Ponnimma

I was about to step out that evening. My mother in law called out to me, in a tone I recognised as one that immediately conveyed we had visitors in our drawing room. This is the season when close friends and family drop in with invitations.

That evening though, we had two unusual visitors. A woman in her forties dressed garishly in a bright saree with multi colours in loud prints, accompanied by her son, a decently clad youth in his twenties. At first, I could not quite place her. But as she affectionately enquired ‘ eppdi irukkeenga chinnamma?’ it struck me that she was Shanthi- the daughter of Ponnimma- who had worked in our house for 20 years as house help.

Ponnimma was a maid in our house when I first came to Mylapore as a new bride. A tall, well- built woman in her thirties, she was always well dressed – in a clean saree , her long hair oiled and tied in a neat bun, with some jewellery on her person that would make it to the ‘marwadi shop’ every now and then, as and when the need for money arose. She had seven children- 3 girls and 4 boys. And she had walked out of her marriage with all seven of them in tow, from an alcoholic husband who abused and traumatised her for years. Her sister, who also worked in our house as a maid, gave her shelter in her small housing board flat and the job.

 Ponnimma’s first salary in our house was Rs.60. She would dust, sweep, mop the floor, make the beds, wash clothes, put them out to dry and fold them, clean vessels and help around the kitchen when the need arose. She came in twice a day but was never on time, showing up at different times every day and taking off unannounced once in a while. But she always had a good excuse up her sleeve when my mother in law confronted her. One of her seven children falling sick, close relative or friend’s wedding, death in the neighbourhood, quarrels over corporation water that had to be hand pumped,  suicide attempt by a jinxed lover in her building, elopement of a married woman (with children) with her paramour, one of her sons getting into trouble with the police – usually for a drunken brawl or selling tickets in ‘black’ outside kamadhenu theatre, one of her sons consuming rat poison, one of her daughters stalked by some jobless Romeo, fights with her cantankerous landlady, visits to temples outside city limits and yes, her occasional ailments, aches and pains.  

Ponnimma was always bright, chirpy, cheerful, talkative and full of news. Her troubles did not trouble her too much. She had stories to share every day, and her life was full of them. If she was not in the midst of a crisis, her sister’s family or land lady was.  There never was a dull moment. Soon after Ponnimma came to work, one of her children came after her, looking for her. At times, she would drop whatever she was doing to feed them with the food we gave her; at times she would loudly admonish them for never letting her work in peace; at times she would rush back home with them to attend to an emergency that called for her presence.  And she came back with more stories!

None of us have seen Ponnimma’s husband, although she talked about him every day. Apparently, he wanted her to ‘sleep’ with him and bear him children, without having to take care of the large tribe he had sired. She dreaded his return in her life and kept her whereabouts a secret. She claimed to be taking different  routes to get to our house each day, just so her husband could not find out.  But that did not stop her from stopping every foot of her way as she leisurely walked with a basket in her hand, chatting with every person she met on the road – her fellow maids working in the neighbourhood , vendors, shopkeepers, even my friends and temple priests. She knew everyone.  And had a kind word of enquiry for all of them.  She kept abreast of the latest news in everybody’s lives, especially salaries drawn by various maids working in different ‘flats’. And everyone knew she worked in our house- as she took great pride in introducing herself as our maid. And we became notorious in the Mylapore police station, Royapettah hospital and among local goons for being her employers!

Ponnimma was a great cook and enjoyed feeding people. Her rasam smelled delicious, her curries were yummy and even her fish and prawns looked tantalising to a vegetarian. She would bring just one dish she cooked  and insist on sharing it with the other maid, the driver, gardener and all of us at home, explaining the recipe as she tempted us with the open dubba held in her hand. 

She did have her faults though – the most glaring and annoying was her weakness to pinch small things – soap, tooth-paste, shampoo, small change and trinkets lying on the dressing table. But when we complained that something was missing, she made a hue and cry, searched high and low, prayed to mundakanni amman and produced the lost thing from somewhere!

And oh, she insisted that each of my babies were first taken to Mundakanni amman temple and placed in the goddess feet by the priest and handed over to her. Which was all very divine, but for the fact that she always went into a trance when the aarthi was performed, with the hapless baby in her arms, while I struggled to gently extricate it without incurring the Goddess’ wrath!  

