di ulla,” hissed Ganga.
“Why should I go inside? This is my terrace and I will do what I want here,” retorted Kuzhali.
Ganga was close to tears now. He decided to face Sitamma’s wrath rather than let Kuzhali the ogress know what he was doing. He ran inside. And what do you think he saw there?
His Tamil notebook on the swing! Ganga grabbed the book and rushed to school.
Conveniently forgetting the embarrassment he had gone through, Ganga started to wax eloquent about how Kurali-Gnyamali could retrieve lost things, recover things fallen into
the well and find hidden treasures. The gang listened to him with rapt attention.
“Can it find the doll I lost last year?” asked Pankajam.
“Er…it can, but it won’t because it is a family ghost. It is our family’s ghost and it will help only us,” said Ganga convincingly. “And know what? I have never lost anything after Kurali- Gnyamali came into my life,” he continued, sounding triumphant.
Now it was Kishmu’s turn to feel that he too had to contribute something towards promoting the family ghost. If Ganga knew so much, then he should know a few stories as well. After all it was their family ghost.
“Kurali-Gnyamali can narrate such interesting stories, that too in the form of couplets—just like the Tirukkural,” started Kishmu.
“Narrate one,” challenged Varadan.
“Yes! Yes! Why not?” spluttered Kishmu quite at a loss for words. He had no clue what a couplet was. So he decided to try his hand at rhyming. He cleared his throat and began,
“In times very hoary Lived a lion called Hari,
Who befriended the fox Pari-Nari
Despite his sore psori.
But ungrateful Pari-Nari
Gave his sore psori to Hari
Who felt very sorry
And that is the end of the story.”
The entire group was silent. Very silent. “You call this a story?” said Neelakandan sounding very bugged. “Why not?” countered Kishmu.
“Stories are supposed to have morals,” pitched in Rangan.
“Even this has a moral. Never make friends with people who have sores!”
“Stories are never this short. They are long…much longer than this,” said Pankajam.
“Well, if both the lion and the fox have sores and are busy scratching, how can any story happen? Just take this moral and keep quiet,” said Kishmu authoritatively.
By now it was time for lunch and the gang dispersed after deciding to meet under the tamarind tree an hour later. But before going home, Ganga and Kishmu extracted a promise from each one of their friends that they wouldn’t tell anyone about their family ghost. There were lots of uestions in the post-lunch session. It was obvious that the entire group had been thinking of Kurali-Gnyamali and the family ghost’s contribution towards the overall welfare of the Ganga-
Kishmu family. More obviously, none of them had kept their promise about not discussing Kurali-Gnyamali.
“My mother says there are no such things as family ghosts,” said Nattu boldly.
“What do you know?” countered Pankajam. “My mother said a Malayali ghost had possessed her cousin and that she had to be nailed to a tree for forty-five days before the ghost left her. Then the same ghost entered her aunt who had to be nailed to the very same tree. The ghost then left the aunt and possessed her youngest you vomit blood. There was a man in my father’s village who was slapped by the kaatteri while he was crossing a bridge. He became dumb after that and the only thing he wanted to do was to marry the kaatteri,” added Rangan.
“If that man wanted to marry only the kaatteri, then it could not have been a raththa kaatteri. It must have been a mohini pisaasu, a female spirit which bewitched him with her beauty and then struck him dumb. My grandmother always says that one should never comb their hair or dress
up or look into the mirror at night. It attracts the mohini to you,” said Amirthavalli knowingly.
“Actually, ghosts are supposed to live on drumstick and tamarind trees. They mostly hang upside down and grab anyone who passes under the tree at the stroke of midnight. Then they invite their friends to share the victim,” said Kishmu.
“Since ghosts have no legs they can conveniently wrap themselves around a branch,” said Ganga looking up at the tamarind tree they were standing under. “Aiyyo! We are all standing under a tamarind tree and tempting the ghosts by talking about them,” he shouted and started running. The gang followed closely on his heels. The terrorized gang spent a sleepless night. Any small sound made them jump. Everyone kept looking for ghosts which might be lurking around
to grab them. Some closed the windows tightly to prevent spirits from seeping in. A few chanted the kanda shashti kavacham to ward off evil banshees. Amirthavalli tossed her anklets into the well because her own footsteps scared her. Nandanaar applied lots of sacred ash on his forehead and chanted ‘Om Namah Shivaya’ before going to bed. Ganga and Kishmu however had lots of
things to sort out with Sitamma. They had concocted wild stories in front of their friends. But now they had to match the tales with their mother’s version of Kurali-Gnyamali. The question of utmost importance being if Kurali-Gnyamali was one ghost or two.
