MS Blues
On the last day of school, no matter which city we lived in, we would be on the
evening train to Madurai. The overnight train journey was always fun–but our
annual destination–we were a little less excited about that.
Madurai was my father’s hometown and my grandparents still lived there. The
heat, the mosquitoes, the bathrooms a slippery tenth of a mile away from the
house, the sheer lack of things to do – these were some of the reasons we might
have cited – if anyone cared to ask me or my brother about our lack of
enthusiasm.
After my father’s transfer to Bombay, we were even less keen on spending
summer in Madurai because it seemed so unbearably boring in comparison. Why,
it did not even have a TV station yet! But we did not have that much influence
over anything at that age. I was ten. My brother was twelve. Much in advance of
this inevitable trip the bai was already making inquiries.
“When are you off to your muluk?” she asks, mopping the floor. Maybe she wants
to coordinate her vacation with ours. My mother would like to believe just the
opposite. She is quite sure bai will take off once we are back. Right now, my
mother isn’t even certain what muluk means.
“To where?” she asks, to be sure. The language used in Bombay is a tangy mixture
of many tongues and not the pure Hindi of my mother’s textbooks. Still she has
some idea that muluk means native place. I confirm that suspicion for her in
Tamil and then repeat the word for myself.
“Muluk,muluk,” I just like the sound of it.
“Your village, your village! When will you go there?” bai prods her on.
Mistake! My mother was born in the city but bai is calling her a villager.
“Sometime in summer,” she says testily without looking up and poor bai has to be
satisfied with that response.
Over dinner my parents talk and decide it is time to book the train tickets.
Everyone goes to their muluk around summer, so it is never too early to make
reservations. Just our luck, we have to head towards Madurai which would be
hot as a furnace.
In the leafier Madurai of my father’s youth, streets, even entire neighborhoods
took their names from the trees that grew in such profusion. Orchards of mango,
jackfruit, and coconut became residential addresses. My grandparents’ one
storied house must have stood in a grove of berries, then.
Grandfather is hovering anxiously near the gate, waiting for us. Grandmother
comes to the veranda to receive us only when she hears the taxi’s trunk slam shut
with finality. Her mouth is a dull orange from the betel leaves she chews all day.
My aunt is last and with a quiet smile she carries some of our luggage indoors. My
cousins, all boys, all older than me, don’t help their mother.
“Come here, my sweet lump of sugar,” my grandmother beckons to me. Despite
her endearments, I am tongue-tied and stay close to my mother.
“How tall the boy has grown,” she remarks looking at my brother.
He rushes over to hug her without any further encouragement. He pretends he
can’t lock his hands around my grandmother because she is fat. Everyone laughs,
including her.
“Ai, touch-me-not, will you curl in if I look at you?” she teases, trying to draw me
out as well. My cousins snicker. The dogs are barking in the backyard. They have
been tied up in the bike shed because they are known to bite guests. I have a
horrible feeling the twins will set them free any minute. I step into the house
warily.
In the afternoons, I keep my ears open for monkeys. It is as good a way as any to
pass time in Madurai. A distant siren signals the break for the textile factory and
shortly after my uncle comes home for lunch. Once he leaves, the kitchen is
closed briefly and my aunt rolls out the mat to lie down for a while. I hear that
distinct clatter on the asbestos roof. I rush to the window.
They are there! On the roof of the backyard bathroom, the monkeys make their
unhurried progress toward the mango tree’s shading canopy. Like a parrot’s beak
its green mangoes curve into a red-tinted tip. Even when the flesh ripens to gold
within, the skin stays green. Despite the poetic name it is a sour disappointment
to my grandmother.
The fruits of this particular tree are stringy and tart, and my grandmother has to
buy mangoes in the market just like everyone else who doesn’t have a big tree in
their backyard. Its delicate brownish blossoms waft to the open tank below and
scent the bathwater. Grandmother doesn’t have the heart to have the tree cut
down but complains about it at every chance.
My uncle’s trusty Chetak is parked in the bike shed. The dogs are tied in the
corner, too hot to care about anything. The mailman came to the gate a few
minutes ago. They did not even bark at him. One of the monkeys has reached the
scooter now and is making a grab at the side-view mirror which is glinting in the
sun. The dogs looked on bemused.