Over the years, Ponnimma became a part of our family. We depended on her in times of need and she never let us down. She was almost a foster mother to my children and loved bathing, feeding and pampering them. And the children in turn loved her. She took them to temples, walked them in the crowded ‘aruvathumoovar festival’ of kapaleeswarar, unabashedly let them partake of the  food offered in all pandals, nursed my mother in law after a major surgery, spent nights in hospital when my son was ill and knew every member of my family and my husband’s family as much as they knew her.

And then, Ponnimma lost her husband. His death came as a relief to her although she lamented the fact that she could not wear flowers or her big bindi anymore! She single- handedly raised her children and got her 3 daughters and 3 sons married. One daughter eloped with a bank clerk and took refuge in our terrace for a few days before they were officially married in the temple. Two sons died rather young, leaving Ponnimma devastated.

Ponnimma stopped working for us a few years ago when she could no longer cope with heavy house work. She took to cooking in a few houses instead. She had moved into her daughter Shanthi’s house in Adyar where her grandchildren doted over her. But she was a regular visitor to our house- once a week, to see all of us, give us news of her family and enquire of our welfare. She worried about her last son who had turned out to be a wastrel, unmarried and under her care. Yet, she seldom sulked or complained, her indomitable spirit, innate warmth and enormous optimism intact.

Then one day last year, we got a phone call around mid morning. It was Ponnimma’s son in law, informing us that she had passed away. She had complained of chest pain at midnight and died on the way to the hospital. It was the most shocking news I had heard in a long time. While my mother in law went to pay her last respects to her mortal remains, I could not bring myself to see Ponnimma lifeless. We felt a member of our family had left us.

And here was Shanthi, Ponnimma’s eldest daughter, inviting us for her daughter’s wedding.  Shanthi’s son, a B.Com graduate, works in Tidel Park , one daughter worked in Sify after completing B.Sc in mathematics and her last daughter is pursuing MBA after a degree in biotechnology along with a diploma in optometry. Shanthi’s husband, a tailor, worked in Singapore on a contract for a few years while his family lived here in kabali thottam. Now, he owns and runs ‘ Shanthi Tailors’ in Luz. And now the daughter was marrying a Singapore citizen and moving with him shortly.  

Ponnimma must be proud....

Fighting Fit....

I look into the mirror. Stand sideways.....take a deep breath.....tuck my flabby abdomen in a bit. Then face the mirror.....pinch my swollen love-handles. Turn around.......and what I see is, well.....the less said, the better! Indian figure and all.....that always looks best in a saree. And why not? Since that is the only costume that can camouflage faults and hide imperfections in 6 yards of fabric, draped painstakingly around bulging abdomens and burgeoning hips.  ‘You look best in a saree’ – I hear this ALL THE TIME. And know that it’s just another way of saying ‘ You are too plump for anything else!’

I don’t remember being slim – not as a child, not as a teenager and never later when my attempts to lose weight were aborted by repeated pregnancies and joys of motherhood. My mother was a very slim person. All of Salem admired her for her lissom figure despite 5 children. And I have’nt inherited that enviable attribute from her. I take after my Dad and his sisters who were pleasantly plump and cared a damn about it.

Those days, losing weight was never considered a healthy habit – and if you did shed a few pounds, you would gain the sympathy of all old uncles and aunts who would click their tongues and exclaim - ‘poor child! What happened to you? You used to look so nice and chubby!!’ ‘ Chubby’ was a safe term used to describe anyone who was clearly overfed and overweight. There was no question of dieting or exercise and no knowledge of nutrition and healthy eating.  We ate too much ‘carbs’ – really.....idly, dosa, rice, puri, chappathy, bread, biscuits and more idly, dosa and rice. We did not drink too much water – that was supposed to take away your appetite!

 I was never into sports, even in school, apart from the march- past and incredibly stupid ‘drill’ that we were made to perform for our sports day to the sonorous beat of a drum.  At home, we had a ‘show-case’ in our drawing room – so typical in houses those days – full of cups, medals, trophies and shields won by all five of us children, juxtaposed with dolls and random curios collected over the years. The big ones were my brothers’ - they were excellent athletes and even had a cricket team of their own called ‘Tigers Eleven’.  Mine were too tiny – usually won by default, for being in the winning team of some insipid game. But I always won prices for debates, elocution and dance contests – more as certificates and books.  Ahhh....come to think of it, dancing kept me in reasonable ‘shape’, if ever there was one!

