Pongala

The glow of fire from the makeshift kiln. The brimming earthenware pot containing rice and water overflowing with white froth.The shrill sound of 'kurava' uttered by ladies bending piously over the brimming pots. The fragrance of incence. And my friend beside me,offering 'pongala' in the adjacent hearth,our eyes turning red with the smoke and heat, but our hearts overflowing with devotion and fulfilment.The scene appears vividly before the mind's eye every time I recollect the festival of 'Pongala', deemed to be the largest congregation of women in Asia.The offering is meant to appease Attukal Devi, the favourite Goddess of lakhs of women .

Years back, when my friend Maya invited me to accompany her to perform Pongala, I had agreed out of sheer curiosity. I had only heard of Pongala till then.After years of gallivanting along the length and breadth of India, when I returned to Trivandrum, it was Maya, with her kindness, grace and warmth, who had given me the most enduring moral support.So it was a given that I would accompany her to her aunt's place at Manacaud, to partake of the festival and express solidarity with the lakhs of women performing this holy ritual on an auspicious day which marks the culmination of the nine day festival of the temple..

We had to walk for miles and miles. For some 5 kilometres around the temple, the whole area was cordoned off , preventing all vehicular traffic.Rows and rows of bricks arranged in triangular fashion sported earthen ware pots in which would be cooked the offering. There was no distinction between the rich and the poor- all were equal in front of the Goddess, bound by an invisible bond of devotion to the Goddess. As we all kept waiting, the priest lit the main kiln in the temple at an auspicious moment. This was the signal for all of us to kindle the fire and start preparing pongala- a concoction of rice, jaggery,coconut, bananas, ghee and dry fruits. The brave hearts amongst us experimented and came up with so many innovative varieties but Maya and I stuck to the usual sweet one. We fasted for the whole day and broke our fast only when the priest sprinkled holy water upon our offering. Afterwards we partook of the sumptuous feast generously offered by the lady of the house to all those who had accepted her hospitality and usurped every nook and corner of her vast compound.

A few times, we had even ventured into the temple, braving the scorching heat and the serpentine queues, to have a glimpse of the deity.Though it is a festival for the ladies, men also took an active part, mostly as volunteers, helping in the arrangements, offering water, lemon juice, buttermilk and meals to the devotees.Altogether, an unforgettable experience that made us feel elated.

After years of offering pongala together, Maya and I had to part ways, as her husband's transfer to Delhi took her away to the capital city. Now I don't go to Manacaud to perform the ritual. Instead I do it at home, in my own compound. I do it because, like thousands of other women, I too have turned into a devotee of Attukal Devi. Also because it signifies a togetherness never before felt or seen. Besides, in my mind, this festival is inextricably tied up with a rare friendship, unhampered by jealousy, rivalry, selfishness and all other baser emotions. It is this friendship that I celebrate as I perform this ritual year after year..

The Airport Experience

Last summer during vacation, when I visited Sid in London , I got plenty of time to watch television, a luxury which is denied when the school routine starts full swing. 'Airport' was the most watched serial. I remember sitting glued to the TV as the drama at the airport unfolded on the screen.The helplessness of the passengers who were denied entry was firmly etched in my mind. The reasons were various- forgotten passports, getting to the terminal after the gates were closed, being rude to fellow passengers or to the stewardesses, racism, luggage improperly packed etc.Needless to say, 'Airport ' was my favourite serial, next to my other favourite, CSI.But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I too would be embroiled in an imbroglio similar to the one on TV.

The journey from Chandigarh to Delhi is supposed to take 5 hours. Since our flight from Delhi to Kochi via Mumbai was scheduled for 6.40 am, we decided to to travel by road at night from Chandigarh.A visit spiced with good will, good humour and charming hospitality was coming to an end. A lingering farewell with promises to come again, and we packed into the Innova waiting to transport us to Delhi airport.

A cold winter's night at the lag end of December. Comfortably ensconced in woollens and blankets, the winter chill could not dampen our spirits. The streets of Chandigarh passed by in a haze and we relived the funny moments we had in this famous city, significant to us as the birth place of my younger son Arjun and my daughter in law Kivya. Once the city limits flitted past , we were rudely forced to veer away from memory lane into cold reality as we hit the fog head on.

