Empty musical afternoons

It is the December music season at Chennai and all of us rasikas are in our Kangaroo avatar hopping from one sabha to next. But what saddens me is that there is a Friday-evening-Satyam-theatre kind of rush for certain concerts while certain afternoon concerts have as much crowd as the bus stop opposite Theosophical Society at Besant Avenue. Nobody knows it is there and nobody stops there, not even the buses.

The afternoon slots are usually reserved for junior and sub-junior musicians and possibly the audience are too hoity-toity to appear in their best silks at a “junior” concert. The poor afternoon musicians sing to empty chairs with such gusto that if I were a chair, I would lift my two arms and applaud them heartily. However, some smart parents of certain afternoon musicians had ensured a decent crowd by pressing relatives and friends into attending the concert. As you enter the hall, you feel you are intruding a family get together like a seemandham or punyajanam. “Where is Kappu living now? Was Kalli’s delivery normal?” and such talk abound. Two people (presumably father and uncle) go around welcoming and thanking people. You almost expect them to tell you, “kandippa saptutu daan ponum” (please have food before leaving). During the concert, one lady leaned forward and I thought she was going to ask “who on the stage are you related to?” like they ask in weddings “which side do you belong? Girl or boy?” Thankfully she only wanted to know the raga. Yet not all relatives and friends are as obliging and something has to be done about these performances which have more people on the stage than in the seats.
I am not going to make any serious suggestion here like switch the senior musicians’ concerts to the afternoon slots because they get their audience anyway and/or don’t spread so many concerts across so many sabhas, it only thins the attendance etc. These suggestions have been made by many to deaf ears and therefore I shall not waste further time. Instead I have a new set of suggestions.
Just as certain sitcoms have a laughter track running behind, the sabha people can switch on an applause track at appropriate moments to create a feeling of audience. But usually the organizers themselves are not present. So they may have to train the mike man to do it, only that the mike man, in the event of being tone deaf may switch on the applause track at inappropriate moments like when the vocalist is sipping milk or when he has lost a beat stupidly or when he is glaring at the violinist for a goof up. Still, some sound of applause is better than none.
Secondly the backs of the chair can be painted on to resemble human beings in seated posture. From the stage it would look like the chairs are people. And if the arms of the chairs can be robotically programmed to lift and applaud at the end of every song on cue, it would even be better.
Thirdly those rare few who enter the hall should be given ping pong balls cut in halves with the orbs of the eye painted on it. You see, most people fall asleep insensitively sitting in the very first row. These people can press the ping pong orbs onto their eyes and go to sleep while the performers sing rest assured that they have an audience who are listening “wide eyed” with surprise at their incredible talent.
Once I invited my friend at Royapuram for a book reading of mine and he said he would come if I gave him, “noor rooba, kaila kuska” (Rs.100 and a packet of Kuska in hand, which is apparently what politicians give to bribe voters). I think afternoon slot musicians should contact my friend at Royapuram.

The above article was published in my "Loony Life" column two weeks ago.

Enough Kohl to put Johnny Depp to shame

By far, the Chennai December music season this time has been a case of “I went, I saw, I ran away” kind of experience for me. I began writing a stiff ‘Carnatic music and consumerism — Making the audience buy’ type of article. But considering my sworn readers who cannot brook one grave sentence from my pen, I have here a series of (loony) snapshots on the music season.

• I thought I had wandered into a South Indian wedding when I entered a concert hall this December season. Rustling silk saris, fragrant jasmine strings, deep namaskarams, aroma of filter coffee and idli-sambar, snatches of gossip…eh? If I had anticipated such heavy dressing, I would have at least remembered to comb. But what the hell? I came to listen to music, not be seen. The violinist on stage had enough kohl in her eyes to put Johnny Depp to shame, while the vocalists glittered like Christmas trees. So much so, I was tempted to carry one back home and hang some gifts for my kids. My vote any day is for Sanjay Subrahmanyan, who prefers to throw his flamboyance into his music rather than his clothes. If musicians felt glittering jibbas and flashy saris added weight to their music, then why wear just one? Why not wear four? Or maybe I belong to that dwindling population which expects only a good concert and not a ‘good-looking’ concert.
  