I stepped into my first aerobic class in 1985, desperate to shed the uncouth weight I had gained after my first baby. It was run by Steina Vasu, in her home on Cathedral Road – a small hall with a thatched roof with excellent audio system where instructors shouted 1, 2, 3 up, back 2,3, jump, 1,2,3 jog, back 2,3,down....I went to an all women class at an odd time of 10 am or 2 pm. And we were all typically obese women with a burning desire to lose weight, constantly asking each other if we saw any difference in the waist line. That was thrice a week. Other days, I struggled at home with the hugely popular cassette of Jane Fonda’s work-out, straining to catch her instructions in American English. But the idly, dosa routine continued along with bhel puri, cakes and pastries that I so loved. So, there was no question of a well toned look or improved metabolism. No knowledge of BMI, cardio vascular fitness, calorie intake, ideal heart rate, strength training, muscle toning, ideal height- weight ratio, core strengthening, abs tightening – none whatsoever! Losing weight was all I cared for - an uphill task, indeed.

Then our own Gymkhana club opened a gymnasium with some basic equipment and a few ‘trainers’ who I‘ve seen tending to the garden and serving in the bar before. I took a membership for a grand sum of Rs.200 per month and started working out there. The trainers who barely managed to switch on and off the treadmill, would give valuable advice on how I had to be more regular to lose weight around my hips (even they figured my problem area!) Soon, I found driving to the club from home and back a bit tedious. Also the temptation of snacking after work-out got the better of me. The soaring price of petrol did not help either. So, called it quits after some time. Exercise was then some sporadic walking in the neighbouring C.I.T.colony, or when in the mood, Marina beach.

And then the high end gyms started mushrooming in Chennai – with bill boards screaming fitness, good health and super toned bodies and alluring advertisements in leading publications.  I would look longingly at them – knowing fully well that they were out of my reach. Was it okay to spend Rs.15,000 for an annual membership in a gym? Nevertheless, I checked out all gyms in my neighbourhood.  I would talk to the courteous staff at the reception, go on a tour of the gym gaping enviously at men and women sweating it out on an EFX or pumping iron with heavy dumbbells, take their brochure and promise to ‘consult my husband’  and come home with a heavy heart.

In 2006, having survived a huge personal crisis, I decided to reward myself with a gym membership – the one that I had coveted for long. And joined ‘Fitness One’. And what a great thing it turned out to be! I loved the sessions with the physio and dietician and detailed measurement-jotting  by a trainer ( female, of course) before a personalised workout chart was handed to me. I followed the chart sincerely the first few days....but soon learnt to cheat, and do whatever it took to complete my workout in an hour and 15 minutes. The atmosphere and the kind of people working out in a gym have a huge bearing on us. When you see young hunks with bulging biceps and nubile girls in capris and tank tops working out with a vengeance, some of the enthusiasm is sure to rub off on you.

But after 4 years, I gave up gymming for a year and discovered yoga. And loved it. But felt something missing in my fitness regime. So went back to a gym – ‘Score’ this time, and loving it even more!

 So, it’s yoga in the mornings 4 times a week and gym in the evenings 4 times a week. Now, fitness to me is a way of life – indispensable. And when I happen to miss a few days due to travel or work, I feel miserable. It’s always tough to begin, but when you fall into a pattern, it’s addictive – releasing happy hormones that give a ‘high’ without the hangover. As for weight loss, I really don’t care anymore!

A Daughter leaves......

                                        

‘Ammaaaa, where are you?’

‘ In a meeting Tara...what is it?‘

‘Nothing.....just asked... when will you be back?’

‘Soon, baby. Need anything?’

‘No ma.....just come’. And the phone call would end.

This was a typical conversation between my daughter and me...thrice a day. Not that she was waiting for me when I got home – but she needed to know why, what and when of everything I did.  At times I would wonder who was watching over whom here!

When I am in my office, she would gesticulate from our house entrance from where I am visible – usually asking me to come inside – immediately! Nothing much really - just to eat with her or discuss some pressing matters of shopping plans or gym timings.   

