He threw open the window and a view of the canopy of the rain tree suddenly transformed the room. The pink brush-like blossoms of the tree lay on the ledge of the window. She picked a flower and ran the flower gently down her neck as he cleared space in the room and in his mind to accommodate her presence.
The mango blossoms in the tree are hardening into protrusions under whose weight the stalk gently dips. A few embryonic mangoes have already fallen and spilled on the ground. If all the blossoms that drape the tree like a yellow gossamer become mangoes there will be thousands of them. With so many of the flowers swept by the breeze, with the few of the remaining spilling while still very young, only a few dozens will ripe to adulthood in a tree.
Porur is a locality in South Chennai. Porur lake is the reservoir from which most parts of Chennai get its water. A common query at the end of every monsoon is, “Did the Porur lake fill to its optimum capacity?” This question rings an ominous note now, for that matter Porur lake filling to its optimum level posed serious problems since last monsoon.
Last monsoon was abnormally copious. It rained from October till December, one low pressure after another brew on the Bay of Bengal, and cyclone after cyclone hit bull’s eye or whipped its tail on the coast of Tamil Nadu. Chennai reeled under the deluge, and almost the whole of Chennai lay submerged in sheets of water.
The Porur lake spreads about 850 acres and of that the 550 acres had been encroached by hutments. So only 300 acres of the lake has remained for catchments of rain water. This shrinking of the lake has taken place over two decades. Over 4000 families lived on this encroached land. In the last two decades various bad monsoons had been experienced, even a moderate amount of rainfall can make this region waterlogged. Porur had been termed as low lying, there are various places in Chennai that get water logged and not all have encroached into lakes. The people who built hutments on the lake region, along with others in the city affected by monsoon claimed flood relief year after year.
Last year’s abnormal rains and the damage that the monsoons wreaked on the people living in these regions caught media attention. People living in the Porur locality and in other localities close to the canals where the lake water drains into (these too have been encroached by settlements) have been complaining of the encroachment. They complained during last monsoon that people living in encroached land broke the bunds and this caused flooding of the localities like Valasaravakkam, Virugambakkam, and Chinmaya Nagar. Demonstrations and protests by the residents of these localities put a lot of pressure on the officials and ministers. This set rolling the process of reclaiming the lake, some of the families were moved out of the region but the exercise was abandoned after a few months.
This year we received fairly good rains. All the catchment areas got filled; naturally Porur lake had filled to its “optimum” capacity. The huts, houses and shops that had encroached into the Porur lake region lay submerged in rain water. Efforts were made to move the people marooned out of their homes. Once the rains abated steps were taken on a war footing to evict people from these regions. The house and huts were demolished and the government announced that the people will be provided free housing sites (a cent of land per family) at Nalloor village near Kundrathur and Thervai Kandigai village near Gummudipoondi.
About 4000 families of approximately 15000 people were evicted. The people gathered whatever they could from their homes and made arrangements to move to the sites allotted to them. There was a long formality involved before moving out. The people evicted stood in queues to gather tokens from the officials after showing their ration cards, voter’s id, TNEB cards, house tax receipts as well as sale agreement on stamp paper.
How does an illegal squatter have all these legal documents? To answer this question we have to understand the process by which such lands are converted into colonies of settlement. This is a common practice in many places, and there is a more or less standardized modus operandi for this. Land grabbers with the backing from political parties promise poor people a small plot of land. To that effect money is initially collected and plots of land are allotted. Then constructions of hutments begin. No Objection Certificates are procured for these settlers so that they can claim amenities like electricity and water supply. With political pressure electricity connection, water connection and other amenities are made possible. Fake sale agreement on faked stamp papers are also issued in many cases. Money goes into the pockets of various officials to help all this happen. So the new colony emerges and grows gradually as a large Voter’s bank, free to be used by any party. Political parties compete with each other to give ration cards, to procure Voter’s id.
These displaced people have negotiated paralegal arrangements and though on the other side of legality have powers to make the government and the political parties sanction them a reasonable settlement. Initially as people living on flood affected areas and now as displaced people who have been exploited by the greedy land grabbers with the connivance of officials, these people have an identity as a distinct population group that is entitled for certain benefits. Partha Chatterjee in ‘The politics of the Governed’ writes of the difference between rights and entitlements:
Rights belong to those who have proper legal title to the lands or buildings that the authorities acquire; they are, we might say, proper citizens who must be paid the legally stipulated compensation. Those who do not have such rights may nevertheless have entitlements; they deserve not compensation but assistance in rebuilding a home or finding a new livelihood.