That afternoon, Ganga and Kishmu had spluttered like fools when they were confronted with this question. “Is Kurali-Gnyamali one ghost or are uncle. At any given point of time one person or the other from the family was nailed to the tree. Soon it got to be a very mundane affair. By the end of it all, the entire family had learnt Malayalam from the ghost! It even taught my great aunt how to make chakka pradaman,” she ended, feeling rather important.
“I have not heard about family ghosts, but I do know of Raththa Kaatteris, vampires who slap you till they two ghosts?” Pankajam had asked curiously.
Kishmu had said “one” and Ganga had said “two” simultaneously and had ended up looking like “filtered fools”—Sitamma’s favourite term of abuse. Her explanation for this analogy went something like this. To make original aromatic filter coffee, one filled the brass filter with freshly roasted, coarse coffee powder and poured boiling-hot water into it. Since the powder was grainy, the water took long to seep in. Hence first decoctions were akin to people who had thick, grainy heads that prevented penetration of any kind of knowledge and advice. Second decoctions were slightly better, the third even better and so on and so forth. But as far as Sitamma was concerned, she preferred first decoctions not only for her coffee but also for her friends and acquaintances. “Makes life easy,” she would say.
Coming back to Pankajam’s question on the number of ghosts, the gang had been relentless with Ganga- Kishmu on this issue.
“One or two?” they had demanded.
“One,” Kishmu had said with an air of finality.
“Then why is it called Kurali-Gnyamali? It can just be Kurali, no?” Rangan had asked.
“Why? I am called Amirthavalli, which is Amirtha + Valli. One person, two names. Likewise Kurali-Gnyamali,” Amirthavalli had explained. Not convinced with this explanation, the gang had persisted mercilessly. Luckily for Ganga-Kishmu dusk had fallen heavily on the surroundings, setting off an eerie glow. Spontaneously, the brothers had broken into a run shouting, “Kurali- Gnyamali!” And that was all that was needed to scatter the ghostbusters in
twenty different directions.
Back home, the brothers waited for an opportunity to check with Sitamma about the family ghost’s history. The opportune moment presented itself after they had eaten dinner.
“Amma, that Kurali-Gnyamali…” Kishmu started hesitatingly.
“Yes, what about it?” asked Sitamma who seemed to be busy searching for something.
“Are they one ghost or two ghosts?” asked Ganga, scared even to utter the name.
“Mmmm?” Sitamma asked, still preoccupied with her searching. “Are they one ghost or two ghosts?” Ganga said a little loudly.
This time Sitamma turned around immediately and looked long and hard at her sons. She knew very well that the boys and their gang had been thinking of nothing but spooky things all day. Then she quietly said, almost in a whisper, “Dusk has fallen. I have lit the lamp. I cannot utter the name or talk about ‘it’ now. But let me show you something.” She led them to the
door which opened into the backyard and showed them two flickering images, two moving shadows on the ground. “There…” she said and turned away. The boys stood transfixed. They ventured to look at the shadows bravely, thinking that Sitamma was standing right behind them. In the faint moonlight, the shadows looked eerie. They appeared and disappeared in quick succession…All at once, the two images merged into one and then disappeared. The boys were bewildered and pretty scared. All they could now see were banana trees swaying mysteriously in the evening breeze.
“Amma, we saw two…then one,” Ganga whispered.
“Yes, amma,” said Kishmu and turned to see an empty space behind them.
That did it! The boys ran into their mother’s room yelling, “Why did you leave us alone?” Quickly they smeared sacred ash on their foreheads, recited the kanda shashti kavacham and closed all the windows and doors. It was only then that they noticed Sitamma frantically searching for something. “What are you searching for?” asked Ganga-Kishmu simultaneously.
“My gold ring,” replied Sitamma.
“Why don’t you ask —— (remember, the ghost’s name was not be uttered after dusk) to look for the ring?” asked Ganga. Then he went close to Sitamma and whispered into her ear, “Why don’t you try that clapping-your- hands-above-your-head exercise?”
“U-huh?” said Sitamma distractedly. “Why can’t _______ look for it, amma?” repeated Kishmu.
“ Oh! It’s vacation time and ‘it’ has gone on a holiday,” said Sitamma absent-mindedly.
“But just now…we saw ‘it’ in the backyard, no?”
“No, no. What I mean is ‘it’ left on its vacation just a few minutes ago…” said Sitamma quickly.
“So that means ‘it’ won’t be here tomorrow?” asked Kishmu excitedly.
“Umm…err…well…no, Kurali- Gnyamali…have gone on a holiday. I guess I have to find the ring myself because Kurali-Gnyamali won’t be back for a while,” replied Sitamma, realizing what she had done. Sitamma’s reply was received with a big whoop of joy. The boys immediately opened all the doors and windows. They ran across to their friends’ houses to inform them about the ghost’s departure…There would be no Kurali-Gnyamali any more. Well...at least till Kurali-Gnyamali were on a holiday. Sitamma was cursing herself silently in the kitchen. The brouhaha in the hall had already begun with renewed gusto.