None of my things were just mine. They were hers as well- that goes without saying. Including clothes, soap, shampoo, hair dryer, eye pencil, lipstick, chappals, bags.....the reverse, of course, was never applicable.  And no matter where I chose to keep my new acquisitions, she would ‘smell’ them – from a mile. And reach for them – without wasting too much time! And rather unfairly, whenever I found something missing on my dressing table or closet, I would blame her for pinching it.

She dressed in my room. Used my dressing table and mirror- and for some reason, I had to wait for my turn until she finished. This, despite the fact that she has a bigger dressing table with a bigger mirror in her room! But no, mine was more convenient. And I could never close my bedroom door – not even to change clothes. She would always knock with such urgency that not opening the door immediately would make me feel selfish and rude. Once let in, she would happily saunter in and switch on the TV to watch her favourite show on TLC.

Her two huge cupboards were full of clothes that would literally tumble out when opened. Her bed was stacked with clothes. Yet, she had ‘nothing to wear’ when there was an occasion in the family. What are mothers for, if they can’t lend their daughter a silk kurta that has just been dry cleaned and saved for a special evening?

We worked out in the same gym.  And I loved embarrassing her by teasing her trainer and distracting her impossibly tough sessions with him. And she gave me glaring – why-don’t – you – work-out- and - leave – me - alone- looks. And always asked ‘Amma, how do you manage to talk to everybody, all the time??’!! Most often, we walked together from home to gym and back.

We pottered around in the kitchen together – cooking a new dish, experimenting a new recipe.  She was the royal taster – if she approved of a dish, it had better be good. We planned dinners out and snuck into our beauty parlour for some quick waxing and eyebrows. I tagged along with her to Express Avenue and hung around exasperated as she tried out clothes and drooled over accessories – protesting if she attempted to buy something that I somehow knew she would junk in less than a month. I accompanied her to movies I would never have cared to sit through, just to please her.

I marvel at her sense of fashion and style, things that have eluded me always. She knows all leading international brands; I am mostly clueless. She can read maps and find her way in any part of the world – when we holidayed in China, she would navigate through cities using all modes of public transport while I tagged along in bewilderment. ‘You can get lost in our home Amma!’ – she would often tease me.

There was nothing I enjoyed more than watch her dance. But when she performed on stage, I could never sit without getting jittery. I dreaded the footwork she may forget or the sequence she may miss. I usually stood outside the auditorium and peeped in every few minutes to ensure she was fine. And heaved every time she got it right. She looked to me for validation – regardless of the encomiums she received from others.

She is smarter and more intelligent than I can ever hope to be. She can laze in bed doing nothing an entire day. But also can work hard to the point when I plead her to get some rest. She can say things to her father that I dare not dream of (ha ha...what pleasure!!) and get away with arguing fiercely with her grandmothers.

She is quite unlike me in many ways – more practical and less emotional. She would often chide me for getting carried away – ‘Amma...why are you like this??’ – ‘this’ usually meant a quality I would be better off without. I have seldom seen her go overboard. She can hold herself very well and is amazingly sorted out for her age. ‘You have such a lovely daughter!’- I hear this from someone every single day. And I know she is not only lovely.... also very special.

And then, Tara got married last year. But nothing much changed for us as she waited for a visa to join her husband in Canada. I knew it was a question of time before she left to where she now belonged. I ardently wished she embarked on her new life soon. And she finally left on Tuesday.

The goodbyes were not too emotional. After all the voluminous paperwork, meticulous packing and last minute preparations, we were exhausted when she left past midnight struggling with three humungous bags threatening to capsize from the trolley. When she walked away from me into the international terminal, I felt numb, even a tad relieved that she was finally moving to her new home ending her seven months long wait after marriage.

Until I came home. As I walked in without her, the feeling of emptiness that engulfed me  is indescribable.  Her tiny room with pink walls; tinier bathroom with pink tiles and an array of cosmetics strewn on her vanity; her cupboards with clothes left behind; a big collage of her photos that I gifted for her 20^th birthday; a cute picture of Krishna framed on her wall; the smell of her perfumes and colognes; a hairclip here; a earring there; a bill from a reputed store; granola bars and oil free snacks that she loved; her cot with soft cushions that she hugged to sleep; her dance costumes and CDs.....it seems just the other day that I held her in my arms as she wailed her way into this world 24 years ago!

The Prophet’s words ring in my mind as I come to terms with her absence:

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, 
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, 
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, 
and He bends you with His might 
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, 
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Parenting - no Child's Play!

