To many, Chennai might seem a city of glass and chrome (or huts and slush if you look at it another way). Of multistoried apartments, software pottis, cut-outs, corporate structures, sweeping financial tides and sky-scrapers. Old-timers might mourn the loss of many traditions now long lost … but there are still a few left, which bring up a tsunami of memories. Not to mention the fact that a huge industry exists, based on centuries old tradition, right under our very noses. It’s composed of a set of rules, properly followed, a large turnover, and teeming hordes of industrious workers who make sure its wheels turn smoothly.

They’re the flower-sellers of Chennai.

They’re usually part of a blink-and-you-miss act in the usual routine of the average Chennaiite; they’re around in the mornings or evenings, dressed in well-worn saris, toting a huge basket filled with every kind of native flowers that the landscape has to offer. The women of the house are the ones who generally look out for these flower-ladies, checking their wares of jasmine, kadhambam, roses, saamandhi and every other colourful, fragrant blossom in the bloom-spectrum. And that’s just the first part of the process. The other consists of haggling over the prices, groaning over the steadily increased rates, sighing over the days when flowers were practically free, or grown in one’s gardens … and then coming to certain conclusions about what to buy, what not to, sharing some good-natured gossip about the worldly happenings, and then going each other’s way.

And that’s just the simple part.

What’s much more complicated is the intricate web of commerce that connects all of them together. Meenatchi, a 50ish flower-seller who frequents the streets of Alapakkam, is one of the important cogs that help the system run efficiently. She’s aware of the fact too – right down to the finesse of speech that categorizes down-to-earth people such as her.

“Selling flowers makes me independent,” she says nonchalantly, measuring a length of jasmine against her arm for Rs 10. “My children are all grown up now and settled – and I need a source of income to see me through. What I earn here is more than enough.”

Her days start early enough, and at Koyambedu, the perennial flower-market that’s the parent body for these smaller sellers. “I go around the streets surrounding the Meenakshi dental College, and right up to Valasaravakkam,” she divulges. “People are always fond of flowers – so I’ve no trouble selling mine.”

For Vasanthi, part of a sister-duo that takes the Nungambakkam beat, things aren’t so easy. “Where have I got the time to stop and chat?” she asks breathlessly, as I try to get her to into a conversation. “I’m up from 4 in the morning, and I have to get my business done by 7 AM,” she rattles, handing out bunches of roses and lotuses to a long queue of customers. Incredibly, her prices are even higher than Meenatchi’s. “Well, it’s a muhurtha day,” she explains, though her eyes drop. “And I’m already sold out – must get more from my sister.” She hurries away before I can question the atrocity of getting two lotuses for twenty rupees. “What can I do?” she calls out. “The prices at the market are so high.”

Deciding that this mysterious market of theirs warranted investigation, I made plans for an expedition to the famed Koyambedu flower-market, the common supplying-point for many of the flower-sellers that swept over the cityscape. Earlier based in Parrys, this focal point had shifted sometime ago to Koyambedu, a sprawling cement structure where I discovered, much to my amazement, that one entire building, the size of a good-sized southern Tamil temple, was wholly occupied by the Koyambedu Malar Angadi – the Flower Market.

At 9 AM, and already sweltering in the morning’s heat, I stepped over the flat stone steps that led into the building – and was immediately engulfed into the madness that was quintessentially Koyambedu. Huge garlands of rose and white flowers were strung on nails on the outer-most stalls, while inside, several pathways led into cooler interiors. I stepped gingerly on the plantain leaves and general rubbish that lined the stone floors, and into one such alley-way.

Row upon row of every kind of flower in the city met my astonished gazes. There were fragrant roses, heaps of jasmine, mounds of yellow and orange saamandhi teetering upon the low cement platforms, small shops that sold only plantain rope and twine to tie up the flowers, packets of white flowers, and bowls of eye-catching orange kanagambaram … the list was endless. A thick, cool scent hung about the halls, and though cobwebs and posters of cine-stars decorated the dank walls, the colourful array of blooms more than made up for it.

I probably looked very conspicuous picking my way through the flowers, as one seller after another first threw wary looks at me, and then tempted me with little bunches of Marikozhunthu and kathirpachai. One or two, though, despite the hectic pace and crowds milling about, were more than willing to chat.

“Our day starts at three AM,” revealed Pazhani, who sat beside heaps of kanagambaram, weighing it out in his scales. “The earlier, the better. The lorries come by with their loads of flowers and unload; we get our stock and settle down here. By two or three in the afternoon, our business is pretty much done.” As I watch, a ser, or 350 gms of flowers goes for about Rs 20. Jasmine is much dearer, at Rs 50 a ser for small buds, and Rs 100 a ser for slightly bigger ones.

Why did they still use such old-fashioned measurements?

“Makes the flower-sellers feel better,” grins Pazhani in a gap-toothed fashion. “The kilo-system is better for us, but they feel like they’re getting a better bargain at these prices. Which they are.”

At another little stall (just cement floors separated by a small barrier), a boy sits hawking fresh red roses. “How much?” I ask, filled with trepidation, as I’d been quoted outrageous prices just the day before. “100 for Rs 15,” he says indifferently. “How many do you want?”

I stand and gape. “A hundred roses? Really?”

He gives me a pitying glance. “How many?”

I stagger away with a bag full of flowers, still marveling at the prices that floated around a wholesale market. Along the way, an old man sits with a basket full of what looked like folds of velvet. “Kolikondai,” he informs me, as I look curious. “They look like the headpiece on a hen’s head, you see – that’s why they’re named so.” They were not for sale on a piece-by-piece basis, but sold as baskets to garland-makers.

As I continued my tour along the dark paths, diligent flower-sellers sprinkled water on dropping blooms, hawked clusters of roses artfully packaged in wrappers for valentine’s day, sewed elaborate threads and flowers for wedding garlands, ate dosais for a late breakfast at a make-shift restaurant right at their feet, watched TV on old Dyanora television sets and chatted about the day’s business.

It was a world unto itself, with its own rules, regulations, timings, and citizens. And when I finally stepped around a weary lotus-seller, I felt like I’d taken a piece of that dark, perfumed universe within me.

Back home, I harangued with a morose Kalyani, as she tried to sell me 10 roses for Rs 15. “It’s not fair, you going off to Koyambedu to buy things,” she huffed.

“Why do you sell at such atrocious prices, then?”

“Well, consider our costs – we have to travel back and forth, lug around our loads, walk all over the city and sell these to you,” she argued. “Makes it up for all of that, right?”

We argued with each other a little more, and along better lines, a discussion of the latest movies, actors and economy thrown in for good measure. By the end of this heart-warming talk, we’d decided that if she sold her roses for less, I’d promise never to visit the flower-markets again. “It isn’t right for you to snatch my business,” she sniffed. “Don’t I bring you just the kind of flowers you like, and just when you need them?”

This was quite true. Kalyani had a knack for anticipating the household needs – a sort of human flower-robot.

And thus did we come to our amicable conclusions – because that is the world of a flower-seller, you see, and no matter their prices, they still have a smile for us, and an ear to lend our cares.

Perhaps that’s a trait they’ve inherited from their beloved flowers, after all.

Rest in Peace.

As I push the gate open in a quiet street in Mambalam, the sound of music falls upon my ears, a young voice beginning the slow, steady ascension into the higher reaches of music. Twilight is falling around the tree-covered house, and I witness a scene of domestic clamour as I step in. A young girl is busy practicing music for the evening, while others run around with their homework, or eager to play.

Though everything else may appear shallow and repulsive, even the smallest task in music is so absorbing, and carries us so far away from town, country, earth, and all worldly things, that it is truly a blessed gift of God.

- Felix Mendelssohn

“Our musical training began when we were six,” says R Vijayalakshmi, one half of the Mambalam Sisters, who have been making waves on the musical scene for a while now. Upstairs in their elegant little home, she’s joined by R Chitra. The sisters have been a part of the South Indian Classic scene ever since they were twelve.

Mambalam, quintessentially artsy Chennai from way back, has known these sisters right from their birth, playing witness to every step of their growth.

“Our father was, and continues to be our inspiration,” chimes in Hemalatha, the third of this musical trio, and an accomplished violinist. They call for and eagerly welcome K S Rangachary, a kanjira artist of renown in musical circles for the past 45 years. As their father takes his seat, the pride and affection they hold him in becomes obvious.

“Perhaps it was because of his own exposure to the classical music scene – but we were introduced to the Carnatic music world at a very young age,” says Chitra. “He’s a disciplinarian every inch of the way.”

Asked who made the decision for them to be vocalists, while the youngest sister opted for an instrument, they smile. “It was Appa’s decision all the way. At six, he arranged for us to be the disciples at the Sadguru Sangeetha Vidyalaya. Our music training was strictly managed – no excuses, no lapses.”

Later, they continued training under Alagramam Sri Ramanchandran, the disciple of late Sri Maharajapuram Viswanatha Iyer. They undertook advanced training as well, under Sarvashri B V Raman and B V Lakshmanan. “We learnt a great deal of rare krithis from him,” they say.

“At the moment, we’re undergoing training from Smt Suguna Varadachari,” says Vijayalakshmi. “At no point can you say that you’ve accomplished all there is, in music, can you?”

The sisters schooled in Sharadha Vidyalaya, and the emphasis was steered onto music from day one. Their day, as girls, began at 5.30 AM, when their father sat down with them to begin lessons. “He would play for us, so that we understood the intricacies of laya and thalas,” they explain. “Of course, he had to practice for his performances, as well, so we learnt early on what it was to practice for the sabhai.”

