Rite of passage

Meenakshi was already awake and waiting for the alarm to ring. For as long as she could remember, she had woken up at 5 am every day irrespective of season, health or place. To keep her mind occupied, she tried to recollect when this routine had begun but couldn’t. Must have definitely started before her wedding, she decided. She did a quick calculation in her mind – 62 years was a really long time. One half of her wanted to go back to sleep. The past few days were tiring and she could now afford the luxury of a few more minutes of sleep. But she knew she couldn’t. Habits are stubborn like that – wretched things that cannot be broken with just a thought. Once you’ve invested your time, you figure it is just so much easier to maintain them – keep the delicate balance intact.

She sat up in her bed and had just started praying when the alarm rang. She liked to savour the silence that followed the alarm. It always helped her focus and plan for the day. There was always so much to be done and so much planning to do. Today the silence seemed a little disquieting. Her relatives had finally left after almost three weeks with solemn promises of keeping in touch. Some even committed to daily status calls. She hoped it was all just hollow words. She didn’t need the intrusion. Mr. Sankara Narayanan, her husband, usually slept in a separate cot near the window. The cot belonged to his father and was his most prized possession. It was made out of the finest Burma teak, dark brown in colour and easily a 150 years old. Two peacocks were intricately carved on the headboard, immensely fascinating the children in their younger days. The cot was a vivid reminder of his father’s association with the royal palace of Travancore. She always had a 45 minute head start before he woke up for his tea.

She sauntered into the kitchen to do her first task of the day – boil milk. As she waited, she thought of the first tea she had made for her husband. She had not stirred the milk properly, so there was a mild burnt smell and taste. What a great first impression, she thought! For years later, he would narrate the tale of the special ‘Tandoori Chai’ to most of his visitors and the two would start giggling. Narayan had an infectious laughter, one that invariably made her blush.

Once the milk was ready, it was time for her shower, which she always did in top speed. She was not one to laze around in the shower and always looked down with disgust at all those girls in the advertisements who acted like the sole purpose of a shower was to be ready in case you met the man of your life. Besides, the time not wasted at the shower was better used for praying and meditating. This was crucial to her day, her time spent talking with God - thanking Him for all her blessings, counting on Him to help her overcome her sorrows, coaxing Him into granting wishes for each and every one she knew, calling out the unfairness of tragedies endured by her near and dear ones, the list was endless. It was a long process and her way of harnessing her Qi. Narayan always joked that her chatty sessions made God tired.

As always, she finished with a bow and reached out for her box of Sindoor. And that’s when it struck her – Meenakshi did not need the Sindoor anymore. Exactly 16 days earlier Narayan had left her to make his last journey to the very Gods she now stood before. How easy it was to blur the last two weeks that passed, the chaos of being surrounded by her family and friends. Now that they had all left, it was easier to just assume that life had reverted to what it was two weeks ago. Except, not all was restored. The man who was beside her for the longest time, her companion, her closest friend had ceased to be.  

She held the tiny silver box in her hands, almost unwilling to let go. She had worn her Sindoor with pomp every single day for the last 62 years. And now she didn’t have to. Actually, she was not allowed to. She ran her fingers through the faded silver etchings. “It is going to be okay”, she whispered as she tried to console the grieving box. Each speck was a memory, a stitch in the brilliant fabric weaved by the two of them over the decades - starting from the first time Narayan saw a 19 year old girl helping her relatives at a wedding. He was impressed by how she deftly grated the bajillion coconuts for the payasam, how she pranced between large cauldrons of boiling sambar and rasam, tasting and critiquing, looking for ways to perfect each item on the menu, how she nudged her brothers and uncles for some cashews that she could smuggle for the hungry bride. She was a whirlwind then, and she was a whirlwind now – one of the things the laidback, grounded Narayan loved about her.