I was recently invited to give a presentation in a seminar organised by a school in Coimbatore about parenting in the digital age. I am not a qualified child psychologist. Neither can I claim expertise in guiding parents in their role as parents. The only qualification that I can think of - I am a mother of 3 children who have grown into adorable adults – and I cannot take the entire credit for this impressive achievement. But today, that seems to be the only achievement I can boast of in 46 years!!

For starters, having 3 children is enough to raise anyone’s eyebrows. I normally don’t hide my age or the fact that I have 3 children. And people always give me an incredulous look - I can’t tell if it is the  ‘come on- you – must - be – crazy’ kind of disbelief, or ‘wow- how –on-earth-did-you-manage-raising-3- kids’ bordering on admiration! But I love that moment- when I reveal the great truth and see the recipient mentally calculate my age in proportion to that of my eldest son.

 I stepped into the role of a mother with equal ignorance as I had done into that of a wife. The idea of 3 children was my husband’s - he is an only child and felt duty bound to make up for the lapse on his parents’ part.  And since planning of any kind is alien to me- leave alone family planning, I willingly embraced motherhood, having 3 children in 7 years.

I became a parent when I was 19 years old!! That is the time most teenagers rack their brains studying for engineering exams, preparing for CAT or dreaming of a Masters degree in a well known university abroad.

Raising a child can never be taught....it is a process that one learns along the way, and the path is fraught with challenges, pain and joy in equal measure.  One needs patience, perseverance and stoic acceptance.

 Babies are relatively easier to look after, if you ask me. All they need is - to be fed on time, their diapers changed when wet, be put to sleep and wake up at will. It is in the ‘terrible twos’ that the woes of the parents start. Toddlers are ‘cute’ for an outsider but a handful for the parent. They have to be potty- trained, force- fed, baby-talked and protected from mishaps waiting to happen. They seem like angels only when they are asleep!

Teenagers are a nightmare in comparison though. Atleast young kids can be admonished and yelled at when they don’t behave. But teenagers can give you a hard time with their defiance, disrespect and indifference. And then of course, raising a daughter has its own set of challenges. We want to protect them from the big bad world and watch over their whereabouts; ensure that they don’t fall into bad company; lecture them on late nights and the lurking dangers in pubs; fret about their clothes (or lack of them) – and by all means be considered old fashioned pests who never understand them!

Add to this the stress of getting children into a good school for which admissions are booked even when they are in the womb and tutoring them till they come to a class when we can no longer teach them math or science. 10^th and 12^th have the board exams looming large like a formidable demon that has to be held by its horns. And parents go into a self imposed exile shunning tv, friends and any social activity for a few months, vicariously living through the ordeal of their children. Then begins a mad scramble for application forms, entrance exams, professional courses, universities, admissions and capitation fees.   A lot of work, let me tell you!

But a few decades ago, parenting somehow seemed a cake-walk! How else would you explain couples having 5 and 8 and 12 children as a matter of routine? It was not uncommon to have the mother and daughter pregnant at the same time- without feeling embarrassed at the prospect of a child born along with its aunt or uncle!! We now shudder at the thought!!

Parenting then was not taken too seriously, I think. It was a joint effort – with grandparents, aunts and uncles freely chipping in to raise children. And parents were not too sensitive or possessive about their children – it was ok to have them disciplined by a relative in the family.

 I am the 5^th child after 4 brothers and don’t remember being disciplined by either of my parents. We were all brought up by our grand-mothers and an aunt who lived with us.  And our mother never once defended our misbehaviour or resented the interference from her in-laws. And I think we grew up to be reasonably good individuals who understand people’s idiosyncrasies and are tolerant to their quirks- exposed as we were to various such characters in our childhood.

To me, parenting means being there for your child  Do what it takes to ensure your child gets the best out of life; understand  that each child is different and celebrate that difference; never compare the child with its siblings/ cousins/friends; recognise their interests that may not always be in sync with yours; foster their individuality; nurture their talent; love, adore, hug and kiss them; cook for them and clean after them; teach them the simple pleasures of life – such as going out for a walk to the beach, chatting with grandparents, sharing their thoughts , enjoying a home made meal with everyone; and above all don’t pretend to be their friend – they already have them- be a parent and a good one at that!