Learning at home and under teachers, no matter how beneficial, is never quite the equal of experience gained from listening to actual concerts: the sisters attended as many as they could. “We gave small, impromptu performances at places like Ayodhya mandapams,” says Chitra, glancing at her sister for confirmation. “You could say we had stage fear ground out of us. Performance mattered, more than anything else.”

“Our days were quite full – we rarely had time for anything else,” says Hemalatha, while the other two chuckle.

“She was the one who escaped,” asserts Vijayalakshmi. “She was the youngest of us all, so she was allowed to get away with things we couldn’t have dreamed of. She always managed to get off early during practice sessions. Then it would be discovered, and there would be quarrels galore,” they all laugh.

The vocal duo made sure they earned their degrees at B.Com and B.Sc Chemistry respectively, but decided that music clearly came first – which meant that academics took a backseat. “It was a conscious decision,” they echo. “We knew that we wanted to devote ourselves to music, so we gave ourselves to it.”

Hemalatha, on the other hand, seems to have taken the road less traveled here too. “I topped my BA course in music,” she quips. “It was Appa’s decision that I specialize in it. Later, when all my friends joined MA in music, I did too. It was an experience and a half.”

Learning music on an academic basis formed an excellent foundation for her own musical career, in her opinion. “I hadn’t really taken music very seriously until then – but things changed in college,” she smiles. “I grew to appreciate what I had, and to increase my repertoire.” She went on to complete her M Phil, and even her PhD. “I specialized in Dhikshithar’s 72 melagarthas, Raganga ragas in the Sangeetha sampradaya,” she elaborates. Needless to say, she has now gained a new appreciation of her gift.

The sisters have a brother as well, who began his musical training with them, but later switched careers. “He played for us occasionally,” they say. “He and Hemalatha were our accompanists.”

What began as short displays of music on occasions such as weddings of relations and festivals, slowly graduated to full-fledged concerts at prestigious Sabhas. “We began to sing at Sabhas such as Indian Fine Arts Club and Mylapore Fine Arts Club when were 18 or 19,” they say.

Didn’t they ever feel the pressure of nerves thrumming before any concert?

“Not really,” says Vijayalakshmi, after a thoughtful pause. “I suppose we’d been singing for so long that we simply didn’t think about such things.”

That may have held good for smaller performances – but what about the larger Sabhas with a much more discerning and critical audience, such as Music Academy, for instance?

“We performed in 1989 for the Spirit of Youth festival there,” remembers Chitra.

“Oh, by that time, we knew enough to be nervous,” declares Hemalatha, to much laughter.

From then on, there was no looking back. Word of the sisters’ proficiency and musical prowess spread; concert performances ranged all over the country, from Delhi, Mumbai, Bilaspore, and others. The sisters are A Grade Artists of AIR in both Carnatic and Devotional Music, and the vocal duo has been awarded the Government of India Scholarship for advanced training in music. Though Hemalatha, the youngest, has toured through Switzerland, South Africa, the USA, Kuwait and Australia as violinist for senior performers. The vocalists admit that they have based their performances mostly within the country. Part of the reason was that they had to perform together, they say. Another was that by this time, both were married and had families of their own. Care and attention had to be given to them, which rather limited their touring on an international basis, though offers did arrive.

One memorable trip was to Singapore, they remember. “We’d committed ourselves to a temple concert at 6.30 PM, and had prepared ourselves for it – and imagine our consternation when we heard from our mridangist that he couldn’t make it!” says Chitra, her eyes wide with remembered dismay. “He was caught in a terrible traffic jam. How on earth were we to go on with the performance without our accompanist?” In the end, an accommodating thavil player, who was part of the audience came to them and offered to play, providing away out of their difficulty. “He was a godsend, and the audience was very satisfied,” says Vijayalakshmi. “Our mridangist arrived three hours later, and was very relieved that nothing had gone wrong because of his absence.”

Another memorable incident happened in New Delhi, where the sisters had arrived to give a concert on National Television. “This was back in 1998,” they remember. “We were supposed to perform at 8 o’clock, because we had to catch a train soon after. And then there was a fateful power-cut. What were we supposed to do?”

A harried Director promised that their performance would be recorded as soon as the power came – which it did, at the last possible moment. “Oh, that was tense,” they remember. “But we can’t help but recall how helpful people were, assisting us in getting together the instruments, conduct the performance – and then sending us off, safely.”

Adventures seem to have preceded them every step of the way, along an illustrious musical career. Washed out bridges, broken roads, railroad accidents – “There were bodies along the tracks!” – sudden flashfloods in the rainy season that flooded their car and made travel impossible … there seem to have been no dearth of them.

“That’s part of concert life,” they say candidly. “They make our performances memorable. What would it be like if everything was the same?”

But ask them the performance that means the most to them, the one that they cherish for all time, and they fall silent as one. “I don’t think there can be any doubt that it was the one we sang in front of MS Amma (M S Subbulakshmi),” says Chitra. Apparently, the PA of the legendary singer had listened to the sisters perform, and promptly conveyed opinion on their singing to her.

“We were dumbfounded when we received a call from her, asking us to sing,” say the sisters. “We performed for around 40 minutes, singing old favourites like Kuraiyondrumillai … and a few Annamacharya songs.” MS, they recall, was a woman of utter simplicity and candour, with not an iota of self-importance.

“And MS Amma said, in the end, that though she’d heard many singers sing her songs, no one had every sung it like they did,” pitches in Rangachary, a silent witness to their conversation thus far. “She said that they’d followed her style perfectly. It was a compliment of the highest order.”

Hemalatha, on the other hand, has equally inspiring anecdotes to tell. In 2005, the violinist accompanied noted musician Balamurali Krishna at the Swati Sangeeth Utsav, in Trivandrum. “I was keen on performing well, despite my coming down with a fever, and this was a world-famous singer. Naturally, I had to be on my toes,” she says.

When the concert was at an end, however, the singer called her aside and said that, though he usually did not depend on his violinist, this time, he had found it a pleasure to do so.

“I was amazed at his generosity towards younger musicians, particularly the accompanists,” says Hemalatha, her face glowing. Thus far, she’s won the Yuva Kala Bharathi Award from Bharath Kalachar in 2000, and the title of Nada Oli from Nadha Inbam in 2002. The Music Academy awarded her with the title of Best Senior Violinist for 2002 as well.

The list of accolades won by the vocalist duo is long as well. They’ve bagged the prize for Best Rendering of Ragam, Tanam and Pallavi in Vivadi Raga from the Music Academy, in 2000. The Kartik Fine Arts awarded them the D K Pattammal Award for Excellence in December 2003. They are also the “Isai Arasigal’, as recognized by Pamban Swamigal Trust, in 2003. The ‘Nadha Bhushanam’ Award was theirs in 2006, conferred by the Shanmukhananda Sabha, New Delhi.

Their repertoire includes more than 700 krithis of various composers, and they’ve given more than 60 audio cassettes on Pancharathana Keerthanas, Annamacharya Keerthanas, the Venkatesa Suprabhadham, Jayadeva Ashtapathi, and numerous others.

What do they do to unwind, when the stress gets to them from such an obviously hectic pace?

“Music is everything to us,” they smile. “There’s no case of searching for relaxation, when we’re already involved in what is life and soul to us.” Then they say, in one voice, “Our families offer us everything that we might reasonably need in the way of support and relaxation – so there no question of needing anything else.”

With sons, daughters, full-fledged families with school and every attendant concern, how tough is it juggling these responsibilities?

“Well, it’s a bit difficult on the kids when they have to do without us for weeks, when we’re off on concert tours,” admits Vijayalakshmi. “But we live so close by that one or the other of us always takes care of the others children when we’re away. It’s a large, joyous joint family. Our in-laws are extremely co-operative.”

Their children, they now say with a chuckle, are well-used to their regime, and even take part actively in discussions on music, concert dates and schedules.

“They understand that this is something we have to do,” the sisters chime. “We find it fulfilling to trade ideas with each other, to just sing together, that not doing so would be unthinkable.”

With a satisfactory December season, they’re pretty satisfied with their lot. “We’ve always given our best – and we’ll continue to do so,” says Vijayalakshmi, seeing to her childrens’ dinner – and incidentally, mine as well (!). Talk about being hospitable.

If music is the food of the gods, as they say – then the Mambalam sisters are certainly past masters in serving up delectable fare.

PS: Apologies if the post is over-long … but I thought it expedient if it was posted in one go, as it’s of uneven length.

I decided that I’d ask the GRT Thangamaligai store people to let me have a peek inside their machinery. After about a dozen phone calls and rescheduling of appointments, it finally did happen. I met the big guys. On their own turf, so to speak.

These gems have life in them: their colours speak, say what words fail of.

~George Eliot

It’s a woman’s dream.

Racks and racks of gold bangles hang on stands behind glass cases; gleaming strands of necklaces swing heavily from the hands of soft-spoken salespeople. Platinum earrings gleam palely, watched by the careful eyes of those in-charge, while diamonds sparkle from velvety soft busts.

I am within the sacred precincts of the GR Thangamaligai jewellery showroom, Chennai – and feel like a kid let loose in a candy store. Hundreds of customers mill about me, looking at every stand the sore has to offer, purchasing the requirements for weddings, births, special occasions, or even no-occasions. It’s a thiruvizha all hours of the day, and all days of the year.

I traipse up and down entire floors that are devoted to lovingly crafted gold, to mellifluously wrought silver, dazzling creations of platinum, brilliant confections of diamond that cost Lakhs of rupees and slither in your hand like the finest silk, and costume jewellery that seems to be a collection put together entirely of colours, light and stars. Established in 1963, GR Thangamaligai is among the largest of jewellery showrooms in South India – and they also hold the singular honour of being the largest Hallmark jewellers. “Purity without a Premium,” states their proud legend.

