Sonay’che topee August 9, 2009
Posted by globejam in Childhood, Folktales, Marathi.2 comments
Once upon a time, many many years ago, in a far off village somewhere in Maharashtra lived a much married poor deshastha man. Though he and his wife were very fond of children, they did not have any of their own. In the absence of IVF and other fertility treatments, the man and his wife began to repose their entire faith on the munificence of their family God. They prayed every day to their God to grant them a son or daughter to have and to hold and to cherish. They travelled to far off temples and did all kinds of poojas and tied pieces of cloth on assorted temple trees – all to no avail. Finally, in desperation, despite having no way to fulfill his promise, the man promised his God a Sonay’che topee ( Sona being gold and topee being cap or crown), in return for a child.
And lo and behold, nine months later, they were blessed with a beautiful baby boy. The man and his wife were overjoyed. The next few days passed off in a euphoric blaze as the pair reveled in every new move and sound made by the little one. However, the man’s joy was far from unalloyed, for he knew he had a promise to keep. He had to find the means to get hold of a Sonay’che topee for his God, and he knew he did not have the financial wherewithal to buy one – not then, not ever. He also knew that the God’s retribution would be swift if he reneged on his promise.
One day, as he lay on his veranda wondering what to do, his wife rushed to him and said “Maja sonay’che pillu amma mantla” (My golden boy said Amma). It was like somebody had switched on an incandescent bulb on top of his head. He immediately knew exactly what to do. Post-haste, he arranged for the naming ceremony for the child and under the direct gaze of all the elders of the family and their assorted deities, named his son Sona.
The next day, with a spring in his step, he went to the market, bought a small cap for his little son. He then came home, made his son wear the cap for a while and then promptly took it to the temple and offered it to the God saying “Deva, as promised, here is your Sonay’che topee. Thank you for everything.”!
And they lived happily ever after.
This story was told to me by my uncle when I was not yet ten. Having grown up on a diet of Amar Chitra Katha where Gods cheated each other and mere mortals using word play and small print, I was overjoyed to hear of a God getting his/her/its comeuppance.
For those readers who don’t understand Marathi, Sonay’che topee can mean golden crown or Gold’s crown.
Sometimes some dreams come true, but not quite July 7, 2009
Posted by globejam in Denmark.6 comments
This happened a long time ago when I had just started living in Denmark.
I was a bachelor then and shared the company provided accommodation with Matt, a colleague of mine. Matt, by the way, is a devout Syrian Orthodox Christian Malayalee, which is germane to this story and some others to follow – otherwise I will not bring it up. Both of us moved to Denmark at around the same time, towards the latter part of winter. The days were still short and we just had time to go to office, work, come back home, cook, eat, watch some TV and sleep. Since we were new to the place, we did not venture out much after dark, and it was pretty much dark most of the time.
During the initial days, after work, I would be glued to the television watching the rather explicit Scandinavian fare. While I was beginning to enjoy the open culture, Matt was finding it rather difficult to adjust. He would retreat to his room and read the bible. On several occasions, I heard him repeat the phrase “decadent society” like a mantra, I think, to drown the moaning and groaning that was emanating from the TV.
Gradually my interest in the unwavering constancy of the libido of the actors waned. Summer was also creeping in and the days started getting brighter and longer. During the weekends, Matt and I would wear several layers of clothes, sweaters and jackets and venture out to some place or the other. Since it was still pretty cold, we tended to go to indoor places like museums and such.
A few months went by and one Saturday in May dawned, bright and sunny. It was like summer had decided to do a preview show. We stood outside and soaked in the sun, though it was still pretty chill for us, except under direct sunlight. Our spirits soared and we decided we would make a trip to one of the numerous castles around Copenhagen. We checked Copenhagen this week which suggested that the Rosenborg Have was the right place to be on a sunny Saturday.
So, Matt and I, wearing only a sweater and a jacket over our regular clothes (it was still cold, by Madras standards), set out to Rosonberg Have, the gardens around the Rosenborg palace. We reached the gates and it appeared that half of Copenhagen had had the same idea. People were coming in from all directions. Not only had we been deprived of sunlight all these months, we had been deprived of crowds too. We were so happy. For the first time in months, we felt as though we were in Madras. There we were, two Indians, overdressed for the occasion, in a sea of Danes, looking around with wide eyes, taking in the crowds and the noise. We walked on and soon we were surrounded by youngsters holding hands, kissing, with hands roaming under each other’s shirts. We should have noticed the signs, but we didn’t.