Today, parenting is a challenge. Parents give more than the child needs and on the flip side expect much more than the child can possibly do. I find a lot of children unable to hold a conversation with real people – unless they are on sms/ chat/ skype/ g-talk or whatever.  Most of their time is spent in attending classes – tuition, dance, music, skating, even story- telling! Today’s children get the best of everything- education, gadgets, clothes, gizmos, holidays, pocket money.....but do they really have a childhood?? 

( was published in the open page of 'The Hindu' in Feb 2012)

What next??

Same time last year.  I made a list of things I wanted to do in 2011 – of tasks I wanted to complete, dreams I wanted to realise and wishes I wanted to fulfil. Here they are:

• Become a writer – start a blog and pen down my thoughts. Maybe see my name in print in a leading publication?
• Travel – explore new places
• Complete Masters in Psychology
• Start an Epilepsy Support Group
• Paint our house
• Make money!!!
• Be a good President of my Rotary Club
• Join a good gym and work-out regularly
• Practise  yoga every morning

When I looked at this impossible list this morning, all I could do was smile.

Ok, the first one on the wish list was partially realised. I did start my blog Kanavu and began writing – rather, took tentative baby steps. And got enough encouragement to keep it going from indulgent well- wishers and friends cheer-leading me along the way! Much to my delight, got an article published last week in none other than ‘The Hindu’!!! I was euphoric for a couple of days....as if a new talent hitherto undiscovered was suddenly revealed for all to see! And the feedback I received was overwhelming....of course, some friends thought I could not have written it...maybe my husband ghost wrote it for me? I don’t look like the serious, intellectual type who can sit calmly and write?? Anyway, glad to know that I am not predictable...that could be boring!

As for travel, I hardly did any – apart from going to Coimbatore, Bombay and Bangalore for weddings – certainly not the kind of travel I envisaged!

The psychology course? I enrolled for M.Sc. Psychology in the Madras University distance education last year along with my closest friend. We planned to study together and write exams together. She studied and wrote. I always had other more pressings things to do when exams were scheduled! But paid exam fees thrice, that too along with late fee fines, that too after being reminded and pulled up by my dear friend!

The Epilepsy Support group has not happened either. Although it has been top on my wish list for a while....and I have been an active member of the Indian Epilepsy Association helping people with epilepsy to cope with the condition.

The house finally got painted.....after a gruelling 3 months of moving furniture,  clearing clutter, enduring 3 painters at all times of the day in every part of the house and  sneezing to the nasty smell of paint and thinner. Why is painting a house that has people living in it so complicated? Especially houses like ours that have stuff accumulated over decades in the hope that they will be used someday....I also wanted kolam on our walls and got that done by an impoverished artist who has since found more work, thanks to me.

Make money?? Joke!!

As for my tenure as President of  Rotary club, well, it has been great going so far. We did a number of meaningful projects – a health camp in a village that benefitted 200 people, a leadership seminar in a Govt girls school that inspired many young students and construction of a new building in another neglected primary school. But have another 6 months to go....and hope to keep up the tempo and enthusiasm.

Joined ‘Score’ – a high end gym in Alwarpet after much thought....but enjoying my work-outs immensely. And yoga? Not as regular as I would have liked it to be.  

So, should I say managed 30 % of what I had planned to do this year? 
But one major event in 2011 changed my life rather unexpectedly...and wiped out 6 months in planning, preparation, shopping, inviting...My daughter Tara got engaged in January and married in June- bestowing me with the status of mother-in-law!!  But I enjoy that as well......especially when people tell me  'You are a mother- in-law???!!! You have a daughter old enough to be married??!!’ What can I say...small pleasures of life!!

Now on the threshold of 2012, what should be my resolutions?? Any ideas?

Growing up in Chennai!!!!

A lot of my friends who read my blog on growing up in Salem were wondering how I ‘grew up’ in Chennai and if I managed to accomplish the growing up part at all!

 And I find myself ruminating on the predicament of young girls taking that leap of faith, moving into their husband’s home after marriage.   When the marriage is arranged by the parents and not by choice, there are surprises galore! For one, the husband is almost a stranger, which makes it interesting in a way as both parties grope their way around trying to make sense of each other. Uprooted rather abruptly from her parental home, the new bride faces the additional challenge of having to adapt to a new home, new set of people - their idiosyncrasies, eccentricities and all.

I have heard stories from both my grandmothers of their child marriages....they were married even before they attained puberty to young men in their teens.

