Tiruvallikkeni - 2

was when I learned to cook the first pot of rice. After breaking the rice up thinking that was how I should clean it. I cleaned and broke long grained rice that it looked like rice crumbles. I wanted to impress my mother with my rice cleaning skills.

This was also the time my mom had to hide all the bars of soap from me. I took huge interest in dissolving it in water and making bubbles out of it. For a house that ran on a very tight budget it was tough. This was when Mirinda was introduced to the market and they gave a crate of 6 Mirinda bottles gratis to every house in that area. It was such a big deal that people were discussing it in school the next day. I don't think we got a crate as we had gone out. 

I got to know one of the people I loved the most in Ramana uncle. He was a friend of my mother's and lived in Germany. Whenever he visited us, with his long sleeveless shirts because he couldn't bear the heat and his really short temper, he'd instruct the auto fellow "beach vazhiyaaga po pa". No matter where he came from the auto guy would always have to take a route from the beach even if it made no sense to go to marina beach and come back. 

He told me about something called Tae-kwon-do, played with me and I would visit Srihari Kota and the Space central school with him once in a while. I loved him to bits. He was very proud of his children, Padma and Kiran who were in Germany. He'd married a German lady and would visit family in India often. 

Padma, when she was 12 or 13 had once found some 300 or 400 Deutsche Mark, the currency before the Euro and had given it to the police. It was such a big thing that she was written about in the newspapers in Germany. 

I probably saw Ramana uncle twice or thrice, I am not sure, but I remember that fateful day that they had kept the water sump open at the Murudi's hotel in Luz. He hadn't noticed it and he fell right into the sump. They took him out and he was admitted at Isabel's hospital. His brain hemorrhaged and he died. I saw a small bucket full of what looked like blood. He'd apparently vomited it. I was only later that I knew he had a drinking problem. 

I remember running back to hostel and crying away for days. 

Hostel and onwards

From Triplicane I think my mother and grandparents moved to Broadway and T Nagar.The areas we moved to, make no sense with regard to proximity. I have perhaps lived in about 35 houses or even more throughout my time in Chennai. Some houses I hear, we hardly lived in for a few months. 

Triplicane was when we had our first phone number. 845313. 6 digits. I was very proud of taking messages for other people. I think we got the phone number for mom's work on the documentary. She had less and less time to spend on me. And then one day she suggested I should stay in the hostel. I remember crying. But finally I said OK. Not that there was a choice. 

I checked into hostel. It was the most traumatic time for me. Some of the kids around me were bullies. I used to be beaten up all the time. I used to be terrified of this boy who would keep "kottifying" on people's heads, hard enough that I was afraid it would leave a dent. Those of us on the receiving end would be terrified of complaining. A lot of kids would be beat up. Sometimes stuff would be stolen. My classmate would stinking rich or really poor. 

The day I landed in the hostel I developed a fever and landed up in the sick room. I loved it there. It felt like a nicer atmosphere. And almost everyone in the hostel spoke Telugu. 

I learned to name my clothes to differentiate them - SCH 61 was how I'd learned to embroider the clothes I would send for laundry. Whatever mom brought would be kept in a locked Godrej Almirah the keys to which the 'Akka' or the matron would have. If you wanted anything from soap to toothbrush, it would be under her care. 

We would all have our own shelves, we even had a TV on which we watched films on Sundays. Sun TV-yin tamizh maalai and all that. Each morning we'd wake up, fold up our sheets and mats and arrange it on the top shelf, to be removed at night again. 

We all had equal duty to clean up the huge hall we all used. Sweep and mop and cleaning toilets and cleaning the corridor would be done by turns by all of us. In a way it was one of the best light lessons I had learned. We would wash our own tiffen boxes too. 

Like a lot of kids, I'd put pencil shavings in water to see if it would magically turn into a "lubber" (Eraser). I was very excited when other kids said it happened all the time. I planted a seed from the watermelon slice I'd eaten to see if it would grow. Nothing happened. 

