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Stable story !

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This is a real life story. Set, far away from Mumbai’s Mahalakshmi Race course and the Mahabaleshwar mountains. Down in the deep plains is Madurai !

And there, there is this horse stable. A stable that adorns the display rack of a lonely house. Maintained immaculately by the lady of the house, and looked at longingly, from a distance by the man.

These are horses. Looking artistic to them. For the strange, inanimate objects that they are, they seem to carry life. They were mere objects on many retail shelves. But that was before they were picked up with care.

Over time, each one of them came to signify one member of the family.

There was one for the man of the house . Another for the lady. One each for the sons. Each signifying and standing for the real ! Each figure matched by the living’s characteristics. And so they were reared at home. By the lady and man. Quite unknown to their sons.

And when the daughter-in-laws came into the household, horses were added to the stable. And when a young one arrived, a pony took its rightful place. And of course, there is more space.

And when the sons, the daughters-in-law and the grandson are busy running their own courses much away from Madurai, the lady of the house dusts this stable clean. With a dry cloth. And then with a wet cloth. Wet with a tinge of a lonely tear, sweat and toil of many years, to make the family run its course.

And so, this inanimate stable which takes a life of its own adorns this house. Inanimate it is, to the rest of the world. For the man and the lady, the horses themselves seem to leap to life. Every time they look at them. And even when they don’t.

And so, this is the story of the stable. A stable that adorns the display rack of a lonely house. Maintained immaculately by the lady of the house, and looked at longingly, from a distance by the man.



This post concludes the series on ‘Horses for Courses’

Anyone for coffee ?

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We are brewing. Really. New brew ! We have officially established South Indian rule in our home ! Yes. We We too drink Filter Coffee !! I mean, we too make it at home. Right here! And yes. We too have arrived ! (Wikipedia has all the details for you here !)

Amongst the many that i talk to, any discussions around my origins invariably lead to a discussion around Filter Coffee. The sharp eyed would have spotted my squirm and a shuffle of feet. Or atleast a shuffle of fingers of the feet, inside the shoe.

For in the family, ‘filter coffee’ was confined to the borders of Tamil territory. In our family tree. But we broke it all.


During this trip back home, coffee powder was picked up. ” ‘PB’ standing for ‘Peaberry’ ” we were told. The coffee filter was picked up, right here in Mumbai. And voila there is a decoction and the strong aroma of coffee that waffles through the morning air are now common place.

To the uninitiated, this may not be big deal. Neither was Filter coffee a big deal to us, until we moved here. North of the deep south !! Here, good old Filter Coffee is seen as an integral part of a Tamil existence. That connection seems to rule common mind space. Like a cross to Christ !!! Very rightly so !

Sample this. We would have guests at home. The best of good food would be served, nay, attempted. And promptly showered with wonderful critical acclaim that’s generous. And then a few thinly veiled questions would surface about filter coffee. You know, something like, ” the food was tastier than the ones that we get in Matunga, but over there you get filter coffee also’ !

And we would grin and mouth our ‘thank yous’. Pretending that their statements didn’t go beyond the comma. Now, the guests who did comment were a small minority. But you know, we feared the worst. Even when nothing was said !!!

But now, hey, we too have filter coffee !

And as the coffee sinks in, leaving a strong aftertaste in the mouth and in the air around too, we glance at slogans like “coffee drinkers are better thinkers” with a new slant !

But you know something, the coffee is something. Really something. Today, i wondered why there is so much of connection to the drink. I wonder if its because it helps me connect with home, with every sip? I haven’t been a great fan of coffee. Until now.

I don’t know.

But that’s not whats important. Whats important is this : The guest list is being refurbished. With some confidence ! Aha !

Now, anyone for coffee ?

Question D !

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I need some help. Read on.

Preserved by a dotting mother who doubles up as a collector of family memories, this chap remains. Many decades after he was slapped, thrown about, trampled all over and sometimes washed up and decorated ! Yes. This chap was my toy !

And i was reacquainted with him last week. And promptly clicked !