She opened the lid and took one last pinch of the bright red vermillion. The distinct, familiar smell of saffron tingled her senses. She knew she had to do it, it was her rite of passage and it was time. She reached out for her mirror, the one she used every day to ensure she placed her sindoor in the right spot. As she looked into the mirror, she placed a red dot on the glistening surface. She gazed at her reflection and saw in the image – Meenakshi with her quintessential Sindoor, exactly how Narayan loved her. She took a minute for it all to sink in and once she was ready, placed the box and the mirror back on the shelf. The two items were now transformed into relics, souvenirs of a rich and fulfilling past. She didn’t need them anymore. She now accepted it and was at peace with the world. Her world.

Humans are a strange species. We find comfort in unexpected places. We find comfort in routines, even when there is nothing really comfortable about them. And over time, most of it happens in Autopilot mode. Until there’s a turbulence, or in some cases, a crash. But know that you survived for a reason. You pick yourself up and dust yourself. Don’t let all the debris overwhelm you. Wade through the mayhem, collect a keepsake or two and then continue the journey. Rest if you have to, and when you’re ready, run with the wolves.

Of doting daddys and darling daughters

Art by the lovely Anamika KS

It had become my most awaited part of each day and I looked forward to it with a ritual-like reverence. Homework was done, my bag was packed for the next day of school, dinner was finished with each of our accounts of our day and I waited patiently for my mom to bring that steaming cup of tea. What usually followed was something she secretly wanted in, but this was our routine and no one, not even Ma was invited. Once that tray of hot, piping chai was transferred to our hands, Pa and I would slowly make our way to the terrace, careful not to spill anything because that cuppa played a very important role. Once there, we would settle down and taking small sips of that lovely tea, Pa would start his discourses while I engulfed myself with its fragrance, and his words. You see, while mom and I were busy covering the entire spectrum of school and adolescence that helped me get through each day, Pa focused on the long-term. We discussed a great deal about the king of Oman, his experiences back home, books, music and all the other what-nots! Also, the poet inside him would miraculously appear as he romanticized even mundane things like driving me to various tuitions after long hours of work. Eventually, I had far more tuitions to attend, and a lot less free time because of which the frequency of our 'ritual' gradually decreased until it finally stopped. More than 13 years later, there I was, in my husband's house and getting to know his parents, who had also become mine. And, guess who I had a new ritual with. Chai, however, had now become whiskey and Dad, who now became my Pa, would tell me about days when he was a young man or when my husband was a little boy. As for me, I now engulfed myself in this fragrance, and these words. Also, much to the annoyance of my husband, I always received a hearty Goodnight from Dad every night, one that was not once directed at his three sons. Once again, the ritual had to stop as my husband and I shifted to Bangalore and meeting Dad was reduced to a yearly affair. Over the course of time, I realized that both my fathers had a lot more in common. Both of them thought they always wanted sons. A daughter then, entered their lives and she would always remain in their hearts, be their baby girl. During the early days of their marriages, they were both opposed to the idea of women working. Years later, they let go of this mindset and believed in their daughter's decisions and prayed real hard to ensure I achieved what I wanted. They even went to the extent of stressing upon me, the importance of not only being independent but also loving what I do. They don't know it yet, but in the process of all this, they have mellowed a great extent, much to the relief of their wives and families! Fatherhood or for that matter every relationship, has a way of evolving with time and influencing us at our very core. Each of us here, surely have a ritual with that special somebody, which would now have become a thing of the past. It's time to pick up where we left. It's time we get that chai or whiskey or whatever it was, and settle down to discuss the what-nots, because frankly, we need it as much as they do.

That little thing in my purse

Courage, you are a curious thing, and rightly so

Some people want you as a pet, to follow them wherever they go

So you’ll be around when they truly need you

Attack or defend, play as they want you to

But if you are a pet, you have to be nurtured

Clothed, fed, loved and sheltered

And I cant invest myself that much on you

No walks in the dappled sunlight, no cozy rooms for you

I choose to keep you hidden in my purse

I know you’re in there, for better or for worse

I threw away my lipstick, I had to make space

When the heart is strong, need I care for my face

I like our relationship, you need no attention or care

When the time comes I look no further, I know you’re in there

And someday maybe I wont need you with me

I know I sound too optimistic, but you’ll see

No don’t worry, you’ll still be near

You’re not just a friend, but my knight in shining armour

And I shall pass you on with pride, this legacy

To that little girl who seems uneasy

Be in her purse and make sure she’s ready

And when she moves on, you’ll still go steady!