  Look at the typical ceremonies and rituals in a Brahmin wedding - the ‘Mappillai Azhaippu’ – when the bride-groom  parades in a decorated open top car, thrilled children keeping him company, while men and women walk alongside in a procession with a band playing old film songs; the ‘Oonjal’ – when the bride and groom sit in a decorated swing while women sing thematic songs, give the couple paalum/ pazham ( pieces of banana in sugary milk), decorate their feet and throw coloured rice balls all over the place making a mess of it; to the actual wedding when the bride sits on her father’s lap and is ‘given away’ to the groom; the ‘Nalangu’ – when the bride and groom sit opposite each other, rolling a coconut, anointing sandal and kungumam on one another, sing songs, tease, play games and blush when the elders have a blast pulling their legs amidst laughter and cheer.

None of the ceremonies look like they were designed for mature adults in their right minds! Decades ago, since children entered wed-lock, ceremonies were fun filled and light-hearted although the rituals by themselves were poignant and loaded with profound significance.  It was not uncommon to find the bride and groom playing in the pandal erected for the wedding from where they were unwillingly dragged to become man and wife! That said, even in today’s day and age when the bride and groom have truly come of age, these ceremonies are followed with aplomb in many families.

Brahmin weddings are a riot!! The couple and their parents have to negotiate the unreasonable demands of priests apart from repeating chants after them, holding various stuff in their hands, keeping an eye on the ‘seer varisai’ and silver ware, all the time watching over guests attending the wedding and ensuring everyone eats before leaving, not to mention grabbing the gifts and cash to be safely handed over to a disciplined mama delegated for the task! And all this amidst the deafening noise of the nadaswaram and tavil playing furiously in the background, drowning the cacophony of a few hundred people greeting each other and catching up in the wedding. And by the end of it all, the couple look like they have just survived a tornado!

 Why don’t we have the simple malayalee wink- and - you- miss - it – type of weddings??  Or the Punjabi weddings which seem all fun, frolic, dancing and cocktails? But I confess to feeling lost in a church wedding I attended in Cochin a few years ago – the priest kept talking about sins and pardoning to a solemn crowd that stood in utter silence and reverence with only the choir providing some much needed relief,  breaking out into a song every now and then.

Anyway, going back to days of yore, the bride lived in her parents’ home till she attained puberty. And when the much awaited event happened, the husband’s family was informed and an auspicious day fixed for sending her to the husband’s home. And then, without much ado, consummation of this child marriage took place, I guess. Our ancestors sure knew what the reproductive system is all about! To hell with love, compatibility, chemistry, wave-length, attraction and the like! But those marriages lasted forever....and the couple grew up together and grew old together.

I was myself a wide-eyed 18 year old when I stepped into my husband’s home in Mylapore 28 years ago. My mother-in-law made sure I completed my BA English Literature from Queen Mary’s college which is her alma mater. I took a bus (27D) for the first time on my own, back and forth from college. Initially I felt like a kid lost in a trade fair. 


This home was in stark contrast to my parental home in Salem with just 3 members- my husband and his parents. At times, the silence was deafening!


It was far from conservative and the least orthodox. My husband was disappointed that I was (and continue to be) a strict vegetarian. In Salem, even eggs were looked upon with disgust and my father used a separate stove and vessels to make the occasional omelettes for my brothers.

And my father- in-law despised noise of any kind ( except music of course!) So, he would ring the bell to call people in the house. One ring for Amma, two for my husband, three for the maid and four for me! We all listened keenly for the bell to ring and rushed to his beckoning immediately. When Appa was around, we spoke in hushed tones and went about our jobs in stoic silence. He was a stickler for discipline and time – one could set the clock to his routine.

I longed for the crowd, chaos and noise of my Salem home. I never realised that I would ever miss my grandmother, leave alone my parents, aunt, brothers and extended family! When we visited Salem, my husband was confounded by all the chatter that ensued from various directions...each trying to draw the other’s attention at the same time, suddenly breaking into peals of laughter and jumping topics with gay abandon!

It was as much a challenge for me to contend with my new found status as the daughter-in-law of a renowned celebrity as it was to have three children in 7 years. But I pretty much ‘grew up’ here – studying, learning to cook, drive, cross the road, travel alone and come into my own! 
And embraced this family as mine....

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!