Monday, 1 May 2017

Pulicat- a lagoon, monuments and the Dutch connection

Published in One India One people magazine, April 2017

Quaint backdrop of the sea, waters of a brackish lake lapping at your feet, the town of  Pulicat fondly called pazhaverkadu in Tamil entices you with its large lake and its unparallel history. Dotted with few century old mosques, temples of 11th and 13th century, churches dating back to 1700s, the picture postcard perfect town is a must go, if one appreciates nature and has an eye for the heritage it offers.

“Why don’t we go on an impulsive trip? You will enjoy it..”, queried one of our Heritage group members and senior Venkatesh and I nodded my head without batting my eyelashes. A heritage trip on a peaceful Saturday, with like-minded enthusiasts- what more can one ask for? The plan was to meet at Parrys Corner, the most prominent landmark of North Chennai and I was there well before time. I gaze lazily at the pillar before the famed parrys building- the Dare House that marked the boundary of the fortification the British made to protect the Esplanade from the French. The date of the masonry obelisk pillar reads “Boundary of the esplanade- January 1, 1773”. 

As promised, one of our group members had come in early to show me the plaque erected in memory of the bombing of Madras by the ship SMS Emden on September 22, 1914. Though war clouds had threatened Madras so often during both the World Wars, it was this German light cruiser that actually managed to bomb the city, injuring a shepherd, killing a goat and injuring two others. The plaque can now be found on the compound walls of Madras High Court, near its Beach road entrance. 

Taking pictures of it, we then dig into idlis and sambar of the famed Murugan Idli Shop at Armenian Street with gusto. “No food on the way till we reach Siruvapuri for lunch, an army marches on its stomach said Napolean”, Venkatesh announces and chuckles, as we gulp down everything we could. Our journey commences in two cars and we drive past the seven wells- Chennai’s first regulated water supply system executed in 1772. A military residential complex stands at its place now as we whizz past and slow down at Ebrahim Street, Royapuram. Tucked away along the roadside is a small park that has rickety gates and a flight of stairs. As we climb unassumingly over centuries of neglect, we are told this is the only remaining part of the North Wall of Madras, completed in 1772 by Paul Benfield. The wall ran for six kilometers and had 17 bastions in its full glory, touted to protect the city from the French and Hyder Ali. Plans of further expansion were shelved after demise of Hyder Ali and Tippu Sultan. Remnants of the wall remain even today, about 60 feet long, which is now called the “maadi poonga” or the terrace park. Clicking few pictures of the same, we continue our journey up North.

Our next stop is the Puzhal lake- a reservoir that collects water from the Kortalayar river. Built in 1876, this water reservoir now stores water from Krishna and Telugu Ganga for the usage of Chennai city. We drive further north and reach the Shiva temple run by Chinmaya Mission at Nallur village. The temple itself is built in a distinct structure of a giant lingam towering about 50 feet high. The acoustics at the temple mesmerizes one. The priest’s Om reverberates in the entire structure, giving us a divine feeling. Though of no historical value, this stopover was spontaneous and I am glad we did stop here, for the unique acoustic experience.

Our next stop is the air strip at Sholavaram. Sholavaram’s airstrip was used as a runway during the Second World War by the Royal British Air force for anti-submarine operations. The nondescript runway was later used as a race track for motor sport, till a new track was commissioned at Irungkattukkottai nearby. Now it has been closed for public and is being used by the Military. With a cursory glance from the road, we proceed to Tamaraipakkam check dam.

Built across the Kosasthalaiyar river, the huge laterite checkdam with weirs was constructed in 1868. It was extended later on and unfortunately, not a drop of water was to be seen in the dam. We see an abandoned PWD inspection bungalow dating back to 1915, the walls in good condition, but the tiled roof having given away. Careless garffitis deface the walls of the structure, which still boasts of large manicured shrubs along the entrances. I could very well imagine an engineer sitting on the verandah smoking his pipe, children playing around and a cool breeze wafting from the dam. The original plaque erected during opening of the dam lies on the dusty path, with the date inscribed, crying for attention. The automatic weirs must be a treat to watch, during the monsoons. Water from Korattalaiyar is stored here and diverted via Sholavaram and into the Red hills reservoir.

