Kuchalambal deals with Demon-etisation

 

It was six in the evening; Ramprasad came around shouting, “ammaji”, “ammaji”.

Kuchalambal had just sat down for her evening prayers. Holding the table with one hand she slowly got up from the chair, and hobbled up to the window to check.

“Kya hua ramu”?  What is the matter she asked?

“Ämmaji, the cash van has just come in and filled in the ATM, people have already Queued up, I thought I should let you know as well” said Ramprasad.

“Oh! Ok Ramu,  may god bless you” said Kuchalambal and went searching for her ATM Card,

She had all of eighty seven rupees in her purse, and her medicines had run out, she had stopped her medication around 3 days back due to lack of cash.  No chemist in the immediate vicinity accepted cards, nor would they give credit to anyone, and cash she had none. The recent government order demonetising rupee notes of Rs.500 and Rs.1000 denominations had brought the nation to a halt.  

It has been eleven days since the announcement had come one night and from the next day onwards the banks became inaccessible to the public, either they had no cash or they had a serpentine queue of hired labourers waiting to get money changed; albeit for a small commission. The prospect of standing in the queue for hours together was daunting for a frail person like Kuchalambal, so she postponed her visit to the bank surviving on what little she had.

Her ATM card was paraphernalia she had never used. She could not remember having been issued any password for the same. Like clockwork she would every month visit her  bank, clean out that months family pension, pay the land lord his rent, and the remaining amount would just be enough for her to get her groceries, pay for her medicines and doctors consultations. So there was no need for her ATM card, which had remained unused so far.  As luck would have it, she had not been keeping well and could not encash her pension this month before the announcements. The rent remained unpaid, her groceries yet to arrive and fast depleting, and no money for her medicines.

Yesterday she had gone to the pensioner’s bank. Hoping that ten days from the announcements, life would now have come back to normal.  But the crowds were larger than before. The least that she wanted was, to get a password activated for her ATM, but the nationalised bank she banked upon, was not very friendly with its online services, so she had to line up at the bank after all.  One hour of waiting her head began to spin, fortunately someone in the crowd took pity on her and escorted her to the head of the queue. Just when she heaved a sigh of relief, the bank announced that the cash boxes were empty, and people would now have to come back the next day. With a sad heart, Kuchalambal somehow got her ATM password enabled, and hoped that soon she would be able to use the ATMs.  That was not to be, for the ATMs, would remain crowded for weeks to come.  She was at her wits end now.

Then she remembered her kitty. She could, just about save some small change every month, notes; she would slip into her wardrobe, underneath her Kanjivaram sarees. The sarees preciously guarded and maintained over the years were carefully kept in cardboard boxes they had come at the time of their purchase. Some sarees were from way back in time and a few more recent acquisitions which her kin had gifted on various occasions.

Flashbacks and memories sustain us in more ways than one. When memories start fading, and loneliness the only consistent factor that keeps one’s company, then old picture albums, trinkets from the pasts, clothes, mementoes take over your life. The very act of prising them out of various nooks and corners, cupboards and attics,  running ones finger around those memories, help in reliving those faded moments and bring some irrational hope that the past will somehow help you tide over the torturous present and help in alleviating the hopelessness of the future.

In that mood when Kuchalambal sat down to retrieve her cash savings from various saree boxes, more than her meagre saving, she managed to retrieve boxes full of memories.  Letters, invoices, peacock feathers, pouches of sandalwood powders, tiny bottles of Itr’s , all came sliding out from underneath those sarees.

She opened the box containing her most precious saree, the one gifted by her grandfather, for her marriage reception. Bright saffron in colour, with borders heavily brocaded in gold, the border and Pallu in  royal blue depicting a swan amidst a lotus pond. The silk still feeling the same after five decades of usage.  Her frail hands had difficulty holding the heavy saree, was it the heaviness of the past, or the frailness of the present should could not make out, she gently lifted the saree out of its box, and laid it on the bed, opening the folds to reveal the golden thread-work, the swan still very vibrant and vain, the lotus still basking in the sun, if anything had faded it was Kuchalambal’s eye sight, she ran her skeletal fingers over the rich fabric, and tried to connect to those memories of her marriage day.

