---

Submission deadline for Spring 2008 issue is March 15, 2008.

---

Copyright Notices

The works displayed on MIT's E-merging Journal are protected by copyright and other applicable laws and are made available by MIT's E-merging Journal for use by you, the individual accessing the E-merging Journal, solely for your own educational, non-commercial, non-monetary purposes provided you credit the author(s) identified on the particular work(s) and the MIT E-merging Journal for the material you use.

These works may be viewed on-line, downloaded, copied, distributed and displayed by you for your own educational, noncommercial purposes, or the URL of a document (from this server) included in another electronic document; however, the text of a work may not be published commercially (in print or electronically), edited or otherwise altered.

This is a summary of the license terms to you, the full text of which is available - Legal Notices.

M.S. Blues

Tilotamma, MIT Affiliate

 

Onthe last day of school, no matter which city we lived in, we would beon the evening train to Madurai. The overnight train journey wasalways fun--but our annual destination--we were a little less excitedabout that.

Maduraiwas my father’s hometown and my grandparents still lived there.The heat, the mosquitoes, the dirty bathrooms in the house, the sheerlack of things to do - these were some of the reasons we might havecited - if anyone cared to ask me or my brother about our lack ofenthusiasm.

Sincemy father’s transfer to Bombay we were even less keen onspending summer in Madurai because it seemed so unbearably boring incomparison. Why, it did not even have a TV station yet! But we didnot have that much influence over anything at that age. I was ten. Mybrother was twelve. Much in advance of this inevitable trip the baiwas already making inquiries.

“When are you off to your muluk?” she asks,mopping the floor. Maybe she wants to coordinate her vacation withours. My mother would like to believe just the opposite. She is quitesure bai will take off once we are back. Right now, my motherisn’t even certain what muluk means.

“Towhere?” she asks, to be sure. The language used inBombay is a tangy mixture of many tongues and not the pure Hindi ofmy mother’s old textbooks. Still she has some idea that mulukmeans native place. I confirm that suspicion for her in Tamil andthen repeat the word for myself.

“Muluk,muluk,” I just like the sound of it.

“Yourvillage, your village! When will you go there?” baiprods her on.

Mistake!My mother was born in the city but bai is calling her avillager.

“Sometimein summer,” she says testily without looking up and poor baihas to be satisfied with that response.

Overdinner my parents talk and decide it is time to book the traintickets. Everyone goes to their muluk around summer, so it isnever too early to make reservations. Just our luck, we have to headtowards Madurai which would be hot as a furnace.

Inthe leafier Madurai of my father’s youth, streets and evenentire neighborhoods took their names from the trees which grew insuch profusion. Orchards of mango, jackfruit, and coconut becameresidential addresses. My grandparents’ one-storied house musthave stood in a grove of berries, then.

Grandfatheris hovering anxiously near the gate, waiting for us. Grandmothercomes to the veranda to receive us only when she hears the taxi’strunk slam shut with finality. Her mouth is a dull orange from thebetel leaves she chews all day. My aunt is last and with a quietsmile she carries some of our luggage indoors. My cousins, all boysolder than me don’t help their mother.

“Comehere, my sweet lump of sugar,” my grandmother beckons to me. Inspite of her endearments, I am tongue-tied and stay close to mymother.

“Howtall the boy has grown,” my grandmother remarks looking at mybrother.

Herushes over to hug her without any further encouragement. He pretendshe can’t lock his hands around my grandmother because she isfat. Everyone laughs, including her.

“Ai,touch-me-not, will you curl in if I look at you?” she teases,trying to draw me out as well. My cousins snicker. The dogs arebarking in the backyard. They have been tied up in the bike shedbecause they are known to bite guests. I have a horrible feeling thetwins will set them free any minute. I step into the house warily.

Inthe afternoons, I keep my ears open for monkeys. It is as good a wayas any to pass time in Madurai. A distant siren signals the break forthe textile factory and shortly after my uncle comes home for lunch.Once he leaves, the kitchen is closed briefly and my aunt rolls outthe mat to lie down for a while. I hear that distinct clatter on theasbestos. I rush to the window.

Theyare there! On the roof of the backyard bathroom. The monkeys maketheir unhurried progress toward the mango tree’s shadingcanopy. Like a parrot’s beak its green mangoes curve into ared-tinted tip. Even when the flesh ripens to gold within, the skinstays green. Despite the poetic name it is a sour disappointment tomy grandmother.

