CAUVERY FLOWS INTO OUR HOME- DOES SHE? PART II

  The Cauvery Water fiasco needed a multi-prong strategy for resolution. We couldn't afford to put all our eggs in one basket. The scene shifted from the Neighbour- Watchman network  and we were back to the Drawing Board.  Grandma  began by addressing  Grandson, " Do you know that the plumber and JCB have gone off without giving us the water connection? That road cutting is not for our connection. We should have checked what was going on. This is what happens when  nobody in the house takes an interest in domestic chores.  Now how can we persuade him to come back for our work.  He may even demand a monetary penalty for our omission for our fault. Instead of standing with him as he worked, we were twiddling our thumbs and now....gloriously left HIGH  AND  DRY... *, she ranted.

       Grandson, perhaps realising that the situation was very hot; that it called for diplomacy rather than argument  came up with a facetious solution. " Since  you accept that it is our fault, let us pay whatever he asks-even if it is Rs. 10,000 or 20,000 whatever.  If  Rs.20000 is what it takes to bring the plumber back, let us give him that amount.  If he wants more, we can  always negotiate.  AFTER ALL, WE ARE NOT PAYING HIM TO DO HIS JOB, WE ARE PAYING HIM FOR REMEMBERING THAT OUR HOUSE AND CONNECTION EXIST. AND DIDN'T YOU PLY THE ENTIRE CREW WITH YOUR TIPS. SO WHAT'S THE BIG DEAL?

"TWENTY THOUSAND RUPEES FOR A WATER CONNECTION WHICH THE WATER BOARD IS SUPPOSED TO PROVIDE." Grandma was aghast.

        Grandson however was not done yet. " Think of it this way,  Patti"., he said cheerfully. The first connection lasted fifty years. If this one lasts another fifty years, at just Rs. 400 per year, your outlay of Rs. 20,000 is recovered. That is worth a lot more than worrying about it everyday!" Impeccable logic, of course.

    Grandma was aggrieved. Firstly she could never understand the generational shift in economic perspectives. It was ridiculous that we should pay for a public utility service. Tips were different but not such massive handouts. Also the uncertainty of  the outcome, the dependence  on others and the loss of her independence totally frustrated her. In a sudden burst of practical wisdom, Grandma announced her solution. " Enough of this Plumber and his JCB. Let us forget this connection altogether. We shall simply transfer water manually to our sump from the other connection in the new house. At least, we won't have to pay hefty  sums to anyone", she concluded.

    Kalpana  nearly fainted on hearing this. " Aiyo, Amma", she wailed.  " How can I possibly transfer water everyday from the other tank. I already have a bad back". Grandma wasn't impressed  with this plea. " What have times come to!" she exclaimed. " It all depends on how efficiently you organise the plumber through your networking". Kalpana nodded, anxious to get going with her networking, intent on fine tuning it under threat of Grandma"s fanciful ideas. " Oh God," she prayed. " Save my back".

    The incident unfolded around Dussera time. Came the auspicious day of Ayudha Pooja, when tools, machinery and implements are worshipped for their efficient functioning.  Everyone was convinced that the Plumber and his gentle monster would surely put in an appearance to be feted and fed with appropriate Dakshina, flowers and fruits. " Today, surely the SUPREME  AYUDHA, the JCB and its mahout, the Plumber will visit", Grandma declared and we waited with flower and Pooja offerings for the great JCB and its Mahout. But no sign of either and we were left, anxious and disappointed.

        Our strategy and vigil continued nevertheless with constant enquiries with the Watchman and the  Neighbour on tracking the whereabouts and movement of the elusive plumber. The neighbour assured us that she would alert  and notify on any intelligence received about the plumber. After all, how could anyone miss the sharp ear-piercing metallic honk of the JCB, which always heralded its arrival,

 Now and then, we do hear this metallic clang  somewhere in the distance and scurry to the gate to check whether the JCB has graced us with its arrival. However the JCB did arrive one day into our road , proudly displaying  its logo - ON BWSSB WORK,  leaving nobody in doubt about its official mission. But what the mahout made his Gentle Monster do was anything but official. He was in no hurry to finish  the job that he had been engaged for. Instead he seemed quite happily engaged in deploying the JCB to collect and stash away another resident's garbage, that had been lying on the road. This pleasurable diversion for the plumber was apparently the  result of a combination of the Watchman's  native shrewdness and regional camarederie. No doubt, all stakeholders, namely the Watchman and the Plumber  would have  benefitted abundantly.