 Memories being memories, play hide and seek, they would not be commanded to come out of their hiding, as if they had an ego of their own,  they would creep up slowly, sometimes eerily out of nowhere, making you gasp in horror, or smile in surprise. One had to have a knack of coaxing them out, and then they would coyly submit to your command, and play your tunes. What the saree could not accomplish, the letter underneath the saree did, in pulling out those hidden memories. She gently prised open the aged, creased, blue, inland letter which had been resting under the saree for half a century now. The address written with a royal blue fountain pen, announced Mrs.Kuchalambal, C/o, Pattabhiraman, 1^st floor, above Ram Chandra Kishen Chandra, Ajmal Khan Road, Karol Bagh Delhi 110005. The hand writing all too familiar.

It was a letter her mother had written to her; soon after the news her first conception reached Madras. It was a long list of instructions, warnings, precautions, recipes, all scribbled together in one ‘Inland Letter’, a letter which could accommodate  not more than five hundred words was crammed with as many more,  even the flaps had tips written over them.  Then her signature ending, she would always draw a picture of a hand raised in blessing at the end of each letter, in this one there was place for none, yet she made sure that a miniature sketch was put in place.

 Kuchalambal picked up her spectacles and read through that letter again.  An ironic line attracted her attention, her mother had written “when food repels you with waves of nausea, don’t go on an empty stomach, have at-least curd rice with Narthanga. She burst out laughing, here she was seventy eight years of age, surviving on curd rice and Narthanga, nothing else appealing to her any more in her sickness and she remembered her days on the same regimen some forty years back, during a good part of her term carrying Siddharth.

Like wine memories age, but like wine, they intoxicate too, so have to be consumed in limited proportions, with a tear in her eye, Kuchalambal folded away the letter, collected the remaining notes from under various other sarees, and all that she could count were around five thousand rupees in all.

But the pain was not over yet, there were in all just about eight hundred rupees in loose change, the rest were in five hundred rupee notes those which were not valid anymore, one could deposit them in one’s bank, or get them exchanged at counters where teeming queues waited for their turn. Daunting prospects for Kuchalambal, especially the waiting in the long queue. Finally she decided that it was not going to work that way. She called a friendly gatekeeper  and asked him to get the money deposited into her bank, and promised him a small tip of rupees hundred for standing in the queue on her behalf. 

She heard the bad news in the evening; the gate keeper had collected similar amounts from other vulnerable citizens in the housing complex and had flown the coop.  

The shock was too much to bear, a small amount, but large enough to make her sob inconsolably. Apart from a few thousand rupees in the bank, she did not have anything to fall back upon. She did not want to write to Siddharth to send her an allowance, and he was oblivious to her meagre existence.  A small piece of land that Pattabhi her husband, had purchased was the only asset she had. She had ventured to sell it and get herself a decent bank balance with which she could pay for her rent. Unfortunately the piece of land was encircled by two large gated holdings belonging to a real estate tycoon. She was told that her land was worth twenty lacs, but since it was sandwiched between the tycoons other properties, with no free access , the influential tycoon was hell bent upon acquiring it for a pittance, the last offer was for five lacs. But Kuchalambal had hung in there, not wanting to sell at those rates. She had hoped that once Siddharth came back from the US he would be able to get a better deal out of the tycoon.

She was preparing for one more trips to the ATM, her last attempt it would be, not for her this painful wait.

The bell rang. She hobbled to the door, and opened it,   standing in the dimming light was Siddhaiah, the tycoon, an man of enormous proportions, dressed in spotless khadi, (he as aspiring for political fame now, she was told), he let loose a big grin, revealing a gold capped tooth. A Large golden chain, strong enough to pull a chariot, dangled from his neck, and all his fingers adorning stones of various hues mounted on gold, silver and copper rings. He seemed to be a walking jewellery shop.

“Amma !!   how are you, can I come in”  ?

“Oh come in”said Kuchalambal a bit reluctantly.

