A tamil month, p.1
A Tamil Month, page 1
A TAMIL MONTH
A TAMIL MONTH
V SANJAY KUMAR
BLOOMSBURY INDIA
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First published in India 2020
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Copyright © V Sanjay Kumar, 2020
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ISBN: TPB: 978-93-88630-10-8; eBook: 978-93-88630-12-2
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CONTENTS
I
NADU
TEN YEARS AGO
II THREE YEARS EARLIER
THE OUTSIDER
THE ENFANT
MUMBAI FALSETTO
QUARTER CUTTING
NANBAN
VALIBAN
SCRIPTING ISSUES
THE THIRD CUT
NANBAN
NANBAN
III
NANBAN
THE SIXTH CUT
NANBAN
IV
TWELVE MONTHS TO ELECTIONS
NINE MONTHS TO THE ELECTION
THAMBI
THREE MONTHS TO ELECTIONS
VALIBAN
NANBAN
KONGU NADU
SODA MUDI
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
CREDITS
I
NADU
The southern state of Tamil Nadu is where the real sun shines. The capital, Chennai, is a sauna by the sea. Every morning, the citizenry toils over tiffin. They pound rice mixed with gram and watch the dough rise, they pour water over powder and watch the dark Arabica drip. Grinding centres mash the all-important masalas while street dogs stand outside and sneeze.
Ye olde village was a leafy pattinam called Madras. It was a colonial outpost under British administration. The French in nearby Pondicherry had their eye on it and they challenged the British in 1746 and 1758. Dupleix defeated the old rival and ruled Madras briefly. Robert Clive, a young fellow at the time, reportedly fled.
Come the high tide of the Indian Republic and fifty years of erasure followed. Erasure is a national pastime, yet some vestiges remain. I drink to them, these ruins of the Empire. In this Nadu, British Empire is a bottled beer and Napoleon is a brandy.
Mornings I head to Elliots Beach, a sandy Sahara with a sea attached. The fisherfolk look up and the young ones wave. They call me paithyam, a certified loon. The sea is in a churn. Foamy waves crash over each other, in a hurry to get to the shore. Unable to resist the urge, I walk to the edge, shed my clothes and swim. I return alive, salty and famished, and head to a nearby Udipi whose blackboard proclaims, ‘Tiffin Ready’.
In the month of July, there is an urgency in temples. For a couple of hours each morning, loudspeakers door-deliver prayers to homes. What follows is spooky. A vacuum. I step out, right foot first, and tiptoe to the market where an air of uneasy expectation has brought down the prices. ‘Aadi has come,’ says a shopkeeper, shaking his fist at the stars above.
Aadi is a Tamil month that begins with the ides of July. The sun changes course and nothing is auspicious anymore. I find Aadi alluring. I feel alive. To me, it seems every risk meets its measure in July and every chance is worth taking.
I arrived as a visitor in Tamil Nadu. ‘We will cut the cloth to suit you,’ the locals said. I wore what they gave me and it was the mantle of the outsider. I wore it well, surviving the language, the slow acquaintance with its mores, the almost shy unravelling of its best-kept secrets. After many years in its embrace, I have understood that this Nadu is a country. Like Bombay, the one I came from. I have withstood the worst, bearing up even with this singular word called ‘poramboke’. I am scared of this word. It tells me that there exists a strip of no man’s land at the water’s edge that people like me belong to.
God knows I have tried to belong. I printed a local calling card that has my local name: Nanban. I married Sharada – she grew up here – and we have a daughter. My daughter has grown and she has two questions.
‘Where are we from?’ she asks. Adding, a little later, ‘Why are we here?’
‘I came here from Mumbai,’ I tell her.
‘Describe the city,’ she says, ‘since you refuse to go back there.’
Thinking of the city that made me, now far removed, the visuals that come are of sharp contrasts and brittle edges. Mumbai is a stapled narrative, a bandaged muse that hurtles along and somewhere in its sensual disorder (if you search hard enough), there are compelling reasons for its existence.
I tell my daughter, ‘If this country is a garden of weeds, Mumbai is its wild flower. It is a posh beautiful ruin.’
‘Then, why are we here?’
I carry this question as scientists have before me.
‘Why are we here?’
Come evening, I accompany Sharada to a classical music performance at the Kalakshetra auditorium. Under a thatched roof, we sit on cane chairs in the company of elders. Some of them are nodding to the beat, others are just nodding. These elders are vidwans in their own right, a Chennai speciality called an informed audience. The young singer on the dais is good but the audience raises the bar. She breaks free, soaring to where she has never been. Kalakshetra has me enthralled. I feel small in here, in my place, a comet in an ancient constellation.
A stray thought breaks the spell. Why are we here?
I should have told my daughter that we are here because my mother died here; we cremated her nearby and every morning, I swim in this ocean because her ashes return with the tide.
Sharada sees me fidgeting. ‘Go away,’ she says.