    Our once crushed hopes have revived after the Unofficial appearance of the JCB and the Plumber. The wait continues but the vision  of the maiden pouring water from a pot sustains us. Nature may decide the course of  river Cauvery but of course,  for a home in Bangalore, it is the Plumber who will  determine this.

        

CAUVERY FLOWS INTO OUR HOME- DOES SHE? Part 1

In densely populated Bangalore, water is not merely an Utility;it is a daily preoccupation in areas of scant supply where the entire family is engaged feverishly in storing and conserving the supply. In Bangalore, one either inspected continuosly water levels in the sump or scrounged for Ground water.  Water supply is elusive but a very tricky and dramatic situation unfolds when the Chief Architect of the Water Supply does a Disappearing Act. 

            In keeping with the  promises made  by statesmen of a grander and greater Bangalore with better infrastructure, new water pipes were being laid across the city, generally presenting a messy scnario of dug up roads, heaps of brown mud and gravel piled randomly. However the capacity of Bangaloreans to tolerate Infrastructure turmoil is infinite.. With promises of a better water supply, our hearts filled with hope. Visions of the Bangalore Water Authority's logo of a demure maiden pouring water from a pot coupled with the motto- "'FROM COORG TO THE STARTUP CITY, IN TIME FOR YOUR MORNING BRUSH, CAUVERY GUSHES INTO EVERY TAP" enchanted us. In particular we, the residents of Spencer Road were hoping for a better supply through larger pipelines which meant we could probably get clean, sparkling water directly in our kitchen, without being stored in a dark, damp sump for our drinking and cooking purposes.  

            The matter was of considerable significance to Grandma, who had been concerned about the declining quality and supply of Cauvery water.The servant added her own bit of masala," Amma, they are laying bigger pipes this time around ". Grandma nodded her head happily.' Now for some clean water directly flowing into the kitchen at last at last", she said, warming to the thought. 

        Little did we suspect what lay in wait. The laying of pipes in our locality had begun. In fact, the work in the neighbouring road had been completed and now it was our turn. The JCB , to be used for the road cutting aarived at last. For some strange reason, it reminded me of R. K. Narayan's The Road Engine- a huge but gentle elephant chucking out mud and sand much like the way elephants lift logs of wood. A well trained elephant does its job properly-so would a good JCB. Or so we thought, little knowing how wrong we were. 

         There was considerable noise and commotion on the road with the arrival of the gentle Monster Machine.  We, the household left the JCB and its mahout, the lordly Plumber to their devices. The menfolk declared that they were not to be bothered. So explicit instructions were given to our good, old servant to keep an eye on the action in the road, update and generally act as a Pointsman. Grandma was, however of the firm opinion that the labour class never do a proper job properly unless constantly prodded and supervised. Accordingly, she sent the servant out at regular intervals to check whether the JCB was still there and that the work was progressing. So the servant flitted in and out of the gate innumerable times, partly to carry out grandma' s instructions and partly for some chit-chatting.      

        In this manner Kalpana, the servant became the Chief Executive of  Project Cauvery, a responsibility she took quite seriously. The JCB's arrival caused a stir in our house particularly because of our Water Paranoia. In India we seem to believe that a little speed money paid even in advance is absolutely essential not only to ensure that the work gets done but even to ensure that the worker stays around to complete it. In accordance with this sound Management Principle, Kalpana in her over-anxiety and immense sense of responsibility scuttled in and out of the house a few times to hand out tips from Grandma to sundry fellows who showed up at the gate. Whether they were were the right people to tip was another matter altogether.Sundry expenses, Grandma bemoaned but the image of sparkling water from the kitchen tap wiped out all misgivings. In short, anything for the sake of water

         The workers team finished their work, gathered their tools, JCB et al and departed .  Grandma , accompanied by the servant , went out to inspect the day's work. The road had been cut in a straight line just between our neighbour's and our compounds. The two surveyed the scene, nodded their heads in smug satisfaction and returned home. The elephant and its mahout had done their job-or so we believed. Grandma was convinced that the road - cutting had been done in a manner to cover both houses, since the two water connections ran close to each other. She told herself, " Ayudha Pooja is round the corner. Surely the two, namely the JCB and its Mahout will come for Dakshina. I will shower them with juicy pieces of sugarcane and cash gifts even as Cauvery flows into our home ". 