A little further down, there was this empty bench under direct sunlight. Matt suggested that we sit down for a while and soak in the sun. So we parked ourselves on the bench and the usually reticent Matt started talking about what a wonderful day it was or some such thing, oblivious to the happenings around us. During a lull in the conversation, we looked around and suddenly realized we were right bang in the middle of an impromptu nudist camp. Everybody had wanted the same sunny spot, I suppose. There was not a stitch of cloth around, except for the two of us, of course, who had enough clothes on to cover everyone else. GLBT and straight, all represented. It was like all the movies I had watched rolled into one and how!
I was too overdressed to look, though all I wanted to do was stare. While I was contemplating removing my clothes and blending into the group (I would have been the only non-white, non-blond, non-blue eyed single feller around, but hey, you got to take a chance once in a while!), Matt, I thought was having a heart attack. He had his eyes scrunched up, was hyperventilating and making all kinds of strange noises. Before I could decide whether to strip first or call the ambulance, he got his breath back, sprung up in the air, jumped across a pair of lesbians in full flow and dragged us both out of that place.
Later that night, I lay in my room listening to the chants of “decadent society” from the next room while wondering if tomorrow would be a bright day too, and how I could get out of the house without Matt finding out.
My morning routine June 28, 2009
Posted by globejam in This is not bad. It's worse!, Uncategorized.4 comments
It’s another crisp bright day on the eastern seaboard of peninsular India. I wake up with the first rays of the sun with a definite spring in my step. I wash up quickly, don my exercise clothes and am away for my morning walk-jog-run-swim routine.
I step out into the street and take a lung full of the fresh air that is injected with the fragrance of a thousand blooms. The overnight dew is yet to evaporate and the slight breeze through the moisture-laden air makes it feel like I am walking through the finest mist of nature’s best.
I take the backstreets that have the newly laid jogging tracks maintained by the city corporation. I am among the first few to hit the track, but every minute more people are joining in. Some of the older folks are using the well laid out even pavements between the road and the jogging track while most people are on the jogging track. The track is wide enough for one to overtake another without slowing down either and since we are all moving in the same direction, things are as smooth as can be. It’s mostly the same people I come across every day and we acknowledge each other with eye contact, a smile, a slight nod, but no talking. Nobody wants to disturb the silence.
The ipods, of course, are out in full force, but I am not one of them. I have my ears peeled for the bird calls. On a good day, I can spot a couple of dozen species of birds and I don’t want to miss the exhilarating experience of being close to nature. I start with a brisk walk and soon I pass by my favourite tree – the yellow laburnum. It’s in full bloom and completely yellow this time of the year. As usual, it has shed some of its flowers on the road in an arc overnight and it looks like an aerial view of a stadium with gallery seats painted the brightest of yellow. At the next corner, a glorious peepal tree stands majestically. I crane my neck and scan the tree for the Golden Oriole. I see it and hear its melodious song every day, but yet it’s still a pleasure each time. The tranquil morning is suddenly shattered by the strident kuwo-kuwo-kuwo-Koovooo call of the Asian koel. The babblers join in immediately, as though this was the signal they had been waiting for. Soon, the bird calls are in full flow.
I am now sufficiently warmed up and so I up the pace to a 9 km/hour jog. Life is good. I take my usual path that leads to the pristine beach at Elliots’. I keep a steady pace and in 20 minutes I reach the beach. The sun has risen over the bay of Bengal and the blue sea is glistening with golden spangles. I do two laps on the jogging track by the shore and then go to the recreation centre. It’s a wonderful two-tier building with a full gym and lockers and showers on the ground floor and an all organic food court on the first floor. The entire sea facing side is tinted glass giving you an uninterrupted view all the way to the horizon.