Glossary
1. Kurals: They are didactic poems in the form of
couplets written by the Tamil saint-poet
Tiruvalluvar.
2.Dusshera: A festival in October celebrating the
victory of Rama over Ravana (or of good over
evil).
3.Vaadiyaar: Teacher in Tamil.
4. Po di ulla: Go inside! in Tamil.
5. Tirukkural: A book of didactic poems written
by Tamil saint-poet, Tiruvalluvar.
6. Chakka pradaman: A Kerala delicacy made
out of jackfruit.
7. Kanda shashti kavacham: A hymn composed
for Lord Kartikeya, believed to ward off evil.

Ghost on Call was published in Chatterbox Children’s magazine in September, 2001.

When the neem tree spoke

In the front yard of our neighbour’s house was a lush neem tree, wearing a green, which was almost fluorescent. The tree trunk was of an unnatural girth, like the rounded body of a pregnant woman. Dark and curvaceous, the neem tree rose to the sky in a winding, vertical path. Rooted exactly opposite the front door of the house, the solitary neem tree was a formidable dwarapalaka standing guard over the house.
Our neighbour and we belonged to two parallel streets. Their backyard and ours used to meet over a fence which was anything but a fence. “Good fences make good neighbours” didn’t stand good as an advice for Sitamma or our friendly neighbour. The barbed wire, which had seen better days, was torn down in places. Children of both houses used to skip across the fence gaily, feeling equally free in both houses. There was good traffic coming and going between the two houses by the adults too.
The neem tree’s shade was an important hang out for us children. The shade stretched to around 15-20 meters on all sides. The farther we played from the trunk, the greater the chance of us being left in peace, for the main trunk was considered sacred. Every Tuesday and Friday, the neem tree enjoyed special attention. The trunk was reverently splashed with water and milk. Sitamma then anointed the tree’s mainframe with sandal, turmeric and kumkum. Some flowers, agarbathis and a lamp were also placed beneath the tree. Some even circumambulated and prostrated themselves before the neem tree. We children were encouraged to do the same, but we usually stood at the shade’s periphery and watched. Our only interest was the jaggery and puffed rice that would come at the end of the ritual.
“Mahamayi is housed in this tree,” Sitamma used to whisper.
“Can I see her?” I asked.
“Ssh. Come away. When night falls, don’t go near the tree,” she used to murmur.
Sure enough the tree seemed to whoosh with a frenzied intensity during nights, verily like the possessed, dancing hysterically, their hair flying this way and that. Once a visitor planted a coir cot beneath the tree and fell asleep. Well past midnight, he shrieked for help. He tumbled out of the cot, ran into the house and gasped that some invisible thing had pressed him on the chest, choking him.
“Oh! Come on now, it must have been the heavy volume of oxygen exhaled by the tree,” said an elder.
But Sitamma felt differently. “Mahamayi is a protective deity. She does her rounds after all her children fall asleep. She does not like intrusion into her space during nights. We must keep away from the tree after dusk falls. Did I not tell you?” she asked. The visitor was finally cajoled to sleep on the floor between two of his cousins (he wouldn’t dream of sleeping on a cot again, even under a fan!)
“Pick one,” Sitamma used to say softly. It meant she was in a dilemma. Not for her, a rational weighing of pros and cons or arriving at a solution using her objectivity. She always operated between extremes of “yes” or “no” for any given predicament. Writing yes/no, on two chits of paper, she rolled them at the neem’s tree’s feet. Calling any child within earshot, she used to ask the child to “pick one”. If the answer was unfavourable, she would sigh, ever so briefly, but recover almost immediately. It was infinitely more important to obey Mahamayi’s dictum. Her desires could wait or be quelled. However if a “yes” was drawn, she would smile her bright toothless smile, lighting up the entire vicinity. The point here is, the neem tree was not a tree which had to be watered, fenced and tended for, instead, She was the protector, the guide and of course God herself.
Then came a day when our neighbours bought their own tiny flat and decided to move out. Much tears and hugs were exchanged. One of our sons and one of their daughters fell in love and got married. It was a happy ending for the two families. But not for the neem tree. When the original owner came with plans for expanding the house, he felt the neem tree had to go. The roots were digging deep into the ground, too close to the foundation, too close for comfort. Lorries of gravel, sand and stone arrived. First things first, a good sturdy fence was erected between the two houses.
When the first stroke of the axe struck on the neem tree, Sitamma couldn’t contain herself. She walked up to the new neighbour and pleaded. “Sir this is not an ordinary tree. She has been standing guard over your house. We have been worshipping Her for years. Can’t you see the nests she holds?” I think she began to cry. The embarrassed gentleman was polite but seemed helpless.
That night Sitamma had a dream. An old lady, white haired, deeply beautiful wearing a simple cotton sari like the way they wear in interior Tamil Nadu appeared. Quite stoically she spoke, “It is better I do not leave.” That was all.
But who can stop houses being expanded, that too for the sake of a tree?
The tree went. None of us opened our back door for days. We did not want to hear the sound of the axe falling, or see that Amazon of a woman being carted away.
Shortly thereafter, there were some tragic incidents which touched the new owner’s life. Till date, Sitamma believes it is because the Neem tree was cut down.
“She was protecting the house from all ills, he would not listen,” she cried.
The tree is long gone. But I have never forgotten her, the coolness of her shade, the puffed rice and jaggery she yielded every Tuesday and Friday and the numerous games she allowed us to play under her watchful eye.

When the neem tree spoke was published in The Hindu on Sunday April 20th 2003.

