THE UNIQUE STEP WELLS OF INDIA

Chand Baori step well 8th-9th c. Abhaneri, Rajasthan

CHAND BAORI - A SPECTACULAR 9TH c. STEP WELL. Step wells have existed in India since millennia. Wells have been found in Indus Valley cities from 3000 B.C. Most of the rainfall in India occurs in the three months of the monsoon. Ingenious methods of collecting water and retaining it have been developed in the sub-continent for thousands of years.

About 95 kms. from Jaipur, on the road to Agra is the tiny village of Abhaneri. There are no direct bus connections. The Chand Baori step well is the most spectacular example of step well to survive in India. This incredible square structure is 13 stories deep, and lined along the walls on three sides are double flights of steps. 3,500 narrow steps arranged in perfect symmetry descends to the bottom of the well 20 meters deep to a murky green puddle of water.

It was built between the 8th and 9th centuries by King Chanda of the Nikumbha Dynasty, it provided the surrounding areas with a dependable water source for centuries before modern water delivery systems were introduced. As the green water at the base attests, the well is no longer in use, but it makes for an interesting stop-over to an architecturally impressive structure that is over 1000 years old. It is the oldest step well in Rajasthan.

The well’s sheer endlessly appearing geometric complexity made of stairs and steps ensured that people had access to water at any time of the year, and from all sides. The large mouth of the well functioned as a rain catching funnel that contributed to the water seeping in from the porous rock at the bottom. In addition to conserving water, Chand Baori also became a community gathering place for the Abhaneri locals. The townsfolk used to sit around the step well and cool off during the summer days. At the bottom the well the air is always about 5-6 degrees cooler than at the top.

The steps surround the well on three sides while the fourth side has a set of pavilions built one atop another. The northern side has a multi-storeyed corridor supported on pillors and two projecting balconies enshrining beautiful images of Mahishasuramardini and Ganesha . The enclosure wall, the side veranda and the pavilion at the entrance are later additions.

The ASI takes care of the site and entrance to it is free.

AGRASEN KI BAOLI IN DELHI
This step well on Hailey Road, near Jantar Mantar is 60 m long and 15 m wide. It is named after Raja Agrasen of the Mahabharata. This was re-built during the 14th c. by the Agrawal community. The baoli has 103 steps and the lower part of it used to be permanently under water.

The stone walls of the Baoli, dressed with inventive designs with a series of arched structure are grim and desolate, but still beautiful. The wide rectangular step well, is made up of a series of superimposed arches supported on piers or columns.There are three levels in the visible area (the area which is above the water) of the Baoli, each of which is lined with arched niches on either sides. These allow the visitors to explore various alcoves and rooms that once may have been used as sites for retreat or puja.

Agrasen ki baoli, Delhi

OTHER BAOLIS IN DELHI
There are other baolis in Delhi like Gandhak ki baoli, The Gandhak ki Baoli was built by Iltutmish for Bakhtiar Kaki (a Sufi mystic responsible for establishing the Sufi order in Delhi). The Gandhak ki Baoli got its name from the smelly sulphur springs that fed the well. All that remains today are some carved pillars and the sulphur spring has given way to stagnant water.

The Nizamuddin baoli. The construction of this step-well began at the same time as Ghiyas-ud-din Tughlaq began building his massive Tughlaqabad fort. The emperor wanted all the masons in the land to work on his fort alone. They could not undertake any other project. However, Nizamuddin was keen on having the Baoli built at the same time. So the masons worked on the fort during the day and on the Baoli by night. In a fit of pique, the emperor cut off the supply of oil to Ghiyaspur (present day Nizamuddin) so that there would be no light to work on the Baoli at night. The story goes that Nizamuddin lit the lamps with water and cursed the emperor, saying that his fort would remain deserted on completion.

Rajon ki baoli, Delhi

The Rajon ki Baoli is simply grand. Of all the Baolis, it was the most ornamental. Built by Sikander Lodhi in the 16th century, ‘Rajon' refers not to the kings but to the masons who built it.