Management lessons from a bunch of First Grade kids

Last Saturday we had a chance to work with the students of Brindavan Tent School in Vignan Nagar, Bangalore, as part of Volunesia. To give a brief background, Volunesia was started by a group of volunteers coming together once every week to make goodies out of recycled/waste products. These goodies would then be distributed to students in various underprivileged schools for their good work and progress. What started off as morning sessions on Saturdays in Bangalore’s iconic Cubbon Park, has now evolved into focused activities in Brindavan Tent School with students who would also be a part and learn a little something along the way.  

This week’s theme was Cleanliness and we had decided to make dustbins out of discarded cardboard boxes that they could take home with them. After all, Cleanliness begins at home! The students were from Classes I to IV and I was assigned a couple of Grade I kids along with another volunteer. It was a wonderful two hour session at the end of which we, the volunteers, were left both super charged and tired at the same time. Along with all the obvious flow of energy that seemed to us like a high intensity workout (no kidding!), these kids ended up teaching us a few subtle but important lessons, ones that I would be taking with me to work every single day:

1)   Be accepting of all ideas. At the same time, don’t hesitate to give your suggestions

As soon as the cardboard boxes were handed over to us, the students were wondering how to get started and approached us for ideas. But in under 2 minutes, all that changed. It was them suggesting the number of stars we needed to stick on one side or what to draw on the other. They were calling the shots and every time it was implemented they made sure to inform us whether or not they liked it.

Yes, it is safe to stick to the original plan and would also save time and a lot of back-and-forth conversations. However, what if while executing your project, you come across an idea that you may want to try? Would it work? Would it jeopardize the existing schedule? These are all valid questions but what if, just what if there was real value in it? Shouldn’t we atleast explore them?

2)   Scarcity of resources is only an illusion

As a rule, we always carry a limited number of scissors, glue, etc. for our Volunesia sessions. It gives us an opportunity to interact with the volunteers since we would be meeting most of them for the first time. It was our perfect conversation starter. So this time too, we had limited stationary, which would have been fine if we didn’t have to also manage the kids. It was becoming a little difficult for us to try and source what we needed from our counterparts. The kids however had already started reaching out to their friends in other groups for their favorite colour crayon, fevicol tube or paper. They even knew what they could offer in exchange for what they needed. Talk about effective bartering!

How many times do we let go of ideas or delay our projects citing dependencies or low supply of resources? If only we would roll up our sleeves and start collaborating.

3)   If you’re done with what’s assigned to you, see if you can contribute elsewhere

We started out as groups of 3-5 kids per volunteer, but once some of the students were done with their beautiful dustbins, they did not want to sit idle. They at once, started looking around for other groups that needed cutting, sticking, painting, and what not! If there were unfinished ones, these children were at it to make sure all of it was completed within the given time.

Most of us, while working in teams get so involved in what’s assigned to us that we fail to see the bigger picture. We forget that each individual’s contribution would only matter if the entire project was a success. Let’s make sure we reach out and be that extra hand/brain, whatever our team requires.

4)   Once it’s done, move the hell on!

In around 2 hours, all the boxes were transformed into colourful dustbins. We then began our usual process of salvaging all the remaining materials that we could use during the coming sessions. While we were busy assembling all this, the children got back to doing what they do best as soon as they are free – they started playing in the ground. We literally had to bring them together after a bit of a struggle to tell them what a fantastic job they had done. They heard it, smiled, clapped with us patiently and then as soon as we stopped talking, ran outside to resume their games. We volunteers on the other hand, were so happy and proud of the small step we had taken that day and spent a good half hour discussing how nice it felt to have a purpose, no matter how trivial it may seem.