And what an aspirational toy ! At that time, there was desire. To wear those bell bottom trousers. For that long wavy hair. And yes. For that bright yellow shirt and sky blue trousers ! For that red guitar and lovely music, that i saw film heroes spew !

And this chap is symbolic of a time when there was innocence in the air and the thinking was as wide as the vast expanse !

As education seeped in, one after the another, the tastes changed. For the whatever remained, reality reared its stark face. The last on that list being ‘wavy hair’ !

More importantly, this chap reminded of a time when you were asked four questions. All the time. Many times over. By new people. Same people. Half people. At dinners. Get togethers. When people visited. When you visited.

a. Which school do you go to ?
b. Which class do you study in ?
c. What is your class teachers name ?
d. What do you want to become when you grow up ?

Of course, there would be a few more questions. And there were those who would ask the same questions all over again, in the same interaction so much so, that you wondered if could make the earth would part ways. Then and there !

The answer to question D, on that list, would vary. Many times according to mood. The intensity of the sun. Of course, on who was asking, and who all were listening. The answers used to vary from, ‘Pilot. Journalist. Prime Minister. Policeman. IAS officer’ and the like. These were my oft quoted.

The more libellous ones were, ‘Film star, cricketer, Astrologer..” Whatever the answer, without doubt, there would be those who would probe further. ‘Why’ they would ask. Or sometimes, smirk / laugh / nod head and say, ‘really?’.

There was one gent who used to be a master at this. He would ask me this question, over many years. And when he did ask me this question, for the 2,33,678th time, i remember, having my hands on my hips and telling him, ‘ Superman’.

The man’s eyebrows widened. And there was momentary surprise. There was a plan. That if at he would ask me ‘Why’, i would muster all courage and state that Superman got to wear blue trousers for underwear and read underwear for trousers. And of course, had a curtain cloth hanging on his shoulder.

His surprise had him mute. There was no need to muster the courage. I remember wanting to go on. And tell him, “Phantom”. “Tin Tin”. “Batman” and each had equally powerful reasons. Surprisingly the 2,33,679th time didn’t come.

This chap with the guitar reminded me of that time ! Now, If you spot a dark chap in a bright yellow shirt and a sky blue bell bottom trousers, with a guitar slung across the shoulder….well, spare a second look ! It could be me, wanting to recreate that time !

Many decades later, the toys have changed shape. Size. But hey, the questions remain too. Slightly different though.

a. Where do you work ?
b. Where do you live ?
c. How many kids do you have ?
d. How much do you earn ?

And this is where i need some help. Can you help me with a ‘superman’ kind of answer for ‘question ‘d’ ‘ !?!

Meenakshi Amman Temple !

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For all those who asked for pictures…presenting the Meenakshi Amman Temple ! Full details of the place is here..

These two pictures were clicked during an earlier visit.

These pillars and stone know each of my travails. My joys. My sorrows. For it is here that i spoke in silence. To the voice within. In silence. To peace. Part in belief. Part in practice. And more importantly, all in reverence and peace !

The Meenakshi Amman Temple at Madurai, is a must see. So, if you haven’t seen this place. Pack your bags ! Its a significant piece of architecture that i have never stopped being in awe of.

Built about three hundred years ago, when there were no cranes, no lifts, no cement, no sophisticated architects and 3D experts with expertise in Maya, it is a celebration of whats possible ! And yes, a sight to behold. The internet will supply you with inputs and information. I am just sharing a few pictures that i clicked !

Temple tower covered with scaffolding now

The temple is under renovation. All towers are covered with scaffolding and presumably the architecture on the towers are getting a new coat of paint. It will be a sight to behold when the scaffolding comes off. For sure !

Painting work on !
The dry temple pond and the dual painted steps to the pond


The temple cow just outside the sanctum sanctorum. Well, the colourful drape on the cow has been sponsored by Sivasakthi Bakery ! But that’s besides the point. The rituals are quite something ! Rich and full of pageantry !


A passageway with a painted designs for the cieling, Tirukural verses on one side, and sun rays streaming in through pillars on the other ! I stand there. Absorbing each moment. I dont know for how long !