I remember this one time while eating lunch in the school playground that I had spilled food from the lunchbox. I was terrified of being found out and the bullies came out, made me eat the food that I had spilled in the sand - sand and small stones and all. Added to that they complained I had spilled the food - carrot rice, to be exact and that I "threw food" because I didn't like it. I was scolded by every matron in the hostel that day. 

Sometimes the Principal would call me to spend time with her family in her quarters - they lived in the same compound as the school - they took me out to their family gatherings and took me to the school farm. 

Now, for me, it was a great escape. But to the other kids - I was the special kid they hated. I understand and empathise with the resentment in retrospect. But each time I went out and came back I would face hell from a certain set of kids. I'd be terrified. And would pray each day that I should get sick and go to the sick room.

Some days I would wait at the gate waiting for my mother to come. Somedays she wouldn't have been able to. And later I realized visiting me and leaving was one of the toughest things she had to do and she'd cry herself to sleep each time she visited me. She wasn't going through the greatest of experiences working on that documentary either. 

One time, God did hear me out and I fell really sick. The mercury read 104 and my mom was called. She stayed with me in the sick room. The principal would visit me each day and give me books to read or grammar books to finish which I promptly would. 

Sick room and Maragadham akka, who managed the sick room was my happy place. Ironic as it may be.

Madras - Tiruvallikkeni

We moved from Besant Nagar to Triplicane. The time I actually started to go to school by bus on my own. It was common practice then. A child as young as 7 or 8 could go by PTC bus to school once the parent tells the conductor and the driver in the route to drop them there. At 8 Am in the morning, the passengers would also be the same faces you see everyday. The sense of community existed. There was safety. You could entrust your child to strangers and rest assured your child will be safe. 

We lived in one of those row houses that shared common walls with the neighbours houses. It is still commonplace in Triplicane. Our owners had a huge joint family. The boys in the family, as young as 8 or 10 would wear huge naamams, decorate small pallakkus and the God's idol and take it around the streets. Seeing the Parthasarathy Perumal outside our house in his routine street tour was pretty common.

I took huge interest in covering half the street in Kolam. And took huge interest in pumping water from the street water pump. Of course my mom hated it. But for me it was fun. Across the street, my mother made me go learn to play the violin, just in case her experiments with my voice failed. I didn't last too long. I was afraid of Dwaram Mangathayaru or as we called her, Ammayi-akka. I used to go to her house whenever I could, collect the pavazhamalli flowers on the floor of their compound, string them and take them to the temple. It was a regular exercise. 

I would also wait eagerly for the Hindu Young World each Saturday. One day my curiosity got the better of me and I went to check neighbour's houses to see if everyone got the same paper or if each house got a different paper, so that I could have different puzzles to work on. I was disappointed to know everyone got the same. 

My street had a Hanuman temple near the main road. I would go there each day, religiously and have 3 stripes of vermilion, chandan and vibhooti on my forehead. My neighbours kids used to make fun of how I covered my already tiny forehead in these stripes.  

I made my first really good friends in Triplicane. Bhargavi and Vaishnavi. I remember their father who used to give me Threptin biscuits. He died subsequently. And they moved out of the area as well. 

Thursdays, we'd have Sai Bhajans in another neighbour's house and I'd go and sing. 

Triplicane was when our neighbour, Sundari aunty taught me how to work with mathematics. I used to be counting with my fingers and toes and whatever else I could find. She set me right and until my 4th standard I scored straight 100-s in Maths. In retrospect I think if I had found the right teachers going forward, Math would have been simple and not something to be scared of. 

My mom started IFPA - Indian Foundation for Performing Arts, documented the Life and Teachings of Lalgudi Jayaraman, worked with calligraphers who would painstakingly write page after page and published the book of his compositions which is very much in circulation today. 

And that was also the beginning of my life in a hostel for almost 2 years - 4th and 5th standard.