I go to my locker, change into my trunks and hit the beach on the run. The pristine fine white sand is already warm and the slightly cooler waters are beckoning. I skirt around a mixed group of noisy youngsters playing volleyball. Another group of girls, in the tiniest of bikinis, and boys are splashing around in the shallows. I don’t mind the ruckus they are making, their laughter and good natured banter puts a smile on my face. What I am most happy about is that this beach is a no-scooter zone which means there are no motorized jet-skis and fast boats destroying the peace.
I wade into the water and go some distance down the gentle slope until the water is about waist deep. The water is cool and clear. I can see the sand under my feet clearly. I know that soon the slope will become steeper as I hit the shelf. I start a slow crawl parallel to the beach for a couple of kilometers. The noise and shouting all gradually fade away and it’s now just me and the sea. It’s an exhilarating experience and even though I have been doing this every day for over a decade now, it’s like the first time every day!
I come back out and head for the showers. I have a quick shower, change into a fresh set of clothes and head to my favourite juice joint on the top tier. I have my usual vegeMix juice-of-the-day waiting for me (with ice, no sugar). I sit down on one of the bar stools facing the sea, savour my drink and take a breather for about 10 minutes.
Then, I jog back home. By now the vehicular traffic has increased a bit and the sun is a little hotter too. I reach home, have a refreshing shower and I am ready to face another exciting new day.
Sounds too good to be true? That’s because it is. The real routine goes this way…
The alarm rings at half past five in the morning. My wife wakes up and gives me a nudge. ”Are you going to the gym today or not?” she asks half-accusingly. She knows if she does not wake me up fully, I am likely to curl up and go back to sleep. Despite the air-conditioner running on full power, I know it is another muggy day. I reluctantly pry my eyes open and mumble, “umm… yes” and close my eyes again, hoping she will go away. ”Get up, then”, she admonishes, knowing full well that the only way to get me up is to get under my skin. I grumble and get up and go turn the modem on – I need to check what’s happened on our website overnight. I then go to the next room, turn my notebook on and head for the bathroom. A quick wash and I am back in time to see the notebook booted up and online. Right on cue, my wife says, “It’s getting late and I am going”. I reply, “Two minutes”, but she is already out and on her way.
I finish checking my mails, wear my shoes and I am out of the door, about ten minutes later. I reach the gate and hold my breath. The garbage accumulated overnight has not been cleared yet and smell of decaying food and the shit of a hundred children and dogs is over-powering. The dogs have, as usual, attacked the discarded food packets and dragged them and distributed them from one end of the street to the other.
I gingerly step out, careful to avoid the dog shit on the road. Sometimes, it’s an undisturbed lump that I can skip over easily. At other times, some vehicle has already run over it, making it that much more difficult to avoid stepping on it. The first contact with the tyre has resulted in a 6-inch wide slash followed by diminishing residues at every length of turn of the wheel for another few meters. I try to steer clear of it all while at the same time avoiding the edges of the road where a line of children are defecating.
By now, I cannot hold my breath for much longer. I run quickly to the end of the road as far away from the stink as possible and take a quick breath through my cupped fingers, in the illogical hope that my fingers will filter away the smell and the germs.
It’s already hot and sweat has started collecting in every fold of my skin. I take a left and start walking. There is no jogging track and I hope that the hard tarmac on which I do my walking-jogging does not screw up my knees entirely. Grumpy milkmen and newspaper delivery boys are already out on the road on their cycles and motorbikes. They don’t expect anybody else on the road, especially not joggers in this health-blind, fatalistic community and are driving recklessly at breakneck speeds. I hope they don’t run over me. I walk past the beautiful yellow laburnum tree but between keeping my eyes on the road for shit and the kamikazi two-wheelers, I have very little time to appreciate it. There are still only a few people on the roads, mostly around the teashops which have LR Eashwari and Seergazhi belting out Mariamma songs at full volume. A koel chased by crows goes Kuwo-kuwo-kuwo and I can see that neither I nor the birds (other than the crows) can hope for any peace or quiet here.
The sweat is streaming down into my eyes and further down all the way to my underwear now and I still have not started jogging. I coax my reluctant body to up the pace and after several false starts, I start jogging at about 8 kms/hour. The humidity is already killing and it feels like I am trying to run through molasses. I labour on, telling myself to imagine better surroundings. Maybe I should continue on to the beach, I think.