“Amma!!  Someone told me you are into hard times”, boomed Siddhaiah “so I though is should definitely help a senior citizen like you”

“No sorry Siddhaiahji, I don’t think you can help me in any manner”

“Yes Amma, I can.  You remember the land that you wanted to sell, you see I did not have money to buy it all this while” lied Siddhaiah,

“As god would want it, I suddenly got into some cash and I though what better use for the money than, helping an old lady in need. So here I am at your door-step. You had asked for twenty lacs for the property, and I though what is a little sum of money when it comes to doing public service, so I just collected the cash and came right away to close the deal, if you want we can organise the transfer of the property before the end of the week, I have got all the papers ready all you have to do is sign off the deal, and all this money is all yours”.

So saying Siddhaaiah started stacking twenty lacs of five hundred rupee notes upon the table.

Kuchalambal stood there perplexed, not knowing whether this was a boon or a bane.

Slowly she gathered the money and kept it away, promising in her mind to pay the taxes,  there was no guilt of being instrumental in white washing Sidhaiaah’s black money, was she not a victim here ? as long as she paid the taxes, let other people pay for their own sins, she may perhaps have thought.

 

The poor standing out on queues leaving their jobs, the rich fixing the sudden holes in their buckets to ensure that at least a half of their dubious earnings remain with them, people sold by the dozens, traders complacent that they have fixed the problem by discounting the old notes, knowing that but for further regulations change, they are home and happy. Politicians fighting it out, bruised on thier own losses, but rejoicing the rivals discomforts,unable to express their pain. Amidst all this the nation waits and wails.

Between the extremes are caught the middle class, people like Kuchalambal, who carry on with their lives, taking each blow as it comes.

                                                                   @@@@@@

Kuchalambal Goes Online

A rustle from the back yard woke her up. It must be close to dawn, was the first thought that crossed her mind. ‘Narayana,  thanks for waking me up to one more day of my life, thanks for all that you have given me, and thanks for all that you have never given me’, was the customary prayer she had taught herself to mutter every morning upon waking up. Seldom did any other thought cross her mind.

Then she remembered it was the twenty sixth of January”2016.  Seventy Six years back this same day, little Kuchalambal had come into this world. Today was her Birthday, a smile crossed her face. One more year she had cheated death, she reminded herself. There have been so many vulnerable moments in her life when she had felt that she would not live much longer. She had come out of all of those situations with a smile. She was now certain death would have to play a subterfuge and catch here unawares; there was no way she would surrender to it, if it came in announced. She stretched here cramped legs and prepared to get up.  As age caught up, getting up from bed was an elaborate ritual. To wake up to the realisation of being alive, then stretch, only to find that you legs have gone to sleep, dig arms into the ground and push oneself up, a ritual that would take time.

Today when she did manage to get up, there was this cute little box wrapped in a lovely pink cover, tied with satin ribbons, sitting prettily on her bedside table. She smiled; life does not stop giving to those who accept it with open arms. Seeing the pretty little package she could not hold herself. She hurriedly went through the motions of gargling, hurriedly put on her dentures, and wiping the wet hands on the long end of her sari, she picked up the gift in wonderment, the same sparkle in her eyes which would have been there seventy years back. She was transformed into a six year old again, as she hurriedly tore open the packaging.  What would it be, wondered her heart,  ornaments she wore no more, neither did she have a need for a watch, the package suggested that it was something compact,  it could not be chocolates since she was diabetic, what could it be ?  She wondered as the packaging tore open to reveal a black shiny box. A dainty card announced ‘to amma with love, Sid, Shobna, Vignesh’. She carefully set aside the card, and opened the card board box to reveal a sleek black, shiny phone. As she lifted it out of the packaging it seemed lightweight and just the right size for her little palms. The morning light created a small rainbow on the glass screen as she flipped it around in her hand.  She wondered what to do with it! She never had owned a phone the only phone that she knew was the land instrument in the drawing room, she had to make her way to pick up every time, Sid or Shobna called her during the day from their offices.

Sid, Shobna and Vignesh were still sleeping, she would sit with Vignesh later during the day and learn how to use this phone, she thought.

It had been a few a week now. "Paati, don’t you know this small little thing, did they not teach you anything at all at school?" Exclaimed Vignesh, as the nine year old cozied up to her.  Just press this small button, to go back to the main menu. He sternly admonished her.

