The Mylapore Festival..

Colour mingled with colour until we felt that we were peering through an endless Kaleidoscope of wonder. It is hard to imagine a busier place than Mylapore, the way it is at this very moment and yet we seem to walk at a pace that suggests leisure, in direct contradiction to the frenzied activity we see all around us. The harvests are here. The newspaper tell a different tale, of little rain and endless hardship; Of farmers who toil in the field; Of the need for wiser water management. But irrespective ,thanks is given and the festival of Pongal lands on our door step.



Pongal , when the sight of tall strong sugarcane, purple and streaked with white standing tall like sentries at a festive affair is such a welcome sight; When we hurry off to buy turmeric, root , stem, leaves and all fresh with the earth dug up from; And the ritual affiar of boiling milk , jaggery, rice and having steaming hot sweet pongal as a marker of the occasion!
Happy gods and definitely happy people this one festival does make..





Mylapore is alive, pulsating with the life blood of the city itself. A rickshaw sits in nonchalance in the middle of the busy thoroughfare. Pedestrians, motorists and everyone else step around the yellow rickshaw, it's flaps flying in the gentle breeze, the owner barely discernable from where I stand.
The Kabaleehwar temple is at the center of all festivity. My earliest memories of the city are intrinsically linked to this temple, of squished bus rides of holding on tight to my mum's soft hands.



We walk closer to the walls and I see the familiar steps of row of steps making their way downwards to gently touch the sparkling waters of the temples 'Kulam'.





Rows of shops selling antiques, handicrafts and other wondrous things stand. I am immediately drawn to one selling little baskets made from bamboo, incredibly pretty and so beautifully made. I can't decide which one to buy. The choice is made by the need for space in my suitcase, and so I part with a little one all white with purple bands.



The streets are a splash of colour. We walk on stopping every now and then, asking questions, savouring the moments of being part of this beautiful throng of humanity.



I have to smile when I see the Sonpapdi seller and I can almost imagine the flaky sweetness, the burst of flavour as it dissolves on the tongue. Today I resist and instead take a photograph.



And then there are the beads, strung on chains, shining in the sun, their brightness drawing the eye in every which way you look.




We stop to buy some bracelets. They are beautifully made, strewn unmatched on thinly laid cloth on stone pavements, an invitation to put my hands into the heap and draw a twosome out , so perfectly unique. A rough and tumble of colour and I try again, with a sort of a childish pleasure in the activity itself rather than the adult obsession with results.



We finally pick a few pairs, neatly packed in newspapers. And in the corner sits a lady of chocolate skin and midnight black hair selling banana leaves. She peers at me through her all knowing glasses and decides I am no worthy customer, just someone walking the streets. She looks past me and calls out to someone else in a voice that could tell a thousand stories.



We stop. We walk. We talk..There are things to see and things to do.



When we finally arrive at the entrance of the temple the evening lengthens into dusk's shadows.
The Gopuram is beautiful, a tumble of Gods and goddesses looking down on the mortal from their lofty heights.



Flowers as offering? Theres  plenty on offer, mingled with the sweet scent of incense - Roses, jasmines still not a bloom tightly garlanded in bunches of white.





A balloon seller sits lost in a reverie, his ware still unclaimed. Business isn't always as brisk.



We walk past a stage, lit up and see the prettiest Bharatnatyam dancers in the middle of a performance. We rest our feet for a while and then walk towards the food stands.



And then there is the little jackfruit seller, her kurta in complementary colour to the fruit she seeks to sell. Her waif like frame, propped up on tiptoes looks at something in a distance, her little hands holding onto the cart, her pigtails tightly coiled , braided and pulled back. She is who I will remember most when we are back home, dwarfed by the mighty jackfruit on offer to the willing buyer.



When we enter the street, full of food we are spoilt for choice. Definitely South Indian for me I decide. And so of all the nouth watering delicacies on offer we try the mangalore bonda, the vazhaipoo vadai and bits and pieces of other things.












There are more vendors doing the rounds here.



And then we walk back home . On our way we run into a procession. The Gods are restless just as men are I think to myself and so man made god in his image :)

This has been a festival to remember...

Meena



More information on the Mylapore festival can be found here. It is an annual event that marks Pongal and if you happen to be in Chennai around this time, its an event worth going to.

In Search of the Truth and the Great Banyan..

It is a hot day. Sitting in the little rickety yellow auto, my hair takes on a life of its own. I try to hold it back with both hands as I catch glimpses of the beautiful city flying past.

It is the best part of the day. The sun is warming up, still warm and yellow and not yet the giant blaze it gets to be in the afternoon.I am on my favourite road in the whole of Madras.I remember stubbornly calling it that even after it was officially renamed Chennai.The road leads on, and then turns to meet the Ocean.Today it is not the beach we are going to. It is a place where I have always wanted to go, but until recently did not know how. For the Theosophical society is now open to the public and after living in Chennai for more than a decade it is now that opportunity comes knocking, although at only certain times of the day. 

Before I knew it as the Theosophical Society I knew it by a  different name, 'The Adyar Alaamaram'.
Older than the city itself, the 'Aalamaram',  is the 450 year old Banyan, rooted and stretching out in the center of this 200 acre woodland, which was acquired by Annie Besant in 1908, after she took  over as president of the Theosophical Society. Flanked by the Adyar estuary on one side and the sea on the other, this area of green is a veritable oasis in the midst of a busy city in a hurry to get ahead of itself.
It is a beautiful day. There are not many people around. We wait for the fellowship to assemble and then walk in.
Annie Besant is a woman I deeply admire. A reformer and an activist, she established the Theosophical Society in India, a movement in search of the truth, The ultimate truth being god as we know the idea.
A stromg advocate of democracy and recognizing the right to self determination, once in India she joined the Indian National Congress and launched the home rule movement.