         Our hopes were short-lived. It was only later when we cross -checked with our neighbour, that the shocking truth emerged. The road cutting had been done exclusively for their connection, not ours. " The plumber came and asked me where our meter and connection was and we pointed out to him," she said. " Accordingly he did the road cutting." " Didn't he do the same for your connection"? The servant open and shut her mouth, in bewilderment," Madam, we gave so much Bakshish. We were sure that our connection would be completed. Amma and I also inspected ". The good lady gave Kalpana some well meaning Gyan, " Never tip these workers in advance. Some fellow also approached me. I told him to complete the job. I haven't seen him since," she concluded smugly. The servant came away, wringing her hands in despair and panic. Now, what could she tell Grandma who would definitely go off into the deep end on hearing this revelation. All that Bakshish distribution had gone in waste...like the waste and rubble lying on the road. The JCB and its Mahout, the plumber had completely disappeared, without a trace, leaving us with empty hopes, and a defunct water connection. But even in this desperate situation, the importance of Community networking was not lost on us.

         Grandma's consternation on hearing Kalpana's report was absolute. " What are you saying? Was the road cutting not for our connection? What shall we do now? Now we don't even know where the JCB is operating in this big city, she said in despair. " Its all our fault... people in the family should take more interest in household affairs...now see what happened. I also assumed the Road Cutting was for us...despite my age, I went out to inspect. but all efforts have been useless. I could not stand out all day checking and supervising as I did fifty years ago when the existing pipeline was laid. And look how well the connection lasted...it has celebrated its Golden Jubilee. But now no jubilation ... only calamity....this is what happens when I have to depend on others, she ended her tirade, wheeling around to the servant. Grandma was not done yet." We could move heaven and earth and cajole the Plumber to come back to our road, if necessary by paying a handsome financial consideration....maybe even Rs 20,000 though this is a public utility. But the fault is ours...we weren't vigilant. Wait a minute...even if he agrees to come back, will he take all the trouble to reverse and bring it back into the small road, Worse where will he park. The neighbours will also object to the nuisance." 

         Grandma swung into action. Enough of non communication and working in isolation. It wa time to strengthen our intelligence network.The watchman of the opposite apartment was roped in. He was a North Indian like the Plumber. Patti firmly believed that that the Watchman would be able to communicate effectively with the Plumber and coordinate matters efficiently. Whether the Watchman was interested in this forced assignment was another matter. "Go and ask him what the plumber plans to do? Will he return to our road? Has he finished our road entirely? You said that he was very friendly with the plumber", she instructed Kalpana briskly. 

         Kalpana obediently approached the watchman with the burning question: when was the plumber likely to return since he still had to complete the individual connections. Only the Road cutting had been done so far. " Maybe a week, " he replied offhandedly. " Kya Pata! Woh Log Aisa Hi Hai.Anyway why should he worry? Road cutting for all the connections in our road has been completed. Kalpana retreated shamefaced. How could she possibly admit our Collective Folly to a mere watchman! After all, the family had given her the Executive Responsibility of Project Cauvery and already the project had suffered a spectacular setback under her watch What did the Watchman have up his sleeve?. We can't wait to know.

BABA YAGA AND A MIGHTY SAGA

A Recent photo of Lakshmi Akka  and me taken against the backdrop of the house by its present owner 

 Circa 1968- Three little girls in Grandpa KVG' s house in a small lane in Malleswaram, Bangalore were innocently playing a game of a Russian witch Baba Yaga threatening hapless humans in her clutch.Lakshmi was the Ring Leader playing the Witch.....me an obedient follower trailed by the youngest of the trio...little Nandini. All that I can remember now are the grunts and blood curdling yells of Ugh Ugh Russian Blood that we emitted energetically with a lot of warlike movements in our effort to simulate Baba Yaga's fierceness and fury. Today, I wonder how KVG thattha allowed all this frightful din and noise... the meticulously strict man that he was and the generally mild children that we were. Maybe he had gone out on his endless shopping expeditions and we chose the moment to run riot. The Game ended but not the Game of Life.                               