Sitamma's Kitchen

Sitamma's kitchen is a special place. As a child, I loved huddling in a corner, near the rice sack and watch her cook. This part of the house was warmer than the rest, what with two stoves going, but in the wee morning hours, the warmth was cosy and comfy.
Pouring the boiling hot porridge made of ten different protein ingredients into a large pan, she would let it cool, meantime asking me if my morning hunger was bearable or if she should just give me some plain milk. I would not answer instead I would look at the cooling porridge, then at the stew on the stove, the frothing lentils and the cut vegetables on the board on the floor. Waking from near my mother’s bosom and moving onto that warm kitchen corner was an everyday ritual, which readied and strengthened me for the less protective, less loving schema of my day. I find it difficult now to reproduce in retrospect and to articulate that particular feeling of security Sitamma’s kitchen gave me.
The vessels would be lined up in height order in neat, unchangeable positions. Rice, tamarind, red chilli had a separate corner and were stored in sacks. If it was found that a rat had made its way into the kitchen, then the sacks were immediately downed into huge vessels, which could be tightly sealed with lids. But that was very rare. The sacks were available for me to lean on every morning. the fragrance of her kitchen is something I am unable to replicate in my own. I store the same ingredients, yet that earthy, fertile, sumptuous smell of Sitamma’s kitchen is missing.
Unlike the monotonous, uni-colored, uni-metal kitchen vessels I possess, Sitamma’s pots and pans were cast in a variety of vessels. That curious mixture of hues and colors her vessels offered are inimitable. “Ever-silver” (stainless steel) vessels were not many in number. Each dish was cooked in a specific vessel made of a specific metal/material.
Rice was made in a Vengala panai-bronze pot. When the glub-glub-glub sound of rice nearing its boil reached Sitamma’s ear, she would pick out just one grain of rice from the pot and check its softness. “One rice grain’s consistency can speak for the entire pot of rice,” she would say and add, “what I mean is, just one utterance from you can throw light on what kind of person you are.” Of course, I understood nothing much less understand how one could touch boiling hot rice right off the stove.
Kozhambu was made in an Indoleum (aluminium) vessel or in Kall chetti i.e vessel cast in Ma Kal, a particular type of soft stone with which one could write on the floor, make kolams too. When Sitamma poured out the reddish brew from the black stone pot, I would say, “Paatti, doesn’t it look like Goddess Kali’s red tongue flowing out of her black mouth?” only to have my ears tweaked.
Oh! But I must tell you about Soin rasam. Rasam was made in Iya chombu, a tiny vessel made of lead. Iya chombu rasam is a brew fit for the gods. Laced with hand pounded cumin and pepper, garnished with curry leaves and coriander, the Rasam’s aroma would rouse your appetite strongly enough to devour a horse. When orange bubbles frothed near the vessel’s rim, Sitamma would heat a large tablespoonful of ghee in an iron ladle. When the ghee simmered, she would throw in some mustard. Tossing lightly she would immerse the red hot iron ladle with spluttering mustard seeds right into the bubbling rasam A huge ‘sssoooooooooin” sound emanated while the hot iron ladle tempered down with a hiss earning it the name. This soin rasam was very popular, what with its ghee and the taste of lead.
However it was the ku-chuk-chuk dosas which were my all-time favourite. What I thought was a ploy to make me eat dosas by naming them ku-chuk-chuk dosas turned out to be a valid nomenclature. Sitamma called the flat pan she used make dosais “Thandavalam” literally meaning railway tracks. Apparently the poor helped themselves to the discarded parts of the railway track, which were flat, smooth and excellent conductors of heat to make their dosas. Sitamma had a thandavalam in her village. “They hold heat for long. I can make upto four dosas even after the fire goes out. They never break.” So all dosas made on the tracks were called ku-chuk-chuk-dosas.
There are a lot more things I wish to dish out about that special place. Indeed lot many things other than just Kozhambu, rasam and curry got made in Sitamma’s kitchen. I think my recipe for life was written in Sitamma’s kitchen. The riotous variety of vessels combined with Sitamma as the chef added flavour, not just to meals but to my appreciation of life. What more could anyone ask for?

Sitamma's Kitchen was published in The Hindu on February 16, 2003.

Between the Barber and the Barbarians

“Shear and shear alike,” Thathaji instructed Varadan. “Saar, is it a Sanskrit sloka?” asked Varadan innocently.
“Illa da! It means give everyone the same haircut,” said Thathaji as he prepared to oversee the hair-raising—no, hair-shedding event!
* * *
Varadan was a much-dreaded figure in my grandfather’s household. Every other Sunday he would promptly appear at six in the morning and sneak into the backyard and wait patiently until grandfather sauntered out. Nobody announced his presence. Everyone just assumed that Varadan would materialise on alternate weekends ‘to shear and shear alike’ the thriving locks of ten restless youngsters—an event that Thathaji directed with great precision.
Armed with a much-used comb, which was a mild orange in colour, a small stainless steel cup, some soap—a green and awful-smelling neem preparation—scissors and blade, Varadan would
arrive on his cycle bearing the entire luggage in a tiny yellow cotton bag advertising the famous ‘Swarna Coffee’ of yore. Unlike these days when you can just walk into a saloon on any day,
get your hair cut, pay and walk away, one had a strict set of dos and don’ts then. No haircutting on festival days. Or Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. Which meant that the haircutting
exercise could be undertaken only on Sundays. (Moreover, it was impossible to assemble the ten uncontainable brats, except on a holiday.) The barbered lot were not allowed to step inside the
house until they had washed at the well, from which water could be drawn only by an un-barbered person. The ‘hair shirts’ had to be washed and dried on a separate clothesline on the terrace…
Haircutting then was surely a tough regimen to follow!
* * *