• There was just so much fanfare on stage and off stage in every concert I went to that I wanted to shout, “Will the real performers please stand up?” Where were those good old mamas and mamis hugging yellow cloth bags, taking the 23As and 12Cs to arrive at Sastri Hall and Music Academy? These good souls, who could outcry any geko with their appreciative tch-tch-tches, were completely lost in the overdressed crowd.
  
• For those unacquainted with Carnatic musicians, people who sing in pairs give themselves creative names like Mambalam sisters, Hyderabad brothers and Carnatica brothers. Given the burgeoning talent base, there will come a crowded day when we will see Thambiah Reddy street sisters, 4th main road (next to Pizza hut) brothers etc. Tomorrow perchance my daughter and niece begin to perform as duo I plan to call them Vatsalya sisters after the playschool they go to.
  
• Coming to music reviews in a popular daily, one can never make out if the concert soared or sucked from what they write. Consider this convoluted writing — “Mutual enrichment of the musical fare was facilitated by the individual merit of each expert member”. Translated it simply means, the musicians did a good job or at least that’s what I think. And then there is this insufferable alliteration critics get into. “Mellifluous Madhyamavati, kindling Kalyani, meandering Mohanam, roaring Ranjani” ad nauseum. As such Carnatic music is inaccessible. For God’s sake, should we employ ‘twilight language’ while speaking about this art form?
  
• Carnatic musicians have really smartened up. They act in movies, endorse products, appear in reality shows, write books, email their concert schedules religiously, have perky music profiles, perfect PR, well- updated blogs and websites. It is a good sign that one can indeed make a living out of Carnatic music. I am saying all this so that, that segment of population, which still drools over Carnatic musicians as if they were messengers of God, should wake up and understand that they’re all in this field as professionals, just as any doctor or engineer is in his.
  
• Visaka Hari(ji) is one performer who has spoilt every Tambrahm married woman’s chances with her mother-in-law. She is the dream daughter-in-law of every mamiyar, what with her madisar/straight hair parting/diamond earrings and absorption in all things politically correct. She makes all the mamis wonder why it didn’t occur to them to make a career out of the bedtime stories they knew and wear their madisars with more pride. For foot-in-mouthed, jeans-wearing failure of a character like me, Visaka Hari is a Kafkaish nightmare (my mother-in-law loves her). The way the older generation spring into action to ‘catch’ seats for her programme — well, you have to see it to believe it. She makes them forget their rheumatoid arthritis.
  
• Amidst kanjeevarams and namaskarams in the concert hall, I also spotted some straight skirts and hugging and kissing on both cheeks. Wasn’t this behaviour usually displayed by the audience of Alliance Francaise programmes? Good! So Carnatic music is also turning ‘happening’! And may it happen minus the trappings!
  
  This article was published in my Loony Life column

G.Madhavan Vocal. Dec '09 Carnatic music concerts for season

Monday, December 07, 2009
2:45 pm to 4:15 pm
Nungambakkam Cultural Academy
Ramarao Kala Mantap, Habibullah road, T.Nagar
Sudha Iyer on violin, Vijay Natesan on Mridangam

Friday, December 11, 2009
12:15 pm to 1:30 pm
Karthik Fine Arts
Naradha Gana Sabha Mini Hall

Saturday, December 12, 2009
5:00 pm to 6:00 pm
All India Radio - FM Gold

Saturday, December 12, 2009
6:30 pm to 9:00 pm
Papanasam Sivan Sangeetha Sabha, Madipakkam
Kalyani Shankar on violin, Mannarkoil J.Balaji on Mridangam

Sunday, December 13, 2009
5:00 pm to 6:15 pm
Chennai Fine Arts (RTP Concert)
Gokhale Hall, Mylapore
Dr. R.Hemalatha on violin, K.S.Ramana on Mridangam

Monday, December 14, 2009
2:00 pm to 4:00 pm
Krishna Gana Sabha
Gana vihar, Maharajapuram Santhanam Road, T.Nagar
Usha Rajagopal violin, T.R.Sundaresan Mridangam