Thefruits of this particular tree are stringy and tart and mygrandmother has to buy mangoes in the market just like everyone elsewho doesn’t have a big tree in their backyard. Its delicatebrownish blossoms waft to the open tank below and scent thebathwater. Grandmother doesn’t have the heart to have the treecut down but complains about it at every chance.

Myuncle’s trusty Chetak is parked in the bike shed. Thedogs are tied in the corner, too hot to care about anything. Themailman came to the gate a few minutes ago. They did not even bark athim. One of the monkeys has reached the scooter now and is making agrab at the side-view mirror which is glinting in the sun. The dogslook on bemused.

Thismonkey joins the group for the feast, shortly. Expert but forgetfultasters, they chuck the mangoes with disdain after a few samplenibbles. The pulpy mess rolls down the roof with a muffled clatterand lands with a plop near the shed. Some of the monkeys aim thefruits at the dogs. Unable to take the impudence of the intruders thepets howl their heads off.

Auntgoes charging into the din. The monkeys don’t look too worriedat the sight of her long bamboo stick. They confer and then make ajaunty exit as if they have much tastier orchards to raid. I canbelieve that. I wonder why they come here in the first place. Surely,they can’t be as amnesiac as all that! Perhaps they are asbored as I am and enjoy a bit of drama in the afternoon. In any caseour siesta is over.

Grandmotheris up and she is in a bad mood. Actually she has been up even beforethe monkeys came on the scene. The power outage unfortunatelycoincides with the hottest hours of the day. Everyone stays in exceptmy brother and my cousins who are up to their usual games in andaround the house, mindless of the heat.

“Cansomeone fan me a little?” the old lady demands imperiously.Grandfather who has dozed off behind The Hindu is startledawake by her request. The boys snicker and quietly leave the roomjust as I wander in.

“Whydon’t you take a nap also?” grandfather asks me kindly.

“Itis too hot. I wish I had some story books,” I reply.

“Whatdo you want to read when the school is closed? Tell me, what are thebooks about?” he inquires.

“Oh, they are books about children in England. My favorite series is theone about the Five Find-Outers. They can solve mysteries much beforethe local constable Mr. Goon can. The Inspector from London is theirfriend,” I inform him. He looks a little mystified. Surely theLondon constabulary doesn’t need the help of children to solvecases!

My grandfather was a firm supporter of the British Raj and even cried alittle the day India got its freedom back in 1947. My father says healso cried inconsolably when India’s first Prime Minister diedfourteen years later. He is a tender-hearted man, that is for sure.

“I may be able to get you a copy of the Vicar of Wakefield. Ihave heard it is a classic,” he says. Like many men of hisgeneration, my grandfather considers fluency in English a necessaryand sufficient proof of scholarship. My shrewd grandmother is muchharder to impress.

We keep our voices low but grandmother cannot go back to sleep. Shecannot participate in our conversation either. Her back is eloquentlyturned on us. When the commotion in the backyard starts, she sits upand glares at us. It looks like she is trying to decide who thebigger nuisance was -- her husband who is chattering with me inEnglish or the backyard monkeys.

Well, she comes to a conclusion quickly enough. She shouts orders and goadsmy poor aunt into action. At least she can do something about thoseimpudent creatures.

In a little while, quiet reigns. The dogs are in the veranda and theyhave a fresh bowl of water each. My aunt re-opens her kitchen andstarts making preparations for the tiffin. It is going to be onionfritters with coconut chutney, my grandmother’s favorite snack.She is in the kitchen, ahead of all of us but she is still in a badmood.

“Your children!” she tells my mother, “They don’t speakto me because I don’t know English. They can’t speaktheir own language Tamil and who understands this Bombay language oftheirs -- this Hindi!”

“Yes, I can’t understand it either, Amma,” my mother says, onlyin part, to mollify her.

“Why don’t we take them to the temple, tomorrow?”she tactfully suggests hoping to take her mother-in-law’s mindoff this tricky language issue. Grandmother has an appointment withthe dentist in the evening. This means we will have to go first thingin the morning. The gods too nap in the afternoon and the templedoors are shut.

My grandmother is an early-riser but having us ready by dawn will bequite a task for my mother. Nearly everyone in the household will beinconvenienced by this plan. The old lady greets this withconsiderable relish.

Madurai is a one-temple town. At its heart it is not just any old temple, itis the ancient Meenakshi temple. The paths are lined with shopsselling fragrant garlands, strings of plump jasmine, mounds ofturmeric and vermillion powder, and anything that can be consideredauspicious. Granite demons stand guard at the entrance.