While it may good to debrief and discuss at length, the various great and (ahem!) not-so-great aspects of the project once it is completed, many of us hold on to it for the longest time. If something went wrong, we break our heads over it either feeling guilty or looking for others to blame. And if something turned out great, we keep simmering in that success. Wouldn’t it just be better to not linger for too long and start fresh each time?

5)   Smile, and then smile some more

These children were in school on a Saturday morning when most of us wouldn’t even have woken up and they were asked to make something with people whom they were meeting for the very first time. Yet, there was not a single bit of reluctance from their side. Just happy and non-judgmental faces and hearts excited about what they were about to do and looking for ways to contribute.

This one is definitely for keeps. As Ketut instructs Liz in ‘Eat Pray Love’ – “Smile with face, smile with mind, and good energy will come to you and clear away dirty energy. Even smile in your liver.” Do this and watch the magic unfold automatically.  

P.S: The author is currently learning basic Kannada from her colleagues that would help her communicate better with the students of the school. It’s all about Give and Take.

Bikes, rides and barrels

All bikers have one of the two approaches to bikes – some own them merely to show off, while the rest are passionate about being one with their machines. Then, there was Cherian.

Photo Courtesy: Blueprints.com

Day 2 in Wayanad. The boys were mesmerized with the raw and rugged charisma of this quaint town – where the exploits of tourism had not yet destroyed its natural state of beauty. They had ventured a little further from their original plan to visit the Chembra Peak. They visited a nearby Wildlife Sanctuary and had managed to see bisons, deer and the Hanuman langur at fairly close range but they wanted more. They figured, a trek to the Peak would add another dimension to the trip before they called it a day. The humility with which nature presented itself with open arms to intrigued souls who wanted to understand it better. Not that it mattered, when you have a bike, and not just any bike but the Kawasaki Versys 650 which they affectionately called Howler. This was Howler’s seventh long bike ride. Even before Jai gifted himself the bike on his 23^rd birthday, he had meticulously prepared a list of the 20 bike rides that he wanted to do within India, complete with route maps, best-time to travel, stops required, places to visit on the way, etc. In parallel, he had also begun his physical and mental training to be part of the Iron Butt Association (Yes, it is a real thing!)

So once Howler was delivered, the riding scene set itself in motion. Being in Bangalore, it made sense to cover the lower half of the country first and slowly move farther with every trip. Plus, there was never a dearth of places here. So after covering most of Karnataka and Tamil Nadu, Jai chose Kerala. This time, however, he had a pillion rider – his Veeru, whose actual name was Amith. Amith had met with a minor accident eleven months ago that led to a hairline-fracture in his ankle. Since the accident, Amith restricted his riding to very short distances around the city but Jai didn’t want his Veeru to miss out on the trip. So here they were 2 days and 350 kms later, on the Vayavatta Road towards their resort after a fulfilling day.

It was now Amith’s turn to ride and Jai looked at his watch. ‘7 pm Veeru. We should’ve started a little earlier. The whole damn town switches off right after sunset here’. Amith however remained calm. ‘Why worry, when Google Baba shall show you the way!!’ he said poetically. ‘Only 20 kms. We should be there by 8. In time for hot appams and mutton stew. Just make sure you get the route right.’

After a while though, Amith started to get a little suspicious. ‘Hotel Dubai?? I don’t remember seeing this in the morning. You sure it’s the right route?’, he enquired. Jai, having had enough of Amith’s constant questioning, simply chose not to reply. Almost half an hour later and with no Roseberg Resort or people in sight, they stopped to look around for familiar places. Network was patchy here and Google Baba couldn’t do much about it. Most of the hotels and shops were closed but for one teashop whose owner was also just closing down. After much explaining in Kannada-Hindi-Tamil they realized they were in Padivayal, 16 kms away from the resort. 16 kms in Bangalore would have been a cake-walk (minus the traffic), but in remote towns and villages, it wasn’t that easy. Especially so since they were also running out of petrol. They asked the teashop owner (again in awkward Kannada-Hindi-Tamil) if there were any petrol pumps around. The owner smiled and said, ‘1 km straight and then first right. 3 kms, reach Cherian house. Petrol there. Then straight to Nedumbala. Roseberg Resort 6 kms from there’. So the shop owner knew English after all!