The estate is full of trees and flowers form all over the world. Different shades of green come together in perfect harmony, and I feel a  sense of calm as we drift through the path on our way to see the Banyan.

The creeping money plant..

When Annie Besant first got the estate, all meetings of the society were held under this Banyan. The Aalamaram is thus a local legend, with a place in history for its role as host of many great speeches,  with the likes of Gandhi addressing people from under its giant canopy. The Dalai Lama also took stage here in 1959. For Tibet and Buddhists, it was under a banyan that the Buddha attained enlightenment in Bodh Gaya and it was a banyan which again welcomed the Dalai Lama into the gathering and played gracious host!

The nucleus of the Big Banyan..or is it?

The banyan seemed like a forest, a copse of many trees all linked back to its heart. Everywhere we looked we could see roots gently reaching to ground, 'propping' up green leaves strongly growing in all directions. From cracks in the green we could see the blue sky.

The truth of the center and the center of the truth..

Sometime back a cyclone destroyed the center in 1989. With the nucleus of the tree , the giant trunk gone the other roots took over and have held the great banyan like a giant umbrella.




Around the banyan, there are loads of benches. We walk around and try and figure out where the tree starts and where it ends.

Brightly coloured Bougainvillea flowers..

Brightly coloured flowers light up the path. Pink Bougainvilleas merrily whisper secrets and the wind seems in the know of everything that happens around this place

Beobab Tree 

At a distance is the Beobab tree. It is a beautiful tree. It looks like a strong , stout man standing with his hands reaching up to the sky. A native of South Africa, the diameter of the tree can get to be almost 30m.  Considering the dry condition the tree usually grows in, its no wonder that it doubles up as a natural reservoir of water and can store upto 4000 liters maybe more in it's porous bark


Other trees stare out at us in all corners, some full of fruit, some merry with flowers.
We see every shape and every colour. Brightly coloured insects crawl through the undergrowth.

One of the millions of tiny inhabitants of this place..

The way stretches on.

Seeds..

The great banyan..

And we keep passing different parts of the great big banyan. In the 450 years it has watched over the city, it's roots have spread out like giant tentacles and it seems to have walked several miles from where it all started. I read somewhere that it was under the tree that loudspeakers were used for the very first time in India and 3000 men and women could stand under its able gaze, until in the interest of the tree, the venue of the meetings of the theosophical society were shifted.

Test the roots..

The winding coconut

Man has for so long asserted his identity through symbols. We build monuments, towering buildings and long after their time has come and gone these symbols still stay on as living testimonies to those who built him. But what of trees like the Aalamaram,  who come from an age before the city itself exists and have stayed on amidst the chaos of change and the rubble of development? It looks like the banyan took root and the city built itself around it, stretching outwards while always looking in.

Heaven in a cup..

A long time ago a friend described the 'Filter Coffee'  as we know it, as a South indian Latte.  I had to take offence.For something that has become the marker of all occasions great and small, and over the years the defining symbol of South Indian hospitality, I found this description reductionist It is so much more and defies comparison.

Visiting home after a hiatus of 2 years,  it's  one of those things I've sorely missed. Nescafe doesn't even come close. In true blue South Indian style I craved the perfect cup of strong filter coffee, with the right amount of bitter and that sweet hint of dissolved sugar; not too much but just enough for the two to complement each other in subtle flavor some ways. But am picky when it comes to my coffee.
I have a list of people who make the grade ;).  And so when we got home in the afternoon my dad had everything ready to make me the perfect cup.

For the best coffee, the 'Dicoction' (the brew itself)should be freshly brewed. Let to sit even a few hours and it gets rancid. Yes yes, I know most people fridge and reheat before adding it to warm milk. But I am very very discerning and call tell the difference. So don't think for an instance that you can break this cardinal rule and get away. The milk is heated separately and then the two are blended together, sugar added and then everything served in an 'Dabara and Tumbler'; The two made of stainless steel are essentials in serving coffee. Without them it would be incomplete
There are methods to adhere to. Throw away the spoon and instead transfer the coffee from the Tumbler to the Dabara and then back again. The sugar gets dissolved and you have yourself heaven in a cup.  By this point the intoxicating aroma begs you to take a sip.

As a child I used to visit the shop where my mom used to diligently buy her coffee mix. Peaberry she would say and would add No chicory,  explaining to me as we walk away that adding chicory is a cheat that makes the coffee look but not necessarily taste better.

Having your cuppa at home is one thing. But coffee is such an integral part of our culture, A ritual slipped into mundane everyday events. A quick stop at any one of the numerous restaurants in the South , never fails to rejenuvate. I've lost count of the number of times my brother and I have shared the spoils of the golden brew at the Adigas in Bangalore; 'By 2' as we say in true Bangalore style, by which we literally mean a half portion each.

Even with the mushrooming Baristas and coffee outlets around cities in the South, none can rival the filter coffee in taste or in value for money. It's the one thing everyone loves irrespective of their standing, rich or poor; It's a leveler of sorts.

As our plane took off, my husband and I were already talking about our next trip to Saravan Bhavan and to me that meant another delicious cup of golden filter coffee!