“Varadan, won’t you ever fall ill or something?” asked Lacchu, one of the Raman-Lakshman twins.
Varadan smiled impishly and said, “Ambi, switch on the radio, let’s hear some sangeetham.” Once strains of thodi came wafting in, Varadan began to hum slowly along with it. Not to be
outdone, Seenu also began to whine along.
“Adada! Ambi, thodi has periya nee, but you are touching bhairavi nee,” said Varadan earnestly, not understanding that Seenu was actually trying to rag him. Varadan was a nagaswaram vidwan, whose side-profession was barbering.
However, he was careful not to display his talent in front of Thathaji. Varadan went about preparing for the ‘event’, while the boys stood around waiting for the inevitable. Suddenly a
scuffle broke out about who has to give his head first. Screams of “you go first, not me you fool, you go first!”resounded in the air as the boys wrestled each other, ending up in the mud near the coconut tree. Varadan stood watching as he sharpened his instruments on a whetstone almost
gleefully.
All this persisted only until Thathaji emerged from inside and commanded one of the ten to fetch him a stool. The boys stood up, dusting themselves. “You, Lalli’s son, go first!” ordered
Thathaji. Soon, all the grandchildren were made to stand in a line for ‘treatment’ from Varadan.
Without much ado, Varadan got to work on Lalli’s son.
“Why is there so much sand in your hair?” he asked loudly, snipping away at the back of his head.
Of course, this resulted in a huge peroration from the grandsire (on the evils of getting sand in the hair, which could lead to worms breeding inside one’s stomach because of eating with
hands unwashed from scratching one’s sandy hair and so on…) that ended with a dig at Lalli’s son, “Is the kaliman inside your head coming out?”
Kinda, who was next in line, was a little braver than the rest and mustered enough courage to complain loudly, “What is the use of having an oil-bath yesterday if you are going to get a
haircut today?”
That somehow seemed to make sense to Thathaji. “The boys have their oil-baths every Saturday and their haircuts happen on alternate Sundays. Why bother pouring ladles of expensive gingelly oil on these thugs’ hair just to cut them off the very next day?” said
thrifty Thathaji. Kinda became the hero of the day when Thathaji declared that
henceforth oil-baths shall happen only on alternate Saturdays—one week ahead of Varadan’s arrival.
Thathaji seemed lost in thought for a while. “Varadan, how much do you charge for a haircut?” he asked suddenly.
Varadan looked puzzled. “25 paise per person saar, but why this question after so many years?” he asked humbly.
Thathaji grinned and continued, “If you were summoned to cut Ravanan’s hair, how much would you charge?”
Varadan scratched his head and said, “25 paise for each head saar.”
“What! You dare to speak untruth. Just now you said it is 25 paise per person and now you say it’s 25 paise per head,” Thathaji boomed. “Now tell me, how much would you charge Ravanan?” he persisted mercilessly.
"Er...25 paise sir," agreed Varadan.
"If your fee for Ravanan who has ten heads is 25 paise, then you should charge me also only 25 paise for the ten heads you are attending to today," ordered Thathaji.
By now, the ten hooligans were doubling up with laughter. “Saar, shall I cut your hair also, then
the count will be 11 and this confusion would also end,” pleaded Varadan pathetically.
Convulsing with laughter, Thathaji concluded, settling for a royal haircut on that
luxurious Sunday, “Ade Varada, sharpen your wits along with that blade of yours!”
The boys were besides themselves with devilish glee. It was a treat to see Varadan squirm like
semiya in hot milk. Lifting one leg over another, Seenu, tongue sticking out, struck a Nataraja pose to show his happiness. Rama-Lacchu did synchronised swimming in the air. Kinda folded his
hands and kept bowing his head like an automated toy that said “Jai Hanuman”. Varadan took it all silently. Quietly observing the boys’ black humour, he plotted his revenge. Thathaji’s haircut
was almost over. With other customers, Varadan would have stopped with the haircut for 25 paise. But for Thathaji he always threw in an oil massage for free. The old man was a tough customer. He always made sure he got his money’s worth and more. If this grandsire had
one weakness, it was money, and he never spent it unnecessarily.
Varadan poured some oil onto his palm and got to work. Moving his fingers soothingly over Thathaji’s scalp, Varadan began, "SaarI am planning to go to my village to meet my mother. I will be away for nearly a month.”
“Very good,” said Thathaji.
“I will ask Subbu, my barber-friend, to come to your house while I am away.”
“Very good,” said Thathaji.
“But he will charge you 30 paise per head saar,” said Varadan cautiously.
“Why is that? I will not pay so much. I’ll wait for you to come back,” retorted
Thathaji.
“Saar, at your age, hair will not grow back so fast. But what about these poor
boys? They will grow enough hair to make into a plait by the time I come
back. Summer is approaching fast. In fact, just yesterday I gave the opposite house
Dikshitar’s children a good headshave. They feel so cool and light now. I can do it for you at no extra cost, saar,”said Varadan, and stopped for the message to sink in along with the oil.
Just then Kappu came up to the well to draw water for the boys’ bath, when Thathaji stopped her quite suddenly. “Kappu, go inside and get some sandalwood paste. The boys are going
to get their head shaved!” Thathaji ordered, immensely interested in Varadan’s proposal because of the prospect of saving a month’s barbering costs. Kappu ran in giggling, yelling the
news to the others.
The boys stood transfixed. Seenu’s cosmic dance stopped. The twins’ froze and Kinda fell to the ground in shock. The other six boys, less brave than the others, were already sitting in a row
waiting for the blade to fall!
Varadan was too clever to laugh in Thathaji’s presence. But he talked about Tirupathi, the delicious laddoos one gets there and the medicinal properties of the sandalwood paste
used while tonsuring heads. No amount of rebellion deterred Thathaji from his thrifty decision.
“Keep quiet, you rascals. Going around with mud and lice in your hair. I’ll give you a shave every month if you don’t keep quiet now,” Thathaji said and shut them up once and for all.
In 20 minutes flat, there were ten gleaming heads, shining with sandalwood paste...ten faces yellow with anger! Seenu was almost foaming at the mouth with anger. Kinda was ready to pick up the nearest stone. But what could one do with Thathaji around? Having successfully finished
his task, Varadan bowed low to Thathaji and said, “Bless me saar, I’ll come back next month from my village. In fact, I decided to go there only after coming here. That too only when I was cutting your hair saar,” he said humbly, all the while throwing a sly smile at the ten
yellow heads.
The barber walked few steps. Then, as an afterthought, he called the youngest of the boys and handed him a rupee. “Buy laddoos for yourselves with this and say govinda-govinda before eating it, okay?” he said and sped off on his cycle before Kinda’s stone could hit
him!