         My association with Bangalore continued with my relocation in the city after marriage. My parents once wanted to trace the house  and wander into Memory Lane.  This was way back in 2001, twenty five years ago.  We succeeded in locating the house, even a very old neighbour who was living in the area since Grandpa's times. Forgotten faces were recognized, old memeories and events were shared over loving plates of snacks and hot, filter coffee. Appa and Amma were also there to jog memories and nudge mental  recall. We came away, satisfied and happy that a souvenir of our very esteemed and affectionate Thattha was still existing in  the house in  4th Main, 7th Cross, Malleswaram.

          Cut to 2026... almost 60 years later.  Lakshmi Akka recently was in Bangalore on a visit. We decided to trace and look up Thatthas house. In our heart of hearts, we secretly dreaded the very  realistic possibility of the house not existing there....being ruthlessly destroyed and replaced in Bangalore's relentless pursuit of sleek modern structures. Somehow, twenty five years later after my last visit to the house....this search became very significant and meaningful.....thirty years ago,  the vicissitudes of life had not visited us.....the house had still been a haven of Happy Memories.  Life had flowed like a river in thirty years, tossing and tumbling us, the children of the house against sorrows and grief over loss of dear departed ones.  We waited on the shore, sombre and silent hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of the little house, that window to a fleeting memory of absolute happiness experienced and shared long ago; a lamp to light our path and lighten our hearts.

     Imagine our joy and profound surprise to find the house exactly as I had last seen it , twenty five years ago, in the same 4th Main, 7th Cross, Malleswaram. There were a few anxious moments when we walked past the house, almost missing it amidst the innumerable cluster of structures  that had come up next to it. But I walked back, somehow the house seemed to be pleading with me to recognize it  and be welcomed into its warm presence. I was confused and distressed that perhaps our shelter and last link to our earlier generations was also gone. I finally looked up at a window and instantly a mental jigsaw fell in place. I recognized the window from distant memories and knew this was the HOUSE  where Thattha lived; housing sweet and shared memories of abundant joy and happiness, of vacations, picnics and festivals ; of Sundaresan Chitappa's wedding, KVG Thattha's Shasthiabdhapoorthi etc. The list was long of events embracing the  warmth and happiness of life, of emotional plentifulness, of feasting and festivities; all symbolizing the Ebb and Flow of Life.

      As I stood before the ancient house, I was at once ecstatic that the house had been discoverd and humbled by its powerful message of Life.  Great was the joy and happiness that its warm interiors had exuded. SMALL SPACES CREATE LARGER THAN LIFE MEMORIES THAT NURTURE AND NOURISH OUR SPIRIT  AND SOUL. HAPPY MEMORIES OF SHARED OCCASIONS  GIVE US SOLACE IN OUR SORROWS.  As we left, with a final wave to the house and its present owner, I was eneveloped with a profound feeling of CLOSURE. The House represented and radiated the benevolence and blessings of Thattha and his children; our parents. It's sturdy walls were sending a strong , sllent message of positivity and optimism. I could almost feel the silent , metaphysical presence of our parents and grandparents.. in the chair on which he used to sit, in the kitchen where Patti turned out delicacies fragrant with ghee and her immeasurable love for her grandchildren. Its very existence for more than half a century stood testimony to its inherent resilience, something that was valued by its owners, down the line. I had a sense of having finally come to terms with the reality of Life. In the shared excited memories of laughte and festivities of yesteryears, I finally learnt that Life is Mortal but the Joys of Youth are immortal,helping us to navigate the Organic path of Life. As we left with a final wave to the house and its pleasant owner,the Gnana laden lines of Bhaja Govindam echoed in my ears.

          Punarapi Jananam, Punarapi Maranam

          Punarapi Janani Jatare Shayanam

          Ih Sansaare Bahu Dustaare,

          Kripaya Palaya Pahi Murare THE CLOCK DOES NOT TURN BACK ON LOVELY DAYS LONG GONE ;IT STEADILY TICKS ME INTO HOPEFUL DAWNS AND HAPPIER TIMES.