Visibility nil.Our Innova GLE was not fitted with fog lights. Good humour slowly gave way to pangs of anxiety and worry as the driver struggled and strained at the wheel.My brother in law Col Ramesh had once narrated his experience in the fog when they were out on firing in Rajasthan. A jawan had to walk in front of the jeep with a torch inorder to show them the way in the fog. But sans the jawan and the torch light, we tagged on to the tail light of the car in front of us and plodded our way through the dense fog. When the vehicle neared the city limits, the fog thinned and we could make out the vague shapes of buildings on the sides and the row of vehicles going in front. But once we passed the city limits, we had to slow down due to the dense fog.Continuous honking from behind reminded us that we were slowing others down. So we allowed them to pass. A white Maruti followed by a row of bigger vehicles passed by in a procession. We admired the pluck of the driver who could so undauntedly plunge into the blinding fog.But soon we saw a reverse manouvre taking place. The valiant vehicles which had surged forward were now trying to veer to the back, allowing us to go ahead.We politely refused the offer to overtake. 'Pahle aap, pahle aap'.It was a race to bring up the rear, not to lead from the front.

While setting off, I had visualized a cosy 5 hr sleep in the car. But now , I was sitting on edge, fervently praying to my favourite deities to come to our aid:-'Lead kindly light, amidst the encircling gloom..lead thou me on..'As the hours ticked by, tension mounted. Finally we saw Delhi lights. The fog had lifted. Our Innova zoomed ahead.We broke all speed limits and some traffic rules.Five souls in one car, with one aim, one business- ye dilli hai yaar---.

As the lights and sign boards indicating Delhi airport became visible, we scrutinized the tickets for the terminal.Only Indira Gandhi International Airport was written.No terminal no..Sid called the call centre and confirmed that it was Delhi International Airport. So we assumed it meant the main airport and directed the driver accordingly.An hour before boarding time we alighted with broad grins and whole hearted 'Thank you's.The driver, grinning from ear to ear, bade us Good bye and bon voyage.As he started his homeward journey, we lugged our luggage to the security gate. One look at the ticket and the guard said-'This flight takes off from the Domestic terminal'.

Aghast, we turned back in full throttle.No sign of our taxi. Mobiles were retrieved from jacket pockets and urgent calls went from four mobiles to the same receiver.The alarmed driver could find no U turn to reverse the car. We waited for a full 10 minutes before the cab came back. Another 10 minutes to rush to the domestic terminal.Once again ,lugging the luggage ..'hurry up,please, it's time------'.Four woollen packed figures reached the counter, puffing and panting.The immaculately clothed young man with the most impassive expression on his face, indicated the sign which said,' Gate Closed', and said, 'I am sorry, Madam.We can't allow you to board now'.I remembered all the passengers who had faced similar situations in the serial.Replayed the scene in my mind. How had they tackled the situation? Some were mad, some were wild, some had pleaded, some had begged.What should I do?

Never give up- the strains of a song came to my mind. So we persisted. Demanded to see the manager.A young man came. I was relieved to see that he looked human and reasonable. Sid and I explained our predicament. He said that particular airline always used the Domestic terminal. I said we didn't know. He said we should have called. We said we had.But nobody mentioned the terminal no.He said it was written outside. We said we were in a blazing hurry ,so could not read the boards. He asked why we hadn't ascertained before getting out of the taxi. We said we had no clue at all till the security guard told us.As we traded arguments, the Manager went around to find out if we could be accommodated somehow. It was our luck to find a reasonable young man who could empathize with our plight. A rarity, as we could discern from the reaction of the others around us.But all flights were fully booked. He offered to give us four seats for the next day. We refused at first. My leave was over and I had to rejoin the next day.We demanded to see the highest authority. So we were taken to the Airport Manager. Again luck was on our side. Another man with a sense of humour.. He agreed that the Airlines people should have mentioned the terminal. It was the fault of the agency which issued the ticket. He advised us to take up the offer of the tickets for the next day. So we did.

The Airlines would not provide accommodation.We made our way to the Army Guest House. It was fully booked. We rang up the officer in charge. Thank God for old world courtesy and chivalry.And compassion for the plight of a fellow officer's family. The officer left no stone unturned to ensure that we got at least one room. Later one more. The bonds that unite the Army fraternity are as strong as ever.We slept without tension and worry and made up for our sleeplessness the previous night.

Our travails did not end there. We had arranged for a taxi to pick us up from Cochin. By the time I informed the travel agency, the taxi had already left Trivandrum to pick us up from Cochin. It had to be recalled and rescheduled for the next day. But the next day was Kerala's own Hartal day and taxis and autos were to go off road as protest against fuel hike.Where there is a problem, there will be a solution too. So the taxi turned into a private vehicle and we reached home at mid night. In God's own country too,some rules are to be followed, others to be bent and some few to be broken or amended.