A pillar in the South Tower. The camera and my own limited photography skills convey a very small fraction of the beauty of the place. It has to be seen and experienced. So, go ahead. And make that trip. If there is any other information / help that you need, do write in !

So, I step out after a couple of early morning hours in the temple.

As has been the practice with me for a few years now, i buy trinkets here. I pay. And the shop keeper says, ‘Rhamba Danks’. I hear it as Rhamba Dance ! And then in a minute i realise he was actually thanking me with a “Romba Thanks” ( Thank you very much ). I wonder whats come of me. To think of “Ramba Dance” ! At this time of the hour. With this setting. Huh !

On yet another note, there is this guide, who speaks in an American accent with a stiff Tamil dialect, that i can hear in the background. And he tells tourists that the Temple was built to keep the economy going. “Building a large structure gave employment to many thousands of people for many many years”, he says, rolling his R.

I notice that tourists nodding their heads vigorously. I wonder if these guides adapt their ‘presentations’ to current contexts. But, this theory seems plausible.

That is the solution ! Are world leaders of the recession hit world listening ? I wonder. For now, I hurry home. I am hungry. Already.

North of the Deep South.

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A migrant rants.

It has been more than a decade, since i put my home city of Madurai on my rear view mirror. Firm in the belief that my future lay beyond the semi urban hinterland of the deep South. And trudged North of the deep south. Armed with whatever a small town living and a simple middle class upbringing could provide. To the wallet and to the mind !

With wide, dreamy awestruck eyes i stepped foot in Bangalore. Bangalore had already taken off. As a wide eyed young man, it seemed to be a no-brainer that i was beyond the influences of the people and culture of my past ! I thought i had arrived. And my future was in the promise of the new found land ! North of the deep south !

Only to realise, within a very short time, that whatever went into my wonder years : the small town upbringing, steady rhythms of life, an emphasis on simple values and shared love, would never be beyond me. But more importantly, it would be the essence of me, in the hustle and bustle of burgeoning metropolises !

And from then on, I have made it a point to return. Just like i have done now. For renewal. For faith. And just to soak in the air, the love and hoping that the spirit gets auto renewed. Like it always has.

Here. There are houses where there were paddy fields. There are malls where there were houses. There are huge apartments where simple stores once stood. There are new stores with neon signs. The old stores continue becoming new. The temple towers stand. They share the skyline with numerous Telecom towers. There are new names to old streets. There are new street corners. There are new streets.

I stand. Just as another tourist. Camera in hand. In my own land. Clicking pictures of what i think has changed. And of what remains, for i know, what remains will also change.

What goes into the camera goes in. What cant get into the camera’s many GB hard disk goes into my memory. I relive moments from the past. Moments when i smiled. Cringed. Loved. Smiled. Won. Lost. Ran. Walked. Jumped. Fought wars. And made peace. And grew up. Indelible moments.

The settings may have changed. The script is still relevant. It will always be. For it made me.

Tonight we catch Train No : 6731. And head back. North of the deep south ! I will carry with me a million pictures and a zillion stories. And as the deep south recedes in my rear view mirror, i am pretty much sure that a fresh spirit will course my veins.

Sincere wishes for good tidings from the people and land that made you, they say, stays with you. So they say. I have no reason to doubt that. For, my life is blessed. In the north of the deep south.

Too.

Happy Pongal !

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Happy Pongal !

Tomorrow is Pongal. Wikipedia informs me that Pongal is akin to Thanksgiving. I only know that it is a festival of harvest. It is a festival of a new beginning, of sugar, of jaggery, of decorated cows and of course of pristine joy! Perhaps a flowing over the brim of all of these !!

Wikipedia also informs that the Tamil Nadu government has decided to announce that from this year on, Pongal will be Tamil New Year ! I guess they wanted to become Julius Caesar or somebody by changing the calendar. (Ah. I have given a word to my missus : No politics on the blog. Ok. So, i stop there. Right there). Thats a different issue.