This monkey joins the group for the feast, shortly. Expert but forgetful tasters,
they chuck the mangoes with disdain after a few sample nibbles. The pulpy mess
rolls down the roof with a muffled clatter and lands with a plop near the shed.
Some of the monkeys aim the fruits at the dogs. Unable to take the impudence of
the intruders the pets howl their heads off.
Aunt goes charging into the din. The monkeys don’t look too worried at the sight
of her long bamboo stick. They confer and then make a jaunty exit as if they have
much tastier orchards to raid. I can believe that. I wonder why they come here in
the first place. Surely, they can’t be as amnesiac as all that! Perhaps they are as
bored as I am and enjoy a bit of drama in the afternoon. In any case our siesta is
over.
Grandmother is up and she is in a bad mood. Actually, she has been up even
before the monkeys came on the scene. The power outage unfortunately coincides
with the hottest hours of the day. Everyone stays in except my brother and my
cousins who are up to their usual games in and around the house, mindless of the
heat.
“Can someone fan me a little?” the old lady demands imperiously. Grandfather
who has dozed off behind The Hindu is startled awake by her request. The boys
snicker and quietly leave the room just as I wander in.
“Why don’t you take a nap also?” grandfather asks me kindly.
“It is too hot. I wish I had some story books,” I reply.
“What do you want to read when the school is closed? Tell me, what are the books
about?” he inquires.
“Oh, they are books about children in England. My favorite series is the one about
the Five Find-Outers. They can solve mysteries much before the local constable
Mr. Goon can. The Inspector from London is their friend,” I inform him. He looks
a little mystified. Surely the London constabulary doesn’t need the help of
children to solve cases!
My grandfather was a firm supporter of the British Raj and even cried a little the
day India got its freedom back in 1947. My father says he also cried when India’s
first Prime Minister died fourteen years later. This I know from my brother, so it is
probably untrue. Still grandfather is a tender-hearted man, that is
for sure.
“I may be able to get you a copy of the Vicar of Wakefield. I have heard it is a
classic,” he says. Like many men of his generation, my grandfather considers
fluency in English a necessary and sufficient proof of scholarship. My shrewd
grandmother is much harder to impress.
We keep our voices low, but grandmother cannot go back to sleep. She cannot
participate in our conversation either. Her back is eloquently turned on us. When
the commotion in the backyard starts, she sits up and glares at us. It looks like
she is trying to decide who the bigger nuisance was — her husband who is
chattering with me in English or the backyard monkeys. At least she can do
something about those impudent creatures. She goads my poor aunt into action.
In a little while, quiet reigns. The dogs are in the veranda, and they have a fresh
bowl of water each. My aunt re-opens her kitchen and starts preparing
the tiffin. It is going to be onion fritters with coconut chutney, my
grandmother’s favorite snack. She is in the kitchen, ahead of all of us but she is
still in a bad mood.
“Your children!” she tells my mother, “They don’t speak to me because I don’t
know English. They can’t speak their own language Tamil and who understands
this Bombay language of theirs — this Hindi!”
“Yes, I can’t understand it either, Amma,” my mother says, only in part, to mollify
her.
“Why don’t we take them to the temple, tomorrow?” she tactfully suggests hoping
to take her mother-in-law’s mind off this tricky language issue. Grandmother has
an appointment with the dentist in the evening. This means we will have to go
first thing in the morning. The gods too nap in the afternoon and the temple
doors are shut.
My grandmother is an early riser but having us ready by dawn will be quite a task
for my mother. Nearly everyone in the household will be inconvenienced by this
plan. The old lady greets this with considerable relish.
Madurai is a one-temple town. At its heart it is not just any old temple, it is the
ancient Meenakshi temple. The paths are lined with shops selling fragrant
garlands, strings of plump jasmine, mounds of turmeric and vermillion powder,
and anything that can be considered auspicious. Granite demons stand guard at
the entrance.
We have been to the temple before, of course, but we have always rushed home
before dark as per the unwritten family rule; the women need to be home to light
the lamps for the evening prayer. This time, we can visit the shrine of the green
goddess and then stroll through the temple’s famed Corridor of Thousand Pillars.