This population group has negotiated their way with their power to vote. This has earned the illegal squatters a cent of land and a cash of Rs 2000. Each of the displaced will have a story to narrate, stories that will be varied, but the political society has endowed them a common identity that make them recipients of ‘governmentality’.
Chennai remained wet for many days; low pressure lay like a monster for days near the coast of Bay of Bengal. There were torrential downpours; grey water blankets fell all through the nights until the pores of the earth could take no further. The rainwater spread like rippled carpets all across the city, forming rainbows patterns on spilt oil, opaque grey smudges over gargoyles of sewage. Gentle waves lapped as vehicles drove cautiously through the sheets of water and cut through slabs of slush.
Once the rains had spent itself of its fierceness, the low pressure brooded sullenly pouring bucketfuls at the most unsolicited moments –when someone was a few yards from his office, or when a person was waiting for the traffic lights to change, or when women swathed in yards of silk were leaving to attend a marriage (remember, it is the Thamizh month of Karthigai - the month auspicious for weddings, upanayanams, engagements).
Now we have had seven perfectly dry days. The trees are all awash green, a freshness permeates the air; polished and waxy leaves reflect the brightness of an unclouded sky. Dragonflies swarm the air, droning through the lazy afternoons. Heat hangs heavy around the dappled shadows cast by large trees. Multi hued butterflies descend on flowers and spill pollen. Isals cloud the twilight sky and come indoors in search of lights. They lose their fragile lacy wings as they bump on tube lights and filament lamps. Bereft of wings they crawl on walls and floors only to be devoured by house lizards that retreat languidly behind large photographs after their feast.
The morning air is crisp, ropes of heavy chillness press down the skin of morning walkers. Mamis have turned meteorologists – they observe the nippiness in the air, point to the dew on the leaves and wetness on the grass and announce that it is pani. Pani, they say, is a death knell for monsoon. So according to them we are through with rains for the year, at least the type that comes with low pressure and cyclones. It will rain during Karthigai deepam, which is just a week away. It will turn windy; the gusts will frustratingly put out the lamps that are kept out to decorate homes in the evenings.
The Sunday Express newspaper had a section on Margazhi ( the Thamizh month that extends between 15th December and 15th January ), which is a good two weeks away. Margazhi is undoubtedly a beautiful month, but let us celebrate the month of Karthigai first.
There is the right amount of dampness and a comforting heat that is conducive for the procreation of various organisms. My terrace garden of hundred pots is teeming with life; it is a planet of existence. There are worms, insects, dragonflies, and butterflies, gluttonous and bulbous caterpillars that will sleep like Rip Van Winkle and tear out as butterflies, flowers, pollen dust and seeds that spill on the red tiled floor. Pigeons and crows visit every morning to peck at the rice ball that my cook leaves on an earthen plate. There are a variety of flowers – sunset yellow, washed out pink and bright red roses, ruby red jathi malli, clusters of violet coloured morning glory, white, pink and red hibiscus, milk white and cream textured nandia vattai, pink and white oleanders, maroon, pink, orange and sandal coloured ixoras and red and violet December flowers.
Quite like the earth and atmosphere that exhibit a tumultuous throbbing of life and celebration, the spirits of the people are astir after a satisfying monsoon. This is the season for marriages. Sastrigals tear across the city on motorbikes with their wet hair let loose to dry, to make in time for marriages. Garland makers deliver special custom made garlands of roses and lilies dripping with water and dew, these garlands woven expertly carry a fancy price. Women dressed in pattu pudavai and men in jarigai veshti make the most of this season, for Karthigai is the month for matters all temporal.
Nine Nights Of Festivity: Navarathri
Today is Malaya ammavasai, the day of payasam, vadai and tharpanam in Brahmin households in Chennai. Schools have closed and crates containing gollu bommai are down from the attic. There is dust all about and old people get into sneezing fits as the gollu padi is set. Gollu bommais are arranged and kolams are drawn, as the curtain falls for the first day of navarathri tomorrow.
My son’s navarathri holidays began today. He got up at the break of dawn, which is never the feature on school days He was up and towered over me at the dining table as I drank my tea. He asked me for ideas to spend his day differently – “How about packing ten movies in a day?” he asked. I choked on my tea but gathered myself in no time and said, “How about packing ten books in a day?” I lifted my eyes from my large mug to see his reaction, but there was no trace of him. I looked under the bed and there was no football either. He has this knack of conjuring his football from nowhere; he had stepped out into the large world before I even looked up from whatever I was doing. Football, for sure is his ally, he will be dribbling the ball in the car park darting between cars, for god knows how many hours. So he did not return home till I left for work.