Not surprisingly, security people throng the halls too. When I tell one of them that I’m here to see the store’s high-ups, they’re suspicious. Notes after notes pass through their hand, and after three calls, I’m escorted to plush, AC-humming hallways, where I wait in a ochre-painted room. Finally, I’m met by the man behind GRT – who’s surprisingly down-to-earth and easy to talk to.

“I suppose, as we grew up, the store grew along with us,” says G R Radhakrishnan, Managing Director, of his father G Rajendran’s pioneering efforts in establishing the store. What was originally a small shop measuring around 500 – 600 sq ft, is now a gigantic enterprise standing four floors tall in its primary location on North Usman Road, T Nagar, along with another showroom of three floors, devoted entirely to silverware and other artefacts. The main showroom, in the meantime, houses every other metal and stone that adorns the best jewellery.

I’m captivated by the hustle and bustle on each floor, as I’m shown all the workings by a very nice young man called Thamizh. He walks barefoot, skipping nimbly though each floor, being accosted by people working there. Curious customers look at my camera questioningly. An asari works on jewelry in a corner, looking jaded, probably, with all the minute work.

One of the reasons for GRT’s immense popularity is its dual approach to the customer’s fashion sense: they cater both to the quintessentially traditionally inclined, as well as the needs of the modern woman. “We work on jewellery for Temples as well – ethnic work is our speciality,” asserts Radhakrishnan. “Name any of the large temples today: Thirupathi, the Thirumalai Thiruppathi Devasthanam on Venkatnarayana Road, and Lord Parthsararathy of Triplicane – all have jewel-work done by us. That, in fact, has acted a s assort of inspiration for our vintage collection: small sets of jewellery that costs anywhere from around Rs 30,000, and are intended to be worn for parties and marriage receptions.” Indeed, the collection is crafted in a stunning variety of designs that lean heavily towards traditional wear, but designed with a marvellous synchronicity: rubies and emeralds are in profusion, in collusion with modern conceptions of jewellery. There is also the completely bindaas costume jewellery collection that suits modern office-goers excellently.

The diamond collection occupies an entire section by itself, nestling with the Dewdrop Platinum Collection. Intricately woven strands of every girl’s delight dangle tantalizingly, wrought in intriguing designs. “We prize talent always,” says Radhakrishnan, as an employee handles the necklace with something very like devotion. “Our designers are not always in-house, neither are they restricted to well-known designing houses. In our opinion, creativity and originality come to the fore,” he says, displaying gleaming golden and silver pooja vessels that cost anywhere from 1 Lakh to 10 Lakhs. A ghee lamp alone, around 8 grams, is valued at Rs 8000.

The Fire and Earth Collection occupies another especial pride of place, along with the Featherlight Collection, composed of feathery chains and necklaces that almost float on thin air . “We believe in re-inventing ourselves – for this is a fluid world, and we need to stay on top of things.” Small wonder that the showroom has won the Best Diamond Showroom Award, and the Best Platinum Showroom Award recently, for their professionalism and creative approach.

On top of the list of achievements, however, is clearly the Silversmith showroom, containing the Natya Collection.

Designed especially keeping dancers and dance schools in mind, the collection features a mind-blowing collection of anklets, Muthumalas, headsets, bangles, maatal for the ears, necklaces, and rakodis. “Long ago, Temple dancers wore these jewels made of pure gold embroidered with precious stones. Today, Bharathanatyam and Kuchipudi dancers wear temple jewellery. Also known as the Kemp set, these ornaments are made of silver, dipped in gold with intricate stone gem-work adorning them. This form of jewellery is a favourite among South Indian Classical dancers, as it provides a very ethnic feel and makes the dancer look even more engaging,” says Radhakrishnan. “We brought the Natya Collection to the dancers and dance schools themselves, campaigning to them about its merits. I must say, the response has been wonderful. Our collections are handpicked designs inspired from the deities that adorn the South Indian temples. Our Natya Collection has the entire range to garb any professional dancer from head to toe.”

There’s also general artifacts, like Thanjavur paintngs and crystal showpieces.

How does he think jewellery trends have changed from the 60s to now?

“In those days, women were much more concerned with locking up their jewels in lockboxes – accumulation of wealth was the primary criterion,” smiled Radhakrishnan. “These days, a woman wants to use her jewellery. No more does a bride wish to lock up her jewels that she’s worn to her Reception – even her marriage jewels need to be usable in everyday life.” He pauses. “These days, women wish to make the best of everything, and jewellery is no exception.”

Spoken like a true jewelsmith.

Oy, where did I stop off? Ok, got it.

By the way, go here for Part 1.

It proved to be the turning-point in her turbulent history, opening the doors to a second, far more successful era of public life.

Quite suddenly, from being a nameless X in a large family, Salma suddenly found herself the cynosure of enormous public interest. “I, who couldn’t even give a photo for my first book, had to pose for posters all over town; speak in mikes in front of crowds – I tell you, I was stunned.” Her voice is low. “It shocked me that they who wouldn’t let me even write in scraps of paper, now let me speak to strangers – simply because it was in their best interests.” Never one to let such opportunities slide by, Salma took the Election bull by its horn, put in a good deal of hard work; victory was hers. Salma breezed through the Swearing-in Ceremony, aware, for the first time in her life, that her family actually supported her success. It was the first time a literary personality in the area had entered the political arena as well – and Salma intended to make her mark.

For 30 years, Thuvarankurichi had seen no Local Body elections. Two local bigwigs, one a Hindu and the other a Muslim had always conferred among themselves and managed to elect one or the other when term was up. The Panchayat’s assets were theirs to squander; property which would have brought in Rs 10,000 from the Government was leased to private parties for Rs 2,00,000, which was later split equally among said bigwigs, some of which went towards maintenance of the Temple and Mosque. Mismanagement and squalor reigned supreme.

“I changed all that,” Salma announces, a triumphant note in her voice. “I wasn’t afraid any more, and I’d decided that since I had taken a post such as this, it was time for me to assume responsibilities and live up to expectations.” Her husband, now forced to see her as a fully-fledged, responsible Panchayat Board Chairperson, understood that her life was hers to lead; politicians and other players in the arena saw her growth, and began to accord her respect.

From being the position of an exalted personage that no one could approach, Salma quickly transformed the office into what it had been meant for: public service. “People trooped in to see me from 5 o’clock to 12 o’clock, bringing in their issues, hopeful that I would address them.” Thuvarankurichi had no good roads, no school – and no place to complain. “Our country would be a better place if proper authority is given to Panchayat Officials,” asserts Salma. Never one to shirk her work, Salma made sure she fulfilled the duties expected of her: she journeyed to Chennai as often as was required, visiting and petitioning MPs and MLAs of all parties, in a bid to gain the benefits due to her people. “There are a great many Collectorate Schemes that address everything from cleaning sewers to organizing water-supply. The Namakku Naame Scheme is one such – but nobody knew of such things. Worse, they didn’t care.” So well did she work towards providing the people of Thuvarankurichi such basic amenities such as water, roadways, streetlights, community networks and organizing sewage, that she won the Collectorate Award in recognition of her services.

In 2004, the Institute for Social Sciences (ISS), New Delhi, selected 30 women out of Panchayat Presidents all over the country for purposes of training, and travel to Pakistan – and Salma was part of this privileged group. Visiting a much-maligned neighbour, where President Pervez Musharaf had allocated 30% of the Panchayat positions for women, Salma had an excellent opportunity to visit an alien land, so similar to her home, observe its people, language, its dynamics. “We traveled for around 18 days – a truly wonderful experience. Pakistan and India were said to be enemies, but her people think of us as brothers and sisters. They see us as one of them.” Salma and her group visited Islamabad, Karachi, Lahore, Multan, Ghaziabad – 13 cities in all. Among the sites she saw were the school India’s current Prime Minister Manmohan Singh studied in, and Peshawar, near the Afghan border, where foreigners weren’t allowed. Her travelogues and experiences were later serialized, to much acclaim in the popular Tamil weekly, Kumudam.

Around this time, she gained the introduction and friendship of poet Kanimozhi and her illustrious father, Tamil Nadu Chief Minister M K Karunanidhi. Frequent meetings followed; ideas and thoughts were exchanged. “In 2006, I was the DMK candidate for Marungapuri, and won by 1000 votes,” she informs.

Meantime, her achievements in the literary world brought her as much criticism as praise. Salma’s works gained the most attention, perhaps a little unfairly so, for her physical descriptions and her unapologetic use of body parts and acts in poems, rather than the actual issues addressed. One of her most controversial works is Oppandham (Agreement), a widely (mis)quoted poem, the cause of a great many arguments and harsh words, even from well-respected authors and poets. A translated excerpt reads:

“Mother tells me that every mistake in the bedroom is mine
To discharge your responsibilities to my child,
To get you to pay for sanitary napkins and birth control pills,
And, if possible, to lord over you for a while,
My knowing vagina opens itself.”

Unaware of the ways and means to respond to such frank writing, missiles flew from all directions of the literary world, first shocking, then rousing her to defense. “Society, I believe, is naturally against women. People talk a great deal about what a woman goes through – yet, when confronted with the brutal truth, they prefer to shut it out, ignore it, deny that it’s happening,” she comments, when asked about her peers’ reaction to her in-the-face writing. “Educated people like Palanibharati and Snehan, who have made a mark in the world of poetry themselves, couldn’t accept my poems and writings; they thought it was an insult to the very ideals of womanhood.” Then she smiles mischievously. “Such people, I think, haven’t really read their literature well. What are my works compared to the remarkably descriptive passages in Sangam literature? All I can tell my detractors is this: Let them criticize those great works, and then throw stones at me.” She considers the issue for a few more moments. “The truth is that they can’t accept women who have gained in status, in intelligence – and the easiest way to attack me is to call my work obscene. They can’t stand the attention women receive.”