Tomb, Rajon ki baoli

Text by Shankar A. Narayan and Sudharshana Srinivasan Photo credits: Michael Weening, Vishal Shankar, 'The Hindu', Breakaway

THE ISLAND FORTRESS OF JANJIRA AND ITS AFRICAN MASTERS

Janjira Fort. Built between 1567-1571

I start my drive from Bombay, down the Pune Expressway.  We turn right before Khopoli and continue down the Pen-Alibaug Road. After a ride of about five hours, we are at Murud, a small town with a fine beach and unpack into our rooms on the beachfront. The fine sandy beach is relaxing to be on, the sound of the gentle waves soothing to the ear. We are on the Arabian Sea and before us, lies an exciting visit to a unique island fortress. It is clearly visible from the beach, rising like a giant creature from the blue waters.

Aerial view of Janjira

The fortress was a strong-hold of African rulers, who were masters of it for three centuries. They held out against the Mughals, the Portugese and the Marathas, in an unbroken rule that lasted until 1948. They even had a tributary ruler in faraway Gujarat. The nawabs of Jafarabad.  And one of their descendents founded the tiny State of Sachin, just seven square miles large, but nevertheless one of British India’s 565 princely states.

BY SAILBOAT TO JANJIRA
The next morning, we proceed to Rajpuri, a small village a few kilometres from Murud. There, my friend Arvind and I set sail for the island of Janjira. Arvind is a professor at Bombay University and has been here before. It’s a short ride and there are dozens of boats ferrying tourists to the island.

As we approach, we can see the granite walls looming ahead of us. They look intact and every bit as formidable as they would have been as they were when they were first built in the early 16th century.

HISTORY OF JANJIRASome local fishermen of Rajpuri built a small wooden fort called Medhekot on a huge rock within the sea. The idea was to protect themselves from sea pirates. The Nizamshah of Ahmednagar had his eye on this fort. He sent Piram Khan, a general of the Ahmednagar  to capture Medhekot. Piram Khan came with three ships, defeated the fishermen and captured the fort. Malik Ambar, the Abyssinian regent of Ahmednagar ordered its strengthening.  Burhan Khan who succeeded Piram Khan, demolished the old fort and built an impregnable structure on 22 acres between  1567-1571.

As we enter, there is a monumental gateway, on which is carved a royal emblem, showing a tiger fending off several elephants. It is said to represent the might of the Siddi rulers, who were formidable sailors and fighting men.

Royal emblem carved on main portal of the fortress

Cannon, one of over 500 guarding the fortress

The island of Janjira (from ‘jazeera’, island or peninsula in Arabic) was a formidable fortress entirely surrounded by large walls with 22 rounded bastions. Well-conceived and well-defended, Janjira was never conquered. Originally, the fort counted 572 cannons; most were made in India, and seven came from various European countries.  One of these cannons is said to be among the largest in India. Siddi rule over the island lasted 330 years. It was inhabited until 1972.

Mughal emperor Aurangzeb confirmed the title of Nawab on the rulers of Janjira, a title they already held.  In 1803, the British did the same, and later, conferred a 11-gun salute upon the ruler of Janjira State.

Inside the portal is evidence, now in ruins of a once-flourishing settlement.  There were two Muslim and one Hindu neighborhoods, which contained hundreds of houses. “The Sidis deck their walls with swords, shields, lances, muskets, guns, knives, and daggers. Most well-to-do families have male and female servants, and a stock of cows, buffaloes, goats, and bullocks. Rich families have four to eight bondsmen and bondswomen, generally the children of poor Hindus who have been bought and made Musalmans. These bondsmen and bondswomen are not hereditary and they can at their pleasure leave their master who feeds them and clothes them.”—Gazetteer of the Bombay Presidency, 1883.

There were four mosques on the island. One was the royal mosque and another was reserved for visitors. The Jama Masjid, located by a water reservoir, was the main mosque. Parts of it are still standing.

The Jama Masjid

Palace of the nawabs on Janjira

Janjira is considered one of the best specimens of naval fort architecture. Its inner buildings that housed a full court and garrison were powerful and elegant. Plaques with inscriptions in Persian to the glory of the nawabs decorated some walls. The fort had a grand entrance and underground passages. A small entrance at the back  provided a last resort, if the fortress had to be evacuated.