A HUMAN FIRST AND FOREMOST

Our stay in Mysore was short and sporadic with perhaps  a dozen or more trips to Bangalore to see Appa in the course of a year. In between  the two cities, a house of some sort had to be run with its share of Domestic Helps etc. As always, Domestic Helps come in all types and colours.  Some are  talkative,  some are sullen and come to work with a long face, some want to know everything about the new employer. While in Mysore, at first obviously I had no idea of the quality of their work. But one thing, I learnt pretty fast.... the Bais or vellai kaaris in Mysore are extremely dignified and  decent. Roopa, a young woman of thirty five or so came to work with heavy references. A smiling, cheerful girl... she once asked me what my children were doing. Mysoreans have a quaint way of  figuring  out one's social and ethical variables through this one  question which says all. I told her I had none expecting the usual sympathy or curiosity or any of the zillion usual responses.

  Instead, Roopa said in a very dignified manner that she was sorry to have  asked the question. I was impressed that this smiling girl from a different background should have such finesse. Over time, Roopa stopped coming and started sending her aunt, an elderly woman to work in my house. For some unknown reason, like many new servants generally are, this woman was slightly wary, hostile and resistant., vaguely disapproving. The language barrier did not help any.... I wanted to reassure her that I had no intention of harassing or overloading her physical fuel tank.  She spoke a dialect of Kannada , not very commonly spoken or understood.....once, there was also a slight fracas and she told me that she would not wipe the dining table. I was also upset and there was some underlying tension. So I thought it was best to step out of the way and let her do what she want. I soon found that her work was very good ; she would scrub and  clean till vessel and floor alike sparkled.  She was also extremely punctual...would turn up on the dot. This silent, single, woman..... Roopa had once mentioned that her aunt had not married but she regarded her aunt as her mother and therefore she lived  with her. Workwise Roopa was not great but her sense of family and bond impressed me.

   Mahadevamma, as she was known also settled into a a slow, steady rhythm, her work of shining quality and silent sparkle, very much like the  sturdy resilent woman herself.  The woman who had once sullenly refused to do a small job out of  sheer cussedness was now literally snatching the duster out of my hands to  do the job.By nature very systematic, cooordinated and thorough, she would not shirk or skip; a perfectionist to the core. Scrubbing vessels was not a tedious, hasty chore but a silent, steady worship in the altar of Work. She would weave a steady rhythm in the scrubbing and rinsing with quiet commitment, totally immersed and totally engrossed. Time stood still while vessels gleamed. Once my husband also commented whether there was any need to wash for so long. To which I replied that I had not set her to work at the vessels. Deepawali came and I got sweets for both Roopa and Mahadevamma. In her decency, Mahadevamma remarked that it was enough to give one one person...Roopa

Soon the time came for us to leave Mysore...we had known this all along. The decision, necessary as it was, was heavy on our heart and mind....the delightful little city with its dainty, clean shops and people had enchanted us in so many ways. We could not come out of the spell it had cast on us ...Mysore's picturesque landscapes, its vestiges of royalty, its spiritual  landmarks and temples...above all its numerous parks all had firmly etched on our mindscape. Mahadevamma also came for her last day of work .... went about her work with usual thoroughness and dedication....no indifference or casualness. It was an usual workday for her....no matter we were leaving the next day. Work was her soul; her sustenance

 After she finished her work daily, she would normally leave asking one of us to latch the door. Today however, she did a huge Namaste to both of us individually and stood silent for a long time as if she wanted to say something but could't. It was a heavy, poignant  moment hanging in space waiting to be picked up. and shaped by human hands. The three of us  just waited in silence as if afraid that the magic of the moment would disappear.  It was almost as if she wanted to say that I like coming to your house to work... now that you are going... this ends.  A chapter ends for me as also for you. Tomorrow  we go our separate ways. The unspoken empathy filled me with a sense of destiny and the truth that all good the present  is all that matters...things like our stay in Mysore must come to an end. So many happy experiences; so many happy memories in a quiet charming little city, where one had the time to savour and the sense to distill and discern,,,,, Valuable and  enabling lessons  for the Examination called LIFE.