Her first novel, Irandam Jamangalin Kathai (Tales of Night’s Late Hours), about the naked truths that exist in a Muslim society, a remarkably closed world, brought such ire on her head that even critics were stunned at its ferocity. “I wanted to project my world the way it really is, the way I see it: all the male chauvinism, the restraint placed on womenfolk, who can’t show their emotions – naturally, the Islamic community couldn’t accept it.” She sits up, indignation in her eyes. “And why shouldn’t we change, as a society? Why can’t we recognize the bad points, the weaknesses for what they are? We need to take stock; bring changes.”

Regretfully, her own two sons, brought up in the closeted atmosphere of Thuvarankurichi, showed disastrous signs of emulating narrow-minded elders. “What can you do?” she asks rhetorically. “They react the way they see their elders react. I’ve brought them to Chennai, to change their ideas – let’s see what happens.”

Not all of the literary world heaped criticism on her, though; in 2006, she was invited to the Frankfurt Book Fair – Salma was the only poet from Tamil Nadu. In another trip to the Chicago University, daily readings were conducted, where translators and students discussed her works – an honour that had her floating on clouds. Well-known translator Lakshmi Holmstrom is currently involved in translating Salma’s novel. Salma also won the Devamagal Arakkattalai Award in 2002 for her poetry collection; a Katha Award for her short story in 2004, and the Amudan Adigal Award for all her writings.

Brickbats and accolades from literary achievements aside, Salma has concentrated on public service as much as on her poetry, allowing her natural instincts for service free rein. March 2007 saw her assume the responsible position of the Chairman for Tamil Nadu Social Welfare Board. “What I am now, is more to my taste, my thinking. My responsibilities in this office are more towards women and their welfare – I want to do my best. I’m concentrating on the issues of female infanticide, creating more awareness about suicides, especially among students of the 8 th and 10th standards. One must realize that there is life after failure, not give in to every depressing impulse. I want to make this a movement over the whole of Tamil Nadu.” She also hopes for the opening training schools for Panchayat Chairpersons, that they might be prepared to take up their posts and serve people.

As she sits back, calm and collected, no trace of the trials she’s gone through on her gently, unassuming face, I am struck by her strength, her ability to withstand such severe emotional storms and come out, seemingly unscathed. “The more I was restrained, the more did I feel the need to break out of the shackles that held me down – because I felt that such restraint was unfair, unnecessary and cruel,” she comments. “That, I suppose, is the real lesson: never give up – come hell or high-water.”

[Concluded]

Big bunch of thanks to all the people who liked Part 1.

But those weren’t enough. Soon, I wanted to see the rebel in person – because so often, what you read is very seldom a real reflection of who a person is. I dug into her whereabouts, and – surprise! – discovered that she was in Chennai after all – and met her.

Perhaps those of the glittering literati out there have already read all there is to read of her – but to me, it was an experience and a half. That’s what I’ve tried to record here. Perhaps Nandhu might like to add his perceptions as well. :)

“Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.”

- Paul Engle

She’s a study in contrasts.

The name Salma has echoed around hallowed corridors of modern Thamizh literature for years now; resounded around bastions of Muslim culture, creeping gently into the hearts of keepers of so-called tradition and those who raised their voices against women and their much-vaunted liberation. Her works, with their sharp, evocative descriptions and stunning imagery about the fate of the everyday, suppressed woman have ruffled entire flocks – leave alone feathers – in some very high places. And for good reason: she has never been afraid to express herself truthfully, when it comes to being the voice of a section of society that has had little chance to speak out. Her poems carry a strong flavour of the physical body, inciting her critics to lash out at her poems in the basest way possible; mild-mannered peers have suddenly been roused to shocking statements, while radical thinkers and feminists welcomed her with open arms – and the world soon followed suit, laying her open a wide path of acceptance. Albeit dotted with boulders with jagged edges.

Salma, the poet – has always been synonymous with powerful words and emotions.

Still, the woman who greets me with a cautious smile when I first step into Poet Salma’s home is not quite whom I expect to see. I quickly revise first impressions of finding, perhaps, a poet who is immured to life, too world-weary or artificially enthusiastic about everyday happenings. And when I look closely, I see a woman armed in battle costume: prepared to defend against invasion if necessary, yet willing to relax her guard when she is approached by friends. Happily, as we settle down to talk, I begin to discover a spirit the likes of which very few actually have the felicity to know.

“What would you like to know?” she asks in a quiet voice, as though worried of committing some faux pas in rushing headlong into her life story – but since that, essentially is what I wish to know, she continues with a slight smile. Her eyes remain clear; no theatrics here. “Not much there – my life was very much like many others in the same situation.” Her words, though, belie the truth.

Born in Thuvarankurichi, a small town near Thiruchirappalli, Salma – who, incidentally, was named Rokkiah – grew up in an ultra-conservative Muslim household and society, governed by every rule and dictum that it is possible for a family to ever impose on young girls.

“Women had little chance of an education there,” remembers Salma, of her childhood. “We couldn’t go out much before marriage – and we were married at 13 or 14, at the most. I myself was engaged when I was 13,” she grins suddenly, at my rather shocked face, and a good-humoured woman makes her presence felt. “That’s not really surprising, you know. But I wouldn’t agree to getting married so young. I already had ambitions of doing something with my life, so I kept protesting against it. Not that it had much effect. Marriage was the only option, and everyone knew it. Still, I managed to keep myself surrounded by my first love – books and literature. I had to keep in touch with that side of me.”

A Master’s Degree Thuvarankurichi might not have offered – but what about the basics? Surely she went to school in her teens. “Ah, yes,” she smiles. “I did go to school – but that came to an abrupt end because of a certain incident. You see, I liked going to the movies, probably because simple pleasures were denied to us girls so much. In those days, Thuvarankurichi’s theatre had only night shows that started at 7 PM; once in three months they had a matinee. Naturally, we wanted to have a taste of the movie-going experience – but the whole outing was fraught with restrictions. I had a few friends my age; every one of them would get permission; but I would have to stand by the pillar at home” – she mimes herself leaning on an imaginary pillar – “my arms twined around it, waiting endlessly. And even then, I would receive permission only if I read 2 pages of the Quran.” She pauses. “I must have been 11 or 12, then. I often spent my time – what I had of it – in the local library, reading and re-reading the ancient classics and whatever else was there. And that was when we, my three friends and I, suddenly decided that we might go to the matinee show. To think was to do – and we were inside the theatre, at once. We didn’t even know what movie was playing. We found our seats and prepared to enjoy the show – only to find that we were the only girls in the whole theatre. And there was a reason for that – the film in question was some kind of an X-rated movie!” She chuckles. “You can’t imagine our intense mortification. We’d covered our heads, and all the men in the theatre kept looking at us, trying to find out who we were, but they couldn’t see enough in the dark theatre. Worst of all, my younger brother was there too – on the men’s side!” She shakes her head. “Somehow, we sat through the whole show, and waited for almost an hour in the theater afterwards, until everyone had gone out. We were hoping to make a quiet exit. And when we came out – good God, the whole crowd was waiting outside, hoping to see who these daring girls were, who came to see such a movie!” She shrugs. “And that was the end of it. We got a terrible lashing when we reached home, and it was decided that I wouldn’t go to school any more. As it was, I would have had to stay home once I reached puberty, so it was only a matter of time.”

What did prick her intensely in the incident, though, was the fact that her younger brother, who had watched the movie as well and been the one to inform the household of this ‘terrible’ act, was not even brought to book and continued as before, while she herself had been reprimanded to within an inch of her life. “I couldn’t digest this obvious discrimination,” she admits. “It was too much to bear that he could get away with anything, even though he was younger – just because he was a male.”

She hadn’t any choice, though. Time at home now stretched away before her interminably, with hours and days of nothing to do. At least, that would have been the case for any other young woman. Not Salma. “I started reading a lot when I was 14, right until 20. My interest in literature grew – and I was, by nature, a girl who wished to know a lot; a girl with dreams. But I had no one to share my thoughts with; no friends. In the place of animate human beings, I turned to even more animate companions, my books. I turned into a bookworm.”

Her parents, ordinarily not inclined to leniency when it came to her education, gave way to her thirst for reading. “They didn’t object to my spending my time this way, within the four walls of my house,” says Salma. “And so I came to read everything I could lay my hands on. Russian literature proved to be a treasure house of knowledge; thought-provoking, the tools that helped me continue to dream, to envision a future that might lie outside this enforced prison. If I hadn’t been able to have my fill of Tolstoy and Mayakovsky in those days, I might have withered away into nothing. I might even say that this proved to be something of a plus point.” Later, with increased reading and absorption came an awareness of language and translation, and the eagerness to devour more. She read a good many works of Periyar as well, and spent time on Marxist theories, the words seeping into her as water in a sponge. Quick on the heels of such extensive reading came the next step – writing.

“When I first started writing poems, I took the name Rajathi for two reasons,” she explains. “Firstly, I wanted an identity of my own, not the one I had right now, bound within the confines of my social restrictions. Secondly, I didn’t want anyone who might read the work to connect them with me, for obvious reasons,” she smiles. “My parents knew that I wrote – but as it hadn’t caused much of a problem thus far, they didn’t object.”

Thus began the early years of the most productive period of her life: she wrote so many poems, mostly based on her own life and emotions that they must have come to around “17 or 18 volumes, if they were put together now.” Most were, she says, feminist, of course. “A woman couldn’t show herself, couldn’t afford to express her own opinions – I was subject to a lot of unkind teasing when rumours of my writings got out. Some even scolded me terribly. How dare I, a chaste Muslim woman, write?”