I leave halfway, alone. I decide to walk home. It is evening and as I stand at a store to buy some soda, cell phones come to life around me, glowing in shirt pockets, vibrating in trousers. People shout out intimate details, gesticulating at imagined relatives and friends. The sun blinks and sinks behind some tamarind trees. Birds are nesting and pet dogs are being walked. Streetlights flicker and strengthen, illuminating the sandy pavements. I walk the length of Tiger Varadachari Road, following two dancers in plaits and half saris. I cross Velankanni Church where, under tremulous entreaty, Yesu is saving the flock. I turn left onto the beachfront where waves are forming and waiting their turn. A peg measure waits for me at home. It is ornamental; I am done with dispensations, small and large. I have learned by now to measure drink by the hour.
TEN YEARS AGO
I am scared of visiting a place. Who can bear the sight of a man held down against his will? They have strapped Veerappan to a gurney and stuck tubes into him. He lies in a spotless room with a fixed smile, hooked up to machines that incessantly beep. On my last visit to this eerie chamber, I saw a nurse lift his naked legs, wipe and powder his arse, medicate a sore; he did not protest. I wish she had wiped that smile off his face.
‘Have you reached? I can hear you breathing.’
This is Sharada, whispering through my dangling earpiece.
‘I am sweating. There was a sharp stab in my chest just now.’
‘Get admitted then,’ she says.
‘You know I hate these places.’
I hate places where you pass on the baton to a machine, to people who wear masks, hold knives and make deep incisions.
‘It is a phobia,’ she says. ‘It preys on VIPs like you.’
I feel queasy as I approach Apollo, the big hospital off Greams Road. I have parked my car at a distance and I am walking along the crowded road. Hawkers have occupied the pavement and two-wheelers have occupied the kerb. Somebody honks behind me. I walk faster. He honks again. The bastard nudges me aside.
‘Get off the middle of the road,’ he shouts.
An ambulance floats past, eerily silent, its red light circling slower and slower. I halt at a crossing and people behind bump into me. ‘Sorry,’ I say.
‘Why are you sorry?’ Sharada asks.
They stay close, these locals. One fucker is sticking to me like my shirt. ‘Excuse me.’ I move away. He sidles up again.
‘Don’t touch.’
He looks up, noticing me for the first time. He scratches his crotch.
‘Touch me not,’ says another, cowering, mocking me.
They laugh loudly, the lot of them. ‘Dai,’ they call after me as I walk away. ‘Pardesi!’ they shout.
I hurry past a line of tightly parked vehicles and suddenly it appears before me, this apparition.
‘You should see this hospital , Sharada. It looks like a posh hotel.’
On the side of the large building, there is a neon sign that says ‘Emergency’. It is a staging area where they turn you into a patient.
‘Don’t hang up yet.’
There is security at the entrance and a man in a grey safari suit who welcomes Very Important People. He ignores me. I walk into the crowded foyer where people are milling around. There are signboards, arrows and counters. There is a nervous energy. Forms are being filled, prescriptions are being thrust through the pharmacy window, doctors are being summoned on the PA system and, in the middle of all this, patients are being wheeled through to various parts of the hospital.
‘An old man just walked past me towards the entrance. He is barefoot.’
‘Patient?’
‘He is wearing a smock and an Iyengar sign, nothing else. Oh, he is carrying his saline drip and the tube is trailing behind him. He is trying to get away. He has made it to the revolving door. A nurse is chasing him.’
A nurse grabs him by the arm and ushers him away. I catch his eye as he passes.
‘That’s how you will behave when your time comes,’ says Sharada.
I walk up to the small shrine near the lift. It looks like a carved almirah; inside it, an electronic flame flickers. When I bend low, I can hear a bhajan.
‘I have to hang up now. I will call you.’
I fold a currency note, place it before the deity and murmur a prayer. An old crooked woman is watching me, holding on to a walking stick. She has been here for a month.
‘For your son,’ I tell her.
‘He is still asleep,’ she says.
I give her room, she joins me and I hold her wizened hand for a while. She squeezes my hand.
‘Go now, speak to Veera. I am sure he will listen to you.’
They told me they drilled three holes in his skull, made three cuts and pulled out a triangle. They peeped in and there was blood that was pressing down on his brain. They inserted a tube and sucked and the blood came out and next to it was soft brainy tissue that was loose and willing. That tissue was he, his warmth, his memories – his unspoken thoughts, perhaps. They were very careful. When he awakens, he should recognise me and himself. The question is – when will he awaken?
I walk past the bank of lifts and take the stairs. I avoid the lifts because sometimes they wheel in patients headed to the first floor where the operation theatres are located. I hate seeing terrified people. I reach the fourth-floor landing, a little breathless. There is a nurse station that helms the floor. A matron smiles at me.
‘Good morning, sir.’
We walk together down a long corridor to the last room. The door has an inserted card that says Veerappan. It is quiet.
‘Remove your shoes please.’
I knock softly and enter.
They have washed him carefully today, dressed him in a pyjama and kurta and propped him up on the bed. They have combed his hair and his cheeks glow. A nurse is examining a chart. She makes careful portions from a boxful of ampoules, writes into the chart, pats Veera on the shoulder and leaves.