But the idea is shot down in double quick time. First of all, it’s a long way away. Secondly at this time in the morning, the entire fishing village will be squatting by the shore defecating the previous day’s meagre catch. It’s a sight I happened to inadvertently catch once – a long row of naked butts squatting close to the where the waves recede, hoping that the next wave will take away the shit and wash their ass – never mind, the less said the better.
I cannot imagine running there, leave alone swimming in those waters. Just the thought of the shit laden sand squishing between my toes is enough to make me puke.
I veer away from the road to the beach, turn into some of the cleaner inner lanes (cleaner being clearly a comparative term) and reach the air conditioned comfort of the gym as quickly as possible. I finish my workout, and needless to say, there is no organic, health food joint out there. I trudge back home in time to have a quick shower and some breakfast.
Another hot day. Wish I could just switch on the air conditioner and go back to bed. I am pooped already!
A question of pronunciation. May 24, 2009
Posted by globejam in Uncategorized.6 comments
At home, we have always been interested in words, their origin, their character and their idiosyncracies. My son seems to have inherited our interest, but in a quirky sort of way. He finds it extremely funny whenever people mispronounce words. When I first noticed this, I thought it was a passing phase, but it has endured, and now I find that this has become one of my foibles too.
And I must say, of late, this has become a rather sophisticated pastime for us. We have gone beyond laughing at the Malayalee simbly or the Bihari “If you don’t bhear soos, you get sock” type of regional accents.
I highly recommend this as a pastime, and to start you off, let me give you some examples.
Take the word bra. It has a open sound to it, which seems to have a disconcerting effect on the typical conservative, middle-class south Indian. It appears that they feel that something that is meant to cover the boobies should not have a sound that seems to encourage people to bare it all. So whenever they are forced to use this word, they try to stifle its freedom by pronouncing it as brough (brought without the t in the end). How they pronounce this word will tell you how liberated they are. I swear. Watch out next time you hear this word.
Another favourite is the word film. Most people, especially those associated with Bollywood, kollywood and other *ollywoods (other than H, of course), pronounce this as philim. Obviously, the only time this pronunciation is correct is when you use it in the sentence “romba philim kaatran“.
Some others, who know that philim is wrong but still can’t pronounce the l & m together end up saying flim with a smug look on their face that seems to say “See how sophisticated I am!”.
But the word that gets my attention everytime is question. Most people seem to have their own take on this, despite this being a fairly common word. Some of the different pronunciations are given below. Please read them aloud and repeat a few times to get the full effect. Don’t rush, read the next few paragraphs slowly.
1. Kostin. Say this loud a few times and I’m sure a few faces will come to mind.
Typically spoken very hesitantly and sometimes accompanied with a look of distaste. Kind of like how you open your mouth wide and let everything in it drop out when you find something horrible, like say, hing, in your mouth.
Variations include additional s’s – Kosstin, Kossstin and so on.
2. Kostinn. Strident, ear-piercing, demanding, in a needy sort of way.
Used by people with tinny voices with a predisposition to throwing tantrums. Desperate survey takers and cold-callers eking a living demanding answers from disinterested people come to mind easily.
Variations include additional n’s – Kostinn, konstinnn.
3. Koshshun. Go on, say it loud, it’s not unpleasant
Used by people who know that -tion is pronounced shun. With varying intonations, people try to pass it off as an American or British accent, mostly unsuccessfully.
4. Koschin. Quite common. Not as distasteful as kostin, but still shares some of its please-fall-off-my-tongue-without-touching-anything-else feel to it.
Users are typically very self-confident and don’t care what you think of their pronunciation.
Variations include additional h’s – Koshchin, and koshhchin.
5. Koshchan. Rare, but delectable. K-O-S-H-C-H-A-N. Go on, savour it. Say it again.
Usually accompanied with large inquisitive eyes and puckered lips demanding to be kissed. These people know exactly what they are doing. I think this should be the official recommended pronunciation. Because saying it like this will guarantee a favourable answer – every time!
That’s it for now. I hope you have got a flavour of a pastime that is pleasant, requires no extra effort or time, and can give you immense pleasure during your wakeful hours, at home and at work. Along the way, you learn a lot too. While a person is telling you something using words, the words are telling you a story of their own!