Our next stop is Tirukallil. The temple and deity of the Tirukallil temple Sivanantheswarar, have found mention in the Devaram verses sung by Thirugnanasambandar, the Saivite Saint. Prayers in this temple bring fame and peace says his poem. The small tank on front of the temple- the Nandi Theertham is kept well fenced. As we enter the temple, the priest calls us out and performs aarti. I note tiny letters adorning the ceiling of the sanctum sanctorum which is in a queer hexagonal shape, now white washed with total disregard for whatever inscriptions remain etched there. As we roam around the temple, we strain and decipher successfully the name Kopperukesari Vikrama Chola (dating back to probably 12th century), beneath the old blue fading paint. There is another Pandiya inscription too, which we are unable to read, our necks and heads reeling from the strain. The practice of painting anything saffron and white in our temples is a bane. We do not pay attention to what is beneath the paint. Conserving what little inscriptions and thereby history we have left with us remains a distant dream for we are totally unaware of preserving our heritage.

We are almost exhausted by now, as the afternoon sun blazes on. We pull over at Siruvapuri, planning for a hasty lunch, but end up spending an hour chit-chatting about Jimmy Carter and democracy. Past one o clock, we drive towards our destination- Pulicat. Pazhaverkadu is a coastal town, much known for its 450 sq km salt-water lake and the migratory birds that scramble there for much needed water and breeding. A bird watcher’s paradise, its close proximity to Chennai- about 59 kilometers, makes it a great week end destination. It can also be reached by train- it is 20 kms by road from the nearest railway station, Ponneri. However, the history of the town is equally richer as its eco-tourism value.

Pulicat has been mentioned during the Chola period. The Thiruppalaivanam temple 6 kms away from Pulicat built by Rajendra Chola has inscriptions of Chola period (10th century) mentioning the coastal town as Puliyur Kottam which in due course changed to Palliacatta and then to Pulicat. It came under the rule of Vijayanagara Kings during 14-17th centuries. It was under the rule of Krishnadevaraya that the port was named Pazhaverkadu, the name that holds water even today. Interestingly, during 8th Century, a group of Arabs who escaped from the monopoly of Caliphate escaped from Medina and settled down at Pulicat. The descendants still live in the town today, called the Labbai clan. The unique Arwi script of writing Tamil in Arabic script probably originated here. Quite a difficult form of writing that was not easy to decipher, the writings in Arwi were used for secret communications during our freedom struggle. People in parts of South Tamilnadu and Srilanka still use this script for religious writings. From the Cholas, Vijayanagar Kings, Portuguese, the town moved into the hands of the Dutch, during whose period it was a Fort in all its glory and then to the British, who treated it as their tourism spot. Pulicat was also home to the famed Palayacot lungies from which originated the famed Madras Checks.

The dusty lane that branches off from the main bazaar of the town leads us directly to the Dutch Cemetery at Kottaikuppam. The main gate is locked and as we look for clues, two men approach us from the nearby tea-shop. As we explain that we are looking for the cemeteries, one of them dangles the keys and opens up the gates for us. He remained our guide throughout the trip and was really proud to show us around the town. The gates lead to a semi-circular arch that has two skeletons inscribed on the sides. On the left is a Dutch verse and to the right is an inscription dated 1656. The impressive new cemetery is about 300 years old and is at the south west corner of the now extinct Geldria Fort. About 77 of them line up, in varying sizes and shapes with distinct inscriptions in Dutch, Portuguese and English. The oldest of them probably dates back to 1646 and the latest one to 1777. Two obelisks stand majestically and three more arched cemeteries add up to the skyline. The inscriptions are complete with names of the buried ones, their age, the places where they were from and the place and date when they died. It is interesting to find places like Rotterdam, Nagapattinam, Machilipatnam, Colombo and obviously Palliacatta mentioned in the tombstones. The caretaker shows us a small opening in one of the cemeteries, a secret underground tunnel that is said to lead to the Fort opposite the cemetery. The map of Fort Geldria is embossed on one of the tombstones!