Saturday, December 19, 2009
10:00 am to 12:00 pm
Nadha Inbam
Ragasudha hall, Mylapore
Usha Rajagopal violin, Sherthalai Ananthakrishnan Mridangam

Saturday, December 19, 2009
7:00 pm to 9:00 pm
Hamsavinodhini
Sankaran Temple, Kuppiah street, West Mambalam
Usha Rajagopal, Sherthalai Ananthakrishnan

Friday, December 25, 2009
9:00 am to 10:30 am
Valayapatti sabha
Anantha Padmanabha swami temple, Adyar
Kalyani Shankar, Madurai Shanmugam, Mayavaram Somu Pillai


Friday, December 25, 2009
2:30 am to 4:00 pm
Brahma Gana Sabha
Sivagami Pethachi auditorium, Luz church road, Mylapore
Kandadevi Vijayaraghavan, T.R.Sundaresan

Ganesha never fails

Somebody was having fever. High fever. High exam fever. It was none other than Lord Ganesha, who lived in the small temple under the arasa tree at the street corner. In the last one week, dozens of boys and girls had assailed him, begging to be promoted to the next class. To help them get through in maths, history, geography, civics. Ooh! How much could a god remember?
Lord Ganesha’s brow began to feel hot and clammy. He felt very feverish. Exam feverish. Something had to be done about this. Fast!
***
Gangadharan went and wrote VI Std for the third time on the small Pillaiyar temple wall. He did this without his mother Sitamma’s knowledge.
“You cannot pass by writing your class on the temple wall or by promising coconuts to god. You have to study,” Sitamma would yell if she got to know.
Gangadharan or Ganga didn’t care much about being scolded. All he wanted was to pass and go to class seven after all, how could he be separated from his best friends? Wouldn’t he be left behind if he failed? And who wanted to be friends with Nattu and Rangan of class five chee! They still played hand cricket and even did underarm bowling. Shameful!
“Pillaiyar appa, you have been the scribe for Veda Vyasa and written the Mahabharata and all. What is a mere Class VI exam for you? Please make me get 35 on 100. I am not at all greedy I just want to pass. Are you listening?” Ganga asked eagerly, opening one eye to look slyly at the trunk god to see if any of his flattery had had an effect. He was dismayed to find eight other small figures writing I, V, VI, IV and other such class numbers on the wall.
“Dai ! What are you all doing?” Ganga demanded.
“Mmm? Same thing as you were! In fact we got the idea from you, anna,” said the youngest kid in the group.
Ganga had nothing to say to this and so quietly went home to spend the rest of his study holidays wondering how to pass.

“Will you start studying now at least?” asked Sitamma. Since morning Ganga had done nothing but sit at the study table and stare blankly into space.