Glossary
1.Illa da : No, man
2.Sangeetham : Music
3.Thodi : A well-known raaga in
Carnatic music
4.Periya nee : A high-pitched
musical note
5.Bhairavi nee : A musical note
from the Bhairavi raaga
6.Nagaswaram vidwan : A
person proficient in playing the
nagaswaram, a windinstrument
famous in South
India
7.Kaliman : Clay
8.Semiya : Vermicelli

*Between the barber and the barbarians was published in Chatterbox Children's magazine. Since I carried a Sitamma story last week, my family requested me for a "Thathaji" story this week. The story is in memory of my late grandfather whose birthday falls this month :) Hey cousins- enjoy!

Coffee, Kaapi or me?

"Morning Kaapi (coffee) must be as fresh as that day's newspaper," according to Thathaji.
The grand sire likes to have coffee while the tang of toothpaste is still on his tongue. Reclining on his cane chair with newspaper eagle spread in his hands, he will wait for the coffee to arrive. Though the aroma would have hit him right from the kitchen onwards, it is customary that Sitamma coffee-in-hand waits for him to relinquish his paper. Thathaji would groan and grunt at certain news, check the obituary and glance through the sports section. When the newspaper curtains finally came down, he expected the next performance to begin.
Sitamma, hot "Kaapi" with aromatic mists hovering over the stainless steel tumbler and the vatta- all three stood expectantly.
"Why didn't you say you were waiting?" Thathaji would ask lamely.
But he would not lower his newspapers one instant before he wanted to and the petite lady knew it.
"Sitamma you look like one of those torch-bearing fisher folk heroines, standing by the sea waiting for their spouses to return," I tease when I see her waiting for Thathaji to put down the daily.
"Sure it is I am still at sea with him anyway. Thathaji wouldn't leave his paper even if his child were falling into the well. He will notice it only if it is mentioned in the newspaper. I wish they relayed news instantly on the paper too, like they do on the TV."
That was not all, for all the waiting, Thathaji never received the coffee cup from Sitamma. He would silently motion saying, "leave it here on the stool." But then if she left the coffee on the stool without his silent approval, all hell would break loose.
"Can't you wait for one kshanam for me to finish the paper? Which country of yours is getting ransacked for you to rush back so soon?" and so forth the peroration would continue.
"Only in this household will coffee making taking so long. I would have prepared an aviyal and a usili in this time," grumbled Sitamma.
But secretly, she loved this morning of ritual of serving her old man his Kaapi. And what a ritual! For that original, vintage-classic brew, Sitamma would choose light greenish coffee seeds and roast them. At a particular temperature, aromatic fumes would rise to fill the kitchen first, then the outer rooms. Gradually the coffee seeds' roasting would perfume the entire house. While the seeds cooled, Sitamma prepared that antique coffee grinding machine and other coffee-making gadgets including a clean piece of muslin, a smallish steel pot and some water on the stove. While the water heated, she ground the coffee seeds. By the time the water came to boil, the small quantity of coffee was powdered and ready for that morning's brew. The milk would be put to boil while the coffee diffused through the muslin cloth, like a brown lotus spreading its petals, turning the pond of water in the steel pot into a dark brownish fluid. Noticing Thathaji passing by the kitchen door after brushing his teeth, Sitamma would immediately start mixing the fresh-fresh decoction with the boiling milk from the stove. She never boiled milk and the coffee together. It was always boiling milk poured on the dark brew’s “head”. The amount of sugar added was important. It was that delicate amount of sugar- neither too much, nor too little. The coffee’s bitterness was intact, yet it was a refined kind of bitterness. Finally entire concoction would be mixed, not with a spoon (that is so unmagical) but by swishing and swooshing the fluid to and fro between the tumbler and the vatta. A thick thread of coffee flew between the two containers without one precious drop spilt and finally a frothy cloud stood the top of the coffee tumbler. This ritual for every coffee made in the household, morning, afternoon and evening. That too to be performed by Sitamma only, none else. If Sitamma were to ask Thathaji, “Coffee, Kaapi or me?” in all likelihood Thathaji would say, “Kaapi and also you because of your Kaapi.”
After coffee was served, Thathaji, his nose hitting the bubbly froth would draw in the heady concoction with a huge slurping noise, which is music to Sitamma’s ears. For the next 15 minutes, Thathaji would give his undivided attention to the freshly brewed nectar. Masticating on the news from the daily and mentally arranging his tasks for the day, Thathaji reminisced on his sepia memories while sipping on the brownish brew.
“If you want to marry someone, then treat him to Sitamma’s coffee and say that you made it,” suggested Thathaji.
“Which moron would agree to marry a woman just because she makes good coffee?” I demand.
“Well, this moron would and did,” accepted Thathaji sheepishly. Apparently, Thathaji fell for both the coffee and the golden hands, which made it. This during the usual dekho session arranged by the families before the wedding.
“Sitamma looked almost as good as the Kaapi she offered. Why, she even sang Kaapi ragam that day, what a coincidence! Intha soukya manine, how well she sang,” Thathaji went on gleefully.
“Day starts with coffee, life started with coffee….what more?” I ask.
“Someday when I drink coffee from your hands, my life will also end with coffee,” Thathaji said and laughed devilishly.
“Haven’t you heard of filters and coffee makers, Sitamma?” I ask.
“Things haven’t percolated down to that yet,” she replied dryly.
“What your filters and percolators make is coffee, what Sitamma makes is Kaapi,” concluded Thathaji categorically.
I can see that the art of coffee or rather Kaapi making can be so tricky and as demanding as the pursuit of performing arts. Particularly for Sitamma, when you have a coffee connoisseur breathing down your neck, the mere chore of making coffee becomes a performance of sorts. On stage no two performances can ever be alike. But Sitamma has managed to master the nuances of giving out coffee which tastes just the same each time- with the same thickness, flavour and temperature. One can patent it, I feel.
But how she manages a first decoction, second decoction, all this roasting, grinding, filtering through muslin cloth drama day after day, I really don’t know. It is nothing short of a lifetime commitment to serve her coffee connoisseur husband the best of coffees.
“I wish you were my wife, Sitamma,” I say taking in her painstaking efforts.
“I wish I were my husband too!” she replies with a sigh.
***