I had lot of pending jobs....so I stirred. Whereupon she left wthout looking back, No request to latch the door as if afraid that words might shatter the silence of the unspoken. The moment vaporized into atmospheric particles; I wanted to chase and snatch the moment to keep and cherish it. But it had disappeared for ever without a trace.  The fragrance remained, invigorating my tired body and energising my sleepy senses. The memories of Mysore will always remain but the kind, quiet empathy of the silent maid  are verdant mental-scapes which will nurture and nourish me forever and ever on tired , long days.

A short Stay and big takeaways.

Some months back, my paternal aunt, Padma Athai as she is affectionately called, came to stay with me in Bangalore. She is a super senior citizen but young and brave  in heart which is how she was able to undertake singly the long flight. Padma Athai  is a very sociable person and has made many good friends over decades of my uncle's professional life; some of whom have almost family like ties with her...they have stood each other  in good stead whenever needed. She finally settled in Delhi to be close to her daughters  but here also she has maintained a set of friends in a relationship of healthy and happy give and take. She independently manages her routine; among which is one of cooking herself  I have known her to set aside and send portions of some special dish that she has prepared at home to friends on occasions or also because it happened to be their favourite dish. Dishing out friendship along with her delicacies is something which comes naturally to Athai.

                I was wondering how would she spend her time in Bangalore. She however had her plans. She has meticulously maintained the phone numbers of all the people whom she wanted to meet in Bangalore.  She started calling them up systematically....the tag line was simple and short. " I  can't come over; but you are most welcome to visit me".  Many people came to visit her, with a home-made sweet or savoury, with love and affection stirred in and infused with care. Athai herself had taken great trouble  to bring fragrant Agarbathis, the incense of friendship and colourful shawls which she presented to her  friends. And very specially for her dear elder brother, home made delicious red carrot halwa. Athai and friends caught up with each other, traversing distant  memory lanes. There was so much of catching up to do, so much of information to be shared....and cooking tips.....Athai is a good cook.  The camaraderie was good....the vibes, positive.

                 Athai's friends were diversely talented people, with interests in music, cooking, scriptures etc. Everyone had an experience, a journey to share. I have wondered at Athai's ability to make friends even with a youngster. Many a time, she tells me, her friends have been wooed by her dishes and meals.  My house became the House of Friendship: a community cutting across generations converging in response to a telephone call of friendship made by an elderly lady.

            Athai had not stepped out of the house. Yet she had reached out and extended a friendly hand. The roads in Bangalore were bad and crowded but the Roads to Long Lasting Friendship are not long and bumpy. I was surprised and touched at what little it takes to make people happy. In this case, Athai's efforts to convert phone contacts into physical meetings. A hot cup of tea offered with a warm smile and warmer heart is all that it takes to build bonds of empathy and affection. In turn perhaps, more caring human beings and a better society.  Definitely Food For Thought.

Padma athai's 90th

 Padma Athai's 90 th birthday lunch event was a   very informal,gathering of family and friends to felicitate a very warm, affectionate and multi-talented lady  with a wonderful family.

