Growing up in Salem.....

It seems a distant memory. When someone asks me which is my hometown, I almost say Chennai. Not surprising, considering that I've lived 28 years in Chennai and 18 years in Salem. Born in Salem - a rather small town that has steadfastly remained small except for the few multiplexes that have sprung up incongruously here and there and a couple of ghastly 'shopping complexes' that are all the rage among youngsters.

  

But it is still a charming town that refuses to grow into a city, where the farthest place can be reached in 15 minutes, where everyone knows everyone else living there, where going to the cinema on Sundays is still a ritual followed by many families, where textiles and money lending are thriving businesses and every affluent family owns a Bungalow in Yercaud - considered the most exotic week-end get-away!

My grand-father was an entrepreneur who started a hotel in Salem- 'Vilwadhri Bhavan' – known for its excellent filter coffee, sadha dosa and vegetarian meals. We are all even now known as ‘Vilwadhri children’ long after the hotel was wound up and razed down giving way to a hideous building now housing a huge textile showroom.

 We lived in an old house as one large unwieldy family...... my grand-parents, parents with all five of us children, an aunt who remained a spinster and therefore stayed  with us and my grand-mother’s step-mother.  As if this was not enough, my mother’s parents and her brother’s family also lived close by and dropped in at all times. My aunt from Coimbatore would land up with her children ( 4 of them!) every week-end. Another aunt who lived in Calcutta  boarded the Howrah express the day her kids started their summer vacation and came to Chennai from where a car  picked them up and brought them to Salem.  And she would leave children in tow just in time for them to get back to school after 2 months. So our entire summer break was spent with all our cousins all the time.  And there were random visitors and guests who dropped in at all times of the day and felt at home in our house.

And did we have our own rooms? Unheard of! It was a typical old-fashioned house with many small rooms that hardly served any purpose. There was one ‘dressing room’ that had 4 Godrej cupboards and a dressing table with a mirror over which all of us fought for space. The women kept their clothes here. The men had rooms upstairs which was almost entirely their domain. But there were no attached toilets. We had 2 toilets in the backyard – both Indian style with absolutely no trace of comfort, leave alone luxury! Come to think of it, none of us could stay there a minute more than was absolutely essential!

  The backyard was open to sky and was where all the cleaning, washing, bathing ( in one small space with a rickety old door and a boiler for hot water that was heated with cow dung and fire-wood) took place. The backyard was also my grandmother and her step mother’s favourite spot as they sat leisurely on the floor and cut vegetables, cleaned rice/ grains, churned butter milk and kept a watchful eye over all the activities of the house.

It was an orthodox, conservative home steeped in tradition, rituals and every conceivable inconvenience.  Nevertheless, it was a happy home. I am not sure what my mother went through caring for such a large tribe, but for us children, there was never a dull moment!

My Grandmother was undoubtedly the Matriarch – she ran the house, controlled everything and everyone with her booming voice that could be heard in every corner of the house including the terrace. She would ostensibly pray all morning- with her book of Sanskrit scriptures and a japa mala in her right hand with its beads rolling to keep count of whatever she was chanting.  But she was watching over all of us all the time – giving instructions to the servants, chiding us for taking too long in front of the mirror ( 2 minutes was considered too long!), ensuring that all of us left home in time for school and the cooking, cleaning and washing went on without a hitch!

My father had his own set of prayers in the puja room with my mother fussing over his needs. None of us could touch  grandmother or mother in the mornings as they wore clothes that were washed and dried separately to ensure their ‘purity’ and if that terrible accident (of touching) happened, they would rush to have another bath before they proceeded with their chores!

 And God forbid when I got my periods...I was banished from the house, had to eat in the backyard or upstairs, wash my clothes myself and generally be a spectacle for all visitors who knew my ‘cycle’ better than I did! And much against my grandmother’s wishes, I went to a convent run by a Christian missionary wearing a uniform of blue skirt and white shirt with a blue tie, white socks and shoes. She hated our uniform as much as she hated the nuns who ran the school. Simply because there were no holidays for all Brahmin festivals and we girls were taken to church for Mass and funerals of old nuns and were even punished for talking in Tamil! And she hated the fact that all my friends were either  Sindhis, Punjabis or Marwadis......not a single Tam Brahm girl from a good family!

By the way, I was protected, molly-coddled and chaperoned all the time. Our driver who was more an odd jobs man and a personal secretary to my Grandmother would cause me immense embarrassment by accompanying me to the bus stop at our street corner from where 4 girls from our neighbourhood boarded our school bus. He hung around while we waited for the bus to arrive and left only after I got in and settled down in my seat! Same story in the evening when I alighted.....he would wait to hover behind me as I walked the great distance along with my friends that took exactly 3 minutes! After much tantrum throwing and quarrelling, ably supported by my Dad, I was granted a cycle that I could ride to Paattu class in the next street. But no, I could not ride my cycle alone....too risky....so our good old driver would ride his cycle behind mine and ensure that none of the road -side Romeos got any fresh ideas!  For safety reasons, the Dance teacher came home almost everyday and stayed way too long and a Veena teacher was hired to come home thrice a week.