One reason why Janjira was never conquered by invaders was because it had its own supply of fresh water. There are two large reservoirs of fresh water, besides wells that are over sixty feet deep. Janjira’s population in 1941 was more than 103,000, 82 percent of whom were Hindus and 17 percent Muslims. The African descendants were all related to the king. Several hundred Jews (Bene Israel) also lived in the kingdom. Not all of them lived inside the fortress, of course. The town of Murud was a thriving trading post and supported this large population.

The large, fortress-like structure erected on a knoll was the palace of the nawab. It was built around 1707. The walls and floors of several rooms were decorated with coloured glass. It, like the rest of the structures inside the fortress, is in a state of decay. There is evidence of the once-splendid houses, with beautifully decorated doorways still intact, and ruined tombs of noblemen.

AHMADGANJ PALACE AT MURUD
After leaving the island of Janjira, the nawabs settled in Murud on the mainland. Their Ahmadganj Palace was built in 1904. The grounds cover 45 acres and hold a mosque, the tombs of the previous rulers, and a number of other structures (some of which no longer exist) such as staff and servants’ apartments, nursery, dispensary, tennis court and swimming pool.
The palace is built on a cliff overlooking the Arabian Sea. Its Turkish architect designed it so that it appears to be a different structure depending on the angle from which it is viewed. The palace itself is more than 20,000 square feet, and an extension covers more than 10,000 square feet. The palace, with its magnificent rooms, stained glass ceiling, marble staircases and unique decorations is still inhabited by the nawab’s family.

Ahmadganj Palace, Murud Town

Text credit: Shankar A. Narayan, Dr. Omar H. Ali and Schomburg Center for Research in Black Cluture.

Photo credits: Himanshu Sarpotdar, Iyer Rajgopal, Pradosh Biswas, Akshay Charegaonkar, Khali Sawant,Siddhesh Mangela.

MEMORIES OF A STRIPLING :The office-goer - Part 2

Subedar Khudadad Khan, first Indian recipient of the Victoria Cross

My visits to my father’s office on Special Saturdays were not entirely wasted. The office was filled with fascinating people and advanced technological wonders that amazed a seven-year- old.

After my giddy hour, riding the escalator at the Reserve Bank of India, I would make my way to the imposing office on Council House St. The façade, always spotlessly white, with its classical-baroque elements, its arched windows with its green shutters and jute blinds that were rolled up, ready to be let down to protect against the fierce monsoon showers or when the afternoon sun got too intrusive. There were two air-conditioners that jutted out on the top right of the building. Otherwise, the ‘punkhas’ with their giant cream-coloured blades, lazily circling overhead, and the jute blinds did the trick, keeping the interiors cool even during the worst summer months.

General Accident Fire & General Insurance Corporation, 3, Council House St. 1920s

But I am getting ahead of myself. Before I could get as far inside as the lobby, I first had to shake hands with

my friend, Sikandar Aslam Jaan, the “keeper of the entrance”. Aslam, was a retired Havildar Major, over six feet and 2 inches tall. He looked even taller in his imposing uniform with its epaulettes over his wide shoulders and the two rows of shiny brass buttons across his chest. The whole effect was made all the more imposing by the complicated Peshawari pugree he wore. It had a black, dome-shaped hard cap and a starched plume forming what looked like the crest of a peacock in the front and a tail down his neck . Aslam was the head concierge, and nobody could step under the white canvas canopy and the red jute carpet that led up the five steps to the glass doors of “his” lobby without his say so. He tolerated no nonsense from vagrants and loiterers when it came to “his” patch of the pavement in front. He made sure that only authorised drivers dared to pause in front of the building to disgorge those who had legitimate business. All others were despatched with a ear-drum-shattering blast of his whistle if they stopped a fraction longer than necessary in front of his domain.