Back home, Pongal meant four days of holidays. And those wonderful dishes that amma made. The prayer and the offering to the Sun, in the spacious courtyard of home ! And of course, sugarcane ! Endless sugarcane !

Pongal. Madurai ’06

This is a picture from the album. Pongal celebrations at home. 2006 ! My taste buds are already active, when i look at the offerings on the leaf. And of course, you cant miss the sugarcane. Those long, thick purple hued delights.

Pongal brings to mind a different time. And makes me miss home. And when you miss home, you miss home and the glorious times that were part of home ! Parents. Friends and the times !

Tomorrow however, the missus will wake up early in the morning, and make Pongal (the dish). And we’ll have a prayer standing in our apartment kitchen, from where we hope to catch a glimpse of the sun, and say a quiet thank you. And then, i run away to work and and she goes her way !

In that space would escape a thousand memories and a few techni colour memories peppered with longing for recreation and renewal to a far away land that’s close to a migrant heart.

Sugarcane. Pongal ’08

The one material thing that i would miss, is the purple hued sugar cane. We went around shopping for sugar cane, and ended up with what you see. That size would make a home grown drumstick from Madurai beam with pride !!

On another note, i guess Pongal is about a new beginning. About acknowledging the forces of nature that sustain us. About peace. About happiness. About community. About sincerity of a wish for a better tomorrow.

And that sincerity is not dependent on where you are or for that matter, by the length of sugarcane in your region !

So here is a sincere wish for you ! A sincere acknowledgement for being there and a prayer + hope for a better tomorrow for all of us !

Happy Pongal !

My day today. When Mumbai was beseiged.

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Late last night, oblivious to all that was happening in the same city that is home, under the same sky, i blogged, read, chatted and went to bed. Only to be woken up very shortly later, by a call from my boss. At midnight you don’t expect your boss to call. ‘All well ?’, he asked, and proceeded to check if i knew of people in our organisation who were traveling to Mumbai.

My sleep drenched hand searched for the TV remote. As i absorbed the images. numbed for sometime,i took in heavy heaps of air, as much as my lungs could fill. I distinctly recall the slight quiver in his voice. And the tremble in my heart.

‘Is there anything that i can do ?’ I asked. He replied in the negative and hung up. It was an uncomfortable call.

‘Is there anything that i can do?’ is the question that stayed with me through the night as i shifted and turned uncomfortably.

After a stern night, i wake up early, switch on the TV, only to realise that night might have been over. But ‘stern’ was far from. I decide to step outside home to gather some fresh air. Not great dare devilry but just a walk within the precincts of the apartment complex.

At the entrance, is the security guard. Actually, an ordinary middle aged man, wearing an uniform. Nothing more. A gent who chats up rarely, but watches carefully. I doubt if he is trained on combat or whatever. But he still is there.

On other days, i greet him. Today, i walk past. My mind absorbed with the images on TV. I stand there and look into the sky, to ask ‘why’.

Today, he tells me as i step out : ‘Take care. But do go out. I am here to protect. Nothing will happen.”

I look at him for a stupefied second. I think : Forget RDX. This gent wont last a ricocheted bullet from a pistol. But that didn’t stop him from saying what he did. And doing so, held my attention. It seems that i don’t have to look any further for answers to the question that kept me up for most parts of the night.

My eyes moisten, and i tell him, ‘You take care too’. He nods his head.

We stare at each other. We are just two plain men. With a shared skyline, a wounded psyche and a determined spirit. The silence lingers for a while. His presence comforts me. In the ordinariness of his form and but the power of those simple words that touch me. Just letting me know that grief was not mine alone. He was with me. And so were many others.

Many hours later, i am at home. Wielding the remote. Jumping from channel to channel. Rejoicing in small mercies and wallowing in a strange syncretic grief. Offices have been declared closed today.

My hair is disheveled with hands running through them as i answer calls and watch TV. My heart is at multiple places. South Mumbai. In the shoes of all those held hostage. In the pall of gloom that would pervade the homes of slain police officers. In the anxiety of friends and relatives of people close to action. And so on.