With so many inhabitants, the house was certainly noisy at any given point with  half a dozen people chattering, cackling or arguing over family matters and gossip. So when we had to study, we would be packed off to the terrace. There we paced up and down books in hand with a rare sense of purpose, waving to neighbours in the adjoining terraces, looking down at the street and listening to film songs being played in the distant background.

 My father was clueless about which class we went to or how we fared in school. The report card was signed with a flourish, without wasting time scrutinising our marks or the class teacher’s remarks! I don’t remember coming back from school without having a few visitors in the drawing room sitting with my father sipping our famous coffee of which there was an unending supply all through the day. Worse, one of the old uncles would always exclaim ‘is this Dharma kutty?? How you have grown!! Do you remember me??’ and in a hurry to go in I would mumble ‘ yes’....but the uncle persisted ‘ so, tell me....who am I’.....tricky!!!  Jobless uncles!!

But those were simple days...with no TV to distract us, no video games to claim our attention and certainly no computer or internet to hook us on! We were one big gang of friends living in the same street and looked forward to playing every evening for a couple of hours until it got dark. Then we were summoned into our respective homes to study, eat and sleep. Despite all the chaos that went around us, we were disciplined without being pampered or spoilt. We got new clothes twice a year and ate out rarely. Going to a movie was a special treat. But we were happy and never complained of boredom.

I wonder if our children today can ever imagine a life without their own rooms, where they lock themselves up for hours with their laptops, i pods and i pads, their cell phones always buzzing with calls and messages, their face book accounts agog with happenings.... yet they seem far from happy! 

A Stitch in Time

Ever wondered what a group of women talk about when thrown together in a party?

Well, apart from husband bashing, comparing notes on maids, travails of bringing up kids, putting up with teenage tantrums and discussing their careers, there is a topic of universal appeal that seldom fails to evoke interest among the fairer sex. 

Wear a smartly tailored outfit to any gathering where there are a bunch of women -  the reactions are varied - some secretly admire your dress but are too vain to pay you a compliment; a minority are indifferent to what others are attired in and choose to ignore their sartorial preferences; there are the simple, candid souls who gush with praise and curiosity…‘I like your blouse / churidar / embroidery.. where did you get that made?’ ‘Thanks, I have a tailor who makes all my clothes’.  No sooner does a woman utter these words than the name of the tailor, his shop, contact numbers are all exchanged in record time! ‘You could refer my name’ - the supposedly well dressed one will even offer condescendingly.

Some women would rather not reveal the source, for them, tailors are a zealously guarded secret. ’Oh… this is a gift from a cousin.. don’t know where she had it made’ is a safe answer.

I confess to having this sentiment that once I recommend a tailor to friends with the noble intention of helping him expand his trade, I would invariably fall out with him and what is worse, the very friends I introduced would latch on to him for the rest of their lives!

My neighborhood tailor who was struggling to make ends meet in a match-box of a shop until a couple of years ago, has now, thanks to me, expanded big-time with an impressive list of clients and guess what - he refuses to oblige me! When we run into each other on the street we behave like perfect strangers!

Just as clothes come in different shapes, sizes and fits, so do tailors come in different moods, moulds and styles of functioning. Some are happy with using a sample (by the way - there is no perfect sample - there are always minor alterations suggested - an inch higher on the sleeve, half an inch lower at the back etc), some insist taking measurements hands on, some so professional that they call you for a trial before actual delivery.

And we women don't mind at all being 'measured' by a male tailor...so long as the end product is satisfactory. 

Holding on to a tailor is not easy. Talk to a tailor and he will tell you that if you ever want to incur a woman’s wrath, it is by ruining her clothes! You can of course get them altered but it will never be the same. I can think of a dozen tailors I have tried and abandoned for  some reason or the other... has an attitude, too haughty, spoilt my silk blouses even after taking detailed measurements, changed a pattern so painstakingly explained, used a colour scheme in the embroidery I disliked, and of course, failed to deliver on time.

Ah…. Delivery! Tailors give you an Expected Date of Delivery (EDD). Land up at the tailor on EDD - it is most likely that your bundle of fabric will lie untouched by scissors, needle or thread in its pristine, virgin  form! Reasons given unapologetically are – workmen absent, power-failure, wedding-season, festival-time and the most annoying of them all – bulk-orders from NRIs.

There are tailors specializing in blouses, tailors expert in embroidery, tailors making only salwars, tailors who charge exorbitantly and tailors who are ridiculously cheap - but remember there is simply no tailor who delivers on time!! If you have one could you please give me his contact number?

        

Whats in a name?

'Can I talk to Mr.Dharmaraman?' This is an oft heard opening sentence I hear when I answer my mobile phone. First of all, the caller is perplexed to have a female voice answer the call. And the next thing, he assumes it is the secretary/wife/sister of Mr.D answering on 'his' behalf! I usually react with abnormal calm and composure that comes with years of experience....from being called 'Sharma', 'Kurma', Darma, etc in school, when I always wondered why I had such a vague name...why not the simpler Shanthi, Jayanthy, Radha, Kamala, Lakshmi....never mind if they had to be distinguished by their initials as there were some 3 Shanthis and 4 Lakshmis in a class of 40 girls. For a few years I ardently wished to change my name to 'Pushpa'!!!