Aslam was constantly concerned about my skinny state. He would scoop me up like a small bag of onions in his giant hands. Those hands had dug trenches in Mesopotamia and jammed bayonets into the enemy, but it felt remarkably safe to be in his hands. He would pinch my cheeks and my arms, like a butcher sizing up a particularly sad specimen. “Shankar baba aap roz chaar gilaas malaaiwala dudh piyo. Aur roz gosht khao. Ghosht ke bina aadmi bilkul namard ban jaata hai.” He would then gently put me down, grinning at me through his paan-stained teeth, his giant face covered by luxurious whiskers and sideburns. He would then flex his own biceps and do ten ‘lift ups’ with me hanging on with both my arms around them. What fun!

Kushan or Gupta 5 CE. Bust with turban and moustache

Formalities with Aslam over, I would stumble into the lobby and wave to Mrs. Mukherjee behind the polished counter, partly hidden by the PABX. She would smile sweetly as I lunged up the wide stairs, breathing the coolness of the interior, so different from the blazing sun outside and burst into the second-floor where father had his office. I would peep into his room, and he would invariably be frowning at some figures in front of him over the glass-topped table. Hearing the disturbance, he would briefly look up and irritably wave me away.

Thomar Arthur, Count Lally. Lally at Pondicherry, by Paul Philipotteaux.

I would then go around and harass whoever happened to be handy in the department. There was Sadhanbabu, the department`s thespian. He was a legend for his interpretation of Count Lally in the office production of ‘Tipu Sultan’ - “Janaab! Haam France jaayega. Haamara desh mein rebholushaan!”. He would then draw his sword, wave it dramatically in the air, and make his exit. Applause! Sadhanbabu was my hero and I looked up to him, awe-struck at his ability to turn chameleon. Whether in a powdered wig, or as Feluda in a crime thriller, he was unsurpassed.

Sadhanbabu had his own idiomatic English. “Mashima aar aami pujor sari choice korte jacchi. tumi follow korbe?” (“Mrs. Mukherjee and I are going to buy sarees for Puja, do you want to come along?”). “tumi je Kolkatay born aar fed-up, tomar bangla to khubi mota-moti.” (“You are born and brought up in Calcutta, but your skills in spoken-Bengali are dismal.) “tara tari koro, next year, aamader office day-te tomar jonne balok Prahalad-er role ta bhebhecchi.” “tomar baba-ke bolo je aamader-ke second-Saturday chhuti dite. tirish bochhor dhore ekhane boshe aacchi, chamra ghishe gechhe, tomar baba, he is not giving leaf?” (patta dilen naa?)

Iftikhar Ali Khan, Nawab of Pataudi

There would be Haldar sir, with his encyclopedic knowledge of cricket. He would tell me about Lala Amarnath, Nari Contractor, Sardesai and Wes Hall and Charlie Griffith. I would be wide-eyed, as he narrated their exploits. “Contractor was hit by a no-ball. The leg umpire called him for throwing, but only afterwards. Pataudi became captain. His father was also captain of India. But first he played for England. Only player to play for India and England.”

Srinivasan mama would amaze me with his ability to add up large sums in his head. He would tell me about a man named Pythogarus and something about a square Hippopotamus. All very interesting, but I didn’t understand everything he would tell me and would soon get restless.

Text by Shankar A. Narayan Photo credits: Wikipedia, RCAHMS and Aviva

MEMORIES OF A STRIPLING :The office-goer - Part 1

Chartered Bank, Calcutta. Edward Thornton, architect

One Saturday a month, up to the age of around ten, I would wake up feeling very important. This was a Special Saturday. Special Saturdays, as the name suggests, were different from other Saturdays. On normal Saturdays, my father used to work half-day, while I would while away my time with my mates in the para. But not on Special Saturdays. Once a month, it was my turn to be an 'office-goer'. I would try to imitate father`s morning routine as much as possible. Get up promptly at 6.30 a.m. Drink my Bournvita and glance at 'The Statesman' over his shoulder as he drank his coffee. Shaving wasn`t an option for me yet, much to my annoyance. I would shower, carefully comb my hair and fuss over my shirt and half-pant. I would carefully buff my shoes with Cherry Blossom to make sure they were shiny and pester mother for a new pair of socks.