Although it took longer than expected, by combining the information from (the still patchy) Google Maps and the owner’s instructions, they reached their first stop. A small villa styled house with a board hanging from the tiled roof that said, ‘Cherian House’. The house in itself was a simple one-storey cottage with a verandah on both sides and a long sit-out in front. The decoration was minimal and consisted of a large wooden cross above the main door and two hanging flower pots with money plants. The garden had rows of neatly trimmed hibiscus, bougainvillae and rose brushes. The garden and entrance were lit by soft yellow lights which gave the house, a colonial Portugese look. The boys however were not interested in the house. They were instantly drawn to the garage on the right end of the house. A firm structure, which housed not one, not two, but four motorcycles gleaming in the moonlight.

Jai let out a whistle. It was an unbelievable scene, according to him. “Look at those beauties Veeru”, he exclaimed. “Damn it! All of them right out of my wishlist man!” Veeru was too stunned to reply. A moment later, the main door of the house opened and a smiling man in his mid-30s walked towards the boys and opened the main gate. Jai was the first to talk. He explained how they ended up in the wrong route and their desperate need for petrol. It would be great if Cherian Sir could help them.

The man, still smiling, introduced himself as Koshy, Cherian’s son. “You youngsters depend too much on GPS and phones these days, you don’t realize that in rural areas, the best guides are local people.” Jai quickly made a mental note – Less Google Maps, More Google Translate. You still had to have technology though! Veeru, however, couldn’t get his mind off the garage - “We were actually admiring the bikes in your garage. Straight out of my wishlist, Sir!” To this, Koshy laughed. “I have a Carwash and a garage in Kozhikode but in our hearts, we are a family of bike enthusiasts. Plus I like to keep them here so Appa can see them.” Koshy then took them to his garage where the boys spent a good twenty minutes fussing over the bikes, comparing the models and asking for reviews.

“Oh I almost forgot!”, Koshy said and then pointed to a small desk placed outside the garage. On the desk were ten plastic bottles filled with dark brown liquid, which the boys immediately understood to be petrol. The boys were so engrossed with the bikes that they missed seeing the table and only when they saw the bottles did they remember why they were there. Amith took a bottle and after thanking Koshy profusely for being a savior especially for tourists like them, he asked how much should they pay for the bottle. “Not that it matters, Koshy Sir. This is our Liquid Gold for today”, added Jai. Koshy looked a little surprise. “I thought you knew already. All the thanks should actually go to Appa and these bottles are not here for sale. We don’t charge for the petrol, although it would be great if you returned the bottles. Swachh Bharat and all, you see!”

Both Jai and Amith were taken by surprise. “How could somebody give petrol for free? Actually, why would they? In fact shouldn’t you charge more because it is so difficult to get petrol around here?” Koshy listened to all the questions and profit projections patiently before he replied laughing – “Thank you for your wonderful suggestions but like I said, this is something Appa started that we would like to hopefully continue for a long time.” “Appa sure sounds like a very interesting man… and super rich”, Jai exclaimed. “Actually on the contrary”, Koshy said. “Appa’s father was a care taker in one of the bungalows down south. The bungalow was owned by the British and their son was the first owner of a motorbike in the region. The first time Appa saw the bike, he fell in love. Since then, it was his dream to own a bike. Specifically, the 1942 BSA M20. So as soon as he started working, he began saving as well. But you know how it is those days. Sisters, Marriage, us kids and so on. Appa’s commitments increased but his salary, not so much. So although he bought himself a Luna and never failed to take us all on his friend’s bikes (it was his favorite hobby, by the way!), he never got to buying his own bike. That, however, didn’t stop him from saving for his bike, and also from putting in me and most of the kids here, that love and respect for bikes. What you see here is proof of that deep reverence we have for this wonderful machine”, he said waving to the neatly arranged row of bikes in his garage.