Opposite to the cemetery is a vast wasteland, sluggish with backwaters, strewn with old brick walls, which the locals say is the old fort. Digging the place has been impossible as the underground water immediately gushes out, when dug. The next place of visit was the most interesting part of the tour for me- the Our Lady of Joys Church in Kottaikuppam. Touted as the first parish of the Roman Catholic Church on the Coromandel Coast, I am too eager to see the remnants of the old church. The massive concrete monstrosity before me almost stings my eye, as I race inside the church looking for any non-descript detail left by the church authorities during demolition of the old church. With disregard for the value of the old structure originally built by the Portuguese in 1515, the new structure is two-tiered, with no sign of the beautiful Gothic structure that once stood at the place. The inscription describing the church dating back to 1515 is also nowhere to be found. If found, that could prove this is the oldest church on the Coromandel Coast, built a year before the Luz Church at Chennai in 1516.

Haggard and weary, we move to our next stop, the St. Antony’s Church, said to be built in the year 1717. The small but neatly painted church still maintains its Renaissance style, with tiled roof, high ceilings, windows housed in semi-circular arches and large wooden doors. There is a small TV room nearby, a period attraction when village panchayats were provided with a television for the public to watch.

From here, we ogle at the large pottery jars placed at the courtyards of almost all the houses that hold drinking water and reach the lake shores. From here, we board the fishing boat, a ride that cost us Rs.1000, into the lake and from there to the sea. About 96% of the lagoon falls under Andhra Pradesh and the lagoon used to naturally open out into the sea. Due to heavy silt, now the lagoon mouth is dug manually, enabling it to join the sea. The Buckingham canal is part of the lagoon on the west and three rivers- the Arani, Kalangi and Swarnamukhi drain into the lagoon. Once rich with mangrove forests, now devoid of all greenery, the boat ride is all sweaty and salty on a humid February afternoon. With no shade or cover, I take umbrage beneath my dupatta. There are old abandoned piers that show the date as 1943 as the boat moves further into the lagoon. Slowly, the breeze ruffles our hair and birds start circling us. Sea-gulls, cormorants, storks, egrets, river terns…the colonies of birds attract us and as we arrive at a tiny islet where the boatman announces we can get off for a break, we jump out of the boat in awe. 

The small islet is a beauty, the shores lined up with conches and shells of various shapes and colors. It is a rainbow of colors on white sand and the group gets all playful, clicking groupies, collecting shells, drawing on sand and gliding in the waters. The boat man has a tough time cajoling the kids-turned-history-buffs to the boat and the travel back is equally fascinating as we bounce in the water disturbed by an armada of fishing boats venturing out into the sea for fishing. The light house at a distance keeps attracting us, its dark blue and white hues standing in tall pride. The new light house was built in 1985 and was primarily built to warn of the shoals existing 4 NM off the coast. It is separated from the town by a small channel. Our plea to get closer to the light house is warded off by the boat man who claims the sand bar is very shallow- about 30-40 cms and is very dangerous to get close to the shore. Though disappointed, we agree to his warning and complete the boat ride.

A coffee and fifteen minutes later, we find ourselves inside the Chinna Masudhi (Small Mosque). This mosque was built in 1708 as per the inscription just above the entrance arch and its star attractions are an old 19th century adhaan towerfrom which the Muzzein sang his prayer calls and a sun dial belonging to the year 1914. The marking and inscription in the sun dial are in Persian script that reads the name of the installer as Haji Mohammed Hussain Saheb of Muthialpet, Madras. We try to decipher the language of the script and fail miserably and I resign myself to watch a game of marbles being played by little boys.

We move to a dilapidated old temple next, called the Adhinarayana Perumal Temple. The temple probably dates back to either Vijayanagar period or to the late Cholas. There is an inscription in Telugu on the ceiling of the Thayar Sannidhi (sanctum mandap of the Goddess) that mentions about the period of Vijayanagar King Balavandakulu. The Dwajasthamba, sacrificial pillar and Garuda Sannidhi stand in shambles and so is the main temple. The outer Artha Mandapam is all that we can see and we are spell bound by the intricate carvings on the supporting beams. Scenes from the Ramayana adorn the entire beam in all four sides, right from Ram’s Pattabishekam (ascension to throne) to his vanvaas, the enticing of Sita by the deer Mareecha, Sita in Ashokvan, Hanuman meeting Sita, the war between Ram and Ravan in clear detail, the killing of Ravan, Sita entering the pyre, Lava-Kush and finally the happy re-union of the family. We stand mesmerized by the perfection of the tiny figurines on the beams and tread past the shrubbery into the Thayar Sanctum. This resembles a mini Angkor Wat- the wilderness and trees eating into the space of the Mandap, beautifully carved with mermaid (Jash Kanya), Ram with bow, dancing girls, monkey with jackfruit, Garuda and many many more figurines.