New Year Resolution

I have been neglecting my hobby for too long. Got caught up in a whirlwind of activities.Always thought I would find time for myself when all my commitments are over. But there is no end to it- when one job is over, another crops up. Between domestic chores and professional commitments there is no time to 'stand and stare', let alone to indulge in my own special interests.'That one talent ,which is death to hide, is lodged with me useless..' This year's New Year Resolution- to update my blog, add a little something every week, if not every day.So here goes- the first addition of 2011.
Multi tasking- that's what I have been doing for the past one month or so. Travel , visits, attending weddings,parties,exams,evaluation,annual day,syllabus completion, revision,trying out new recipes, updating finance,taking care of plots and flats- all come under the purview of activities undertaken. Pune, Delhi, Chandigarh, Kapurtala, Cochin, Guruvayoor are the places visited in the past three weeks.A great get together is almost over and my children will leave tomorrow. Sid and Kivya back to London, Arjun back to Pune.And I? Once more, back to the routine- school , classes ,students. Yes, one more year has started.

The Narrow Fellow in the Grass

It was a dark, dreary afternoon. My husband’s regiment had moved from Srinagar to Ambala Cantonment and we had just set up house. The day after day of rain was getting on our nerves,…and then the snake got in.
Number one son gave the alarm and the younger one who is brave in word but not in deed, climbed on the bed and screamed with full throated ease. I ran into their bed room. My first instinct was to calm him down and get the little one out of the room. Once outside, he became his old, bold self, and ran out to call for help Bhaiya, our man-of-all-work, scuffled up with a pathetic looking twig in his hand but was sent back to get a bigger one by my elder son..
He was happy to retreat. He peered through the window into the bedroom and wondered aloud, “ Could it have been a ‘girgit’ or a chameleon? There are plenty of them in the garden, you know.”
Number one Son was stung by this doubt; he knew what he had seen and gave Bhaiya an earful. Thereafter Bhaiya disappeared. When he finally got back, we saw that he had taken time not only to find the right-sized stick but also to polish it to perfection. He had brought two other Bhaiyas with him, and they too were armed with fierce- looking sticks. All three entered the room stealthily as if looking for terrorists and explosives. Number one son joined them. As they started moving furniture here and there, the younger one and I peered through the glass and remote- controlled the whole action. “ Look under the cot, lift that box, don’t go near the curtains”..I shouted out.
Suddenly everyone became alert. I saw the slithery creature crawl out from under a box towards one Bhaiya’s shoe-clad feet. He promptly jumped on to the bed ( spotlessly clean only a moment ago. My mind too jumped-from the problem of snake to the problem of mud stains on my Kashmiri bed spread.
Now the snake played hide and seek with its adversaries, scattering them to all parts of the room. At last, one Bhaiya, braver than the rest, hit it on the head and it stopped moving. The one on the cot now came down. “Don’t kill it,” he said, “you will get a curse. Just take it out and leave it”
The others opposed this non- violent movement. They hit it repeatedly, reducing its head to a bloody pulp .My son brought it outside on a stick. It was a krait.
The one who preached Ahimsa came to me with a worried frown. “Madam, it is wrong to kill a snake. It is God’s own creature. You must do puja as retribution,. he announced. We all laughed.
When my husband came home, we narrated our action- packed adventure with a lot of embellishments. The incident made me muse on all the stories and poems in which a snake appears as a hero. There is Emily Dickinson who came face to face with a snake and felt “zero in her bones”. Then there is Khushwant Singh’s Gunga Ram who fed the Kala Nag milk everyday and prayed for its patronage .Ironically,Gunga Ram was killed by the very same Kala NAg. There is also D.H. Lawrence who ill treated his royal guest and atoned for his paltry sin.
By way of atonement I decided to turn our puny krait into the hero of my next writing But the story does not end here. Two days later, we all were all sitting glued to the TV, enthralled by the adventures of Moulder and Sculley of X Files fame. Suddenly from the bathroom came the cry, “Saamp” It was my son again. The younger one remembered all my earlier instructions, but in reverse order.. He jumped down, put on his slippers, screamed, then ran out to call Bhaiya.
By now we were all attuned to the alien presence. Hubby, who was at home, took command and demanded a big stick. Son Number 1, an expert snake –catcher now, ran out to get one.Bhaiyas in plural arrived and it looked as though they had been ready and waiting for the command .I glared questioningly at the practitioner of ahimsa who carried the stoutest stick of all. He looked down sheepishly.
The search got under way. Three Bahiyas along with my husband and son entered the tiny bathroom, which meant there was not even space for a snake to crawl .I sympathized with the narrow fellow who was confronted by a grossly superior force. But miraculously, he had vanished.
The search party now opened the outer door and ventured on to the verandah. They shone torches into every possible hidey hole , much like the search operations to flush out terrorists. My son grabbed a newspaper and a box of matches and rushed out .For the next half hour I could hear shouts and yells emitted under varying degrees of excitement and fear. The suspense was over only when they came in, carrying a fierce looking black snake, with cuts and bruises all along its length.
But now, my son declared,” This is not the one I saw in the bathroom. That was brown, this is black.”By now it was mid night and the Bhaiyas were tired and sleepy. They were quite prepared to compromise on the colour scheme. But my husband was adamant. He ordered the search party back into the bathroom.
The narrow fellow did not stand a chance this time. They spotted him at once, hiding in the shank of the toilet, half inside, half out. By now even the proponent of ahimsa had turned against the snake. The snake was cut into two pieces, and so was the water closet, shank, lid and all. Our shock at the broken water closet far outweighed the triumph of killing the snake. Bhaiya was quite sure that the broken water closet bore testimony to the wrath of god. He came to me and said, “Madam, the snake is God’s creature. Unless we appease Nagraj, he will make us pay for our sin”
I agreed. My husband was muttering about a bill no less than 2000 for the water closet. Indeed we would have to pay.
The next day I wrote to my mother. There is a temple near our house in Kerala .where a special sanctum is dedicated to Nagraj.
I wrote to her to give an offering of milk, coconut, turmeric or whatever snakes like best and also to offer an elaborate puja. Then, at someone else’s advice, I bought five kg of onions, removed the peel and lit fire to it, in order to ward off evil. I keep reiterating the fact that I am an educated woman, disinclined to superstitious beliefs. Yet when another well wisher advised me to keep a bowl of milk at the hedge every day, I gave in again. I am prepared to go to any lengths to keep those narrow fellows in the grass where they belong. The thought of them entering the house gives me “zero in the bones”.