“Yes, amma. First, I’ll arrange my bookshelf and then I’ll start,” Ganga said. For a full one hour he arranged his books to kill time. When Sitamma was not looking, he played book-cricket and admired his large collection of stickers which he had traded, won and earned by chewing innumerable bubble gums.
An hour later, Sitamma checked on him again to see if he had started his lessons at all. Sure enough, Ganga was still arranging his books.
“Enough of that Ganga, open your book now,” commanded Sitamma.
“Oh! I just remembered that Chakkarai has my maths notebook. I’ll just run across to his house and get it,” said Ganga and scooted before his mother could say anything. By the time Ganga returned, it was time for lunch. After lunch (which consisted of his favourite koottu and thuvayal), Ganga felt so full and satisfied that his eyes started to close slowly and he began to nod. The bed looked cosy and inviting.
“Why does everything seem more pleasurable before the exams? Almost everything seems better than this wretched study table,” he said to himself. He was about to doze off when Sitamma barged into the room angrily.
“Ganga! You have not read a single page since morning. Just what do you think of yourself?” she thundered. Just then, the skies outside rumbled and broke into a sudden summer shower. Ganga jumped up, grabbed an umbrella and ran out. He ran in the direction of the Pillaiyar temple.
“If the VI Std I wrote has not been erased in the rain, then I will surely pass; if not aiyo! No it can’t be erased,” hoped Ganga. Before he got there, eight small figures were already standing with umbrellas outstretched to protect their handwriting on the wall. When they saw Ganga, they all smiled impishly, some a little foolishly.
“Have you all studied anything?”asked Ganga.
“Yes I did,” said Paramasivam of Class V.
“What?” asked Ganga.
“I studied the school pledge and the national anthem. I thought maybe there will be a surprise oral test on that,” Paramu said innocently while the rest of the group laughed.
“What about you da?” Ganga asked Vichchu.
“I don’t have to study, I think I am going to get fever. My head is already spinning,”
said Vichchu very seriously.
“I too am going to get fever and vomit,” said Krishnaswamy of Class I.
“What do you think I can get?” asked Ganga hopefully.
“You are going to get three hard raps on your head,” said a voice from behind, hard as thunder.
The terrified gang of boys turned to see a figure dripping with water from head to toe, with hair scattered all over the face.
“Mother!” Ganga was the first to react.
“Why have you come without an umbrella?”
“Mmmm? Your father has taken one umbrella and you have brought the other. I just
had to find out what you were up to. So all of you are planning to get fever and vomit,
is it?” asked Sitamma angrily.
“So what have you promised to the god?” she asked, looking at Rangan.
“Hundred sit-ups,” he said timidly.
“And you?”
“Three coconuts,” said Kishmu.
“All of you just march behind me. I have something for you,” Sitamma commanded angrily. Everyone obeyed.
Once they reached Ganga’s house, Sitamma made the boys sit in a row and went inside. When she came out, two girls were with her. Both looked like they were in college and they looked alike. Looking at the boys’ wonder, the girls said in unison.
“We are twins. We belong to Padippaal Uyarvu Sangam (progress through education).We are going to help you with your studies and make you all pass with good marks.”
The boys looked at each other skeptically but were glad that help was at hand. They all ran home to fetch their books. Soon everyone began to assemble in Sitamma’s verandah every morning to learn their lessons from the twin sisters.
The sisters placed a huge Ganesha idol in the centre of the group and said, “Look at our Lord Ganesha. He is the embodiment of learning. His ears are so large. It means He listens better and understands better. He is the world’s first scribe. He knows how to write very well mainly because he never writes anything which he does not understand. Look at his trunk which looks like an ink pen, it is full of knowledge. If you know your lessons well, your pen will automatically seem to write better and flow faster. And last but not the least, look at his broken tusk it means you must learn more and munch less!”
Day after day, the sisters drilled and coached the entire group of boys. In fact they did it so well that the boys were actually looking forward to writing their exams. On the day of the examination, the boys did ten sit-ups before Lord Ganesha, wished each other luck and left for the hall accompanied by the sisters. (Vicchu actually had fever (really!), yet he went to take the exam.) When the results came, the boys were exultant. They had all passed with distinctions. There was great jubilation in the air. They bought lots of sweets and went to the Padippaal Uyarvu Sangam to thank the twin sisters. At the Sangam, they asked to see the twin sisters.
“There are no twins working for us. What did you say their names were?” asked the officer.
“Siddhi and Buddhi,” said the boys.
“How strange! There are no twins by those names here!” exclaimed the officer.
The surprised boys went home and told Sitamma about what had happened. Sitamma was totally nonplussed. She looked at the Ganesha in the centre of the hall and then at the boys.
“Boys, did you know that Lord Ganesha’s wives are called Siddhi and Buddhi? Siddhi means successful completion and Buddhi means intelligence. It seems like the trunk god himself sent them to help you with your exams. I am sure they will visit us to find out about your results,” said Sitamma.
The boys were surprised too. But soon their happiness surpassed their surprise and they all ran out to play with sweets in hand. Only Sitamma kept sitting in front of the Ganesha idol not knowing what to make of the entire thing. Was this a mere coincidence or were the twin girls a real godsend?
Can the Chatterbox readers guess?

Ganesha never fails was published in Chatterbox magazine. Incidentally this is my first story ever published for children.

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.