When I was my son’s age I was busiest during Navarathri holidays, did not have time to dribble balls. I got serious with things different. After keeping gollu on Malaya ammavasai and after a heavy lunch, my mother and I went unmindful of the puratasi kaichal (September heat) to Madaveethi in Mylapore to buy betel leaves, areca nuts, kunguma chimizh, small mirrors and dainty combs, blouse pieces of different hues and little gifts to be given with thamboolam to friend and relatives who paid visits to our home for navarathri.
Of course every navarathri my mother bought me a new pavadai. It was stitched and kept ready even before the navarathari began. I wore the new skirt for the Saraswathi puja, I had several other pavadais for the rest of the eight evenings, there were three lovely Kanchipuram pattu pavadais with yards of tuck that I wore since I was eight years old till I turned fifteen. (Refer Foot Note on Tucks and Kanchipuram Pattu).
There were shundals prepared every evening – different lentils cooked and flavoured with coconut, red chillies and karuveppalai leaves. These were wrapped in old newspapers that were torn into neat squares, and given away with thamboolam to those who visited to see the gollu. Children went on all days to every house in the neighbourhood and came back home with different shundals from different household. There were always different shundals for dinner to meet the different tastes of the family members.
My mother recollected her days as a young girl when she and her friends dressed themselves as Krisha and Gopis and went to different homes, sang Meera bajans that MS Subbalaksmi popularised through her movie. My mother described the jewellery she wore for the occasion, I could visualise her dressed like Baby Kamala, the young actress and classical dancer of my mother’s era whose dance of the popular patriotic number ‘Aadovome palli paaduvome’
sung by D K Pattammal was an instantaneous hit in the movie ‘Naam Iruvar’.
Things have not changed much in Chennai. It is the same holidays, a laid back atmosphere among certain family members juxtaposed with frenzied activity amongst certain others; certain parts of the city especially Mylapore, Triplicane, T Nagar and places where Tamil Brahmins live are frozen in time. You will just have to walk through these localities to be transposed in time to your youth.
A Footnote On Tucks & Kanchipuram Pattu
This requires a blog by itself, but I shall make do with a footnote. When Kanchipuram pattu pavadais were bought for us it was a life time investment. Kanchipuram silk was expensive and long lasting, we wore these as long as our days of pavadai wearing lasted. How can this be possible with us growing taller each year? So tucks were invented, where yards of the silk, in several layers/ tucks were stitched inside the pavadai. Every year one tuck was opened out and the pavadai flowed longer to keep up with height that we gained. My mother stitched different patterned blouses every navarathri and gave a new avatar to the old pattu pavadais.
There were stringent dos and donts that were listed every time I donned my pattu pavadai. – do not play wearing pattu pavadai, do not sit on the floor while wearing pattu pavadai, do not make it wet, do not trail it on the floor, bunch it up while you walk. I followed these rules and my pavadais lasted well for over eight years. Do not please screw up your nose when I let you into this secret – my pattu pavadais had not been washed even once through all those years. There was no need, they never got dirty and I never wore my pavadai for more than a couple of hours every year. That was the tradition, washing does not go well with Kanchipuram silk, and somehow pattu will never be the same once it is washed. This was a common topic of discussion among my mother and her sisters when I was young. My mother suggested her sister to wash the sari at home and dry it without wringing it. Another aunt of mine shared the wisdom of giving the sari for dry wash, my mother did not subscribe to that – she confessed that her sari which had heavy jari weighed lighter after a dry wash.
My mother took great care of the Kanchipuram pattu saris. She aired them, pressed them by keeping them under the bed and wrapped them in my father’s old veshtis in such a manner that when folded the zaris of her different saris never rubbed against each other. Very rarely she washed them or gave for dry wash. Her marriage sari, the nine yards kura pudavai that she wore when my father tied the thali remained with her for 35 years. The maroon sari with gold border never lost its lustre, not once did she wash it. She wore it on all auspicious occasions and strangely because she did not wash it, the sari was considered as madi.
The Pillar That Devanaampiya Ashoka Commissioned To Be Built
My son and I got involved in researching on the history of Ashok Nagar, a locality in Chennai where I lived with my family; it was the place where I grew up. After marriage I moved to Hosur where my son was born. Then we went to Baroda and when my son was eight we moved back to Chennai and Ashok Nagar.