I call Sharada. ‘He looks normal, like he is sleeping.’
‘What are you going to do?’
I pull up a chair and sit next to him.
‘Does he know you have come?’
‘I would like to think so.’
I lean forward and look into his face, hold a finger under his nose and feel his breath. It is a quiet regular rhythm.
‘Talk to him,’ says Sharada.
‘The party is enthused with our results Veera and the attendance at rallies is soaring. We miss you. We need someone who will take charge. They want me to find someone else till you…’
Veerappan Gounder passes motion. I can hear it and now I can smell it.
‘Fuck, he is like a baby.’
I run out of the room, call the nurse and stay outside for a while.
‘A nurse has gone in to clean up.’
She wipes him with a damp towel and then, inevitably, powders his arse. Then, she uses a room spray. I sit next to him again.
‘They have strapped him down, his hands, his legs. There are all these tubes, so many of them. His eyes are closed. Should I open one?’
‘What? Why not? Won’t do any harm.’
I open one of his eyes.
‘Veera, this is Nanban.’
I imagine a flicker. But, the fact is that the great leader of the middle caste called Gounder is completely unresponsive.
‘What happened?’ asks Sharada.
‘Nothing. It is surreal. You look at him and you feel he will wake up any minute. But he doesn’t.’
A nurse walks in without warning and she uses a small towel to mop Veerappan’s face. Despite the air-conditioning, Veerappan is sweating. He can really sweat.
It hurts to see him like this. Right now, he is a farce; a force-fed, nappy-wearing farce. Machines are keeping him alive. I wish he had seen what we had achieved. Out of 234 elected assembly seats in the state of Tamil Nadu (one is reserved for an Anglo-Indian), the fledgling Lions Party competed in 75 and won in 50. I had been hired to do this. I had taken up the challenge because interventions like these made me whole; surprising people such as Veera kept me sane, but the job was incomplete without him.
‘Veerappan, they are going to appoint an upstart as your successor. Do you want to know who it is?’
He does not react. I crouch over him, cup a palm over his ear and say the one name that should wake him up from his slumber, ‘Karivardan.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘I think he shivered. I can see goosebumps.’
As I leave, I ask the matron to keep a vigil that night. ‘Believe me,’ I tell her. ‘He will come to life.’
‘Did you sign the register, sir?’ she asks, sounding prim. We look. ‘This is so childish. You should write your real name.’
Under ‘Visitor’s Name’ I had signed in as Machiavelli. Previously, it was Ponniyin Selvan. Each was a character that lived between pages.
‘You are back to your tricks?’ says Sharada. ‘Why do you do it?’
Sharada hangs up and after a few minutes, I call Muskaan. She does not answer my calls anymore. Muskaan is my last surviving link to my muse Mumbai, and I the last surviving buccaneer from the financial district of that city, a crowded square kilometre that houses brokerages, investment banks and a clearing house for the nation’s money. Muskaan and I were chat room residents for the many months that I was in this southern city, estranged, a man with a cause. We used to chat for long hours until our hands ached.
II
THREE YEARS EARLIER
THE OUTSIDER
If you are dark-skinned, you must be dull, prone to date failure and a reject in the arranged-marriage market. Big data says so. Big data says the only weapon you have against such bias is a fairness cream. You watch the ads and feel powerless. You begin to believe in the message that feeds into your insecurities, a message crafted by clever corporations. Your hand reaches out for that tube of fairness cream.
This is how truth forms. It is what you learn to believe. In a world ruled by advertising, truth is nothing else but a gradual hardening of confirmation bias.
Your ancestors in the southern state of Tamil Nadu were dark, unlike the fair Brahmins. It seems the Brahmins arrived as high-caste pilgrims from Aryan shores and you, in turn, broke away from the Dark Continent. They kept their distance from you. As did the European colonisers. You were powerless against such prejudice. Dark is a native root in your Nadu. Your shade card is from the palette of a Baroque painter called Velasquez who lit up his works to discover the dark.
Your Nadu is a Dravida Nadu. Insulated for centuries from invaders who ravaged the Indo-Aryans in the North. Your ancient culture blossomed, unfettered. You developed an insular nature and an aversion to impositions. Imagine the North imposing on you a national language. Hindi was never meant to lord over Tamil, one of the oldest surviving languages with inscriptions dating as far back as 500 BC. The attempt ended up fanning a resistance.
In the pages of history, a ‘resistance’ is a beauteous thing. Your resistance drew strength from caste. Caste is a social hierarchy; it has four tiers and is shaped like a pyramid. You, the vast majority, fester at the base of this pyramid, struggling to meet your daily needs, treated by other castes as pariahs and untouchables. At the peak is the Brahmin who is educated and feels entitled. Brahmin priests claim a direct line to the gods, with whom they communicate in Sanskrit, chanting shlokas. They have foisted on you an elaborate system of rituals for which they have to be paid – or else.