The temple was built with red laterite which is endemic to Konkan coast and it is a surprise to find almost all temples of this area built using it. A haphazard effort had been made by HR&CE department to restore the temple using concrete and cement, which was quashed by the Court on petition by concerned citizens. The temple is under the danger of falling down anytime soon, the rank vegetation eating away its insides. Immediate interference by ASI would be of much help to save this temple.

We move to the last stop of our trip – the Samayeswarar temple. Said to be built as the same period of Adhinarayana Temple, this Siva temple is also in a bad shape. The main entrance has trees crisscrossing the structure and it looks as if it is the vegetation that is holding together the main entrance. We enter the temple through another gate at the side, looking distraught at the ‘restored’ new temple. Thankfully the outer hall of the temple remains undisturbed, with pillars that have carvings like the Narasimma emerging from inside the pillar, money with jackfruit, a monkey hanging upside down on the pillar, Kannappa Nayanar and many more. Here too the supporting beams have tiny figurines carved and I am elated to spot a cow ringing a bell- the story of Manu Needhi Chola and the cow that came looking for justice to him. The various vahanas of the Gods lie in total abandon at the mandap and as we walk around the temple, to our left is a stepped well. Made of bricks and lime mortar, the circular well has an adjoining podium from which descend a flight of stairs into a tunnel, giving closer access to the water below. This is unique to the temple, as we have not seen this kind of arrangement elsewhere in Tamil temples. Tired, yet blissful of the satisfactory trip, we head back home.

The town of Pulicat has a lot to offer other than the usual boat ride and fish fry. It has centuries of history waiting by the sands, for the enthusiastic travelers in us to discover. A natural harbor, the town celebrates annual Pulicat Day every year, few days next to the World Wetlands Day, to stress the need for saving the delicate Pulicat lagoon. The lagoon and its ecosystem are under serious threat due to pollution and sedimentation. The moisture of the lake is not sufficient to attract the rain clouds and there has been severe damage to the climatic balance. What is needed on the conservation of the ecological front is increased public awareness and Governmental support. Conservation and protection of the historical sites is also imperative, if at all we have to pass on our rich legacy and heritage to our children.

Don't 'care' for us!

Published in One India One People magazine, April 2017

What irritates a woman more? A bad-hair day? The “stay safe” message from the men of her life? I would like to affirm the former, but sadly, for most women, it is the latter. The only thing that comes free in a woman’s life is advise from the ‘know-all’s, in case we forego the ‘buy one,  get one free’ offers.

It starts with “Don’t play with Anu’s son” and goes on like “Not this dress!”, “Don’t wear this lipstick”, “Not this stilettos”, “Reduce the compact, will you?”, “Why do you have to laugh so loud?”, “No outing with your guy friends”, “Cheee…does your friend smoke? Don’t you ever do that!”, “What? A drink with the friends? Are you insane?” and goes on and on till eternity. We preach sermons on ‘don’t dos’ to our girls. Have we ever bothered to tell our sons to treat the women right?

How insensitive our men can get? While the mother keeps rolling rotis out of her kitchen like the roti-maker on fire, the father lounges on the sofa and complains how Kohli missed the catch. Our sons grow up seeing their fathers acting the couch- potatoes they are and sense watching TV brings rotis to their plates once they’re married. “Beta…that girl is probably PMSing…please excuse the way she behaves…”- try saying this to your son, dear mother and see which bomb detonates first- the dad or the son!

Safety of a woman is directly proportional to the length of her skirt. Shorter the skirt, lesser her safety. Don’t ever question why the nun with her five layers of dress isn’t safe. Or why the little six-month old with her rompers isn’t safe. Rapes happen because the woman asks for it. Yes, dear Lord, she prays- please let me be the sacrificial lamb today, send me a bus with four drunk men.

And oh! Learning krav maga to deal with jilted lovers isn’t a safe option against the acid attacks. Safety isn’t about teaching your daughters karate and kung-fu alone. It is about teaching your sons that ‘failures always happen in life and how we make the best of a failure shows our real worth to people’. These days the love of jilted lovers is worse than the roads laid during election dhamaka! In three days of a proposal and a rejection, all we are left with are potholes the size of moon’s craters. Only time will teach our men that ‘rejection’ is cool and it can end well with little booze and a “why this kolaveri di” soup song.