Skeptics, my brother and I, start to count them but then we notice something
amazing. Each pillar is a richly sculpted yali, the mythical beast of many parts. It
is staring at us, its goat eyes bulging with mock curiosity. The boar ears are
perfect to eavesdrop on the conversation of all those who walk within, I realize.
This is a Lord Shiva temple but everyone refers to it by his fish-eyed consort’s
name. “That is because in Madurai, the women rule,” my grandmother tells me in
an aside. The yali chuckle and relay this information to their friends at the end of
the corridor.
Outside, we buy framed photographs of the green goddess. Meenakshi wears her
huge garland like a feather boa; a parrot is perched on the fingers of her right
hand. They make great souvenirs for her friends in Bombay. My mother buys me
a dozen glass bangles. They make a pleasant jangle every time I move my arms.
When they catch a bit of sunlight, they sparkle dazzlingly, throwing little
rainbows on my dress.
I still have three bangles left on each arm, when it is time to go back to Bombay,
a month later. Despite the complaint that there is “nothing to do” in Madurai the
time has passed quickly enough. My mother is busy packing our suitcase. To get
us out of her way she suggests that we go seek my grandparents’ blessings.
We do this by touching their feet in respect. Most elderly couples stand together
for this but my grandparents do it one by one. It is a ritual we look forward
to. Grandfather pats our heads and invokes his favorite deities in a faint voice to
wish us well. He looks very sad at the thought of our leaving. Grandmother is still
rummaging through her iron bureau when it is her turn.
She comes back with a framed sepia photograph of herself. In it she looks
younger. Her nose and ears twinkle with diamonds; her hair is pulled back in a
bun. She is wearing a silk sari shot with dark threads. She passes this picture
around for our inspection and approval.
“You looked very nice, when you were younger,” I tell her. I turn to my brother
for help.
“Very distinguished,” he remarks. It is evident that my grandmother is looking for
more but we are at a loss.
“Does it remind you of anyone?” she asks. No, we shake our heads.
“People say I resemble M.S. in this,” she informs us.
Fans refer to the classical singer M. S. Subbalakshmi simply by her initials. Many
South Indian households, even in Bombay, wake up to her soulful rendition of
Suprabatham but we could not have come up with her name, just then. My
grandmother always gives us some money as a parting gift. It is not a lot and we
dutifully hand it over to our mother. We can draw on the amount for an entire
year to buy ourselves small treats.
At the station, we wave to our Uncle on the platform, until we can’t see him
anymore.
I did not realize this was one of the last times I would see my grandparents. They
died within a year of each other, when I was in my early teens. My father did not
insist on visiting his hometown anymore. Madurai became a distant memory
much before I left for America. I now live two continents away in New England,
where it gets dark before 5 PM, in the winters.
I smile when I think of my family’s absurd curfew for women –always be home
by dusk to light the lamps. To cook the dinner, they meant. Madurai got street
lighting in the 1930s and being a city of culture, held open-air classical concerts
that went on late into the night. So much for the dangers lurking in the dark! I
chuckle at the memory but the road ahead is slippery and needs my full attention.
I-93 is slick with snow. My gas tank is close to empty. It is rush hour –it will be
difficult to pull over to the breakdown lane. Even if I managed it, what could I do?
The cell phone is dead. I am close to panic but I let the audio player pick a CD for
me.
M.S. Subbulakshmi’s Bhaja Govindam comes to my rescue. I can appreciate the
Sanskrit song without knowing the lyrics or the ragas. It fills me with a sense of
calm. Her voice is divine; I have no other word for it.
At the gas station, as the tank is filling up, I pull out the CD cover and try to get
more details about the composition. There is a picture of M.S. on the jacket. She
has this radiant quality about her; a kind of beauty which grows with age. This
was the ‘resemblance’ my grandmother had wanted us to spot. Of course, we had
let her down.
I know by now that many people from my father’s muluk claim some kind of
tenuous kinship to the singer. My grandmother has never been alone in wanting
to establish a connection with this icon. When I realize that the ‘M’ in the singer’s
initials stands for Madurai, everything clicks into place.
Knowing my grandmother, I know for sure that our ignorance must have affected
the amount of money she gave us that day. How much did our ignorance about
the culture we were born in to, cost us overall?
That would be impossible for me to calculate.
Here is the MSBlues pdf.