Word of her writings, the maturity and freshness in her work began to make waves in the literary world, though. She was contacted by various writers; readers began to recognize and look for her work in the Tamil dailies and weeklies – one example was Chuttum Vizhicchudar, a magazine that offered writing space for women; writers S V Rajadurai and V Geetha, themselves keen on Russian literature and Periyar, wrote to her about her work, urging her to continue. Such appreciation, says Salma, prompted her to concentrate, driving her on towards better work.

Needless to say, it could not last long. Plans for her marriage were dusted and brought up again, and this time, despite all of Salma’s protests, there was little leeway in the matter. Too much time had been lost, her family said, as Rokkiah had been promised to a man; no more could be wasted.

Salma was depressed. “I didn’t like the life I was living now; not my home, my surroundings, anything. I knew what kind of life awaited me once I was married – I would just move to the next street, and be swallowed up in the drudgery of chores and household work. I would be carefully kept away from so-called ‘corrupting influences’ – I wouldn’t be allowed to explore my urge to delve into myself, to live life in a city, perhaps, to know people, books, places,” she says. “It would be the end.”

She did try arguing that she must be allowed to write at least – but the request was flatly denied. “There was such a huge gap in our very thinking,” says Salma. “I knew that my future in-laws thought I’d been given too much freedom, doing things no woman should ever be allowed to do; they insisted that I give up writing for good. I refused.”

Not that her refusal changed circumstances; no member of the family gave it serious thought. She would protest until marriage, and then would give it up just as any other girl would. “For many Indian women who have lived like me, after all, there is no ambition, no drive,” Salma muses. “Everything comes to a full-stop after marriage – it’s just the husband, the in-laws, the children.”

And so, Salma entered holy matrimony – “I couldn’t run away, could I?” she grins – and began a not-so-new life, according to tradition and expectations. Nothing would persuade her to give up dreams of writing, though; her new family was equally convinced that she would. This was the first step to what would morph into a protracted battle of wills – but that would come later. First, how was a young bride like herself to even attempt to write, under the watchful eyes of the whole family?

“I wasn’t more than 22, then,” Salma reminisces. “And I was eager to get back to work – but couldn’t. My inability to do so made me discover newer and newer methods to circumvent it,” she laughs.

Anna Akhmatova, acclaimed as the leader, the heart and soul of the St Petersburg tradition of Russian poetry for half a century, wrote her poems, it was said, in pieces of tissue paper, in jail. So did Salma emulate Anna, in her own way. She could not write at night; the night-lamp would give her away. Day was her only recourse, and she snatched minutes out of every chore possible to scribble poetry on scraps of paper, and hide them away. This was essential, as her family – in particular, her husband – were incredibly suspicious that she had gone back to her ‘old ways’ and continued to write, and carried out spot-checks at inopportune moments. “I would write even when I was in the bathroom,” confesses Salma. “And then I would stuff the papers somewhere inside the bathroom, and then find a way to send it out. Occasionally, I changed places too, to avoid discovery,” she laughs.

It was around this time that she adopted the pseudonym Salma. “Kalil Gibran’s work has a heroine in it by this name,” she says. “I read the work; it appealed to me, and I began to use it.”

By now, correspondence from fellow writers and readers had grown to such proportions that an elaborate set-up had to be created for Salma to access her mail. “Amma received all the letters meant for me, and forwarded them; I would read, write replies and send them back to her, and she would post them for me.” All these elaborate precautions did not guard her from being found out, though; when someone stumbled on her pieces of writing, there was hell to pay. “There would be furious quarrels,” comments Salma. “They would grill me about the subjects I’d written, like feminism – and since quite a few of my poems expressed my own sorrow, they would keep asking me if I wrote such things because I was sad in my in-laws’ home,” she says. Such relentless inquisitions shaped her into a rather reclusive being; one who is wary of opening her heart easily to anyone.

Setbacks such as these only served to fire her ambitions to succeed; Salma continued to write, pushing opposition to the background. During these trying times, it was legendary Tamil writer Sundara Ramaswamy – affectionately known as Su Ra – who helped her keep her confidence, and continue writing. Kalachuvadu, his publication house and a premier literary magazine, promoted her writings heavily, publishing her first collection of poetry, Oru Maalaiyum Innoru Maalaiyum (An Evening and Another.) August 2001 saw the book’s release function, in Chennai – and presented a fresh set of problems. How was Salma ever to leave home, let alone attend the function of her own book’s launch? As it was, even her photo couldn’t be acquired without a great deal of difficulty.

In the end, Salma found a rather circuitous way out. “I pleaded sickness and got permission from my in-laws to travel to Chennai for around 10 or 12 days,” she explains. “I had no copies of the book,” – which, incidentally, took the Tamil literary world by storm – “and got medical certificates in the city before I came back home, as they would demand proof of my treatment. No one knew anything of what had happened.” The success was rather bittersweet.

In September, 2001, a vast band of silver appeared on her horizon – except that Salma didn’t recognize it as such, at that time. The Panchayat Board elections were around the corner, and Salma’s husband wished to compete. Part of a well-known family and with a creditable number of supporters, he was sure of success – except for one small hurdle. Thuvarankurichi came under the Women’s Reservation sector, which meant that no man could compete in the Panchayat Elections. “He asked his mother and sisters, all of whom refused; then he came to me. All I had to do was compete in the election; he would take care of everything else.” Confused about this seemingly golden opportunity offered by people who had hitherto refused to let her have even her own identity, Salma turned to Su Ra, her mentor, who urged her to accept – and she did.

[To be Concluded]

One looks back with appreciation to the brilliant teachers, but with gratitude to those who touched our human feelings. The curriculum is so much necessary raw material, but warmth is the vital element for the growing plant and for the soul of the child.
~ Carl Jung

“I’ve been in the teaching field for 36 years,” she smiles. “And I don’t think I shall ever tire of it. It’s the noblest profession there is – because it’s not just about you. It’s about the next generation you help raise.”

A beatific expression graces the visage of Eugenie Pinto, Principal of the Queen Mary’s College, as we sit opposite each other in her spacious office, which projects a soothing aura of contrasting presences: today’s world, and an olde worlde charm that is quintessentially QMC. I have just wound my way through old and statuesque buildings still bearing remnants of the British Raj’s aura, around a bust of regal Queen Mary, and up corridors that positively reek of history, to meet Eugenie – and am aware, at once, that here sits a lady who has taken to the profession for all the right reasons: a sincere love for the vocation, a talent for foresight, and a genuine wish to assist those around her.

In this, the 37th – and the last – year of an illustrious career that began in 1971, she is as eager as ever to continue her good work. “I joined the IAS course, but my love for teaching superseded my ambitions to join the Administrative Service,” she reminisces. “You see, essentially, teaching is a way of serving people, and we, as public servants, are service-oriented. It’s something that’s enriched my life, and made it worthwhile.”

An alumni of the Stella Maris College, to which she came at the remarkably young age of 14½ – “Those were the days of Pre University Courses, so I jumped straight from school to College,” she smiles – and at 20, received an M.A., she remembers her years there with great fondness. “My love for literature kept me going – I’ve never regretted my decision to specialize in this field for a moment,” she says. As a child, her father’s career in the Southern Railways meant a great deal of traveling and shifting schools, homes and lifestyles. Instead of sparking an identity crisis, however, the changes produced a person of intriguingly different tastes and talents. “I never felt pulled up by the roots,” says Eugenie. “Far from it. I enjoyed every new experience, and made sure I absorbed something from everything.”

It may have played a great role in forming the person she eventually grew to be, as well. Working her way up from being a Professor at the Bharathi Women’s College and the QMC itself – “Did you know that one of my ancestors, Alice Pinto, did her undergraduate course in Geography here, in 1925?” – she steadily ascended the steps of the profession to being the Head of the Department of English at the Chennai Medical College and LN Government College, before taking the post of Principal in the Arignar Anna Government Arts College for Women, Walajapet. “Oh, that was a challenge,” she chuckles. “Earlier, I’d been the Head of the Department of English in the Quaid-E-Millat College, and when I received the offer for Walajapet, I wondered if I should take it. But the challenge appealed to me, so I did. And that worked enormously in my favour. One of the first huge tasks we had to undertake was getting the NAAC’s (National Assessment and Accreditation Council) Accreditation – we had to do it within 6 months. And we did! The whole college came together as a team, and we bagged a B++ from the NAAC,” she beams. “One has to project one’s merit. You get a good deal of credit for academic programmes. For me, it was an excellent learning experience.”

From there to the QMC was a huge step indeed, for her. “Walajapet was a sort of training ground – it was a Grade 2 college, with 9 UG and 2 PG courses,” she quotes accurately. “While the Queen Mary’s College is Grade 1 – with 24 UG courses, 16 PG courses, 11 in the M Phil and 4 Phd courses. We have 2 shifts as well, which brings the number to around 4500 students. And it’s truly wonderful that the government has sanctioned several new buildings for us – there’s so much one can do with the resources offered. It’s just a question of planning what one has to do, and executing them. There’s no limit to what can accomplish,” she says, clearly excited. “After all, the QMC offers a complete education at just Rs 600 a semester,” she reminds you. “That’s quality education for the economically disadvantaged – and we’re doing all we can to increase every opportunity that can be given to them.”

She credits the accolades the QMC has received to her extremely competent staff and talented students. “I wouldn’t trade my teachers and lecturers for anything in the world,” she declares. “And they do an excellent job of instilling self-confidence, finding ways of bringing out the talent that is already residing in our girls. We aim to make them self reliant; capable of facing the challenges the world throws at them once they leave the portals of the QMC,” she says seriously.