Oh! And by the way, can you still pronounce the word question?
Absurd, you say? May 18, 2009
Posted by globejam in Childhood.2 comments
A long time ago, when I was very young, I went to my friend S’s house. It was hot outside and so we were playing inside. After sometime, his mother came by and asked me “Would you like to eat some Globe jam?”. Imagining it to be some exotic foreign sweet, I nodded my head enthusiastically. Soon she came back with a small cup with the very familiar round ball of khoa in sugar syrup. After she went back into the kitchen I sniggered, “This is Gulab Jamoon. Why does she call it Globe jam?”.
S responded with, “It’s round like the globe, right?”. I had to agree. ”And it is sweet as jam, no? That’s why it is called Globe jam”.
What can I say? Some things can be real absurd and yet make total sense!
I am totally disenchanfranchised May 17, 2009
Posted by globejam in Uncategorized.1 comment so far
On election day, for the sake of democracy and the future of this country, I take my elderly parents to the polling booth. Kind of like that man who lugged his aged parents around in cane baskets, except, to stay with the times, I ditch the cane baskets and use my car instead. We have done this many times – vote as a family, I mean – but this time it is slightly different. My parents are a lot older and they are going to be voting for an independent candidate for the first time. So, along the way, we rehearse the process again.
“Amma, remember the slate symbol. Don’t forget his name, E. Sarath Babu, Ok?”, I say. She is annoyed at being treated like a fogey old lady. “Ok. Ok. I know. Studied in BITS Pilani, went to IIM [A] afterwards, now he is foodking. Avanthaney? I know who I am voting for!”, she says. My dad nitpicks, “He is not foodking, his company is”. “Same thing!”, she retorts. I sigh, thinking it would be so much easier to just go by myself, finish the voting quickly and get to office. But having taken up the cause of a man fighting against losing his deposit, I know every vote would count.
We reach the polling station. It’s not so crowded after all. We go in search of our counter and find it at the far end of the school. My father is holding the umbrella for protection from the scorching sun, ostensibly for both himself and amma, though he is walking ten steps ahead of her. There is a sudden urgency to cast his vote, it seems.
We reach the counter and join a smallish line. A really old man is at the top of the queue. Everything is repeated multiple times for his benefit. A photographer is clicking away, hoping to exaggerate the age of this voter and hit the front page of some daily. The old man labours with his walking stick and finally reaches the voting machine. He goes behind the torn up cardboard carton, the makeshift screen for the secret ballot, and fumbles for an eternity. “Pothun thathaa, move along”, says the impatient polling officer. The old man leaves and I don’t hear the beep that signals the successful recording of his vote. The group of party representatives who are supposed to monitor the process and ensure each other’s behavior all go nudge-nudge, wink-wink, hoping to cast his vote for their candidate later in the day.
We reach the entrance of the booth. On the walls around the door are the posters of all the candidates with their respective numbers. There are totally 48 candidates. Amma has forgotten her glasses. She squints and points at some other symbol and says “Is that the slate?”. Its hot and I am already tired and impatient. “No, maa, that’s something else. See here, see the name written in big letters. This is the slate. Number 24. Marakkadey”, I whisper, hoping nobody can hear this conversation. She is nodding her head doubtfully when my father, a little hard of hearing and consequently a little loud, whispers so all can hear “Tell her it is number 24, otherwise she will vote for some other idiot”. I am cringing now, wanting this hell to get over soon.
My dad hits the head of the queue, presents his voter id, locates his name on the list, reaches the voting machine with a spring in his step and the deed is done. My mother is next. Same process, albeit a little more slowly. My brother follows suit and now it’s my turn.
I present my voter id and the officer looks at her list and says, “Sorry, but your name is not here in the list”. I have a voter id, I have voted before, even at this same polling booth, I am right here in person – but sorry, no, I can’t vote. I am dejected and I whine “I want to vote!”. “You should have checked earlier, when we made the rounds with the latest voters’ list”, she admonishes me as though I am an errant school kid. Appa says, “Come along, don’t stand there and fight. Everyone is watching”, and drags me away.