Madras - Besant Nagar and Jeeva

I remember being 'diagnosed' with Jaundice by the lady who worked as our house-help in Besant Nagar. Jeeva. She was the greatest support during pretty tough times. I remember there was some issue about water and Jeeva would bring pot after pot of water to our home. My mother had a terrible slip disc issue and if she lifted a small bucket without enough planning, she would be bed ridden for days. 

I remember eating flavourless food and ladies finger for the longest time. I learned the word "Pathyam". After that I hated oily food. I would dislike looking at anything oily. For years it would repel me. 

Jeeva was how I called her and I used to go to her house often and spend time with her and her grown up daughter. I played with the kids near her house. Disliked her husband because he reeked of alocohol and I saw him hit Jeeva sometimes. So I would tell him off on occasion. All when I was about 6 or 7 years old. I had enormous love for Jeeva. 

There was this one time Jeeva took me to the beach. I still remember her taking me to the temple by the beach and she bought me something from one of those stalls. A man in saffron robes came to her and asked for money saying he was hungry. 'Pasikkudhu ma. 4 naala saapadla'. Jeeva refused to give him any saying she didnt have. I started yelling in Hindi. And Jeeva brought me home kicking and screaming, I guess. 

I complained to amma that Jeeva lied and made Jeeva, my paatti and amma go in search of that "sadhu" that night to give him money. We didnt find him, but I kept telling Jeeva "Jhooth bolti hai". Years later when I visited Jeeva at her place again, she reminded me of that incident and had a hearty laugh. 

One thing I do remember, my mother didn't inculcate class differences in me. I ate and slept and could play with the kids near Jeeva's house. Her own children were perhaps in their late teens. I dont have sense of how much older they were. I could be in her care. I used to sleep in her house. I treated her as I would my  mother or my grandmother. Jeeva was a huge support during our time in Besant Nagar. She was a strong, outspoken woman who stood by us. I remember her shouting down someone and standing up to authority. 

I also perhaps remember playing with much older neighbours. I would be lifted over the compound wall to their house. Preethu and Ganesh. Ganesh was constantly teased me and I would cry. 

Our stay in Besant Nagar was also pretty short. 

I was put directly into 1st Standard in Children's Garden School, the only school that was suggested to my mother to enroll me in that offered Telugu. My mother was particular I learn Telugu in school. I hated it. I wanted Hindi. But here I was made to learn a language I didn't understand and almost failed in. I also didn't speak the language like the other kids. It took me some time to pick up Tamil. I was scared of my Telugu teacher and Pedda Baala Siksha - the definitive book to begin learning Telugu. 

I had Tibetan classmates. Karma Sherab. Tenzing. It was fascinating. Those kids prayed to the Dalai Lama. I spoke to them in Hindi thinking they would understand. Most didn't. I was scared of this Karma Sherab boy. And then there was this girl called Divya, everyone wanted to be friends with. She, in my opinion, was the most powerful. She decided who would be 'leader', who would be 'servant' etc etc. She had eyes that flashed. Everyone was scared of her. Or that's how I perceived it at 5 1/2. 

Then came Deepavali. I remember writing "Diwali is celebrated for 5 days" and was puzzled when the teacher corrected my notebook, struck across the 5 with her red pen and wrote '1', on top of it. During Deepavali I somehow managed to get the "zameen chakkar" on to my fingers and the skin on top of my fingers was gone. 

I remember being told by the lady I called Prema periamma, (whom we had visited for Deepavali) "Say Narayana Narayana kuttimmol, you wont feel the pain and you'll fall asleep". I couldn't write until my fingers healed; the teachers would instruct others to write in my notebook in class and I felt very special being fussed over :) 

Divya was still the girl to be scared of during lunch break. The girl who sat next to me wore a "clip" (dental retainers, a thing wire across the teeth as braces were rare then) and I shared my ice water that I carried in a cello flask with her.

I think this was also where I got chicken pox. Or it could have been in Saligramam. Laying on a bed of neem leaves and praying to Amman and my face was full of boils. My grandmother prayed we'd all do an angapradakshanam once I was well at the temple where I still go and do Angapradakshanams at. A practice that started when I was perhaps 5 or 6. Thatha would patiently caress me with neem leaves so that I dont scratch myself.