And how did I get this rather rare name? Simple...my paternal grand-mother was Dharmambal and it was the custom in our family to name children after their grandparents. So my eldest brother was Ramachandran - paternal grandfather, second brother is Ramaswamy - maternal grandfather, third brother is Shankara Narayanan- Dad's paternal grandfather and fourth one is Srinivasan- Dad's maternal grandfather...phew!!! My parents mercifully called it quits after I, the fifth child and only daughter was born. But for some reason, I was given the more complicated-mouthful-name of Dharmasamvardhini. If our Mother Superior in the St.Joseph's convent that I went to had received an application from a kid by this name, I am certain she would have rejected it outright for sounding obsolete and unfathomable! So Dharma it was at school. And since it was an all girls school, there was no confusion regarding my gender! Thank God for small mercies!

At the time of my marriage is when I realised my name was not just rare but also unique and poetic. My father-in-law who loathed to amputate names and call people by ridiculous pet names quite unconnected with the original (Lachu, Kappu, Komu with our North Indian counterparts- Pinky, Chunky, Bunty, Bakki, etc), was ecstatic hearing my name and insisted that it be printed as such in its full form on the invitation! Which in turn created a lot of interest among relatives and the elitist Madras crowd. I was complimented for my beautiful name....some said it is the name of the deity in Thiruvaiyaru and translates as 'Aram valartha naayaki'.  Now that was special! And I started taking pride in my name.  To digress a bit, my last brother has been called 'Juni' for the longest time and my niece who has the lovely name of Prithi is only known as 'Moni'.  

Just when I smugly settled down to adoring my name and the way it sounds as I ceremoniously flaunted it to everyone introduced to me in my new home, disaster struck! A tamil movie with the title 'Dharma' starring the action hero Vijaykanth was released...and of course Vijaykanth was Dharma! I was appalled to see posters screaming 'Puratchi kalaignar Vijaykanth in and as 'Dharma' in every wall of Chennai's hoarding crazy streets! Not flattering at all! Now, should I change from Dharma Raman to Dharmasamvardhini Raman or R.Dharmasamvardhini? Too complicated....better left alone for people to figure out that I was not named after an action hero who was never on my parents' mind when they named me!

And from then on, everytime I was introduced as Dharma, I was given a quizzical look as if to say ' but, isn't that supposed to be a man's name?' and as if reading their mind, I would hasten to add the Dharmasamvardhini/ Thiruvaiyaru Ambal/ Aram valartha nayaaki bit and they would be all awe struck! And let out exclamations of 'Wow! what a lovely name!'.....no pain, no gain, isn't it? That was with a small circle of friends and family, some of whom till today insist on calling me by my full name and love the way it sounds. You can imagine my delight when in the USA my name seemed the easiest and coolest of Indian names, thanks to the popular soap 'Dharma and Greg'!! 'So easy'....., the Americans would exclaim!

Later, after the dust settled on the weirdness of my name, its noble meaning and divine connotations, I joined Rotary. And the routine of explaining my name began once again..... a routine I have mastered to perfection and know what to say when, in order to elicit the desired response.  Convincing 40 Rotarians was never a challenge. Until I became the President Elect last year and the President of my club this year. Everyday the last 2 years I have been receiving calls from various people from the Rotary district wanting to talk to Mr.Dharmaraman .....that's how they pronounce it, without a pause, and from where the hell they get the Mr. prefix is still a mystery waiting to be unravelled!. And I have had to always say, 'Yes, this is Dharma' in the most dignified tone that I can muster. After a pregnant pause from the other side, the caller would gather himself from the gender shock and proceed with the conversation. Worse, girls making annoying sales calls offering personal loans are always flummoxed when they hear a woman named Dharmaraman. And I, like the majority of us, never have the patience to deal with them sparing myself the bother of explaining that I am a woman with a first name and a second name that seem to have seamlessly blended into one vague transgender name! 

Shashi Tharoor in his brilliant book 'The Great Indian Novel'- a modern day interpretation of the Mahabharatha, after listing the definition of all Sanskrit words and terminologies used in its Glossary, has an entire page devoted to 'A Note on Dharma'. He concedes that 'Dharma is perhaps unique in being an untranslatable Sanskrit term' as the English language has no equivalent for Dharma broadly defined as'code of conduct, pattern of noble living, religious rules and observance'.  He suggests that Dharma is most simply defined as 'that by which we live'- but 'that' embraces a great deal - moral law, universal order, righteousness, spiritual harmony, ethical code, cosmic responsibility, social justice - wider and profounder than any western word such as 'duty'! In an almost exasperated tone, Mr.Tharoor finally invites his readers upon each encounter of the word Dharma in his book 'to assume the term to mean any, or all of the above'.  

If that is not poignant, what is? So, as you can see, my name has evoked myriad emotions within me...and can I blame others for reacting the way they do?