Mother would prepare two lunch boxes, instead of the usual single box for father. I would fend off friends who would come up to me asking if I wanted to play cricket as I impatiently paced up and down the verandah, waiting for father. He would finally appear, angry at something or somebody, threatening mother with dire consequences “if it happens again”, whatever it was. He would look critically at me and would calm down. Like two athletes waiting for the starting gun, we would pause fractionally in front of the gate, and then we would be off!

Holding his bag in his left hand, and gripping me firmly by the right, we would stumble and trip over the ‘kuccha’ road in a race against time. It was always the same! We could leave the house fractionally earlier and take it easy, but no! This was the great family tradition. Give the bus a sporting chance by leaving home a shade too late! The distance to the CSTC depot at “teen number Garage” would be covered in exactly 4 minutes and 16 seconds, just as the 8.30 Office Special was about to pull out. Father would frantically push me in and jump in after me.

The journey to Dalhousie would take 45 minutes and sitting on the top deck of the bus, I would watch the stops go by. Down Lansdowne, then Elgin Road, past Rabindra Sadan, Chowringhee, the wonder of the maidan and the grandeur of the Grand Hotel and Shahid Minar. Father would give me a running commentary that was repeated each time we took the trip. “This is Birla Planetarium”. “Over there is Eden Gardens”. “The REAL name of Shahid Minar is Ochterlony Monument”. “One day I will take you to Grand Hotel, but only if you are nice to mother.”

Council House, Calcutta, built 1764

Finally we would get off at Dalhousie and walk over to Council House Street. Our first stop would be at the Standard Chartered Bank where I had my own “Children`s Account”. I would walk proudly up to the teller with my “piggy bank”. Actually, it was shaped like Donald Duck, with a slot on the top. It had a tab-opening at the bottom which was secured with a piece of wire and a red wax seal.

Donal  Duck 'Piggy' Bank

I would hand over my Donald to the lady cashier along with the yellow passbook adorned with cartoons of Mickey and Minnie Mouse and encased in a plastic cover. The cashier would smile benevolently at me and solemnly break the seal with a pair of tongs and spread out the contents of my Donald on the counter. I would wait with bated breath, for her to pronounce a verdict. After a careful examination of the contents, the obvious candidates for the wastepaper basket would be removed (scraps of paper, Chiclet wrappers etc.). She would then carefully count the notes and examine them for tears, ink blotches, doodles, staple-pin holes etc. Similarly the coins would be counted. There would be some anxious moments while she took some coins over to the Head Cashier and I would crane my neck over the counter and watch from afar as they talked and gesticulated to one another.

At last she would come back and say to father. “Sir, we found two 5 paise coins which were partly defaced

2 naya paise, 1970

but we decided to take them anyway since you are a good customer. But I am sorry we cannot take this coin because it is from Bhutan. Then, she would beam at me and say. “So this month`s total is Tharttee-too rupeeees and twwwennty sixxx paise. Are you happy?” She would then offer me a boiled toffee as a sign of the bank`s appreciation of me as a valued customer. I would snatch the sweet and promptly pop it into my mouth, lest she should change her mind and want the sweet back. In the meantime, she would solemnly enter the magic number for that month in my passbook, and ring the bell for the peon to take it to the Chief Cashier for his seal and signature. My Donald would be conveyed to the appropriate functionary who would reseal it and bring it back to the counter. Finally, approximately half an hour after we first arrived, we would be ushered out of the bank by the mustachioed guard with the shotgun and the bandolier across his chest.

Department of Industry and Trade, corner of Hare St. and Council House St.

The Standard Chartered Bank branch on Council House Street is now defunct. There is still a board outside announcing it as the premises of the bank but it is locked and the once pristine façade is a shambles.

By now father would be boiling with impatience and suppressed rage at having “wasted half an hour.” But I would already be looking forward to the next stop. We would head for the Reserve Bank building and enter the lobby. Being a regular, I was pally with the security staff and they would greet me as a long lost friend. Dad would deliver me into their safe hands and go off to his office. The next hour or so, I would spend on a unique attraction: Calcutta`s only set of escalators! Even Dum Dum airport didn`t boast escalators in those days, neither were there malls or Metro stations featuring them. The Reserve Bank of India`s building was the only place in town where an eight-year-old could amuse himself by riding on them. I would go up one side and down the other, ad nauseam until I had my fill.