We have been to the temple before, of course, but we have always rushedhome before dark as per the unwritten family rule; the women need tobe home to light the lamps for the evening prayer. This time, we canvisit the shrine of the green goddess and then stroll through thetemple’s famed Corridor of Thousand Pillars.

Skeptics, my brother and I, start to count them but then we notice somethingamazing. Each pillar is a richly sculpted yali, the mythicalcreature of many parts. It is staring at us, its goat eyes bulgingwith mock curiosity. The boar ears are perfect to eavesdrop on theconversation of all those who walk within, I realize.

This is a Lord Shiva temple but everyone refers to it by his fish-eyedconsort’s name. “That is because in Madurai, the womenrule,” my grandmother tells me in an aside. The yalichuckle and relay this information to their friends at the end of thecorridor.

Outside, we buy framed photographs of the green goddess. Meenakshi wears herhuge garland like a feather boa; a parrot is perched on the fingersof her right hand. They make great souvenirs for her friendsin Bombay. My mother buys me a dozen glass bangles. They make apleasant jangle every time I move my arms. When they catch a bit ofsunlight, they sparkle dazzlingly, throwing little rainbows on mydress.

I still have three bangles left on each arm, when it is time to go backto Bombay, a month later. Despite the complaint that there is“nothing to do” in Madurai the time has passed quicklyenough. My mother is busy packing our suitcase. To get us out of herway she suggests that we go seek my grandparents’ blessings.

We do this by touching their feet in respect. Most elderly couples standtogether for this ritual but my grandparents do it one by one. It isa ritual, we look forward too. Grandfather pats our heads and invokeshis favorite deities in a faint voice to wish us well. He looks verysad at the thought of our leaving. Grandmother is still rummagingthrough her iron bureau when it is her turn.

She comes back with a framed sepia photograph of herself. In it she looksyounger. Her nose and ears twinkle with diamonds; her hair is pulledback in a bun. She is wearing a silk sari shot with dark threads. Shepasses this picture around for our inspection and approval.

“You looked very nice, when you were younger,” I tell her. I turn tomy brother for help.

“Verydistinguished,” he remarks. It is evident that my grandmotheris looking for more but we are at a loss.

“Doesit remind you of anyone?” she asks. No, we shake our heads.

“Peoplesay I resemble M.S. in this,” she informs us.

Fansrefer to the diva M. S. Subbalakshmi simply by her initials. ManySouth Indian households, even in Bombay, wake up to her soulfulrendition of Suprabatham but we could not have come up withher name, just then. My grandmother always gives us some money as a parting gift. It is not a lot and we dutifully hand it over to our mother.We can draw on theamount for an entire year to buy ourselves small treats.

At the station, we wave to our Uncle on the platform, until we can’t see him anymore.

I did not realize this was one of the last times I would see mygrandparents. They died within a year of each other, when I was in myearly teens. My father did not insist on visiting his hometownanymore. Madurai became a distant memory much before I left forAmerica. I now live two continents away in New England, where it getsdark before 5 PM, in the winters.

I smile when I think of my family’s absurd curfew for women --always be home by dusk to light the lamps. And cook the dinner, theymeant. Madurai got street lighting in the 1930s and being a city ofculture, held open-air classical concerts which went late into thenight. So much for the dangers lurking in the dark! I chuckle at thememory but the road ahead is slippery and needs my full attention.

I-93 is slick with snow. My gas tank is close to empty. It is rush hour --it will be difficult to pull over to the breakdown lane. Even if Imanaged it, what could I do? The cell phone is dead. I am close topanic but I let the audio player pick a CD for me.

M.S. Subbulakshmi's Bhaja Govindam comes to my rescue. The senseof calm M.S. conveys through her music is amazing. I can appreciatethe ancient song without knowing the lyrics or the ragas. Themusic is divine; I have no other word for it.

Atthe gas station, as the tank is filling up, I pull out the CD coverand try to get more details about the composition. There is a pictureof M.S. on the jacket. She has this radiant quality about her; a kindof beauty which grows with age. This was the 'resemblance' mygrandmother had wanted us to spot. Of course, we had let her down.

I know by now that many people from my father’s mulukclaim some kind of tenuous kinship to the singer. My grandmother hasnever been alone in wanting to establish a connection with this icon.When I realize that the 'M' in the singer’s initials stands forMadurai, everything clicks into place.

Knowing my grandmother, I know for sure that our unawareness must haveaffected the amount of money she gave us that day. How much did ourcultural ignorance cost us overall?

That is really hard to tell.

M.S. blue: Double color of ink blue and black threads, named after M .S. Subbalakshmi

© 2007 MIT E-merging Journal emerging-www(at)mit.edu