If there is one word that can make a woman go ballistic, it is “Care”. All in the name of care, our men keep suffocating the lives of women. We are brain-washed from time immemorial that a woman is ‘weak’ and is to be cared for. She needs ‘pampering’. She needs constant ‘care’. No sirs! All she needs is a fag at the end of a tough day or an outing with her besties. Definitely she doesn’t need your “Shall I come and pick you up?” or “What time will you be back home?” 

We don’t need fire-breathing dragons at the back of our necks, checking the watch and saying, “You’re late!”, “This place isn’t safe”. As our equals, it is your duty too to keep this place safe for us. After all, you are the bosses! Ah! Talking of the bosses! “Who is the boss?”- “You!”, “Who pays you?”- “You!”, “Who can molest you?”- “NO ONE!” A woman gets paid for her work as salary. No one, take the point, no one gentlemen, pays her in kind, unless SHE asks for it!

We don’t need a Superman to save us every day. Let him please wear his ensemble right (not the undies over the pants, gentleman!) and go save the world. We need the ‘considerate man’ who perfectly knows what a woman possesses and doesn’t cross the boundary under the pretext of ‘caring’ for her. A woman is aware of her power. A man must simply acknowledge her very being and walk hand-in-hand. Safety starts at home. Let’s treat our mothers and wives right. Our daughters and sons will take their lessons from us. As simple as that!

Not Chinkis anymore!

Published in One India One People magazine, March 2017

Our rudimentary knowledge of Indian map begins with Kashmir- yes, can we forget those icy mountains, apples and the guns, of course, and ends with Madras. Each time I meet someone from up North, I remind them it is Chennai, not Madras and not the Southern tip of the country, they smile and say, “Yes, beta…we know. You Madrasis always say that!” We remember anything but Kolkatta and its rosgullas as the Eastern border of the country and conveniently forget the Seven Sisters. For most of us, the North Eastern arm doesn’t even exist in the maps. Either that or we go beserk thinking it is part of some other country.

The North East of India is that part of the country that never finds a place in the text books. Please don’t reminisce if we ever read all our books in full and draw a blank. Whatever little knowledge that filtered past our craniums is unaware of the North East. We swallow our momos with gusto, we love being pampered at the salons by the North Easterners, we furtively adore their women, wait, let me rephrase that, we lust over them on our most common misconception that they are freely ‘available’. What we fail to understand is that, the North East is very much an integral part of India.

Our pre-conceived notions are so discriminatory that anyone with eyes smaller than ours is obviously a “chinki” to us. An open challenge, close your eyes and try remembering the names of the seven North Eastern States. I betcha you wouldn’t get past four or five. When we can’t make out a marble from stones, can we make out people of North East from Tibetans? We truly believe they eat dogs. Where did that notion come from? If we ever get to see a North Easterner playing with a puppy, all we see is RED! Do we know the Hill people don’t even eat meat other than chicken? We despise their food habits, yet we gulp down their hand-made momos in swanky malls. We write and speak of volumes about the sacrifices and perseverance of the Gorkha regiment and dutifully ask them, “Are you Nepalis?”, in case we encounter them on road. 

We find their hippie style and colored hair flamboyant and rakish- thank you Danny Denzongpa, you did that right! Their low-waist jean pulls our lips to a leer and so does their country style. We sit on judgment over the poor chaps imagining ourselves as Themis, clad in our pan-stained dhotis. Hell, we even laugh at their names- those that sound better than our Kapurs and Kumars. We entertain ourselves with amusement at the name Kiren Rijuju, that must be a tongue-twister for our big, fat tongues!

The insurgency all along the North East has never got the required attention as we remain cocooned in our self-induced coma. 16 years of fasting by Irom Sharmila Chanu and there are people out there who ask “Irom, who?” When Kareena’s pet puppy skips a day’s meal it is prime time news and Irom’s continuous fasting remains best ignored. It is this apathy by media and the Government that fails to highlight the plight of them that pushes more and more people towards taking up arms. 