Now I hear that E. Sarath Babu may have lost his deposit. Hopefully by more than one vote, otherwise I’ll be burdened with this guilt till next elections.
So the story continues… educated people can’t win. The corrupt parties with their illiterate candidates and money to burn continue to rule the roost. While people like me and Kamal Haasan have to continue to watch impotently from the sidelines.
I am disenfranchised and completely disenchanted. Can you blame me for feeling disenchanfranchised?
Gay Anthem May 10, 2009
Posted by globejam in Uncategorized.2 comments
Today in Sunday Times on the front page is an article titled “Same sex couples ‘marry’ with approval of parents” (I can’t find the link right now). I don’t understand why this is headline news. It’s not dated today, doesn’t have any location mentioned, doesn’t have any celebrities involved, has nothing to do with politics – don’t tell me the TOI has not enough material for the front page!
Anyway, when I read the article, this old Tamil song tune popped into my head. So I decided to compose a gay anthem around it. It starts like this:
Radha, Radha, neeyum gay
Kannan’um gay, naanum gay
Radha,… Radha, neeyum gay
I am releasing this under Creative Commons. Feel free to use, reproduce (ha, ha), and expand on it. As an exercise, I request readers to add the next stanza. Go!
Secrets from our hoary past May 5, 2009
Posted by globejam in Nonsense.3 comments
Today, I am going to bring to you, for the first time ever, in written form, a secret known only to a select few Deshasthas. Something so enigmatic that it makes secrets like the Masonic handshake and the traditions of the knights of templar seem like mere child’s play.
I have to do this because I can no longer deny my thirst for knowledge, nor rid myself of this strong belief that the time for this secret to come out and save mankind is now.
Now, dear reader, if something happens to me, because of all that I am about to reveal, remember to repeat the words that I am going to divulge until the truth is out! I implore you not to give in so that my efforts do not go to waste.
Back to the secret. This comes from the heartland of Deshasthas – Triplicane. The key to the secret is a ditty that has been passed down from one generation to the next solely by way of word-of-mouth. For hundreds of years, from every generation a few chosen children are taught this at a very young age and through a process of repetition made to learn every syllable, every glottal stop and every nuance of it, so that it may be faithfully passed on without any distortion. Its meaning is said to be so profound that mere mortals cannot fathom the depth of the contents of these few words.
Hold your breath now, for I am going to write it only once.
Aggi-pettay, Giggi-pettay
Kozhi, Kodhamma
Pilli, Pithuk
Lore has it that there are three groups of deshasthas who have been entrusted with three different portions of a secret that can be extremely devastating if known to a single person. It is believed that the above ditty is used every thirty years or so to help each of the three groups to ensure that the other groups exist and are continuing to guard their portion of the secret for that day when a sign will tell them what to do.
Most recently, my research tells me, the call to unite the three groups was made through a popular tamil film song whose original lyrics started with Aggipettay, giggipettay, kharrompettay, pettay rap!
While the meaning of the ditty has been lost for ever, my efforts towards unlocking the secret have led me to believe that the the first line refers to two places, and the second line to a specific chicken dish that is available only in a village in Tanjore. I have since confirmed that triangulating these three places should point us to a village that is very significant to the Deshastha clan – somewhere between Usilampatti and Periyakulam.
The final line seems to be some form of mild expletive, because when uttered in front of some of the chosen ones, it results in vehement denial in the form of a response that sounds like “Thooch Pithuk” which translates to “you are Pithuk, not me“. What Pithuk itself may mean is not yet very clear.
Dear reader, you can help me in my quest to unravel this secret. First learn the words given above by heart. Then, whenever possible, and as often as you can, in crowded areas, in parties and wherever groups congregate give a loud rendition of this ditty. If anyone reacts weirdly, please note down their names and addresses and pass the details on to me.
Remember, your help could save this world!
The milk saga April 28, 2009
Posted by globejam in Childhood, This is not bad. It's worse!.5 comments
When I was young, we used to get pasteurized milk in 500 ml bottles delivered to our doorstep every morning. There was something nice and generous about these wide necked bottles. They were smooth, shapely bottles capped with a thin foil of aluminium with a thick layer of cream hiding right under the cap. The first one to reach the bottle got to dip a quick finger in and lick the cream, much to my mother’s disgust. The milk was also quite tasty in a pasteurized sort of way.