"Coffee, Kaapi or me?" was published in The Hindu November 17, 2002

Never Tease Gandhi- preamble to notes on Vasti treatment

Imagine my mirth when I learnt that the last wish of my great grandfather was for an enema, which his wife had refused bluntly. He died soon after, his bottom most desire unfulfilled. For long his wife was plagued by grief that she had refused a dying man a simple last wish!
“You know, just as emperor Krishnadevaraya gifted golden mangoes to the priests and Tenali Rama offered branding with hot iron rods on his mother’s death anniversary, we must also offer enemas to guests who arrive for Thatha’s shrardam. Only then will his soul be assuaged,” I said most seriously to my great grandmother. The lady was not amused. She merely said- “My husband was a Gandhian. Like them, may you also know the pleasures of an enema.”

This story predictably generated high decibel belly laughter among my friends. Few smutty jokes made the rounds. One talked about Shashi Tharoor’s The Great Indian Novel and his portrayal of Gandhi in it as Bhisma obsessed with colon cleansing. Another friend cited Bapsi Sidhwa’s Ice-candy man and Gandhiji’s views in it on bowel irrigation. Ideas abounded on how to placate the soul of my great grandfather who died wistfully dreaming of a warm enema. All of us laughed more than warranted. Then it happened. My stomach began “gesticulating”. Oh! How to describe it! It was as if my intestines wanted to step out to say hi to my friends and play dumb charades or something. I miraculously reached the bathroom on time.

While I was in there worrying that my intestines were descending so far down that they could say hello to the denizens of hell, I received an sms from my host (wise guy) from the other side of the door, “8 a kilo and shat 4? Bad Math. Worse aftermath.”
As my physical condition left me indisposed to retaliate in full strength, I merely stopped with not flushing his loo.

After that day I religiously began carrying the status message- “Never tease Gandhi” on my messengers to spread the news that one could attract painful stomach ailments if one teased the clean habits of the Father of the nation. But even this did not placate the forefathers for shortly after I developed a mysterious illness, which mysteriously enough had no apparent cure in “English” medicine. I was admitted into an Ayurvedic clinic- not the fancy green and ochre, oil dripping, back water facing thatch roofed kind you see in Kerala tourism brochures- but a real one which Shushruta would have been proud of- the kind which still uses leeches to drain bad blood and sets broken bones without anesthesia.