Sid smiled from across the room, Aaamam he nodded mischievously.

Paati, now that you are on waatsaap, let me also add you to face book, the little one said. Kuchalambal was also very excited. Customarily the family would approach her a hundred times during the week, wanting to show her a face book update or a message on Watsaap. Now that she had a phone on her own, she could look at those messages at her convenience.

Time and age, a never ending cycle, goes on a loop. Youngsters think that they have arrived, middle aged think that they matter a lot, and the elderly simile at the stupidity of it all.

Having overcome so many adversities in life, switching on the phone, and getting on to the internet seemed a cake walk for Kuchalambal. Soon as in life she had a hundred followers. She would to go to the search page and type the names of people she had lost contact with decades ago, and sift through tens of strange faces, till she could identify a long lost face. Some faces would all be the same, except for the grey hair. Some would look like a dodo, a distant caricature of the image that she had in her mind. Soon she would travel back in memory to reconstruct the face, the situation, the town and try to recollect the last time that they had met.  Adding them to her friend’s list and sending them a invite to join her network would follow, their acceptance and connect, would only unfold the travails and tidings of all that had happened in the other person’s life in all these many years that they had not been in touch.

Some would have lost their spouse, some their sanity, some just hanging on to life, and some would still be worried about what the future holds for them. She would smile. Even after spending six to seven of decades in strife, trying to take life on its own terms, people never get the grip of it. Very few are happy with their situation, some are lucky to reach acceptance, only to be shattered by a new twist that life unveils.

The preaching that people watch on television, the discourses that great people have left behind, the book one reads, last only for a few hours, a few days. They may not be enough to pluck a tormented soul with velvet gloves, comfort them in a deep embrace, and tell them that it’s all well. With advancing age as nature starts withdrawing the many faculties that it had bestowed on you, one feels like a war veteran being slowly stripped of all his medals one by one. The frustrations of a failing hearing, vision, mobility, all seem to evoke the rebel child in a person, screaming murder at the top of his voice.

In this ocean of defeat, some stand tall, those who can live the moment, those whose mind can take them on journeys beyond belief, and those who want to live life in whatever form that it throws at them. The pains and ache of degeneration do not seem to bother these souls who seem to sustain on sweet music they hear from the mountains of yonder.

Some escape to their memories.

Some still try and get engrossed in the cryptic crosswords that the newspapers throw at them, god forbid if a toddler manages to soil that section of the paper, then all hell breaks loose.

Papa but it was a two day old paper!  Exclaims the daughter in law. 

Beta, who cares that I had not solved the puzzle that day, and who cares that I could not do it that day, because of the stupid party that you folks decided to host the day before yesterday, protests the old man.

But Kuchalambal was made of a different material. For her every moment was a gift from god. Each second was a pause for wonderment. She wanted to live a hundred years more, and she was confident, that she could beat the current generation, in whatever they were up to.

Amma hope you don’t get angry with me, Shobana approached her. “Wanted to give you a surprise, since you were away to the temple in the morning, I tried making “Thiruvatharai Kali” today, but something seems to be wrong with it”.

Shobana’s tryst with the kitchen had been limited, the space there dominated by Kuchalambal and Sid. Sid loved to cook, and would not let Shobana try anything out of the ordinary. Finding both of them away, Shobana had ventured into the kitchen on this fateful day and come out croppers. She now stood there waiting for the reaction, anxiety written large on her face.

“Don’t worry ‘Kuzhandai’,  give me a bit to sample”,  Kuchalambal smiled, and when she put a spoonful into her mouth, the Kali, was a disappointment,  it stuck to her palate, and sealed her mouth shut.

“Mmmmmm”...    Kuchalambal struggled to work her tongue around the gooey stuff, and finally she managed to swallow it. Her disappointment showed on her face, but she dismissed it with a laugh, 

“Kuzhandai, you perhaps wanted to shut me up for good, by sealing my mouth”, she laughed out in amusement.

“What did I miss Amma”? asked Shoba

“Did you not roast the Rice Flour, brown, before putting it into the cooker”?

“No Amma, it was not mentioned in the recipe”, replied Shobana.