Ashok Nagar spreads on the four sides of a tall pillar which is an accurate modern day replica of the pillars built during Ashoka’s time. The pillar was the launch pad for our research. The pillar made of concrete, is definitely a serious architectural project. The pillar seems built with great expertise and precision. Who commissioned the pillar to be built? I have no clue how to trace the person/s who built it. I can for sure say that no political party was involved in this project as there is no reference to anyone/ party near the pillar, which is always the case. If an individual commissioned the pillar, s/he should have obtained permission from concerned authorities. And the person/s has chosen to remain incognito. Or I did not try enough to find whose philanthropic gesture it was to create a landmark that reminds us of a great emperor of India.
Why was Devanaampiya Ashoka invoked so far from his birth place? I am not very surprised at this because Ashoka is one of the few historical heroes who are part of our collective consciousness. The career of Ashoka as the ambitious prince and king, the bloody Kalinga war, the remorse of the emperor at the brutal killings, conversion to Buddhism and the path of pacifism has been followed and absorbed effectively by us as students despite the dispirited and monotonous presentation by school history textbooks. Moreover capital of Ashoka’s pillar has been taken as the national emblem. Every civics book for schools carries this piece of information.
Our first engagement in researching on the history of Ashok Nagar took us 2000 years back in time to 300 B.C. My son had read enough about the Mauryas. Chandra Gupta is more favoured by my son than Ashoka. My son goes again and again to the episode of the precious lesson that Chandra Gupta learnt from a mother chiding her child not to eat the food from the centre of the plate, but to start from the periphery where the food is cold. Chandra Gupta adopted this as his political strategy for empire building. My son is very impressed with this anecdote and this was his entry point to the study of Indian history. He justifies why Chandra Gupta is a better emperor than Ashoka, my son remains unimpressed by the map that shows the large extent of Ashoka’s empire. According to him Chandra Gupta is the emperor in the truest of sense as he left a legacy that could outlive him. He reminds me that the Mauryan Empire collapsed less than fifty years within Ashoka’s death, while Chandra Gupta with his preceptor Kautilya left a strong empire for his successor Bindusara, Ashoka’s father.
We regaled our knowledge of the three great emperors of the Mauryan empire, the conscious efforts made by Ashoka to spread his philosophy of pacifism, non-violence and vegetarianism by commissioning pillars made of polished stone be erected in various parts of his kingdom. These pillars bore edicts that expressed his philosophy and beliefs; he further encouraged monks to travel across his kingdom and beyond it through land and sea route to spread Buddhism.
Ashoka’s son Mahindra has gone down in history for reasons that his father, as a true Buddhist would have been proud of. Mahindra along with Sanghamitra, Ashoka’s daughter, became Buddhist monks. They travelled to Ceylon to spread Buddhism. There are evidences that point that the Ceylon king Tissa and Ashoka were friends and that Mahindra was sent initially by Ashoka for Tissa’s coronation. Later Mahindra might have gone not on a diplomatic mission but to spread Buddhism, a source says that Tissa’s queen was ordained as a monk.
Buddhism spread to the southern outreaches beyond the Mauryan Empire, to the Early Sangam kingdoms. Buddhist monks, traders and merchants brought Buddhism to the Tamil kingdoms. It is a matter of pride that the Sangam kingdoms remained impenetrable. It did not fall a prey to the political design of Ashoka. However trade, both inland and overseas flourished between the Sangam kingdoms and the Mauryans. While monks traveled along the river valley, the Deccan plateau was deemed unsafe by merchants and traders to essay with their goods. They preferred the sea route. Nagapattinam was a busy port where ships from the Mauryan port of Tamralipti docked. Mylai and Mallai were small villages that served as quiet ports for small time merchants and traders.
Our engagement with facts stopped there. From thereon our wings of conjecture took flight. My son and I, as we stood close to the present day Pillar wondered if Buddhist monks traveled close to the spot where we stood, did they carry tales of the great emperor. Why did Mahindra and Sanghamitra not consider going en route Sangam kingdoms to Ceylon? Or did they? There are no evidences for that. Did Buddhist merchants and traders crisscross with their wares close to the place of my origin?
This exercise to construct connection between the Ashok Pillar of modern day with Devanaampiya Ashoka is based on certain assumptions. There is the assumption that the strong and dominant culture of the Mauryas impinged on other cultures. There is even a subconscious yearning to be a part of the greater forces, the larger history. Aren’t histories of individuals not valid? Can’t we construct our own histories – history as we live and see it?