Shailaja Chandran
This article by Shailaja Chandran was published in The Indian Express, Chandigarh Edition, 15 Sept, 1996.

A fulfilled life in spite of unfulfilled dreams

I am glad I am living in the new millennium. The world is a much better place for a widow now than it was some half a century back. That was the time when a widow had to shave her head, wear white and live the life of a social recluse. It’s a different scenario now, thanks to the enlightened individuals who made progress possible. A thousand thanks to such who made this world so much better for people like me. If I don’t have to fight a series of battles for identity, if I don’t have to sacrifice my wishes and aspirations on the altar of convention and dogma, it is because the majority of the world is made up of humane human beings.

Seven years have passed since I lost my husband. It was hard to reconcile to the fact that the sturdy anchor of my life was no more there to lead me along life’s path. I was a pampered wife and had no clues about picking up threads which had broken alarmingly. My two sons were on the brink of tumultuous adolescence. As a yawning chasm opened up before us, I found myself thrust into the role of Father and Mother rolled into one.

There were days of blank depression and utter helplessness. Cocooned in misery, I was oblivious even to the pain I gave my children. The Army world in which I lived was forged together by bonds of love and brotherhood. They put me back on my feet. Like a true Army Officer’s wife, I took the vow to stand up and fight when the going got tough.

I was teaching in Kendriya Vidyalaya, Ambala Cantonment at the time. My colleagues at school helped me along as I made fumbling forays into the strange new world. A month after my husband’s demise, I rejoined duty. My naughty set of students, always bubbling with energy and cheer, stood before me in awestruck silence. As I set the tune that day, I had taken the first tentative step towards recuperation.

Destiny brought me to St. Thomas residential school, five months after my husband’s demise. I had toyed with the idea of settling in Hyderabad, but the fine moral support from my family lured me to Kerala. Perhaps, God had destined me to teach English to the students of STRS. The warm and affectionate students here have given me a new lease of life. As a new academic year unfolds, I feel the thrill and anticipation for another fruitful year. The flurry of activities as we move from Santhome fest to Annual Day, and finally the unshed tears as we bid Good bye to yet another batch with the blessings, ‘God will take care of you’, are indelibly imprinted in my life. Life has picked up a rhythm and a new meaning. Yet it is not all smooth sailing. Nobody can escape from turmoils and clashes when people of different temperaments work together. In life’s battles, you win some and lose some. I have learnt to pick up the pieces and move on.

As we prioritise work, there is no time to look back and ponder. Yet there are times when I yearn for the fun filled days of yore .The mind then speeds down memory lane, past the rose filled valleys of Kashmir, past the well laid streets of Chandigarh, then to Shimla and Dinjan and Hyderabad. The glittering Raising day, the cheerful Tambola sessions, the bonfire of Lodhi and the colours of Holi have become mere photographs in the album and a few cherished memories in a corner of my mind.

