Sundaram's Tale
It was hot and humid, a Sunday with nothing much to do and I was bored. Looking down from the third floor of Ambika Nivas, the humanity teeming below on the Pycrofts road, linking the beach and the Royapettah high road looked incredibly busy. The vegetable market was swarming with people of all types, buying what they wanted and much they really did not need, items a vendor reduced prices for, just to get rid of his final stocks, quickly. Discounts and free offers are irresistible, as we all agree! Up on the third floor, the smells from below wafted by, fanned by the winds from the sea of the Coromandel, aromas alternating between that of fresh banana leaves, rotting vegetables, and sometimes smells from the Taj restaurant – of biryanis and curries getting readied for lunch. The Zambazar police station staff were on their toes, it had been a busy period in the morning as they released a batch of women picked up the previous night for solicitation. Interestingly, I learned some of the choicest cuss words in Tamil, hurled out by these pros at the cops, as they arrived and departed the said station!
The #13 bus which was snaking through Pycrofts at that
instant, seemed to be having a lot of difficulties managing the street today, for
many vendors had encroached well into the road. The conductor’s threatening
retorts had changed to cajoling and pleading if only to let his bus through.
For me, it was indeed a vantage position, high above that
Sunday’s microcosm, something I never tired of. Watching all the happenings
down below, sipping a strong tea and munching the bun brought up by Mani, the
boy from the tea shop below was definitely fun and I have to say that each
Sunday was different from the previous one, even if the general pattern
remained constant. For example, I could conclude that the Taj hotel was cooking
mutton biryani right then and not chicken, that the cabbages on a distress sale
had a lot of rot in them, that many of the women in the days Zambazar police
release looked distinctly Nepali.
Madras is always Madras, I guess. Just walk a bit more westwards
towards Gen Patters road, you will find umpteen automobile spares shops with
lots of Punjabi, Sardar, Gujarati and Marwadi or Sindhi shop owners, and
listening to their sing song versions of Tamil, is nothing short of amusing.
Try slinking into the Amir Mahal, and you will hear a different mix of Tamil
and Urdu, with that characteristic Muslim accent. Go on east towards the
Presidency college and you will come across an educated set, but around
Triplicane, home to many a bachelor, it is cosmopolitan with all types of
people from various parts of India living in those mansions or lodges as they
were called.
Theepatti Nair came by and stood at the railings with me,
toothbrush in hand. He had slept late after the intense cards game with Babu,
Thomas, Iyer, Johnson, and a visitor (who went on to become a famous singer), after
they had consumed a few units of a relatively potent beer, can’t recall its
name, maybe it was Haywards. I had avoided that party, just was not in the mood
yesterday. Yeah, Madras in the 80’s was a prohibition state where alcohol was
only available if you had a medical permit. Babu and a couple of others
possessed these prized chits which allowed them the purchase of limited amounts
or quotas of alcohol, for medical sustenance!
These were my friends and we lived at Ambika Nivas, a lodge
adjoining the Arcot Raja’s palace, the Amir Mahal, which was the walled area of
which I had written about previously. Ambika Nivas was a popular lodge for us
young bachelors, difficult to get into and in those days a privileged abode due
to its low monthly rent, proximity to Mount road, the Marina beach, Chepauk
stadium, the many fabulous cheap eateries - Nair mess included, the many movie
theaters, and so much more. Most of us worked in business districts nearby, I myself
used to bus it to Easun’s at Parry’s corner.
Most of my friends lazed off on Sunday’s, eating a late
lunch at Nair mess or some other nearby place, but I had a full day ahead,
though set for the afternoon as I had relatives in town. It was somewhat of a mandatory
requirement to visit them and so I alternated between one family – my aunts- located
at the railway quarters in Mint - Washermanpet and another, a cousin and her
family at Anna Nagar. Today’s afternoon destination was Washermanpet, but the
morning was free. I had finished my ablutions and a relaxing bath, rinsed off a
few clothes for the week ahead and was rearing to go, but with no definite plans.
As I stood at the balcony railings, I could hear Yesudas crooning ‘En iniya pon
nilave’, from that fascinating Bal Mahendra movie Moodupani, his mellifluous voice
wafting through the open window from my faithful friend, the little Keltron transistor
radio.
Now you the reader, must remember this was a period when
mobile phones did not exist, in fact the only phone was locked up in the ground
floor office area of Ambika Nivas, a device available only sparingly and during
emergencies on office days, so meetings and plans had to be made beforehand,
sometimes days or weeks in advance.
On the back of my mind, Egmore was beckoning me for another
reason. My friend, the beautiful lass Sarah, lived there. Well, now you should
know that it was even more complex because she was engaged to be married to
another Anglo-Indian chap, soon headed to England. I must admit I had a little
crush on her, and if you had seen her then, you would have instantly agreed
with me, film star looks, a lovely disposition and well, to top it all, a North
Kerala origin. But she was taken and would fly the coop soon, nevertheless, she
was nice to converse with. I had half a mind to drop Nair and call on Sarah at
her hostel, but decided against it.