“Where did you find the recipe”? asked Kuchalambal

“I found it online in a blog”, replied Shobana, “it’s by the famous chef from Delhi, who is on TV every day”.

Oh, really,   let me then give an earful to the person who does not seem to know the basics of Tamil cooking, saying so Kuchalambal went online, and left a paragraph of critique for the owner of the blog.

This was only the beginning

With a flourish she got there on Face book, Twitter, Waatsapp, LinkedIn. When the LinkedIn profile page asked her for her profession, she proudly typed, LIFE PROFESSIONAL, with an experience of 76 years she added, and slapped the ‘Enter’ key home, with a smile on her face.

She did not have much money to burn, but she made sure, that she wore her best saree, pulled out her favourite necklace, got her daughter in law to arrange her hair in a tidy knot, and landed up at the nearby studio. Bhaiya she exclaimed, I want a profile picture for my home page, and want something which does justice to my seventy six year, she exclaimed. With star hotels proliferating all around, she managed to drag the photographer to the nearest one, sat with aplomb on the Victorian chair near the fountain in the lobby, and got a photograph clicked with great pomp, to the amusement of the lobby staff.  When she finally uploaded here photograph, into her profiles, they drew a hundred cheers.

That was her approach to life.

If you have not added her to your friends list yet, you are missing something.

****

Glossary

 Naryana                    : Another name for Vishnu, the revered Hindu God, one among the trinity of 

                                     Bhrahma, Vishnu & Maheshwar 

Amma                        : A form of address,  tamil word generally used for Mother or for ladies.

Patti                           : Tamil word for Grandmother

Khuzandai                 : Tamil word for Child

Thiruvadharai Kali    : A dish made from Rice flour, Gaggery and garnished with Cashews   and Cardamom, although sweet in nature,  served with a spicy mixed vegetable preparation as an accompaniment to make it a complete meal. Made on the Auspicious day of Thiruvadharai.

Lalita

There are days which bring one joy, and those somber days when nothing seem to cheer one up. Even the piercing sunlight bouncing off a rose petal looks like blood oozing out of wounded plant. With advancing age the cheerful days seem to appear too few and far in between. Kuchalambal could not put any reason to it, but kept her in tenterhooks all the same. Like drops of dark venom dripping down on a glass of clear water, morbid thoughts would ink her heart violet on days such as these. Doctors would call it depression; poets may have a different description for it, but for the soul, sifting through moods of grey and black, its feels like riding upon waves beyond control on a moonless night.

The week after Holi had always had this effect on her. She had lost Pattabi in the weeks following Holi. The events in their daughters life, had left an abscess in Pattabi’s heart, and festered there unnoticed for too long, to finally claim his life, a bit prematurely at an age of sixty two.

Memories now had started playing tricks on her, some hitting her unexpectedly making her pause in agony, and some making her smile and lose herself into its realm.  Tomorrow will be Lalita’s death anniversary too. Kuchalambal was in a delirium now. She saw her child crawling towards her with arms outstretched, wanting to hold on to her forever, she gasped, with perspiration lining her wrinkled eyebrows, her hands reaching out to hold on to her baby crying out for her mother, with pain and confusion lining her eyes. She drifted back again into time.

 Lalita their bundle of joy, those little eyes shining like emeralds in the dark, the tiny palms, bald head with few whiffs of hair, nose just like Pattabi’s, all seven pounds of her, was blessed to them after two years of their shifting to Delhi.  An inverted placenta and few other complications ensured that the child birth could not customarily happen in Madras. ‘Conveyor Belt Caesarians’ were yet rare in those days, hence Kuchalambal managed to deliver normally after twelve hours of labor.

From birth, Lalita took after her father. The gait, the features, the confidence, and the smile so charming that would put a snake charmer out of business. If she managed to inherit something from her mother, it was the poise, the beauty and the tolerance of the young Kuchalambal.