 “Wow!!” Jai exclaimed. “I am also a total sucker for bikes too but this is something else. One thing I still don’t understand, why the free bottles, if I may ask?” “Oh yes! That was a huge turning point for Appa”, said Koshy and continued “He once got a chance to visit Goa with his boss and family on a four-day trip. Appa was their driver and during their time in Goa, they used to reach their hotel late every night after all the dinner and playing in the beaches. One of the things Appa noticed almost every night on his way back to the hotel was that some houses had desks with bottles like the one you see here. He ignored them at first but after seeing this at a couple of places he wanted to know what they were for. So he asked about these desks to the people at the hotel. Not sure, if you have heard about it but these were the locals, Good Samaritans, who wanted to help tourists in case they ran out of petrol because petrol pumps were hard to find in some areas. And this was all before Google and Maps. So they figured they would help by placing bottles of petrol in front of their homes, that too for free! Goa was a huge attraction even them and most of the Goans made their livelihoods through the thriving tourism. They hence had a lot of love and gratitude for those visiting their land and wanted to ensure a warm welcome to all those visiting. That day, Appa learnt something that would change his life forever. These people who provided the petrol in Goa weren’t rich landlords or wealthy people. They were just normal folks trying to make their land friendlier. So after he returned from Goa, Appa took out all the money he saved for his bike and set up his table around twelve years ago. So what if he couldn’t have a bike of his own, he would instead help tourists get to their destinations, safely and without any worry. And all these years he did just that. He is not too well these days but still ensures that the bottles are full every single day. I would like to think we have helped a few people along the way. Making tourists happier, one bottle at a time!”

Jai and Amith didn’t know what to say. They wanted to meet Cherian Sir. This man who had a small dream which morphed into something much greater. His wish to ride his own bike around the world transformed into a larger-than-himself dream of doing his bit to help other travelers who visit his hometown. Old age had taken a toll on him and he had been in hospital for a couple of weeks. However, he was better now except for his forgetfulness and hearing issues. “He loves to meet bikers like you. Please have a seat and I shall bring him.” A few minutes later, Cherian emerged from the room. He was a handsome man, probably in his 80’s and was fussing over his mundu, complaining that it wasn’t starched properly. He was in a wheelchair and Koshy brought him closer so he could took a good look at the boys. Cherian’s face lit up like he was meeting old friends and he gave them a broad smile.  Both Jai and Amith had a lot of feelings going through their heads but were too speechless to say anything. After a couple seconds, Amith, in his basic Malayalam asked, “Hello Sir. Kazhicho?”

“Aa. Idli, 3 ennam”

“Appo idli koode entha?”

“Chutney”, he replied which Koshy corrected, “Chutney allalo Appa, Sambar alle”

“Aa..chutney poloru sambar, sambar poloru chutney..”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Knowing Thyself

Arun was not my best friend in school. He wasn’t even in the ‘inner circle’. But he was a nice boy – kind and helpful. He always had a smile on his face, warm and innocent. Though we were both in the same class from Grade I, I never had the good fortune of getting to know him personally until Grade 7. His bus reached early and dad had to drop me in school on the way to his office. As a result, both of us reached class almost 45 minutes early. What started with Good Mornings and Hi-Hello’s gradually evolved into heated debates about school house teams and playing a quick game of shuttle everyday with the other boys before the daily assembly.

One distinct memory I have of Arun is the time we were discussing our school captain’s small but famous tattoo. It was a swastika on his left biceps, most of it hidden while wearing the school uniform but shown just enough to draw the attention of students and teachers alike. Students loved it while the latter couldn’t decide what to do about it. There were lengthy arguments amongst teachers whether the boy was a huge fan of Hitler or an ardent devotee trying to invoke good luck through spirituality.  Obviously, that didn’t matter to us much (He was way out of our league!) except for the fact that it got us thinking about what we would like to have if we ever got a tattoo.