The Pillar That Bears My Personal History
During the 70s Ashok Nagar, a suburb in Madras, was just developing. The Housing Board was constructing new flats in this locality; there were not too many takers. T Nagar, Mylapore and Nungambakkam were the residential areas in South Madras that were highly sought after. My parents were staying in dismally small houses in Nungambakkam and T Nagar when they decided to buy their own house. In those days there were not many flats; people lived in independent houses with a garden all around to grow Thulasi, Parijatham, Karuveppalai and Malli. My maternal grandfather’s house in Mylapore was a typically traditional living space with rezhi, mitham, koodaram and thaavaram, a back yard with maa maram, nelli maram and vazhai maram. 70s was a transition period, charm and pride attached to living in Mada veedhi of Mylapore and Triplicane were passé for the Brahmin families, and the younger generation bought houses in T Nagar, Alwarpet, Nungambakkam, Mandavelli and Raja Annamali Puram. Santhome was for Anglo Indians, Vadapalani was OK for lower middle class Brahmin families, and Kodambakkam had a mix of Brahmin households and a liberal sprinkle of Christians. Those who had been habitating in these parts of Madras knew of places like Kellis, Purasaiwakkam in North Madras and Adayar, Saidapet in South Madras only by their names. Places like George Town, Mount Road, and Parry’s Corner were commercial hubs of Madras. Ashok Nagar was totally unheard of; it could have been in Timbuktu.
That was what everybody expressed when my father announced that he was booking a housing board MIG (Middle Income Group) flat near Ashok Pillar in Ashok Nagar. Relatives and friends looked at my parents like as though they were moving to a British outpost in Africa. They looked up facts about the suburb, they were thankful that a subway in Mambalam and an overhead bridge in Kodambakkam span over the railway track to connect the rest of the world with Ashok Nagar. They gave a tick. Next, they checked the bus services available. There were two buses from Ashok Nagar to Mylapore – 12 E and 12 F (my mother’s parents lived in Mylapore); two buses to Nungambakkam - 25 B and 17 D (1. My father’s uncle lived in Nungambakkam; 2. I and my brother studied at PSBB School in Nungambakkam; 3. My mother worked as a teacher in the same school). 25 B and 17 D plied my father to George Town where his bank was located. No other connectivity mattered – so a double tick. Every one thought it was not so bad after all.
That was only until they visited Ashok Nagar for the first time. My mother’s parents, her brothers and sisters got down from bus near Ashok Pillar, to find themselves in wilderness. There was a very tall concrete pillar, picturesquely flanked by eucalyptus trees on all sides. Deserted roads diverged on all the four sides from the Pillar. They took the road going south; eucalyptus trees and gul mohar trees cast long shadows on the kutcha red earth road. There was no sign of civilization. They hopefully walked on, confident that they were on the right track; their confidence waned the moment they encountered a thick grove of mango trees. It appeared like the Congo forest to them, they were not prepared for this sort of adventure at all. My parents always forgot to mention the large expanse of Mango grove that spread between Ashok Pillar and their flat as a valuable landmark. It was always a practice for us to cross the grove and bring home our visitors. It was akin to going to the gate to welcome guests; except that this type of welcome ceremony entailed a half a km walk across the dark grove, which I loathed doing alone even on the sunniest and brightest of days. I always ran through the grove; even the juiciest of mangoes from the trees did not entice me when I was alone.
My father briskly emerged from the grove and led my grand parents, uncles and aunts through the cool shade of the trees, jewels of sunlight sparkled through the leaves. My mother’s family was down to earth, a no-nonsense clan from Mylapore; they had no poetry in their souls to appreciate the quiet copse that through its emerald haze filtered shafts of sunlight. They were more worried about leaving the place before sunset.
They were however happy with the flat; it was large, well ventilated with enough space in the front and back to nurture a garden. There were only four rows of flats that ran parallel; there were 10 blocks in each row, with four houses in each block. The roads between the rows of flats were broad, our flat, thankfully for me, was the farthest from the grove. Across the road there were empty plots of land, a narrow lane cut from the road and lead to a raised land that we called medu. Along this lane spread a large colony of huts; our milkman, flower seller and house cleaner came from this colony which was a criss cross of lanes and by lanes which I always enjoyed exploring.
This lane that lead to the medu was my favourite haunt. There was a nadar kadai where goli soda, kadalai urundai, butter biscuit and kamarakat were sold. The nadar kadai proved handy for my mother and grandmother too. The nadar sold vegetables and provisions, everything we bought there had the dank smell of dark, moist and closed spaces; the tamarind and the salt most of all carried this. Though my mother favoured a slightly bigger shop on the medu, for urgent needs I was made to dash across to the nadar, an errand that I enjoyed carrying out. The nadar kadai was useful for my uncle too as he went there to buy his cigarettes. He stood at the shop chatting up with his friends while they smoked. There was always a coir wick burning at its edge for people like my uncle to light his cigarette.