She blossomed, like a lotus upon a lake serene. She assimilated and radiated beauty around her, and made even the drabbest settings shine like a royal portrait. The back ground seemed to diminish on its own, as her radiance took up the frame. Her soft voice would ease into the audience, hardly intruding into the harmony of the settings, a lullaby for the deprived soul. When people described here as a ‘Mahalakshmi’ it hardly sounded clichéd. She embodied the multiple virtues of knowledge, wisdom, fortune, generosity & courage. Her grandmother started calling her ‘Maha’ in love and reverence to this beauty. As a baby she would have won any ‘Baby Show’ hands down, had she participated. ‘Dhristi’ the fear of the evil omen, was a big deterrent to such participation, in those days.

Right from her ‘Hammock’ (Tooli, a snug hammock strung from the roof so as to encompass the infant in a tight & warm embrace) days she was the princess of the household. If her parents treated her like one, the neighbors were not far behind. She used to traverse the neighborhood in the arms of various admirers. People found her so cute that she was the star attraction at each home, endearing each one of them with her smiles & child full banter, during her early days of speech, even the automobile trader living in the far end of the street, managed to teach her few Punjabi words. She had an unparalleled love for food the varieties of food that she had consumed as a child in the various households where she managed to spend the afternoon, did perhaps help. If the morning started with the customary pieces of ‘IDDLY’ shared from her father’s plate, dotingly fed by Pattabi, the next few courses of her intake would vary from a Parantha at the Sukvinder’s place to Khichdi at the Arora’s, Custard at the Rao’s to finally culminate with her tantrums at home during lunch. ‘Pakki’ (Oh the hungry one) used to scream Kuchalambal, why do u have to go out and eat so much! She would exclaim; frustrated by the baby’s resistance to food during lunch.

If the child was a doll during infancy, she was a little princes at school. Her talents made sure that she was one. Not one competition went by without her participation, or any activity that she was not member of. Singing, classical dance, dramatics, talent searches, debates, leading the morning prayers at school, presenting the bouquet to the chief guest at school functions, her popularity in the ‘DTEA’, her school soared.  The Principal came to recognize the couple as lalita’s parents as did numerous families around the area.

She was two when the family shifted to R.K.Puram from Karol Bagh, they would spend more than 25 years in that two bedroom government housing apartment. Years which would mould their future in more ways than they could comprehend. Perhaps the seeds of their destiny were already sown when the couple first moved to Delhi.

The day they moved in they found their neighbor lined up in the landing during a silent assessment of the new arrivals. Sukhvinder Singh a ‘Sikh’ lived with his family in the ‘house’ opposite. They shared a staircase and a landing with their neighbor, so any movement in the area would be open for scrutiny to both families. Sukvinder’s wife Preeto holding their four year old son in her lap watched the incoming inventory as the luggage moved in. Gurmeet the four year old whose long tresses, were knotted up on top of his head, covered with a small cloth, watching the movements with curiosity.

R.K.Puram, a quaint little housing locality, occupied by bureaucrats, some higher up in the rungs of the government machinery and some lower down. But to each of them, the remunerations of office sufficient just to sustain the day to day costs of living. One could, without visiting any house list out the goods which could be found within. Old cane woven sofas, adorned with cushions and hand knitted laces, and in some houses bare sofas too. Cots made of bamboo frames called charpoys, with coir ropes knitted between the frames as a base, these needed you to put on a cotton mattress before one actually sat on them or risk the posterior being  riddled with pressure marks of the rope. Short little stools made of coir again, for parking oneself in the fore yard or the back yard, Cotton stuffed quilts to protect against the cold winter nights, the number of charpoys and quilts restricted to the numbers in the family, spare ones for guests were a luxury. Large trunks to store those quilts during the summer months, a sewing machine for the lady of the house to mend the clothes in, (the more versatile of them would stitch their own clothes in them, thereby saving precious tailoring costs).

Television sets, refrigerators & telephones made their appearances only in the seventies and having these luxuries put such households’ way up there in the pecking order. Moreover these fortunate people really needed to have philanthropic side to them,  for letting their neighbors pop in for a phone call at odd hours, or having to summon someone from three houses down the line to attend to a incoming call, for lending ice cubes to the lady next door, and provide cold water from the fridge, for the infinite time, to the kid standing at the door, of having the benevolence of sharing the evening TV program with eighteen other people from the neighborhood, the count, of course, could swell in case one of the neighbors had taken to liberty to bring along his own guests too, to watch the Sunday movie. Of having to wait till the viewers shuffle out, before having their dinner, and sometimes few guest would hang on with sadistic pleasure, wanting to watch even the drabbest of programs like the daily news till the end.