I had come up with a few options and finally settled on the face of the Bull for two reasons. One, my sun-sign was Taurus and people who know me could easily attribute most of my characteristic behaviours to the ‘bull’ (ahem!); two, smaller the better, considering how painful it was to get a tattoo done. Happy with my choice, I asked Arun what he’d prefer but all he did was smile and say, ‘I’ll show you!’. I was curious about it the whole day and made a list of things that Arun would have liked. The good (read ‘sensible’) ones from my list included Johnny Bravo, Popeye and Batman. I made a note of them all thinking I’ll discuss with him the next morning. But Arun was a step ahead than I thought. That evening, before we all left for home he came to me and placed a piece of paper on my desk. I instantly knew it was the tattoo and quickly opened to see if it was as good as what I had in mind for him. Frankly I was disappointed! In it, five letters were written in black ink and beautiful calligraphy – thrive.

Of course, I knew what ‘thrive’ meant - our biology teacher who was also a passionate gardener had made sure of that. Arun was an artist alright but why a tattoo with this word? Maybe I could explain to him that Batman was way cooler. But like all other teenage discussions, we totally forgot about this. Or maybe just I did. After completing Grade 7, I moved to another country and school. New friends were made and Arun along with a few others receded to the archives of my brain.

Fifteen years have passed. Arun is now Archana, a very enthusiastic boutique owner. Her new features have not taken away her charm and innocence. We meet occasionally over cups of coffee where I can’t help but notice her radiant smile and gentle laughter while we recollect old memories and in the process, create new ones. She is scarred, but happy; tired, but relentless; emotional, but free. The process of knowing thyself is, in itself, one that calls for courage and the indomitable will to stand tall in the face of ridicule and criticism. But when you act on your reflections and work towards being thyself, you begin the extraordinary process of polishing and filing yourself, only to emerge stronger and soar higher. 

Where the tiger belongs..

Dasettan took his work very seriously. Or as most people who know him might say, ‘Immade Dasettan Puliyaantta!!!’ (Our Dasettan rocks!!!) Pulikali is an artform sans pareil in Thrissur. It is a matter of pride and a symbol of their eternal legacy second only to the famed Thrissur Pooram which men and women from all over the world gather every year to witness. These two events – the Thrissur Pooram and the Pulikali together encompass what the people of Thrissur truly believe in – the ensemble of culture, charisma and camaraderie!

To Dasettan, Pulikali was his mirror - the truest way of expressing himself. All year round, he would mentally prepare all the moves that would accompany the enchanting beats of the udukku, thavil and the like. Once the Thrissur Pooram ended, it was his cue to get started with his elaborate process. Who would paint, how would the design look like, how much rounder should his potbelly be, how much more food should he eat to achieve the desired ‘round-ness’, how many jingles of his handmade belt needed to replaced - all the details would be meticulously charted and followed to the T.

The event happens every year on the fourth day of Onam. For a performer the process starts from the wee hours in the morning. All the hair on the body has to first be removed and the now shimmering body is then given a first coat of paint which takes around 2 to 3 hours to dry. Then the second layer of painting is done, this time with great detailing and perfection (and of course, a truck load of patience). After a good 7 to 8 hours, the tigers assemble in the famous Swaraj Round. The drums sound and pulis dance, pounce and shake their bellies accompanied by the shikaris and other characters. The performance is a sight to behold and the sheer energy it exudes is enjoyed by both the classes and masses, alike.