I studied K1 and K2 in PSBB, Nungambakkam. The school was in its nascent stage; due to lack of space it worked in shifts. My brother and I attended the morning shift while my mother who taught for the high school attended the noon shift. My days in PSBB were a blur, probably because I was bathed and packed to school even before I woke up for the day. I studied grades 1 -3 in a school called Annie Besant located in Ashok Nagar. A woman called paal kara Lakshmi (she was a milk woman who doubled into a helping hand during the day) took me to school and brought me back home, she helped me carry my school bag. I crossed the mango grove twice a day en route school and back. I do not remember clearly when the grove was cleared, the grove existed during the years I attended Annie Besant school, which was my sixth and seventh year. The grove was razed to ground in no time. The open space gaped angrily at us. Now after thirty years the place is unrecognizable, the grove has become a tale that I tell my son; there is always a tinge of shame and guilt in my tone that I never valued the grove and took pleasure in its vastness and quietness.
The highlight in the history of Ashok Nagar was the building of a large shopping complex near Pillar. Those were not the times of shopping malls or shopping complexes. We were used to strings of shops in Mylapore opposite the temple tank or rows of shops along the road in Luz corner; a building complex constructed exclusively to house shops was a new concept for us. It took almost six to eight months for the complex to be built and at about 1974 it was completely operational. The shopping complex was a fairly large structure with two floors. On the ground floor were shops, there were provision stores, tailor shops, a medical shop, a stationery shop and a launderer. There were TUCS (Tamilnadu Urban Cooperative Society) and the Ration shop where commodities like pulses, cereals, sugar, oil and kerosene were sold at subsidized rates. The Ration shop was a busy outlet, people stood in long queues to buy their rations against the cards that were issued to them. Other than these shops there was the Indian Bank on the ground floor and Housing Board office on the first floor.
Older than the shopping complex was the Ashok Nagar Recreation club. This was an asbestos roofed bluish green structure, located at the edge of bramble filled open space that extended west of Pillar. There was another access to the club from my flat. The club was located on a broad road on the west of the mango grove. We skirted the mango grove on its western periphery to reach the broad road that we called the 5 E road as the only bus that plied on the road was 5 E. I have not been inside the club. My father’s cousin lived next door. Her husband and my friend’s father who lived in the flat above ours frequented the club. My father told me that these two men went there to play cards (sittu kutcheri). As children we were not interested in the club, we preferred to explore the thickly over grown space around the club. My brother played cricket with his friends in the open space across the club and I learnt cycling on the broad 5E road. The road was quiet with no traffic, an ideal place for playing cricket and learning cycling.
Adayar River runs south of Ashok Nagar, in those days it was a murky stream tugged down by domestic and industrial wastes. The only time the river appeared panoramic was soon after good rains; it flowed carrying in its swift current broken twigs and dry leaves – no there were no polythene bags. I am talking about pre–plastic proliferation era when there were thankfully no plastic carry bags, so no ugly bags ballooning in the water to besmear the face of the earth.
Spanning the river was a low bridge which submerged in the river every other monsoon. The road that extended from the bridge led to Guindy where there was the industrial estate; the estate was itself in its embryonic stage and there were few small industries tucked behind clusters of trees. This stretch of road from the bridge to the estate was quiet; my father went here for long walks in the mornings.
Beyond the bridge, on the right, about a kilometer down south a brief detour took us to Defence colony, a posh neighborhood with large houses and tastefully maintained garden. We explored this quiet neighbourhood many times, walked all the way on hot summer afternoons to play and loiter in the shady avenues. We knocked doors and asked for water to drink, the red dust from the earth that settled on our hair made us look like urchins and vagabonds.
When my cousins visited us during holidays, we packed food and went picnicking to St Thomas Mount which was five kms away from home. To reach the mount we had to pass through the Defence Colony and beyond it through paddy fields and mango groves. It took us about three hours to reach the mount. We left at dawn before the sun rose high in the skies, we ate the goodies that my mother had packed for us, relaxed under trees, played about in the fields and reached the mount dog tired and dirty. It was late morning by the time we reached the foot of the hill, we then dragged ourselves up the steps with no energy left in us to jump the rocks and trek up. All our exhaustion vanished the moment we reached the top of the hill. The view from the top was breath taking. On the west stretched a rocky terrain, on the south the brown runway of the airport posed a contrast to the green trees that rolled on the east. Roads leading south were black lines that could be viewed between the crops of trees. Beyond the trees on the east were the rocky hills. As we inhaled the fresh air we realized how we had left the dust and crowd at the foot of the mountain and had stepped onto a reified realm where a collage of earth brown, greys and greens cooled our eyes. We turned north-east and searched for the Ashok Pillar, it emerged majestic out of clouds of greyish green trees and the houses and buildings that seemed crawled out from our height were blurs of grey. We pointed at the buildings spread close to the Pillar and claimed that was our house; it was a pleasant sport for me to close my eyes facing the north- east direction and visualize my mother at home attending some late morning chore.