Then for some reason, these bottles went out of circulation and so we started buying fresh milk. Having been used to the fat-rich bottled milk, we preferred buffalo milk at our house, it being thicker than that from one of the emaciated cows whose staple diet it seemed was largely movie posters that adorned the compound walls in our area.
Everyday, the milkman would arrive in the morning with a long cylindrical container, a stuffed calf and a forelorn buffalo in tow. He would start by deftly swinging the cylindrical container so that it was almost completely upside down for a fraction of a second, as proof that there was no water in the container. Though in truth, he would have already primed the container with a couple of hundred milliliters of water. The centripetal force of the swing would ensure that the water did not spill out even when the container was upside down at some instant during its traversal of an arc in space. He would then sit down and milk the buffalo then and there, measure the required amount of milk and pour it into the container that we proferred.
Those were pleasant days. Chennai was little more than an overgrown village and there were quite a few people maintaining cattle and poultry right in the heart of the city. Every day, the cowherd would take all the cows and buffalos through the streets to some place where he could bathe them and wash them. Or possibly where there was an abundance of movie posters, I don’t know. Following him 15 minutes later, down the same path, would come his wife with a cane basket in her hand scooping up the dung dropped by the herd. This cow dung, of course, would later be made into round patties and stuck on walls to be dried and subsequently used as fuel for cooking. In the 15 minutes between the departure of the cattle herd and the arrival of the poop-scooper, the brahmins in the locality, who believe that the cow is sacred and the dung and urine of the cow medicinal, would step on fresh dung with gusto and where opportunity allowed, partake in some cow urine as it flowed out directly from the tap, so to speak. This entire ritual would be repeated in the evening in the opposite direction as the cows came back home, the only difference being that the cowherd would have gone off to booze it up somewhere leaving the cows to make their own way back – which they did with utter nonchalance.
I got to watch these idyllic scenes for a couple of years before Chennai began to aspire to become a real city. Soon the corporation banned all cattle within the city limits, and relocated all the cattle owners (along with the cattle) to the outskirts of the city. Our supply of fresh milk dwindled quickly but was replaced by the milk sachets from the government driven cooperative milk units set up for the cattle owners under the brand Aavin. The milk we got through Aavin was tasteless, odorless and watery, but we had no choice. We made do with this milk for another couple of years before we relocated to our new house on the outskirts of the city. It was fantastic to move into the new house, with more room and plenty of space outside for a garden and best of all, access to fresh milk again.
One of the first things my mother did on moving to the new house was to scout around and find the nearest source of fresh milk. And soon we were all getting fresh buffalo milk again. Though the milkman no longer brought the buffalo home, he would still milk the buffalo at his cattle shed and then deliver it within 5 – 10 minutes. He would bring it in a vessel covered with some makeshift lid or another vessel.
After a few months, the milkman delegated the milk delivery to his son Pitchai. Now, pitchai was one of the grubbiest people I have ever seen. He had the blackest finger nails, the dirtiest hair, a hare lip that exposed his front teeth and some of his most recent meal, and his clothes and his body had never seen soap. My mother would lament “oh! Why doesn’t the milkman scrub his son also along with the buffaloes?”, usually within earshot of the father or the son. But to no avail, for the neither the father, nor the son seemed to care too much about cleanliness.
Pitchai would come every morning with our milk and my mother would collect it from him with utmost distaste and boil the milk for a lot longer than usual and hope that we did not catch all the diseases he likely brought along with him. One day, instead of covering the vessel with the customary makeshift lid, he had covered it with some cloth. My mother was livid. She thought the cloth was some bedsheet or something. Aghast, she screamed “Why have you covered my milk with your dirty bedsheet? Aiya yaiyai yoo! How can we all drink this milk now?”. To which Pitchai replied, “Idhu bedsheet illae maa, idhu en lingi maa!” (This is not a bedsheet, this is my lungi (sarong)). Unable to banish vivid images of other things that the lungi would have surely been in contact with, my mother promptly stopped buying milk from him.
We’ve never had fresh milk at home since then.