North Easterners are the third most joked about community, only next to our Sardarjis and Madrasis. If it is the intelligence of the Sardarjis, the purported gluttony of the Madrasis that is being made fun of, it is the appearance and the slangs of the North Easterners. Agreed, the Assamese have difficulty in pronouncing “ch” which turns out as “s” all the time, they are in no way inferior to our counterparts chewing pan and spitting words right and left. Just because we tower over a feet tall over the short-statured, good natured North Easterners, we can’t point to their cute button noses and say “I am big!”, for we don’t know what a Caucasian will look down at us and say! Racial and gender discrimination against the North easterners must end right now, if we are to remain united as a nation. If we still treat them as brethren beyond our borders, they might very well be right in demanding the realignment of borders.

The last laugh!

Published in One India One People, February 2017

The last laugh!
As a true, “hot-blooded” Indian, I keep wondering if at all we Indians have humor. Did your lips twitch at the word ‘hot- blooded’? Welcome to the world of Indian comedy- a complex quagmire. Comedy that surrounds most of us these days is exaggerated and hell yes, x-rated. When we mean ‘sense’ of humour, it obviously means the sixth one that goes amiss every time we buy that popcorn at the multiplexes. 

Comedy is what we always infer from our Bollywood and Kollywood movies. It was either Johnny Lever and Jaspal Bhatti of yesteryears or Arshad Warsi and his short ‘circuit’ comedy to me that tried to pull out the laughs. These days the heroes have evolved as great comedians- if the hero can save the heroine, why not do it with the cape of the Joker? Watching a movie? We swim in a sea of sexually explicit dialogues that are being delivered, trying to get a grip on what is being thrust into our faces as comedy. Laughing already? See! Effect of ‘masala’ night comedy shows, this!

Crude jokes aren’t all sleazy, but rudimentary and repeated. It gets dull and boring like being stuck in a love-less marriage but with an alimony-full husband. The comedy track in movies these days is like the last dosa made with left-over batter. Never makes the mark and never takes-off. 

The humour mills have been running overtime, turning out jokes that have watered down to plain, regressive women- bashing. The female lead’s anatomy is always the butt of jokes and so is her lack of brains (did I say Bhatt here?) I would like to tell you gentlemen, try cracking one such joke naming the wife and you shall see the end of days coming like the tsunami! The Bolly/Kollywood dictionaries stand corrected thus- a joke is a crude hit always below the belt and a comedian is one boxer who lands punches everywhere but the opponent. (Again…there you go laughing!) Dialogue-writers may please get their heads out of the sand and seriously think out of the box and the proverbial bottle!

Are televised comedy shows any better? TRP rating matters the most to the channels than their already waning reputation. Too many shows spoil the fans. The comedy satellite channels are always on ‘repeat’ mode as you twist and turn in the sofas to the innuendos flooding your living rooms, orgasmic, I say! Will someone tell those knuckle-heads that their jokes and bakra shows make us run for the remotes?

Stand-up comedy, anyone? Yes, why not? We have been seeing the sudden spurt of such short term wonders. The audience roars with laughter…now wait! The incredulously pinched faces would be reading between the lines to laugh as the speakers around blare recorded laughter and the herd follows the lead dutifully like domesticated husbands. How I wish I could cut the connection to those speakers. 

Slapstick comedy? Dark humour? I’ve become immune to all those because, these days the best comedians are our politicians and the best comic genre, of course, is - Netagiri! Be it Dibi’s tantrums, MaNo Ji’s chest- thumping or Pappu’s night out, we remain fully entertained by the brigade. Still, move aside Netas, the RBI takes the Oscar for the maximum number of flips and twists in fifty days.

We have received  wholesome entertainment the last few months, with trolls taking up with the netas in social media and meme-creators locking horns, taking sides on ‘ayes’ and ‘nahs’. Being a meme-creator brings you more proposals than what Tom Cruise would have received all his life! How I wish one day I would hear someone say, “Pappu ban gaya meme-creator!” and he gets married and lives happily forever. Social media has given wings to those bees that love to s(t)ing.  

The other day a friend of mine was arguing that Indian women lack ‘humour’. Dear friend, Indian women have come of age long back and your crude and cruel jokes just don’t interest her anymore. Her biggest joke is- what you are looking at the mirror and she loves having the last laugh, always. Any doubts? Go figure!