The face of Ashok Nagar kept changing through all these years. A marriage hall in mid 70s, Udayam theatre in late 80s, the ESI hospital and Maya hospital built at about the same time, more flats and independent houses, Government Girls High School, private schools big and small made Ashok Nagar a busy place and far from an outpost.
Thirty odd years since my parents moved into their own home and 2000 odd years after Mauryan traders walked in the same neighbourhood, the locality has changed beyond recognition. Would the traders, merchants and monks of Ashoka’s time be able to make sense of the mayhem that this locality has turned out to be – the traffic, the dust, noise and crowd?
History has been carried down the centuries; Ashoka, his empire building acumen and his ideology has reached us through various sources – archaeological sources, literary sources and folklore. Ashoka has been appropriated in the nation building agenda in post independence India. In present times something inspired a person to build a tall pillar in what was a quiet suburb, a pillar modeled meticulously after the pillars that Ashoka built. I and many people like me have participated with this individual and with Ashoka in making the history of the locality happen. This goes to underline the point that we have to move away from the overbearing shadows of great heroes and acknowledge the histories that common man/woman make.
I write about flowers not as a botanist but as a person whose sensibilities have been conditioned by the different flowers sold at street corners in Chennai.
Flowers Strung As Strands
Malli - Malli is a great hit. Everyone - young and old, irrespective of the background they hail from, wears it during all occasions. During the hot summer months malli blooms in abundance. The most popular variety of malli is the Madurai Malli; the arid plains of Madurai are a veritable growing place for these shrubs. This particular variety of malli is large and more fragrant than the common ones.
During summer months wonderful strands of densely strung mallis are available in aplenty. A mozham of malli during summer costs about three rupees and the flower seller offers four mozhams for ten rupees. The best strands of malli are available outside Nalli and Kumaran in T. Nagar, outside Kapaleshwar temple and near Luz corner in Mylapore.
Malli is available almost during most part of the year, though the best mallis are available during the hot summer months of April, May, June and July. During the other months they are expensive – we have to wrangle with the flower sellers to lower the price of the flowers that are not so exuberant and are strung very far apart. These are the times when malli looks sickly, the buds might not blossom, or the flowers are small without fragrance. Still the only flower we ask for is malli – “Malli erukka, poo-kara-amma.”
Malli is associated with all festivals in Chennai, starting from Vinaka Chathurthi in August, Navarathri in September/October, Deepavali in November, Pongal in January and Varusha pirappu in April. It is only during Varisha pirappu that the best malli is available; during other festivals we just about manage to get malli somehow.
Malli is best when it is worn in the evenings – that is the time when the buds open. If we are passionate about malli we have to follow its clock and not our own. I know many who put malli into plastic bags in the evenings and keep it in refrigerator. They take it out in the mornings and offer it to the gods or wear it on their hairs after the have their morning bath, just before going out for work. The mallis are dead by then, the stems shrink and the flowers fall away from the strand.
Mallis that are grown in home gardens are carefully cut along with the leaves. They are worn on the hair in clusters. The variety called the goondu malli commonly grown in gardens, is large; these have seven rows of petals and are as large as roses.
Jadi and Mullai - Personally I classify jadi and mullai with malli, because it becomes very difficult for me to choose between malli, mullai and jadi, to wear on my hair. The fragrance of both mullai and jadi is as intoxicating as malli. Jadi is more common during the pleasant months of January and February, August and September, while mullai, like malli is a summer flower.
Jadi flowers are long and spiky, they appear dainty when they are still buds, and the ruby like translucence of the buds is striking. As they blossom jadi flowers become a blushed pink, which seems weak and sickly in comparison to the maroon streaked buds. The flowers are soft and it is like paradise to feel the sensation of the flowers near the skin while inhaling the fragrance. The life of jadi is short. It wilts and turns brown within a couple of hours.