And a vastly talented, confident group they are, judging by the numerous awards and tributes they’ve won in theatre, literature, music and the arts as a whole. Eugenie brings up a slim paperbacked volume with obvious pride, which has inside it several autographs – and the reason for her delight is obvious. A result of the Creative Writing workshop conducted by well-known Australian writer Dr Inez Baranay from December 23 2005 to January 16, 2006, the students came up with their collection of contemporary short fiction, later published by the New Century Bookhouse under the title “Imagineering” – the first copy of which was received by Dr Beatrix D’souza, MP. “It’s a valuable little collection, and close to my heart,” she says, “Because every step of the students’ journey in writing can be traced in it.”

The Tamil Department, in turn, spurred on by the training given by the Theatre group “Nalam Dhaana” wrote, directed and performed their own play on drug abuse, which won more than its share of accolades. “Theatre gives you confidence,” asserts Eugenie. QMC, she says with pride, is also the first Government college in Tamil Nadu to introduce the Business English Certificate Course, now in its successful IIIrd year. Many QMC students are so well accomplished that they occupy prestigious positions in reputed organizations like Google, Cognizant Technology Solutions and Wipro – the visiting cards of whom occupy pride of place on her desk. “I’m thrilled with their performance. To see them do so well motivates me and my staff.” A good deal of credit, according to her, goes to the Alumni Association of QMC, a remarkably strong group that takes an active interest in the college.

“The QMC was reputed to be very elite once,” she muses. “But I’m rather glad that it isn’t so, any more. Now, it’s service-oriented. As it should be.”

The reason for their accomplishments, she says, lies in her and her teachers’ attitude towards the students. “Never force the girls – commanding a person accomplishes nothing. Instead, approach them with love, with compassion.” She pauses. “Women, as a rule, sometimes misunderstand their fellows. How can you ask men to respect them when women don’t do it themselves? Women should be the first to understand and appreciate what another woman goes through. I believe, quite firmly, in sisterhood. I’m not a feminist,” she stresses, “but I do want women to have all the opportunities there are.” There is a great deal of power and strength dormant in a woman, she says, waiting to be used for the betterment of society, as a whole. “Power can be used or abused,” she says. “I think I’ve used what power I had towards returning manifold, whatever goodwill I’ve received – and I’ve received a lot. Why not offer it to others?”

[Concluded in Part II]

The words of the veteran journalist, needless to say, caused more than a stir – for it highlighted the terrible fate of women and girl children in the country, particularly in the states of Haryana, Chandigarh and Gujarat. Such was the mortal fear the mother lived in, that her son was the only guarantee of her ever living a halfway normal life in her husband’s home. It served to throw light on the lives most women still led, despite these emancipated times – and directly connected to a disaster that still rocks the country: female foeticide.

On a warm evening at the Oxford Bookstore met a panel of eminent writers, novelists, journalists and activists to launch and discuss senior journalist Gita Aravamudan’s book, Disappearing Daughters. The book focuses on the tragedy of female foeticide in India. Gita Aravamudan has explored different aspects of female foeticide, its beginnings and its backlash, the ways it grows and how it can be stemmed. The panellists were stalwarts of the current literary and activist scene: Andal Damodaran, Vice President of the Indian Council for Child Welfare, Thilakavathi, additional DGP and acclaimed author, and Rasheeda Bhagat, senior journalist and author.

“I welcome the release of this book, but I can’t say it’s a joy to read it,” commented Andal Damodaran, as the book was released, and the panellists moved onto a subsequent discussion on the subject. “It’s a deeply disturbing work, and quite chilling. But one needs to know the realities of the situation, and take necessary steps to route out this practice altogether.”

Gita Aravamudan, the author, went to describe her own experiences as she researched information and wrote the book. Coming across the issue in the early 1990s when she went to Usilampatti, Tamil Nadu, for a feature in The Week, she said that she had had a shocking time, as she discovered the enormity of the catastrophe, when girl children were being killed in hordes within a maximum of 48 hours of birth. More research, however, unearthed a bitter truth. “You couldn’t really blame the mothers. The life of a woman was so worthless, so absolutely horrifying that death was a better choice. The women there say, Better go to heaven than live a life like this.” Small reason then, the sex ratio has fallen to disturbingly low levels as 927:1000, and is even lower in states such as Gujarat.

Andal Damodaran added to the discussion, disclosing the gruesome fact that mothers and relations tended to find newer and newer methods to snuff out the life of a girl child, rather than the traditionally used paddy husks and poison – as the police took these crimes seriously, and took action.

The speakers put forth that despite the popular misconception that it was the economically disadvantaged people who carried out this practice, the rich, empowered middleclass were the worst perpetrators. “A male child is always a blessing from the gods. Every mother-to-be receives a traditional blessing of, May you have many sons – over here, gender itself is a genetic malfunction.”

“I think this book has enough material to make us all angry,” commented Rasheeda Bhagat, to much agreement. “Our women need to have more girls, to drive the point that a girl isn’t a liability, but an invaluable asset.”

“In Tamil Nadu, thankfully, the practice is almost down and out,” added Andal. “The 2001 census show not a single case of female foeticide – but on the other hand, scanning had come in by then, so that changed the circumstances,” she admitted.

Talk veered to the consciousness of the practice, in the press and among the educated class. As always, it was the local press that brought the matter to light first. “Writers like Rajam Krishnan have already thrown light on this,” said Thilakavathi. “The government has taken many steps to abolish the practice by bringing in the Cradle Baby Scheme, and others, in Dharmapuri and Salem.” But the scheme, she said, suffered from several rather confounding aspects. “Parents in these areas often come up with question to defeat the Cradle Baby Scheme, like: what was the guarantee the girl would be adopted and reared by someone of the same caste?” She shook her head. “It was unbelievable.”

The medical community had played it own part in compounding the situation. Doctors needed to be much more aware of the facts, in areas where female foeticide was practiced at a great rate. “It’s easy to talk about bringing in social change – but remarkably difficult to make it happen.” However, the scene was slowly, but surely changing.

Gita Aravamudan’s book, they agreed, was one that threw light on the reality of female foeticide, possible solutions, and the means of achieving them. Despite the seriousness of the theme and the underlying sorrow, it was eminently well written, readable, and gave an instant understanding to its readers. Disappearing Daughters combined interviews, case studies, analysis of statistics ad history to present a comprehensive and very human face to this ‘holocaust.’ The book also busted myths and suggested ways forward that may save future generations of daughters; even if it was too late for the present.

“I hope things will change with respect to this issue, with the increase of knowledge and awareness; that one day, we will live in a world that is free from such prejudices,” hoped Gita – and the wish was echoed by everyone present.

When I first dropped in, I’d expected the discussion to follow traditional routes, and perhaps be yawn-inducing – but fortunately it did neither.

In the beginning, it was a gathering of a few like-minded friends who cared a great deal about the city. Then, it grew to a series of meetings. More came to know of what transpired during these sessions, and signaled their interest to join. In 2006, it exploded into existence as one of the most happening occasions – and now it is the premier event of Chennai, eclipsing all else in August to the point of exclusion, with more than 60 events happening all over the city, put together by a number of organizations and Chennai-lovers. Le Madras Week, 2007.

This year, celebration started as early as the first and second week of August – but the celebrations proper began, as always, with a bang at the Taj Connemara on the 19 th of August, with Gowri Ramnarayan’s talk on musicians of Madras. Growing up in an atmosphere soaked in music, thanks to her family’s ties with the Kalakshetra and M S Subbulakshmi, it was a fitting beginning to this city of artists. Meanwhile, celebrations kicked off in style simultaneously, at the Gallery Sri Parvathi, where British-born numismatist Rod Hudson exhibited his coin collection dated circa the 1800s, with gleaming pagodas and panams throwing the spotlight on what ruled the roost of Madras Presidency citizens. Displayed, also, were scenes shot of Chennai – precise, clear pictures of what the city’s all about. Also to be found were wife Gita’s works, mainly centered on women.

The city’s colleges and schools were not far behind in showing their appreciation of Madras Week – for example, as a part of the Madras Day Celebrations, a group of 20 post-graduate students from the Department of History, Presidency College, Chennai, undertook a train journey which started from Thiru Mayilai to Beach Station by MRTS on 22nd August, 2007, enjoying the sights, sounds, and history of Madras; students of the MOP Vaishnav College in Nungambakkam came up with a painting competition, an elocution contest, and research-based presentations on the city, for the Madras Week. The T-shirt Design contests, the brainchild of the Madras Day organizers walked away from last year’s pretty kolam to piping hot coffee, showing another facet of Chennai.

20th August saw lifestyle journalist Geetha Doctor speaking at length about Eating Out in the City; humourous discussions on Buhari’s cockroaches, wrestler King Kong’s enormous breakfasts and Café Coffee Day’s feasts followed, with the evening’s tea calculated to send everyone present into a tizzy of gastronomic activity. Also hip and happening was a marvelous performance of thudumbhu aattam, presented by Spring Into Reading, an English-activity centre in KK Nagar, and an enchanting storytelling session by Nandini Sridhar, Anbu and Shankar – the latter two are mime artists.

21st saw Joachim Bautze, who teaches Indian Art history at the South Asia Institute, University of Heiledberg, speak about the German ship Emden’s effect on the city of Madras at the Goethe Institut, formerly the Max Mueller Bhavan – Bautze also spoke on the Photographers Wiele and Klein, on 23 rd August, to an eager audience, describing the photographers’ foray into all sort of artistic pursuits from engraving to postcard production.