To sum up life was bare, community living with things shared, cups of sugar & oil being exchanged between neighbors, women assembled in the courtyards, knitting away to glory, sharing the latest patterns of knitting learnt from the sister-in-law, extracting peas from its pods, and some grating carrots.  A stray vendor of blankets or lingerie, finding a ready market, among the assembled women folk. Children playing street cricket, men away at work, turning up for lunch and a quick siesta, before ambling back to work.

Such were the charms of the place that the couple moved in to. The Sukvinders would have a long standing relation with the Pattabi’s. Fate would have more than its share of surprises for both the families. When the world dissolves in a melting pot, distances are forgotten, cultures intermingle, and values need to be redefined. The Pattabi’s were at that threshold of time when such rewriting had to be done, no doubt there were some costs to be borne, some real some illusionary.  Time extracts its price from one and all, and it did from the Pattabi’s too. Who gained; who lost, is a moot question, for there cannot be questions asked of ‘Fate’.   

Experiences of Colour

Delhites had packed up their woolens. The bone chilling cold had given way to warmer days. The city’s forenoon breeze was enough to freeze the unsuspecting young migrants from Madras, who were used to much milder days of Margazhi temperatures. Even at those high temperatures it used to be a standard protocol to wrap a muffler around the head while heading out in the morning. But having already faced the much harsher winter in Delhi once, these milder days seemed to bring in a relief to the stricken couple.

‘Splat’’ the water balloon burst on her back, and a chill ran down her spine. The imaginary fear of ‘Holi’ now stood transformed into reality, as she stood in the market place, drenched and shivering. She had just stepped out to buy some groceries, knowing well that with a day left for holi, she would be lucky not to be ambushed by water balloons or a splash of color, from any of the endless rows of balconies and terraces which she had to cross on the way to the market. For those with a ‘Holi’ phobia this was a terrifying ordeal, of having to navigate through the narrow lanes, with half an eye on the sky, to spot an incoming missile and trying to avoid it, and at the same time appearing as nonchalant as possible. As the children in the balconies, resembling snipers, waited to take as many victims as possible, each successful hit would be greeted by a big cheer from the balconies around, as the unsuspecting victim stood around sheepishly, some grinning in disbelief and some gesticulating wildly at the mocking children in the balconies.
She looked around for her tormentor, but found tens of children perked in ledges around the buildings, it would be futile to guess as to who had fired the deadly missile at her. As the chill made her uncomfortable she wrapped her saree more tightly around her shoulders and proceeded to finish her errand. As she started her return trip, she found a large group of revelers coming her way from the opposite direction, all of them adorned with bright colors and dancing merrily and spreading color all around. She froze in her tracks, looking for a doorway of escape, and thankfully found a grocery store a few steps ahead and quickly ducked in, to let the group pass. As the grocer looked curiously at her, she beat a hasty retreat back into the street.

The holi eve brought in more revelry, a huge bon-fire was lit few doorways down the street. The street folk gathered around the fire merrily dancing. As the couple looked on in curiosity, there was a call from down below asking them to join the group. They looked at each other, Pattabi smiled his usual smiled and jumped up to go, egging her to join him too, and she reluctantly accompanied him down the stairs. The ‘Dhol’ started its beat just as they reached the cross road, People jumped up in a burst of dance. To her surprise the ladies joined in the dance too, a big taboo down south. One of the young ladies grabbed her hand and pulled her into the dancing crowd. Too dazed to react, she tried doing a few dance steps. The little dancing that she knew was the ‘Bharatnatyam’ that she had learnt as a child. She would look awkward indeed trying out those moves out here in this group. For a short while she managed swinging her hands in sync with the group, and when she found the men folk watching her, anxiety got the better of her as she broke away from the dancers and regained Pattabi’s side.