Anyway, after a 30-minute bus journey through Kilpauk, Choola,
Pursuwalkam, etc. mostly standing, even though it was a Sunday, I arrived at Egmore.
It was sweltering and hot, the month of August was never kind to the
inhabitants of Madras and the old timers were eagerly hoping for or for that
matter praying for rain, for the year had been terrible for the farmers and the
non-farming kind. To get to Nair’s office, after having alighted at Egmore, I
had to traverse the ancient Perumal – Vishnu temple. Not something I looked
forward to, for in front of the temple there were always a line of beggars. Adding
to that, the once holy river Cooum, adjoining the temple, stank to high
heavens. Ah! That reminded me, did you know that Cooum was once called the
Thames (which also stank before its cleanup) of Madras?
The beggars were there, some were disfigured, a leper or
two, some had missing limbs or other issues, and most would pass muster as
legit beggars, to a passerby. They all looked about right, and blended into the
rotten scene. As I passed by, I could not but notice a disparity in today’s
lineup. There was one young man, of course wearing oldish looking clothes, looking
quite a Tamilian and bronzed, but there were many things wrong. On a closer
look, you could see that his hair was not unkempt, it was recently cut, he
looked clean, his nails were cut and his hands were not dirty or gnarled. Still,
he did have a forlorn look in his face and he kept muttering the usual repeated
endearing requests for a little bit of alms, money or food. Thaye, ethavadu
kodungo, thayee, saaar, it went…
I was averse to beggars, just like so many others. Somehow,
I could not agree with the concept of begging. Now you may wonder why I called
it a concept. Well, it really is that and there is a solid basis for it in our
culture and the Hindu religion (also I guess, in other religions). Asking for
Bikhsha, is a Hindu tradition of begging for alms. It is considered to be a
method to conquer one’s ego and was also practiced by Buddhists in order to
attain Mokhsha eventually. Penance or atonement is incidentally akin to
Prayaschitta, which they say is a dharma-related term and refers to voluntarily
accepting one's errors and misdeeds, a form of confession, repentance, or a means
of penance in order to undo or try to reduce karmic consequences. Wow! That is
heady philosophy, so no wonder I did not understand all that in those days, as a
young lad!
Nevertheless, let’s get back to Egmore. I walked past the
line of beggars and the temple, got to Nair’s office near the Egmore station, a
magnificent structure whose history and secrets I did not know in those days,
stories of its creation, macabre stories of how one Alavander was chopped up,
packed in a trunk and sent off to Rameswaram by a fellow Malayali from Palghat
who felt Alavander had something going on with his wife and what not, all stories I had covered in much detail
earlier.
I got to my destination, met Nair, in fact pulled him out of
the office, and off we went to the Fountain plaza where we ate some Pav Bhaji.
Not having much else to do, we then trudged on to my aunt’s place in Mint. The
railway quarters was (not sure if it exists anymore) a mini city with so much
happening in there, and to top it the Anglo Indian family across the street,
especially the daughters made it all so much colorful. My cousins would fill me
on the highlights of the week and my aunt would add some masala to the gossip,
just like she did in her fabulous cooking. After a lovely meal was consumed,
Nair went his way and I took the bus back to Triplicane and Ambika Nivas.
It was just another day – a day that was quickly forgotten.
But then, you must be wondering why I talked about a very ordinary day. As it
turned out, it was not in the least bit, ordinary.
Forty years of life passed by. I drifted from place to
place, country to country, continent to continent, family in tow. Life moved on
and Madras was forgotten. Sarah got married and went to England, Nair moved to
Delhi and became a big shot. My aunt passed away a long time ago; my cousins made
families and went on to live their own lives. The aspiring singer became a
well-known singer, my friends in Ambika Nivas had checkered destinies – one turned
up in America, one fell off a bus and died, another passed on to a new world after
a heart attack, and I lost touch with others. I braved the deserts and the oil
culture of the Middle East, spent six years in the exquisite city named
Istanbul, lived some years in England near the potteries and finally settled
down in America. All of that spanned those 40 years. I made friends and we formed
a small group in Raleigh. We met often, we vacationed together, we spent
weekends chitchatting and got on to a satisfactory routine.
Until we were slammed by the COVID virus which changed our life,
tipping it all over the side. While office work moved to a table and two
screens, set up hurriedly in a bedroom, and kept me as busy as before, our
social life took a huge hit. No more meetings, no more socializing on weekends,
but we managed to keep in touch with meeting apps. On Fridays, we met during an hourly
‘happy hour video session” where over a glass of some choice spirit, we discussed both
mundane and fiery matters, the week which had passed by and chitchatted, of
course sometimes gossiping on zesty stuff.
Last week, somebody mentioned vagrants and beggars. And then
my best friend Sundaram broke in with a little tidbit from his past “you
know many years back, I did something like that, I was disgusted with a part of
my life and did some begging as a penance, if only to get some mental relief”.