I was ushered into my room, where two shiny brass telescopes above the bedstead briefly distracted me from my grief.
I put one to my eye and peered out of the window. The telescopes smelt strange.
“Nice showpiece, eh? What happened to the glass lenses in them?” I asked the nurse.
“Who wants to see through them?!! They are the instruments for giving enema,” she giggled. Word spread about my faux pas. I was called Galileo by the doctors.
“How did you contract the illness, Galileo?” The Chief Doctor asked cheerfully.
“I teased Gandhi,” I said smartly and narrated the story of my Thathaji and Gandhiji with full histrionics and laughter.
“Heat the oil a tad more,” shouted the Doctor sternly and exited while the trembling nurses told me that their Chief was a sworn Gandhian!!
Oh! The old men were my nemesis. The next twenty days saw Galileo’s intestines being gargled with warm medicated oil and hot herbal concoctions through the telescopes. The nights in lieu of star gazing were spent tossing in fright after visitations from the two grand souls with toothless smiles. Not a day passed without me remembering the grand old lady who had cursed me to know the pleasures of enema.
A month later, as I left the clinic completely detoxified in mind and body, I swore to myself that a) I would spread the moral of the story - “Never tease Gandhi” far and wide and b) if ever I was to have a dying wish to be fulfilled by my descendents, I would die wishing for a full blown orgy on a barge - Cleopatra style.

"Never tease Gandhi" was published in Loony life column.

Days 12-16

Now we come to the grand conclusion of the long, hard, tummy turning treatment. After completing Ama pachanam (the cooking of 'amam' or toxins) through medicine, followed by Sneha Panam (internal oleation of body), Abhyanga and Swedana (massage and sweating) to move toxins of the body into the eliminatory system, we come to that final and crucial part of Panchakarma called Vasti which involves the elimination of the toxins dislodged from various parts of the body and made to accumulate in the eliminatory tract. Vasti involves giving enemas to the patient. Over a period of five days oil and herbal enemas (Sneha Vasti and Kashaya vasti) were administered and the bowels entirely irrigated. I feel extremely light, sprightly and "clean" after the treatment. My health has improved considerably. And I am keeping my fingers crossed for a complete cure. With this the "Purging of Jaya Madhavan" comes to a conclusion and I am going home to recuperate. :)

Abhyanga and Swedana

Day 9-11
Abhyanga and Swedana may sound like two apsaras descended from Indra's court to seduce Viswamitra but to bring you back to terra firma the two words roughly mean massage and sweating. Note on the two terms follows, but my story goes first.

Elements of Abhyanga scene- Two swarthy (female) masseurs. Hard wooden bed. A bucket of warm oil. A loin cloth. And me. Just arrange these elements in your mind and I will come back to it for I am going to digress a bit now.
There used to be a huge mortar and pestle in my grandmother's house. Washing the mortar and pestle by itself used to be a separate chore and women of the house used to vie for it. Not without reason. It needed two to clean that mortar and pestle and that pair who were in most urgent need of exchanging gossip used to tumble out to clean those mammoth instruments. Standing close to each other the women would bzzbzzbzzbzz softly and if someone were to pass by they would restore their voices to normal decibel. High and low, high and low they would whisper, giggle, gossip and pour out the contents of their heart even while the mortar and pestle got cleaned automatically and expertly, without demanding too much attention from the bzzzbzzing women.

Cut back to the clinic with me on the wooden bed, flanked by the two masseurs. Up, down, up down their hands move briskly and deftly. Tup-tip-toop, they turn me front to back, front to back effortlessly, all the while gossiping in high and low tones, completely oblivious to me, as if I were a mere pestle :(
Masseur 1: "And then my husband came home drunk and flung her to the ground. I turned off the TV and waited for his next move."
Masseur 2: "But that's what happened last week also after she came home in that particular way."
Masseur 1: "Yesterday was different. She was wearing flowers and an alien fragrance wafted from her."
Masseur 2: "What does your husband care?"
Masseur 1: "No, no she is.....what can I say? She is....."
Masseur 2: "Okay forget it; tell me what he did to her?"
Me: "Er...excuse me, but who is this "she" you are talking about?"

No sooner did I ask the question than the two sheepishly shut up and looked to finishing the massage swiftly. My head was exploding with curiosity. It was obvious they were continuing the conversation from the previous patient's massage bed and the previous patient must have known more about the "She". "Er....who was your previous patient?" I wanted to ask so that the story may conclude in my head. No such luck, for the treatment of the day finished and for the next two days I had two other sets of masseurs who nevertheless gave me a peek into their worlds with their gossip.

After the massage, a tube pouring smoke at its mouth was brought to me. It smelt of pungent herbs. Hot vapour was coursed down my body from the tube and I began to sweat as if I had run 6 miles. "This is Swedana," said the masseur answering my unspoken question. Shortly after, unable to contain their tongues the women returned to their idle gossiping.
I was worried that Swedana might be a Vedana (pain), but it is turning out exceedingly interesting what with the number of stories that float around like the thick fog above my bed.

Abhyanga and Swedana

Abhyanga is a gentle but firm warm oil massage done by two masseurs. Oils for the massage are chosen according to the ailment or constitution (prakruti) of the patient's body. The prefix “Abhi” means “into or towards” and “ang” has a root meaning of “movement’. So “Abhyanga” is the process by which bodily energy is reactivated even while moving the "amam" or toxins towards the body’s eliminatory systems. Abhyanga I find is an extremely comforting and rejuvenating part of the treatment. My skin is glowing from all that oil I was dunked in. My body feels lighter and many of my aches have subsided. I am liking it :) The stories of the masseurs are of course a bonus.

Swedana is yet another process of detoxification where steam from herbal concoction is blown on your body to stimulate sweating. As you "cook" beneath the steam, the body will begin to release its accumulated toxins through its pores. Together, Abhyanga and Swedana help in balancing the doshas and restoring health to your body.