The Kuratthi and her kuravai Kutthu

Kamala was a Bharatha Natyam icon and a role model for every Tam Brahm girl inclined to the fine arts of classiscal music and dance. Tributes have been pouring in from all quarters for renowned Bharatha Natyam dancer Kamala,who passed away recently. Watching her perform live made every girl long to emulate Kamala's movements and expressions. Such was the power of her dance ....it swept the versed and unversed into a flood of a dance extravaganza. It was the year 1970. i was a ten year old....a Me Too to the Bharatha Natyam art form. My father was in the Faculty of the Indian School Of Mines; my mother a homemaker, trained in Carnatic music and nurturing fond artistic dreams for her daughter. My voice could not lend itself to the manouevres and modulations that the Carnatic style demanded. The next best alternative was dance... I was also inclined to the dance form because where Sangeetham could not find a path, my knack for Talam and Rhythm paved the way for Bharatha Natyam. It was then that Kumari Kamala . as she was always known came to Dhanbad in Jharkand to perform a claassical repertoire....and what a performance it turned out to be for the sheer brilliance of the Nrittya form and the musical choreography. So I started learning Bharatha Natyam from a teacher who came from Calcutta to teach children Of the Coal Belt. But there was no soul in my dance.....even I realized it. My feet just padded to the Thai Thayi beats of the teacher who punctually turned up once for classes in two weeks . The dance classes were routine and drab...the master taught sincerely and pedantically. He could not however inspire and kindle the creative spark; it was mundane,lifeless and just that.It was at this juncture that Kamala burst uopn my Dance world like a meteor blazing a trail of sparkling brilliance. I almost remember her performance as if it happened only yesterday. Kamala darted with fleeting, dainty, tiny steps from one end of the stage to another. She was here and she was there.....ingum irunthal....angum irunthal. Around the time of Kamala's performance,my Dance Guru changed. I started learning from Shri K. R. Radhakrishnan, Nattuvanaar and Dance teacher in the Ramiah Pillai baani. Kamala had also trained in this style and she faithfully adhered to this baani. Now when I think back, I realize destiny had a hand in the whole matter. Guru Radhakrishnan had also done Nattuvaangam for Kumari Kamala for a period of time, Also he had a deep sense of quality music and padams.. the lyrical Tamil songs soaked in metaphorical love and devotion to the divine Lord. Coming to Kamala' performance, I watched in spell-bound awe as Jathiswaram followed Alarippu... then onto a Varnam, padams and an electrifying Thillana. The varnam that day was the grand, majestic yet rarely known Swathi Thirunal Dasha Ragamalika composition Kamala Jaasya with the lyrics fitting into Adi Tala with mathematical precision. I was not much immersed in the soft, subtle Nayaki Bhavas of the Padams but the crisp, catchy, Kutrala Kuravanji dance from the verdant Pothigai mountains made me sit up. It was a light, tacky song- Pachamalai Pavazha Malai composed aptly in Raga Anand Bhairavi. The dancer, a disciple of Kamala admirably danced in a jaunty, folksy manner to this lilting song. I sat through, completely captivated and spell-bound, admiring both the gaily coloured,bold check patterned paavadai with a matching blouse, her beads and pearls as well as the dancer's raunchy whirls and twirls. The next day, after my dance class, I requested Shri Radhakrishnan rather hesitatingly to teach me the Kuratthi dance. I told him how I had been totally taken up with the kuratthi experience... that the song and dance were lodged in my inward eye. The sport that he was, Guru Radhakrishnan taught me in a very short span of time, the dance with modified steps compatible with a beginner's ability. Wonders will never cease. I got a chance to perform Pacchai Pavazha Malai on the stage, complete with kuratthi dress and paraphernalia....strings of chunky and gaudy coloured beads and the kuratthi hairdo which like Andal's is coiffed to the side of the head with braids of flowers and beads adorning it. My mother sang Pacchamalai Pavazha malai melodiously to Guru Radhakrishnan wielding the cymbals in staccato Nattuvaangam. Kamala's performance kindled a spark in me; a lifelong love and passion for the fine arts. My dance life was short...but the learning experiencewas evolving. The lyrics of the transformative song Pacchamalai Pavazhamalai are loosely translated as follows: From rocks of coral'n' vales of green, lush and plush with dreams complete, from the land beautiful of the Tamils, do I, Valli,come with secrets to share and a future to tell! With a spring in my step and a stringed garland in my hand, do I dance ...THAM THAM THAKAJONU THAI THAI THIMITHAKKA THATTHOM THATHINTHAKKA THOM THOM....THATHINTHAKKA THATTHOM.... Oh TAMILNADU... the land of milk and honey;of learned and creative people, to its deep and dense jungles, where tuskers and wild life live in harmony with nature That land of golden paddy and sweet honey, to forests of monkey entwined trees and gushing little streams of sparkling crystal water; Do I, Valli, consort of the gracious Lord Muruga, come with a spring in my step and a song in my heart, to aspire the company of the learned and blessed,of the wealthy and the wise..... THAM THAM THAKAJONU THAI THAI THIMITHAKKA THATTHOM THATHINTHAKKA THOM THOM....THATHINTHAKKA THATTHOM....