He continued on “It was at that stage that I realized that I could forsake
everything and live life without any luxury”.
A nagging thought was forming in my mind. I asked Sundaram
“so, where did you go to try this experiment”? And he says nonchalantly “Oh!
I went to Madras, in fact I begged for three days outside the Perumal temple at
Egmore”.
I was aghast! I continued on “when was this?” and he says –
“Oh, the summer of 1981”.
It was a stunning coincidence in the making; I simply could
not believe it!
Egged on by the others for details, Sundaram went on
Those days I lived in Malaysia but visited India often.
So, I went to Madras, and took up residence in a little lodge in Egmore. In the
morning, I discarded my normal clothes, got into some old clothes - a dhoti and
shirt, or whatever I had, not tattered though, removed my shoes and ventured
out of the lodge. The lodge staff found it a bit curious but decided not to question
me too much. I went on to the temple and took a position near the other
beggars, sitting down among them. They were surely not happy and smelt
something fishy, seeing through my guise instantly. Was it an undesirable, a
journalist or some snoop? I tried to explain that I was there for a reason, but
they did not buy it. Nevertheless, I was tolerated and not driven away.
The first day passed, I was getting into the scheme of
things, but that was when I committed my first gaffe. In the afternoon a smart
and well-to-do lady passed by the line of beggars caught my eye or perhaps it
must have been my perfect pleading for a rupee or some food. Anyway, she
stopped and dropped a Rs 1/- coin in my outstretched plate.
Like an idiot – I muttered instinctively ‘thank you’ in
English as it was the first time I received and alms.
She looked at me with raised eyebrows for a while, our
eyes connected, locked in for a good many seconds. This was after I said “thank
you”. There was an inexplicable connection in that look, of that I am sure and then, she walked away.
I was afraid to turn and look at her, but something made me do just that, look
in the general direction, only to find out that she was standing a good
distance away and staring intensely at me, studying me, maybe curious. She
walked away when she realized that I was looking at her also.
I must have made about 5 or 6 rupees the first day, the
second day was no different. My clothes had picked up an even older look by now,
more jaded perhaps and I was blending into the terrain, so to say. After each
day’s toil, I would go back to the hotel, have a light dinner, austere perhaps
and sleep until the morning only to venture out into the dingy streets with
those jaded clothes and an unwashed countenance.
By the third day I was a better beggar in looks and calmer,
having had time to think of a number of things. I found that I did not miss
much of my previous lifestyle, even at the end of each hot, humid and beggarly
day. It must have been the exhilaration of my experiments with penance, but I
distinctly felt better.
It was now the third day and I had planned to stop after
three days. On this day, only one thing of interest occurred. The very same
lady who had given me alms the very first time, passed by, dropped a food
packet on my plate, said the words ’good luck’ and went on.
I could never forget that incident. I still remember those
three days and I recall that event often. I never saw her again in my life. To
this day I don’t know what she meant by her actions – perhaps she understood
that it was my penance or whatever, anyway I finished the third day without
anything more eventful, and left back for Kuala Lumpur, a better man, calmer in
mind, all that inflated ego now thoroughly deflated, and more understanding of
life in general.
That was my experience and experiment with penance,
Sundaram said and concluded his short story.
All of this conversation took place just three days ago, and
I continue to be flabbergasted. I did not tell him of my observation some 40
years back, I did not tell him how our paths may have crossed that many years
ago, for I have still not come to terms with it. It could have been some other
guy, and I can’t connect the two faces for sure, but it could have been
Sundaram, It had to be!
It was all a long time ago, Madras has become Chennai, the
roads have been renamed, life in Chennai has changed, everybody is so much more
affluent, but the problems remain the same. I doubt if there are beggars in
front of the Perumal temple anymore. But people are still dissatisfied,
scurrying around, chasing days and a life which cannot be sustained in most
cases. What if some of them stepped back, paused and observed their actions,
like Sundaram did? Not necessarily at the beggar’s line at a temple, but
wherever. Did Sundaram tame his ego? Did he achieve peace by that act of
repentance at the Perumal temple? He believes so.
All this made me think of an interesting book I had read
some time back – The Monk who sold his Ferrari. In fact, even more curiously, we
have hundreds and hundreds of homeless people in America who have stepped away
from their wealthy and prosperous lives, only to lead the new life they chose,
on the streets, after perhaps getting disgusted with life and their doings.
But all I wonder now, is of that fascinating coincidence, if
it was indeed one, just like the fact that the son of the very Judge who ruled
on the Alavander case at Egmore, went on to investigate the OJ Simpson case
here in Los Angeles, a few decades ago!
Or maybe it is not surprising at all, it is just a small
world!
Note: Many parts of this story and many of the characters,
are real people from my life, though some parts are fictional, then again, I won’t tell you
which, so just consider this a work of creative fiction!
Madras Diary – Some other stories