Reserve Bank of India, Calcutta. John A. Ritchie, architect

I would then say my goodbyes to my friends, the security staff, and make my way to dad`s office, just in time for lunch and the bus-ride back home! Such it was to be an “office goer” on Special Saturdays!

Text by Shankar A. Narayan Photo credit: Dipanjan Ghosh

MY INVISIBLE BUBBLE

'Invisible Bubble' by Erin Murray

Where is the star that I could follow
To the end of the world, and far beyond
A light that would stay and show me the way
No matter if I should go raving blind?

Where is the breath that would abide
Both now and in the void to come
One that I could share with my tribe
Both here and in the teeming wild?

Where are the promises made
When I was but a clot in a belly
The ones that would hold me aloft
Through the sullen waves of being?

All the vows that life has made are
But mere tokens and empty fiddles
The only thing that helps me now
Is huddling in my invisible bubble!

MAKE ME WHOLE AGAIN

Make me whole again
In a way, that takes
Me away from who I am

What? Say you
Are you not who you are?

Perhaps we are all
Those who we are
In ways we refuse
To see

THE DOWN TRAIN

In a while the down train is
Going to pass by
The SM and his assistant
Immaculate as ever
In their starched, white uniforms
Stand at ease, flags at the ready
One red, to tell us to stop!
The other green, to wave us
Frantically past!

My hands get sweaty as we approach
The level crossing just before the
Canal which flows under the bridge
That leads to the road that snakes
Over the dunes in the far beyond
The brown, sparse horizon blazing in the
Desert sun, over which
I know
You are sulking

My palms get sweaty
And I feel the lump in my throat
I need to gulp whole mouthfuls
To keep from suffocating
Why is it that each time the down
Train snakes past this outpost of the
Indian Railways that I get my hopes up
That this is the end, my redemption
Is at hand!

You were not here the last time
Nor the one before that
Nor the times without number prior
Why, oh why would I then get my hopes up
That this time, you would somehow get
The train to stop and tell me
You were right
I was wrong and that everything would
Be all right between us again!

YOU, WHO LEAVE US ALONE

The mail box lies empty
Accusing me of complicity
In its sad barrenness

For was it not I who told you to
Leave me alone! To not write,
To not look back but go onward!

You took me at my word, heartless
Beast that you are, not stopping
To think of us who would be left alone

What gives you the right to seek
Greener pastures when the cows at
Home go unmilked and miserable?

A CANDLE FOR MY DUBBAWALLA

My dubbawalla is no more
My bai is lying on Platform 12
Instead of the martinis at the Taj
Dhobitalao is lying dry, shaken!

I turn my face to the Arabian Sea
Why is Chowpatty so quiet?
Who in heaven`s name told the Bhaiya to decamp,
I need my dahipuri!

Shiv`s sainiks, come out of your holes
In Bhandup, Kurla, Worli and Karjat
I need your help to mop up the blood
The Sensex is lying senseless, bleeding!

My usual pimp in Colaba is missing
Heaven help me if I have to endure
Yet another night in drunken agony
Without my regular bar girl for company!

Not even a candle can I hold
I tried but the grenade blasts from the
Trident`s lobby keep blowing it out
Blast it!

Epilogue- A PASSAGE TO CALCUTTA – BORN AGAIN - Palghat Tales

I              

Vaithy

They say old age is a return to childhood. Thangam and Vaithy would find a new lease of life upon returning to the village. Living there again and getting re-acqainted with neighbours and relatives, re-kindled memories of growing up. Vaithy once again became familiar with the emerald green paddy fields, the village pond and the small temple. He formed a local committee to renew the pond and build a wall around it. The village had roads, street lights and buses and taxis that made it easier to reach the town. In many ways though, it was still a quiet oasis. Bhagyam settled into a satisfactory routine. Visiting the temple in the mornings and spending time with

Thangam and Kannan

Nambisan’s daughter, Savitri, who became their companion. Eventually, she moved in with them.