Dasettan was one of the very few who was still going strong. Most of his friends who accompanied him when he started out were now part of a very distant past. This, however, did not discourage him. It only became the foundation of his love for the artform, bordering on obsession. ‘Pulikali illathe enthu Onam!’ (What fun was Onam without Pulikali!), he often said.  Forty years of tireless performances and Dasettan was still the stud of the event. Most youngsters who joined the sangams looked up to Dasettan. He was their very own Birju Maharaj, their Da Vinci of sorts. These days it was much easier. You could get readymade masks, tongues, teeth, tails and all the accessories. Also, the Thrissur Municipal Corporation gives a grant of Rs 30,000 for each troupe so as to encourage young performers and keep the tradition in its vibrant best. But in Dasettan, you could appreciate the art for its innocence and genuinity. Lots of people who came to the event remember Dasettan from when he was a young man. When asked, they would chuckle and say, ‘Dasettan annum innum same aantta, vayaru maathre chaadittullo!’ (Dasettan is still the same, only his potbelly has gotten bigger!)

His family however, did not share the same love for Pulikali or for him. Tigers essentially live solitary lives, except during mating season and when females bear young. The same could be said about Dasettan. His female left after bearing her young. His pulikali hardly brought any money and Dasettan didn’t hunt. Also, his wife didn’t quite get the whole idea. Performing pulikali, won’t make you a tiger nor will it fill our stomachs, she kept reminding him to which he would respond with only a smile. So one fourth day of Onam, when he returned back home after his performance, he found his wife had left. And she took along with her, his little cub who was barely 3 months old. He didn’t go looking for them. Nor did he expect them to return. Tigers essentially live solitary lives.

However, as years passed by, Dasettan felt the void. Most people he knew had moved on. New jobs, new families, new cities. But Pulikali had kept him rooted. It was everything he had and the one thing he could hold on to. Today, after his 40^th performance he shed a tear. It was his last time and was truly an emotional moment. All the people including the Collector gave him a standing ovation after the performance ended. A salute to his undying devotion to Thrissur’s most distinct tradition by almost 30,000-odd people. But Dasettan could only spot one face – his cub had returned. And this time with a tiny one in his arms – a baby girl. His son had his wife’s eyes, but most else was Dasettan. There was no mistaking him. And if he was in any doubt, the look on the young man’s face said it all. Dasettan broke down.

Most children were either scared or shy but she readily greeted him with a smile on her face when her father introduced the town’s most famous puli to her. Throughout the way back home she asked him various things about pulikali – how many bells did he have in his belt, how many idlis could he fit in his stomach, was the tail real and many other questions which left Dasettan dumbfounded. She also claimed to be the one who cheered the loudest. The little one was now sleeping in Dasettan’s lap and he stroked her hair lovingly. Looking at his granddaughter he realized he had missed all the wonderful moments of being a father. He had not been there for his son’s first fall or first word, nor was he there to support him after first punishment at school or first breakup. He had lived all his life as a puli and now that it came to an end he was unsure what to do next. But he knew what he wanted. He wanted to connect with his son and know him better. Fumbling for words, Dasettan asked him his name and even before he heard it he knew what it was. His wife was a huge fan of the actor, Jayan. He had not forgotten after all.

Jayan smiled and told his father how he had been to Dasettan’s every single performance after his mother told him about his father. He was angry at first, but then as years passed it was just a deep longing to know the man better – sans paint and costume. And what better time than after his last ever performance. Jayan wanted to take his father home. Surely he could not grow up with his father but little Gouri would have a playmate and friend. Dasettan’s heart felt a lot lighter. He was proud that his son had grown up to be such a good man. Or maybe it was because Dasettan wasn’t around. He wouldn’t know.

It was getting late. Gouri Mol left home with her father but not before Dasettan planted a kiss on her cheeks and promised that he would join them soon. Removing the last traces of paint from his body, Dasettan felt the last signs of his old self quickly fading out of reality. The images of his wife, son and Gouri began to replace the happy faces he usually noticed when performing. All the cheer that he got from his enthusiastic audience now seemed to blend with the love of his family. He smiled weakly feeling complete and thus basking in the warmth of it all, Dasettan died peacefully in his sleep.

Tigers dont really cope with old age. Most of them are poached or killed by other predators much before their time, but some lucky ones live the full extent of their lifetime before breathing their last.