Mullai is hardier than jadi. The flowers are pale yellow; sometimes they take the colour of yellowed cream that forms over stale milk. They are no nonsense flowers (not exuberant like malli or dreamy like jadi) – they are slim and sprightly. They are closed up as buds; they catch attention only after they blossom. They open out evenly and stay upright till they decide after long hours to die out. When the flowers dry out the cream curdles deeper and turns a cheese-like yellow – a colour opulent, but wasted on a dead flower – the way nature works!
Nithya malli - Nithya malli a flower that seems like a mix of mullai and jadi, grows on creepers. Every other home garden in Chennai has the creeper. Nithya malli has to be carefully picked from the plant, the pale yellow stem of the flowers snap if the gatherer is in haste. Then the flower cannot be strung into the strand, it has to be tucked deep into the plait so that we get up next morning carrying the lingering fragrance of the flower.
Nithya malli is called so because it is a non-fussy flower, blooms in abundance almost every day. The fragrance of the flower floats through the darkness from the gardens where these creepers grow. These flowers are not sold by flower sellers, for reasons that I can only conjecture - they are fragile flowers that cannot stand the journey from Koyambedu flower market to independent flower sellers. All the same those who grow this creeper in their garden make strands of these flowers and wear it in their hair. The pleasant smell stays on in the hair for days later.
Kattu malli - This variety of malli grows wild in the forests. They have no fragrance; they look like malli, a pearly white colour. They do not wilt away for a long time, and when they do, they turn a burnt brown in colour. Since it stays fresh for a long time, many favour it.
Kanakambaram - These are fragile flowers, red and orange hued, having translucent stems. The .red coloured variety is called as Delhi kanakambaram, red as a coral; the orange hued is the local one. It is the Delhi kanakambaram that is generally sold by flower sellers, the local kanakambaram is like the nithya malli – those who grow it in their garden loyally wear it on their hair.
Kanakambaram has no fragrance. They are available in the months of July, August and September. Children cherish these flowers as the colour of the flower appeals to them.
Samandhi - Samandhi is a variety of chrysanthemum, golden yellow in colour with a nondescript smell – we are so much taken in by the breathtaking colour that we do not mind that the flowers have a mundane smell.
Samandhi is considered the most auspicious flower to be offered to Gods. The price of samandhi is hiked during festival seasons. Large golden balls glow on the festival eve as women and men troupe to the flower sellers to buy the priced mozhams of samandhi.
Strands of samandhi adore the deities in homes; women tuck a small strand on their hair in hurry as they partake in the rituals of festivals. Spikes of yellow petals fall from these strands on the bronze or golden hued necks of women and litter the floors of their homes.
Kadambam - Kadambam is a mixture of malli, samandhi, sprigs of marjoram, davanam, marudani flowers, sampangi and sometimes thazhambu. I remember wearing the heavy strand on my hair. The strand of kadambam is heavy as sprigs of marjoram and davanam, the large samandhi and spiky petals of thazhambu lend weight to the strand.
Kabambam is also considered an auspicious flower as all sweet smelling flowers are offered to God. The confluence of various fragrances is deemed as a fitting offering to God. The different colours that constitute the strand of Kadambam are pleasing to the eyes.
December flowers - These flowers are named thus because they start blossoming in the month of December, and are found in aplenty during the months of January and February. The December flowers come in many hues – pale purple like the lavenders, deep purple like the egg plant, satin pink like the twilight sky, white like lily or striped purple like a child’s pajama. Children favour these gay coloured flowers and they wear the variety that matches with their dress.
Flowers Worn Singly Or As Strung Into Strands Roses - We wear a variety of roses on our hair, singly, as clusters or as strung in strands. The most common one is paneer rose – the local variety of rose. These roses are pink in colour, this variety is seldom worn singly. They are strung into heavy strands. These are delicate flowers that emanate a very pleasant smell. Fresh ones have drops of dew on them. The petals of these flowers are picked and offered as udhiri poo (loose flowers) to gods.The red roses are a variation of paneer rose, they too are native ones but red in colour. These, like the pink variety of paneer roses, are strung as strands or offered to gods as udhiri poo.
There are Bangalore roses, the sophisticated variety that arrive in different hues. These roses in blood red or yellow or saffron colours are worn singly on the hair, they are worn fashionably where the plait falls gracefully on the nape. Dahlias - A flower that is worn singly is Dahlia. These are large flowers and they come in various colours – deep maroon, bright orange, sunshine yellow, eggplant purple. These flowers do not have any fragrance. Personally I feel they adorn a vase better than hair. Not many people feel the same; they proudly wear this flower.