22nd August, The Madras Day, breezed through with a talk by K R A Narasiah, who once served in the Indian navy and later joined the Merchant Navy. The writer of his own autobiographical work, Kadalodi, his speech on Srinivasa Ramanujan, mathematician extraordinaire, held at the Chamiers received a vote of approval from listeners. The Postal Department also released a special cover, commemorating the Madras Day.

A slew of exhibitions on rare photographs, documents dating from the establishing of Fort St George, coins, currency, and postal cards were set up at as many venues as possible, with eager Madras aficionados pitching. The Madras Week Exhibition at the Centenary Hall, Government Museum was one such. An eager S B Raja Seetharaman made sure every visitor saw postcards released for every landmark occasion, promissory notes of the Asiatic Bank, while veteran collector of rare books, S A Govindaraju displayed ancient books on cinema, textbooks, and tram tickets – which were truly a wonder to behold.

No one who knows Madras will be ignorant of Randor Guy, the speaker who has the talent of keeping audiences spellbound. And spellbound they were on 24 th August, at his remarkable memory and the zeal with which he spoke at length about Two Murders in Madras – the Lakshmikanthan Case, and the Alavandhar Kolai Vazhakku (the latter was later made into a successful television serial). The same day saw the PRSI’s Chennai Chapter host a presentation at the Accord Metropolitan on Early Imprints in Madras, by G Sundar, Roja Muttiah Research Library’s Director. Interesting tidbits about the city’s earliest Tamil magazine, booklets and verses on Madras’s High Court, Toddy shops and colleges, had to be seen, to be believed. Not to mention old images of yesteryear magazines such as Cinema Ulagam, Sudesamittran, etc. Oru Paisa Thamizhan, is perhaps my favourite.

Meantime, parallel events at the Gallery Sri Parvathi saw publisher Badri Seshadri speak about street cricket, and his memories of the national game of India. Walking in with a bat, he took the viewers on a ride through memories of childhood games in the streets in Nagapattinam. Cricket, according to him, would live on forever in the Indian psyche, and therefore, an indispensable part of Chennai as well.

25th August, though, saw a different sort of event: a completely packed venue at the Chamiers, where historian-entrepreneur V Sriram treated an awestruck audience to a learned discourse on the devadasis of Madras. An excellent slideshow presentation, coupled with tasty tidbits on the Madras of the day, with dubashes ruling the land, wealthy, learned devadasis holding sway over temples, and their subsequent, rather pathetic decline, made sure that no one noticed the time fly past – even the ones with aching feet. I think I’ll have to do a humoungous post on this alone, for there were so many minute details and every one of them seemed worthy of capturing. Like tasty tidbits on the lives of stalwarts such as Veenai Dhanammal, Coimbatore Thaayi, and Banglalore Nagarthnammal’s fiery character.

Heritage walks held during the weekend, one tracing the trail of devadasis of Chennai, while another was through the Fort St George, spiced up the activities, by giving Chennai-ites a chance to see images of past fading into the present.

The last day of the Madras Week celebrations, the 26th August, finished with a grand finale: television and film actor Mohan Raman spoke on Madras, as a backdrop to Tamil cinema, sprinkled with interesting anecdotes, both from his own vast experience, and the works of Randor Guy, Theodore Bhaskaran, and others. Intriguing film clips followed, with movies such as Sabapathy, En Manaivi and Kadhalikka Neramillai shown. To last year’s visitors to Randor Guy’s own talk, some pieces were repetitions – but heck, it’s cinema, and cinema’s never boring. Especially the golden oldies.

It was with a rather bittersweet air that the audience dispersed, at the end of the week long experience of nostalgia, pride and wonder – but the way things are looking up, it’ll be a month-long thiruvizha by next year. What I’ve mentioned above is just a little bit of all the events that happened. And though Chennai’s often dubbed ‘dead’ – it couldn’t have been more alive, now. In the words of (even if you don’t want to know) Vicky Beckham, it was “totally major!”

Until 2008, then.

“Chennai, formerly known as Madras, is the capital of the state of Tamil Nadu and is India’s fourth largest metropolitan city. It is located on the Coromandel Coast of the Bay of Bengal. With an estimated population of 7.06 million (2007), the 368-year-old city is the 34th largest metropolitan area in the world. Chennai is the third largest commercial and industrial centre in India, and is known for its cultural heritage and temple architecture …”

Thus begins the wikipedia description of Chennai, capital of Tamil Nadu, the southernmost state of India: detailing statistics, the population, the languages spoken, the British Raj’s imprint, the IT explosion – trivia and minutiae that will quench the thirst of the most exacting encyclopedias, satisfy geography students and finish homework. The mind of a littérateur functions in a different manner, though …

He sees Chennai not through the eyes of an almanac, but through the lens of emotion: tinged grey and black, or vibrant reds and blues. His view of the city zigzags from the tree shrouded Mowbray’s Road of the late 1800s. to the bustling Parrys Corner of today; from the impossibly crowded Ranganathan Street to the inimitable Rathna café; from the flower-sellers outside Kabali Koil to the IT-enforced steel, chrome and deodorant of Tidel Park. He sees the people, the smells, the sounds and the little known scenes that never make it to the headlines; the neighbour next door, the demolished building next street, the vanishing swamps of Pallikaranai; the long and winding roads that lead to fresh horticulture gardens in Padappai; the clustered houses of Triplicane. To him, Chennai is alive, a moving, restless creature, or gentle, calm spirit. Like the vision through a multi-colored fragment of glass, it is ever-shifting. And like the hues, the view of every writer, through the decades, has been as different as chalk and cheese.

Sister Subbalakshmi certainly, was one of those who was refreshingly honest about the Madras Pattinam she knew. Born in 1886, she was the first woman – and a widow to boot – to complete what was then considered a comprehensive education, and created history by changing the fate of widows in the State forever. High sounding words, yes – but when she was a student, Subbalakshmi found every step excruciating, subject as she was to the unwelcome scrutiny of outsiders. Unthinkable for a girl to study – what then, might be supposed of a young widow?

But her natural courage and her father’s indomitable will made it possible for her to think of pursuing the Faculty of Arts Examination at the Presentation Convent in George Town – or Black Town as it was called in the early 1900s. And so, through the words of biographer Monica Felton, you can see Sister Subbalakshmi’s earliest views of the city she had lived in for years – but had never had the freedom to explore.

“… They would set off early, and presently the quiet, tree shaded roads of Egmore would be left behind. Subbalakshmi, sitting so far back in the shadows of the arched roof that passersby hardly noticed she was there, would stare out at the carriage and rickshaws and bullock carts that went up and down Poonamallee high Road, to and from the Central Station. Then, if the horse remembered to take the proper turning, she would be able to have a good look at the shops in China Bazaar, the busiest shopping street of the city. When the shutters were taken down in the mornings the goods would be piled up outside, so that it was impossible to be sure where the pavement ended and the shops began.

“There were rugs and carpets from Kashmir and from Kidderminster in England, and exquisitely thin straw mats from Muslim villages in the far south, all spread out for customers to look at. In front of the hardware shops were pagoda like towers made by brass and copper vessels piled accurately on top of each other. The cloth shops were festooned with Manchester cottons and Japanese cottons hung over high railings like many coloured banners, and it was possible to peep inside at the shelves stacked with saris from Conjeevaram and Benares and Lucknow and Kollegal and Bangalore.

“After that, if the horse took a wrong turning, Subbalakshmi would find herself in the street of the ironworkers and locksmiths, or the street of the glasscutter, where looking glasses made countless reflections of everyone who passed …

“She saw squalor too. Women in filthy rags, with naked babies crawling in the rubbish around them, sat on the pavement outside the walls of the High Court, lighting fires of dried leaves and waste paper, cooking evil smelling messes in vessels of sun-baked clay which looked as if they were never cleaned from one year’s end to another. Young widows crept along the streets, their saris pulled tightly over their heads to hide their disfigurement hardly daring to show themselves, yet unable to refuse to perform whatever domestic errand had brought them out into the glaring light of day …”

What she saw settled deep into Subbalakshmi’s mind – the richness, the squalor, the customs, and the people. Aside from her prowess as an educator, this would also make an excellent repository of memories, from which anyone could draw at will.

Writer Sujatha’s Chennai portrays a different scene, however. His city is rooted in the present; filled with high profile lawyers who zip around in Hyundai Accents, use laptops and Nokia cellphones, handle the largest cases in their tiny chambers clustered in the famous Lingi Chetty Street – and go through dead bodies faster than Perry Mason. Enter Ganesh and Vasanth, the deadly lawyer duo who go hunting for the murderer of a young woman whose body was first found floating down Wellington Bridge – now Kamaraj bridge – while wading through a rather odorous history of the River Cooum, circa the eighties.

“…as the car started, Nirupama said: “Drive to the Wellington bridge.”

“The Wellington bridge?”

“It’s called Kamaraj Bridge now. We saw the body down there, didn’t we? That’s when I started reading about the Cooum River, its source, destination … did you know that it flows to Madras in an S-shape? It almost touches the northern end when it runs through Chindhathiripettai – and the British built a canal to connect the two: they called it the Clive Canal, Penitentiary Canal – you know the one that runs beside the central Station? That’s the one.”

“It’s a little difficult driving along the Cooum. We could go by the Mount Road, join the river at the Casino theatre, and get to Chindhathiripettai. That’s the best way.”

The car meandered past the Kamaraj Statue, rumbled beyond the Estate, waited by the Anna Statue, inched past the mob that spilled out of theatres, tsowards the Wellington and did a U-turn …

As they crossed another bridge, “Chindhathiripettai,” announced Vasanth.

“We’ll drive by the canal,” said Nirupama.