I write. And that appears to resonate with people like Sundar, sitting many miles away.
And then, the doorbell rings. Breaking the footage monotony of policemen, rabid media & gun shots. I wonder who it could be.

I open the door, to find the courier boy delivering mail. A trifle surprised that this mail delivering was happening as the city was held to ransom, i collect the mail. And just as i am set to close the door, i tell him, ‘ Take care’. I swallow hard.

And he stops. A trifle surprised. Lingers for a while and states with a nonchalance of a commando.

With a straight chin, a fulgent gleam and a young mind , he speaks. ‘Nothing will happens sir. We just need to be more careful. And besides i have mail to deliver & much work to complete. I cant be afraid of these people, sir’.

I keep staring at him. As he disappears into the lift.

I close the door with a strange resolve. I switch off the TV. And open the laptop. And begin work. I am a Mumbaikar. I am Indian. I am a citizen of the world. I am not going to be cowed down by terror.

I know we will get them. I know we will win. At the nucleus of that victory will be this spirit. This spirit of labouring on, spreading the message and just going forward immaterial of whatever happens.

And friends call. There seems to be a resolute need to do something. And their anguish spills out as war crys and oaths, strange resolutions and ideas emerge. ‘Form vigil squads’. ‘Learn martial arts’. ‘Basic weapon training.’ ‘Spreading the message of love’. ‘Lets galvanise action and people’. ‘Lets blog more’. Etc. Etc.

I realise, ‘ I want to do something’ seems to be a core message. There is an educated mass, able, willing and wanting to do something.

Somewhere between the resolute yet concerned quiver of the first call, and the spirit of the security guard and courier boy, and the anguish ridden restive energy expressed by fellow men and women : i realise, that we need to carry on with our work, yet seek out and do what we can, in our spaces.

We are hurt. And perhaps bleeding. But still not dead. Never will be. The soul is new. And tomorrow, when the same sun lights a new dawn, and when we get back to work, we will not be wallowing in questions of ‘why us’.

It rather will be ‘From here, where ? How ?

I seek your help. We seek your ideas.

Wonder Ice !

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Am not sure how many childhood memories are kindled by this image ! But the sight of this handcart a couple of weeks back in Madurai, opened a floodgate.

This was the only form of ‘ice cream’ that we knew for a long time. There were two other varieties. One that amma made at home. And the other were those scoops sold in movie halls. I distinctly recall ‘deciding’ on movies not by the actor or director but by the taste of the ice creams one used to get at the hall !!

But these ice cream carts were of a different genre. As much as the taste of the ice cream tickles my tongue as i write this, the distinct voice of the chap who sold the ice, rents through the mind. ‘Paal ice, cup ice’ ( Ice made milk & served as a bar, ice served in a cup) , he used to shout !

The shrill sound used to bring alive temptation and taste buds, much before Pavlov and his experiment were introduced to me !

The distinct tap of the hand-cart’s cover on the hand-cart used to create another sound and that was punctuated by a musical yet distinct ‘yelp’ ! Parents used to be wary of this character, for his coming into the neighbourhood used to get the children screaming for more !

15 Paisa ! That was the cost. Kutchi Ice ( ice cream on a stick) was all that mattered! I remember playing cricket matches for one heck of a 15 paisa ice cream ! I wasn’t aware of match fixing etc, back then. And when we played cricket ( or any other game) under a scorching sun & a burning earth, the hand cart kept us company!

Those were different days. We had wind in our hair. A spirit in our stride. Happiness in our play. And innocence in our conflict. Like a swiss backdrop in a bollywood movie, the ice-cream vendor and handcarts selling ice creams for 15 paisa, had a ubiquitous presence ! The wonder years !

Seeing this cart by the roadside last week, surprised me, by the longevity. The times we live now are different times. The wind flies scrapes past the head, for there is lesser hair. The spirit strives for a steady stride. And to get to play, if you can ever do, gives some happiness ! Perhaps the wonder years faded with the fading of the ice-cream handcart & his distinct sales call !!

Sigh. ah ! those years.

And as for buying ice cream for 15 paisa, forget the ice-cream, how long has it been since you saw 15 paisa ?!?