Venkatta too became a part of their lives. When Aachu mama was alive, he could not formally adopt his son with Alamelu. Known as the village simpleton, his loving nature was visible to all. Now, he became a son to Vaithy and Thangam. He would fetch milk from the co-operative, help her cut the vegatables and braid her hair. He became attached to ‘Vaithyppa’ and went for walks with him to the corner-store and along the canal. He insisted on holding the umbrella for him when it rained and was devoted to him in ways that moved him. He would wait outside the temple, guarding his slippers and sit beside the barber shop, and walk him home. He would go to the bus-stand, and be the first to bring home the The Hindu and Mathrubhumi, not content to let the papers be delivered home. When Vaithy returned home from his trip to Thanjavur, he would be waiting on the platform eagerly, with Thamby the driver waiting outside the station. On the way home, he would excitedly deliver a list of the things Vaithy had missed while he had been away. The state of the mango trees. The school miss who had disappeared. Khader’s ducklings which he had seen in the paddy fields.  

Venkatta

Jayashree and Manikandan

Each day, they would walk over to the mana to visit Vaithy's friend Kesavan Namboodiri. Manikandan the tusker would be there, for them to admire and adore, along with Jayashree, his keeper.  Ever since Vaithy had brought him from Thekkessery mana, he had searched in vain for a good mahout, until he found Jayashree. She was more than an elephant-keeper, she was a soul-mate to Manikandan. A woman as a mahout? Unheard of, people had said, but Jayashree proved them wrong. Manikandan was a magnificent specimen, the envy of his peers. Thangam was bemused, but Vaithy was not to be swayed.  There was no denying him. He had to have Manikandan. An elephant had been his child-hood dream.

II             One rainy season, Bhagyam was doing the dishes after dinner with Kannan when she casually mentioned that if Vaithy hadn’t married her, she might have remained a spinster. Kannan was intrigued. What did she mean?  Later, as they sat in the verandah, with the patter of rain outside, and her children around her, Thangam told them.

“Your father saw me at the temple and told his Periappa he wanted to marry me. They asked for my horoscope but Aachu mama didn’t have one, they didn’t know my exact date of birth.” “I told Periappa, but he said it was not possible,” Vaithy began. “I had a Namboodiri friend, Kesavan, and we went to his father.” Thirumeni listened to the young Vaithy and asked him if his mind was made up. Vaithy said he would remain a bachelor, if he didn’t marry Thangam. “Not marrying is not a solution. A paradesi brahmanan like you must

Kesavan Namboodiri, Vaithy's childhood friend

become a gr’hasthan. Let me speak to Panicker first, then we shall see.”

The consultations took some time. Panicker was not entirely sure, but in the end, he was reasonably certain that a horoscope could be made to match Vaithy’s.  After much discussion with the Thirumeni, it was decided that Thangam was born on a pournami in Medha maasam, five days after Thrissur Pooram. That meant she must have been born in the year 1111. Accordingly, Panicker was asked to draw up a horoscope. It would show that Thangam was born well within Swati nakshatra.

Thirumeni called Periappa to counsel him. “Even the Gods smile on a gandharva vivaham, master. Who are we to stand in their way? Panicker says that the boy’s horoscope bodes well for his future. They are a good family. Think about it.” It would be another year before Periappa would give his blessing to the match.

Chuppam (foreground) with Ammangal and Mama

Dorai

Papa

III            “When my parents were married, I was already born.” “You mean Patti Amma was not your mother?”. “No. Patti Amma was not my mother.” “Who was your mother then?”

Meena

Thangam looked at her children. Kannan, Papa, Meena, Chuppam and Dorai waited for her to speak. She looked at Vaithy, who nodded slightly. “You remember Nambisan? He was my older brother. When Patta married, I was about three months old. When Patta and Patti died, Aachu mama moved into our house and he and Vishala Patti took care of me.”

There was a stunned silence.

Text by: Shankar A. Narayan      Photo credits: Manoj P and ‘The Hindu’