It was as though the city had suddenly grown poor: a tiny Amman Koil nestled in a wooden alcove, automobile spareparts littered the roadside; posters shouting out the misdeeds of some D K political Party or the other were plastered over walls; the landscape was overrun by men in dirty dabba veshtis, and transistors with Vivithbharathi blaring from them. The horn bellowed until the car’s battery was in danger of being exhausted; children peeped through windows that looked as though they hadn’t seen a coat of paint since the times of Robert Clive. Film Companies, Printing presses, the Green Hotel, bread slices stuck inside glass jars on the hotel’s counter, arrack stalls! Eversilver vessels that dazzled in a row by the corporation taps …”

Sujatha’s writing is sharp; the malodorous sewage canals assault your nose as you read his crisp descriptions. The area comes to life in his capable fingers: Sujatha never distorts his vision; instead he presents the city as it is, letting the reader come to his own conclusions. In this novel, “Ethaiyum oru Murai,” his writing highlights a not so flattering part of Madras – a part, certainly, that the city’s tourism department will ignore. And yet, this, after all, is quintessential Chennai, with its own life, culture and people.

And so was the Madras painted by a veteran old-timer and 1940s writer S V V. His Mylapore was an area that enjoyed considerable importance; still nestled comfortably under the British Raj, understanding that their time was somehow drawing to an end, yet unwilling to let go of it. Mylapore was the centre, the core around which Madras thrived, the home of the greatest and most prestigious residents of the city – at the same time, housing the lowest strata as well. The twain met but rarely; their routes took them via the tram or the pleasure car, as may be. An excerpt from one S V V’s more detailed works “Vasanthan,” where Mylapore is revealed in all its glory:

“…In London, they say, the city is split into the West End and East End. The residents of the West End are nobles and lords, so they say; the residents of the East End are the lower middle class families, considerably poor and sometimes penniless.

The same holds good for Mylapore as well. It is, after all, held to be the most prestigious location in Chennappattinam. And the West End housed those of the likes of the gods and goddesses of wealth.

“Would you like to know the dimensions of Mylapore’s West End? Well, you walk around the four sides of the Kabali Koil, which roughly comes to the shape of a kite, and then follow it along to the Luz Church Road, which is the tail of the kite, and that, you could say, is the West End. As days passed, the kite’s tail gained more prominence than its head; wealth and prosperity made this road their home. Those with a monthly income of Rs 3000 – 4000, not to mention High Court Judges, Advocate-Generals, and Executive Counselors; men who earned more than Rs 40,000 or 50,000 per case, or Rs 2000 for even a consultation that lasted no more than half an hour, had established themselves here. The bungalows lining the road fairly bristled with pomp and splendour; the goddess Lakshmi verily ruled the territory. Each bungalow boasted at least three motor cars: the children went to school in one; the lord and master of the house journeyed to the office in another; the mistress sallied around the city on her errands in the third. Three cooks were in employ for each home; jewelry lined every limb of the women of the household. No one in the whole area ever wore a sari that cost less than Rs 120. No resident of the West End of Mylapore ever rode a tram or bus – should their car ever fall in to repair, their only alternative was to borrow their neighbour’s car and go on their business! For, in truth, wouldn’t it spell doom for their status and prestige, if they step inside a means of public transport? Such was the standing of those who lived in the West End.

Even this state of affairs, argues S V V on an aside, had been a thing of the past at the time of his writing the novel. Now it was just another place that had once boasted a hoary past, he writes jovially. But then … ah! Then, West Mylapore was the abode of the gods.

“East Mylapore ranged around homes peopled with a minimum of at least five families – such as the Mundaga Kanniyamman Koil Street, the Paripurana Vinayakar Koil Street, and the Kallukkaaran Street. Men who lived in these homes rose early in the mornings, walked to the Thanneerthurai vegetable market to buy the day’s provisions as well as petty quarrels and disputes., trudged next to the doctor for prescriptions for ailing children; the women of the household spent the morning hours cleaning the house, washing the vessels, while complaining to their husbands about their crying children. Husbands, meanwhile, tried to shush children, showing them hens, cats, and every other animals that might pacify the child, swallow a few hasty mouthfuls of hot food and rush to the office – when fate would conspire to stop them by hastening the tram. “Hold on! Hold on!” would yell the harried office-goer, running after the tram for half a mile. This, then, is East Mylapore.”

And it is only after this elaborate description that S V V settles down to begin his tale, a la the author of Vanity Fair, setting the stage, so to speak. And an engaging tale, it is, formed quintessentially of the men and women of an era now vanished.

Last, but not the least – to use a terrible, but valid cliché, is Kalki R Krishnamurthy, a diehard Chennaiite himself, though his roots be further south. Here was a man who grew from humble proportions to great heights, carving out a niche for himself in social drama, satire, gentle irony, and historical fiction. His articles were literally pounced upon by avid fans; his editorials sparked heated debates the moment they reached the hands of readers. In a sense, he ruled the literary landscape of Madras until his death – and no one could unseat this uncrowned king of words. Here is an excerpt from a humourous shortstory of his: “Kailasamayyarin Kabara,” where the protagonist is scared out of his wits about everything:

“… Kailasamayyar’s wife wished to visit her native village, since Deepaavali was approaching, and it was also to be her brother’s first since his marriage (the first Deepaavali after one’s marriage is always a special and grand occasion). “If this is your brother’s special Deepaavali, then that’s his twisted destiny; why do we have to share his fate?” protested Kailasamayyar. His better half did not heed this excellent argument, hence Kailasamayyar, who was well aware that one might even secure a place in Heaven, but couldn’t reserve a seat in trains, reserved seats for his family five to six days in advance of the journey.

It poured cats and dogs on the day they were to start.

“This isn’t a good sign,” announced Kailasamayyar. “I wonder what the condition of the railway tracks will be, if this rain persists. Lately, the Railway department has run into a lot of trouble…”

“Who cares? I insist on going,” declared his wife, and so, Kailasamayyar and his family got into the car and started. When they reached Mount Road, the rain had worsened so much that the car swam into the waters swirling onto the thoroughfare.

“At any rate, the worst fate that could possibly befall me is death,” murmured Kailasamayyar reassuringly, to himself. “Nothing worse than that could possibly happen, could it?”

“How much more morbid can you get?” murmured his wife in an angry tone.

They did manage to reach Egmore at last.

Good news awaited them at the Egmore Railway Station. It seemed that the Pallavaram Hill, mortally frightened of such heavy rains, had actually moved away from Pallavaram and flopped down onto the railway tracks. No amount of persuasion and cajolery from such eminent personages as the T.T.S and other officers, could serve to budge the mountain from the tracks. Another group argued that this news was nonsense, and gave the information that 50 feet of the tracks connecting Kodambakkam and Mambalam had washed away in the rains. Whatever the reason, it was obvious that trains wouldn’t start from Egmore that day, and further information made it clear that all trains would be starting from Madras only at the Tambaram Railway Station. Then, and only then was it revealed, that Kailasamayyar had been possessed by a demon of daring and courage!

“To Tambaram, at once!” proclaimed Kailasamayyar.

“Do we need to? Why don’t we go home?” pleaded his wife.

Kailasamayyar was adamant. “What’s the worst thing that can happen? Death, isn’t it? Well, so be it, then!” he argued courageously. “Oh, why aren’t those rascally Japanese showering bombs on us?” he sorrowed. “If they aren’t going to bomb us, perhaps we shall be struck by lightning,” he wondered eagerly. “I hope lightning strikes exactly at our car; then we shall have earned our reward for daring to visit your brother for Deepaavali,” he informed his frightened wife. These and other such encouraging words helped to keep up his spirits on their journey. Well aware that their father was in a dangerous mood, his children were as quiet as mice. The car swept over the road, tearing through sheets of rain.

They arrived at the Tambaram Station at last, which was as black as pitch owing to a power-cut. The whole building was thrown into gloom. Kailasamayyar, however, did not hesitate. His pulse was racing at 350 beats per minute, but he climbed the steps, stalked through the station, without once looking back to see if his family were following him, and reached the platform. His family found him out somehow and they huddled together in the chilling rain. The train was awaiting them on the tracks and everyone bundled into the second class carriage, which seemed empty. Silence reigned inside the carriage; darkness reigned outside.

A few moments later, his wife ventured to speak. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone about today…the carriages are so empty, aren’t they?” she asked cautiously.

“Yes, of course, what of it?” roared Kailasamayyar. “People aren’t going to be murdered simply because they happen to travel second class, are they? Surely you don’t need to remember details of someone being murdered while they were travelling alone on this train, someday…”

“Do stop talking this way. You’re frightening the children!” interrupted Mrs. Kailasamayyar.

The children had huddled in a corner of their seats, sensing their father’s anger …”

How Kailasamayyar’s hair turned black or white is another story – but Kalki’s penchant for humour comes through. Not to mention his take on Madras Pattinam, aka Chennai.

Each writer’s view, thus, is a different view of the Kaleidoscope that is Chennai. A myriad of colours, emotions, surroundings, operations. No one person sees it the same – even the curbside vendor of peanuts would tell you a different tale: about public toilet and late-night customers, probably. But perhaps that’s a story that will yet be told. By another enterprising writer, offering to look at Chennai through the kaleidoscope all over again. Who might potter at the keyboard, or write laboriously with pen and ink.

Why, dear Chennaiite, it might even be you.

Note: Translation of Sister Subbalakshmi’s oral narrative: Monica Felton
Sujatha’s “Ethaiyum Oru Murai”: Pavithra Srinivasan
S V V’s :”Vasanthan”: Pavithra Srinivasan
Kalki R Krishnamurthy’s “Kailasamayyarin Kabara”: Pavithra Srinivasan