As much I remember I got every illness under the sun until I was in my 5th standard. 

Madras

The Railway station and asking amma when we'll go back home. I didn't speak the language. Our first residence was in Saligramam. When it was huge. Empty for most part. And I remember the temple elephant that would come on rounds. 

As soon as we came to Chennai, my mom saw something like a tiny lemon sized swelling on my lower abdomen, took me the hospital to realize I had to be operated for Hernia on both sides. 

Dr Prasad - my doctor and my surgeon. He belonged to the Ramanathapuram royal family. My grandfather was apparently friends with the Ramnad Raja and I guess our families are still very much in touch. Dr Prasad has seen me grow from then to now. He operated on me on my condition that I would get Gold spot and Vada Sambar. I think he charged us 4 rupees for the surgery. Just 4 rupees. This was 1989/1990. I remember I wasn't allowed to eat for a while before the surgery. And post surgery, I have a memory of being carried home by someone. We lived on the first floor of an independent house which had an open terrace. For the entire time I recuperated I had great joy in clapping my hands to beckon an adult. I couldn't talk, laugh or do anything without it hurting my stomach. Leave alone call out to get something. So I would clap and someone would come running. I think I remember thatha and paatti by my side for a long time. 

When you are a child your perception of time is very different. So is perception of space. What seemed like ages and what seemed huge then pales in comparison and you wonder what has changed. 

I guess from Saligramam, we shifted to Besant Nagar. Another house with an open terrace. It was a pretty common type of a construction those days. The house owners would live downstairs and the tenants on the upper floor. 

Bombay...

was home. The place that was "Ghar". When we moved to Chennai in 1989/1990 I am not too sure when, walking down the railway station, I remember asking my mother, "Hum Ghad jaayenge na mummy?". 

I was predominantly under my grandmother's care who spoke neither English nor Hindi. I spoke Marathi and no Tamil. I perhaps got my talent of picking up languages from my mother. She had already learnt Marathi to a certain extent and was particular I speak it. My grandmother continued to speak to me in Tamil, took me to school and brought me back, I still have no clue why and how she managed. But I understand in retrospect that woman was made of super strong reinforced steel. 

My grandmother had three children. A son and two daughters. By the late 80-s both daughters no longer had their husbands around. One was taken away by cancer; the other left of his own volition for reasons best known to him. The son was someone I have met twice in my life. Otherwise this uncle character was non-existent. 

I have so many scenes from when I was 4 or 5 that are fresh in my memory. My father had already left us to our own devices when we were in Bombay. I remember one particular Holi celebration thing in our building. I hadn't 'paid' to be a part of it and I ended up eating a sweet or something that I wasn't supposed to as I hadn't contributed to be a part of. A 3 or 4 year old having an extra sweet was such a big issue that I was shivering in my shoes that my mother is going to scold me. When the other kids complained to my mother, she made them understand I was a child and I had no concept of money and paying. And she gave them the money. Took me up to the terrace later and there were balloons filled with coloured water. 

Gumboots. Footwear that I got to wear only on the rain-drenched roads of Bombay. I never saw them again (until I went to the US) and neither did I ever have to use them in my lifetime in Chennai. 

Walking to the school with my grandmother. Getting slapped by a really young teacher in school because I finished a year's work in one day. And my mom coming the next day and providing more books that I continued to finish. I guess the teacher was stressed about how to handle a kid like me and didn't know what else to do. 

I was a neat kid. I kept my stuff in place. I folded my uniform. As my mother said herself I was a blessing of a child - well behaved & obedient, I grew up to give her 'trouble' she'd say. My mom ran a very, very tight ship. This story that my mom repeats a lot is of when we were shifting from Bombay to Chennai and my mom told me to sit in a corner. My mom and paatti eventually forgot about me in all the work of packing and shifting. I had curled up in the same corner and had gone off to sleep. It was only after my grandmom's guttaral "adiyayyyyyy kozhandhai enna di panradhu" or something like that, that they realised time had passed by too fast.