Amble Ramble !

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The Lotus Tank. Built before the BJP days.
The Madurai holiday mornings took me on walks. Our home is close to the Race Course Stadium and taking a walk alongside many other ‘walkers’, just as the crimson earth was getting ready to welcome the first rays of the sun, has been a standard feature of all my visits home.

In ways more than one, it has been the easiest way to dip back into the past and look ahead into the future ! For it was in these roads, that i have reflected, tossed ideas, listened to the unseen bird and sang the unheard song. For many years now. And as i walked the familiar road again, the newly layered tar seemed to disappear. Within me.


At 6.00 AM in the morning you have polka dotted lungis compete with adidas shorts, all in the name of the gentlemen who are health conscious. The ladies in the sarees with a coat of turmeric on their faces & bindis on the foreheads, with bright yellow sarees wrapping them seem to have their jogging shoes stand out. But there they are, walking and talking with fervour.

Loud conversations abound. Different groups seem to be discussing different subjects. With careless abandon and with a certain loudness that seems to be competing with a broken microphone ! The loudness sometimes don’t lend themselves well to the subject discussed! The chief minister’s second wife’s preferences is one such subject that catches my ear ! I rest my discussion on loudness there there.

Within minutes two policemen atop horses pass by. They look at my camera and sit straighter. The horses don’t seem to care. The cavalry unit has been around from the time i was at school. I wonder why this catches my eye.

In a quick minute i realise that in all the cities that i have travelled & lived in, i haven’t seen a mounted policeman. A mounted policeman, on a horse that is !


I walk past apartments & new homes, where majestic bungalows once stood. Incidents & scenes from a life and time that appears different and distant ,flood back. The mild rebukes. The hard falls. The simple wins. Obnoxious friends. Great times. Changing seasons. Exam times. Post exam times. Decision times. Harboured hopes. The big let downs. All come knocking, and don’t wait for me to open the door !

In a short while i reach the Race Course stadium. The hard courts for tennis is a new addition. I stand and stare. I remember cycling all the way to the Union Club to swing the racket. Trying hard to get the Boris Becker serve and the Matts Wilander backhand. I enquire and find that ‘one hour of play time every day’ costs Rs. 1,000/- per month. I recall that ‘Unlimited play time’ used to cost us Rs. 175 /-. Inflation has indeed arrived.

The stadium indeed has evolved. Girls learn, hold your breathe, fencing ! I rub my eyes in disbelief ! Fencing @ Madurai!! The only fencing that the city new about in the olden time used to be the ones between homes !



Just outside, the ‘soup sellers’ have mushroomed ! For four rupees you get a plastic cup full of mushroom and such other juices from various grass & other natural elements which don’t fit into the realm of my translation capabilities !

So there ends my ramble on my morning walk. Ramble on amble ! That seems to be a good title!

The Spring of Renewal

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Snap clicked somewhere after Dindigul, from the alley way of train no: 6732

So, we are back ! It was one heck of a trip ! A trip that took us to Bangalore, Tirupati, Madurai & Coimbatore & back here. Air. Road. Rail.

Such trips often leave me tired. This one has left my body a trifle tired, but mentally, it has left me rather reflective. Of blessings. Challenges. The past. Present. The days ahead. Parents. Fellow travellers. Friends. And so on.

A rich kaleidoscope of colour and multi hued images have come to reside with me. Faces. Shadows. Silhouettes. Full pictures. Images. Each face has had many stories to tell. Each story has had so many parts and i have been privy to only some facets of them ! In memories we are richer.

The feeling that there is a larger purpose over and beyond everything else seems to be taking a firmer footing. In the feeling of belongingness we are richer.

My riches, i will share here, in the days to come. It may or may not be useful. After all, foreign currency is a another piece of metal in native land ! It sure gives me a good feeling to share though! So, will do.

In the meanwhile, tomorrow, work will dawn along with the rising sun. And i know that as i would wear my shoes to work, there sure will be a spring from somewhere within. The tiredness in the body is worth enduring to get that spring in the step.

Ah. That spring of renewal !