The game of ‘Holi’ elicits extreme reactions from people; on one hand are the majority who swear by the fun and frolic of anointing each other with colours and chasing each other with water in hand. The fervor & gaiety marking the high point of camaraderie and brotherhood, has a deep symbolic effect on the faithful who swear by it. On the other hand you have those who simply can’t make out what the fuss is all about, the invasion of privacy, aversion to strange touches, the inconvenience of being drenched & the slight shiver of the cold water, combine to make it hard, to convince them about the greatness of the festival. Kuchalambal was not part of the latter group, but the concept of ‘Holi’ was new and too much of a cultural shock for her, the initiation yet to happen.
‘Holi’ dawned and what started off as a sober day, slowly burst forth in a mix of colors and noise of Dhol beats. Kuchalambal not adequately forewarned, had her bath early in the morning as practice would have it and got ready for her prayers. The children had begun their fun in the streets and were heard shouting with joy, throwing colors and water at each other. The couple watched stealthily from the floor above, at the rapidly increasing fervor on the streets. The elders had started gathering in the street below, applying colors and sandal paste on each other, it was not long before they remembered the Madrasi couple. Raamanji ! Went the call. ”Come down, come join us”. The couple eyed each other. Fear was writ large on her face. “You go”! She urged Pattabi, before they could decide what to do, the banging on the door started, a group had assembled outside the door, and wanted to drag them out to play colors. Pattabi opened the door and the group barged into the small room. Within seconds Pattabi was transformed into a strange figure, all black and blue and red, his veshti and white shirt suddenly transformed into an artist’s canvas, ‘Holi hai’ cheered the crowd, as Kuchalambal cowered in the kitchen beyond, a few ladies barged into the kitchen, and began the ceremonies on her. The myriad streaks of colours now adorned her fair face, as she helplessly tried to wipe away the grime from her face with her forearm, hopelessly managing to rub in the colours into her arms too. Happy to have done the customary anointing, the crowd faded away again into the streets. The couple, although rattled by the experience, felt good to have participated, if only symbolically. If they regretted anything, it was the loss of one good pair of dress which the colors had spoilt, and of course, the need to bathe again. Never again during their stay in Delhi would they ever have their bath so early in the morning on a ‘Holi’

Each new festival seemed to bring in new experiences to the Madrasi couple. The last ten months of stay in Delhi had showered them with varied surprises, the Raksha Bandan, the Lohri, the brightly lit Diwali and Durga puja, all brought with them, joys never experienced so far. Life seemed so different here in this northern city. The late night festivities of Delhi contrasted with the early morning hustle bustle in Madras. While it used to be a mad rush in the mornings to attend marriages in Madras, with some of them scheduled for as early as seven, the marriages in Delhi would be scheduled for the late hours of the evening. The New Year morning’s celebrations and gaiety in Madras, seems sadly absent, as all of Delhi seem to be relaxing in deep slumber till late in the noon, tired after the whole night celebrations of the previous night. After almost a year of stay in Delhi, Kuchalamba’s longing for her home grew with each passing day. Telephones were nonexistent in those days, the yearning to hear her mother’s voice, the comforting presence of her father, the smell of jasmine, the crowded lanes of T Nagar & Mylapore, the temple chariot and the utsavams, the beach visits and the Music Festivals all seemed to beckon her as she sat thinking about the day just past.

The memories of her first holi flashed in her mind now almost fifty years later as she sat in the balcony watching the roar of the revelers. Vishwa and Gomati had escaped to a movie hall, and she was left alone with her memories, some good and some heart wrenching, her soul searched for the meaning of it all, the years gone by, the experiences, the struggle, the pain, the joys of motherhood, and the achievements of life, finally culminating in this balcony all alone, like a solitary bird in the sky, looking for its salvation. She could not phantom her emotions. She scanned the horizon for some signs, but she got no answers, until a tiny voice exclaimed ‘HOLI HAI’, she slowly turned around to find a two year old in the balcony above holding a small spray gun in hand, trying to drench her with the tiny steam, of the small water gun. The few drops of water that touched her face gave her the answers. It was all about life, the unending cycle of birth and death, of the blooming flowers and wilting leaves, the new blades of grass, replacing the trampled older lot, bursting forth with new hope, new energy, to keep the cycle live, ‘HOLI HAI’, she exclaimed with the spirit of Holi rekindling her hopes again.