And I would cry if it was Saturday and there was no school. My mom and grandmom would dread telling me there was no school. "Aaj school nahi haiiiii" and wail. 

I used to correct people who said "Gavaaskar" and tell them it is "Gaa-vas-kar" not "Ga-vaas-kar". I was a pronunciation nazi even then. 

I used to go to sleep saying "Parda Baaandh" and wake up saying "Parda Khollll". I guess I knew early that all the world is a stage. :p

I had a peculiar behaviour as a child. I had an over active imagination, made up stories and would say that out aloud to people walking by on the road. Either the listeners were amused or what, I dont remember but the strangest thing, I would throw things that were in our pretty humble apartment, plates and tumblers and toys and clothes to whoever I believed was poor. Some days my mother would wonder whats happening and where the things were going. Neighbours would collect whatever they could and give it back to us. Some of the stuff would be gone for ever. 

I disliked my name as a child. When asked what my name was I would say either "Mahalakshmi" or "Mehr-un-nisa" in our commute in the local train. My mom used to say she'd have co-passengers assume she married into a Muslim family. 

My mother worked with IDPA in Mumbai and on one of the trips with her to office, I had learned to say "Gaadwa sala" from the peons and I for some reason went and said it to someone in my babysitter's family. Ajji, as I used to call her. I got slapped :p. And me being me, my cheek was red as a beet for a while. I still remember that staircase, parts of that house and a boy there who used to wash his eyes often. I dont even know why I remember these scenes, but I do. 

My mother used to volunteer to rescue girls who were trafficked into the flesh trade and her help was most required when they needed to communicate with girls trafficked from Coimbatore, Salem, Trichy and Madras, in Tamil. Those kids, my mom recalled much later, used to cry that they'd be anywhere other than the hell they were in and were willing to cook and clean in exchange for food. On one of these trips, my mother left me in the care of two kids.. I remember an area that was perhaps a chawl or a hut. I am not too sure. A stool fell on my toe and I was bleeding. I was in the care of two very young boys, who I still remember, carried me and ran to the nearest doctor and gave me a chocolate and gold spot. I know for sure they couldn't afford that chocolate or that cold drink. I am not sure if I cried or bawled. But I remember the goldspot. :) 

The boys were scared to tell my mother but she knew how to diffuse the tension in such situations, hugged those boys, thanked them and we left. My toe still carries the memory. The nail hasn't stuck to the bed since. 

I used to wail and bawl each time my mom picked up the Tanpura. To me it was my competitor as it found a place on my mother's lap. I wailed and bawled each time the cooker whistle went off. I remember my grandmother wrapping my thumb with something so that I would stop sucking my thumb. Of having a phobia and giving my mother a hard time each time she poured water on my head. Of having a phobia of looking into the drum filled with water. I still gasp and cant down at a water body, whose depth and extent and I cant fathom. 

I left Bombay and with it I slowly pushed my knowledge of Marathi deep in the recesses of my mind.  

I used to blog...

because it was cathartic. Because I felt I could record what I was feeling, observing, writing and perhaps someday I could see myself evolve. A view through my eyes. Comprehension through my brain. Based on my thoughts, feelings, prejudices even, because can any of us truly claim to be free of bias? Free of prejudice? Even the most evolved of us, the most broad minded among us has some opinion slightly washed by a shade of bias, unless of course we stop in our tracks. And decide to observe ourself and correct ourselves in the process. Few of us have the self awareness. 

I don't know why I stopped. I perhaps no longer found the impetus. Nor the inspiration. Or there was too much white noise. Or I wasn't using my laptop as much as I used my phone and I cannot imagine typing out long passages on my phone. 

Today, I felt the need to write of what I have felt, observed in my 32 years of existence. The people, the experiences, the way I felt and perhaps the way each of these experiences changed who I am to the person that I have become.. Of course I am still a piece of evolution. I want to be the best version of myself. Hopefully I ll get there, closer to that goal with each passing day.