In the mean time , marvellous things have happened. My Mother, old and frail when we came here, has picked up the fire of the old Matriarch. She is my conscience- keeper. My children have overtaken me in height, weight and smartness. They too have their fits of animosity and rebelliousness. At times, I feel I am bringing up strangers. Life has taught us some strange lessons and after much turbulence, we have achieved a harmony of sorts. Last November, my elder one joined Infosys. My steps have become firmer now. I can stand up with pride and say that I have kept my word.

There are a thousand small things from which I derive my daily dose of delight. And now, as I draw my students into the enchanting world of Shakespeare, I count myself lucky in more ways than one. For I am living a fulfilled life in spite of unfulfilled dreams. Notwithstanding the rivalry, the broken dreams, the wickedness and the disillusionment, it is a beautiful world.

Shailaja Chandran

(This write-up appeared in the School Magazine, ‘The Threshold’ 2003-04. I was the Chief editor for the same.)

From Cipher to Cyber

In my children’s cyber world, I was the poor cipher Mom.

Their windows did not lend me light

The mouse remained beyond my grasp.

“Wake” said my elder son, “Change with the times”,

“Learn”, said the younger one, “ Be a Cyber Mom”

Sons turned tutors and held my hand

As I took my firstep into the Cyber land.

I mastered the keys and tamed the mouse,

Got trapped in the net , did surf and browse.

At times, I felt lost in this strange wonderland.

When my sons took off to far off lands,

Yahoo and Google brought them close.

Orkut is a network of old familiar faces

I realized the reach of the world wide web.

The cyber world ceased to be an unknown zone.

From cipher to Cyber have I come a long way.

No more a novice, though not an expert.

Much have I learnt, but there is more to learn

For ever beckons that untravelled world

Whose margin fades as I surf ahead.

Shailaja Chandran

(This is a poem which was published in the School Magazine, ‘The Threshold’ 2006-07)

Mind Your Language

The real aim of speech, it is said, is to get across an idea as faithfully as possible from one mind to another. But there was this gentleman, who on a visit to England, forgot the English word for ‘duck’ and exclaimed to the lady that her ‘bataks’ were really beautiful. Though he had tried to put exactly what was in his mind into words, the effect on the lady can be well- imagined.!

This may happen not only on foreign soil but even in India .The same words in different languages may mean entirely different things and can cause confusion where it is least intended.

A Keralite, having resided for the most part in the North, I have come across a number of such discrepancies in language which may amuse some or evoke anger in others. One such instance is the word ‘Kutta’ which in Malayalam is an endearment used to address someone dear to you. My husband is in the habit of using the word to address all members of our household. One of our Punjabi friends got a shock when he heard me demurely answering to my husband’s Kutta, ( which he took to be the Hindi version meaning ‘dog’)

In Kerala, we address Father as ‘Achcha’ , a common word in Hindi meaning ‘good’ .Having stayed in the North, I have picked up the habit of adding ‘Achcha’ frequently in speech. My poor Father took quite some time to realize that every time I uttered ‘Achcha’ I was not referring to him. Come to Kerala and ask for a ‘kalam’ and you will be presented with an earthen pot. ‘Kalam’ the Hindi word for pen, is in Malayalam, a pot used in the kitchen. This has given rise to many a verbal duel between my husband and me. As an aspiring writer, I am all for the Hindi ‘kalam’ which can slay even the mightiest. My husband, on the other hand, feels I must acquaint myself with the Malayalam ‘kalam’- an indirect way of telling me that I should stick to mastering the culinary art rather than venture into pastures new.

Even the parts of the body may sound similar but mean different things in different languages. The Malayalam word for face, ‘Mukham’ resembles the Hindi ‘mukh’ meaning mouth. And ‘nak’ in Hindi means nose whereas in Malayalam it is the tongue. No wonder then, while switching from Malayalam to Hindi, references to the body parts confused me more than anything else. I had even protested when someone described my soft spoken friend as ‘ that lambi nak wali aurath’ thinking he was referring to her as sharp- tongued.

Thus, our Bharat Mahan, though a great place to live in, is a land full of contradictions. Erroneous interpretations can cause misunderstanding even between the most well-meaning individuals. Compliments turn out to be insults and may boomerang. So, while traveling from one state to another, do a little homework on the place you are going to. Forewarned is always forearmed.

Shailaja Chandran

(This was my second article which was published in The Indian Express, Chandigarh Edition on 16 Sept, 1989.)