Mythology in everyday language

- by Janaki Krishnan

Last week, I visited my friend Nirupama in Dadar. It was 10:00 in the morning. "Where is your son?", I asked her. "Oh, that Kumbhakarna? He's still asleep", she said in Marathi. We both laughed. She was referring to the demon Kumbhakarna who slept for 6 months in a year, and could only be woken up with loud drumbeats and trumpets.

As I walked home, I thought about how Indian languages, even in common usage, are rich in mythology, and how a single mythological reference easily conveys a wealth of meaning.

I remember my grandmother, who was laid down by cancer in her later years, referring to my mother as Bhoomadevi - Mother Earth, for all the burdens she shouldered so patiently.

A short-tempered neighbour, known for his loud outbursts, earned the name Narasimha - Man-Lion. As kids, we used to be very amused, imagining him as Narasimha, the fearsome form of Vishnu, half-man, half-lion. Just as Narasimha refused to calm down even after destroying the demon Hiranyakashipu, our neighbour refused to be quiet even when his entire household had beaten a thorough retreat.

With a mythology as rich as ours, there is no end to amusing metaphors. Take for example, my food-loving cousin. Whenever he visited someone, he would always check with the lady of the house whether anything good was being served that day. Naturally, the elders often said to him "Don't be such a Bakasura!".

Similarly, I have heard wily women being referred to as Manthara, and short men as Vamana or Agastya. And of course, scheming men are universally described as Shakuni.

In modern times, these rich metaphors have taken on interesting shapes. Indian languages have begun to reflect more recent personalities and characters.

My colleague Deshpande was known for his truthfulness. "Oh, that man? He is such a Gandhi!" is how people described him. The tone would be sarcastic or humorous, and usually hinted that although Deshpande's integrity was high, he was somewhat out of touch with reality.

I have also heard households where the woman's voice is supreme being described as under 'Indira Gandhi Raj'. I'm sure, in a few years, 'Sonia-ji' will come to mean a woman who wields the real power from behind the scene!

Perhaps I should compile a new dictionary with all these fascinating metaphors, old and new. What do you say?

One year of dance lessons

- by Deepa Krishnan

Today is Vijayadashami, the tenth day of the Dassera festival. This is the day on which every dancer seeks the blessings of his or her guru. It is also traditionally the day on which new dancers are initiated into the art.

I began dance lessons last Vijayadashami, so it has now been a year of learning. I learnt dance as a child; therefore this is not entirely new to me...but in some ways it is harder, because I have to unlearn some of the earlier habits.

In the past year, I've struggled with getting back into the rhythms and postures of classical dance. But the body is an amazing thing - when you push it, it responds. I can see myself improving, day by day. Now if only I could practice more regularly!

Here are some photos from today's Vijayadashami celebrations. When I got to the venue, one of the senior dancers was just beginning to draw kolam at the doorstep.

She looked like she needed help, so I sat down to assist.

The pattern we drew is a traditional Tamil kolam. You start with a square (see the central one with four connecting lines?) and then you draw the extensions.

These were the tools we used:
- powdered red clay, to create the base
- white Cherry Blossom shoe shine, instead of the traditional rice powder or paste
- chalk to try out designs
- paint brushes, instead of using our hands the traditional way

The final design was not just beautiful and welcoming, but also auspicious. (We were pretty pleased with our efforts, even if we did cheat). For all you purists out there, if you want to see this sort of kolam done the traditional way, then here is a good link.

After the kolam, we went inside and joined the rest of the audience. Eventually, the hall filled up, with students and their parents. Here is one section of the hall. The girls in the front row were new, just starting their lesson today. Older girls distributed flowers, for the ritual offering to Lord Shiva that would mark the beginning of the event.

Here is my guru, Jayashree Rajagopalan, in a beautiful orange and green sari. She spoke to the parents about the Natya Shastra, the world's oldest codified treatise on the performing arts. The Natya Shastra is the root source of India's classical and folk dance forms.

The first part of the program was, of course, a prayer to the Great God Shiva, in his form as Nataraja, the Lord of Dance. We offered flowers, bowed to him, and then began the performance.

I made several errors, Nataraja's grace notwithstanding. The guru was kind to me, offering encouraging words, and helping me get over the mortification.

(I still wince when I think about it. Aaaaaaarrrrrrrrrgh. I'll do better next year. I promise!)

Starting a conversation

- By Janaki Krishnan

Perhaps it is the frequent weather changes in the UK that make the Englishman begin a conversation with remarks about the weather. Indians with their diverse customs and climate have different ways of starting conversations.

In fertile Kerala, the southernmost state, people tend to begin conversations with remarks about the activity involved at that moment. For example, if you're bathing in the river, and someone stops to chat with you, the conversation begins with 'Kulikyya?' (Bathing, eh?). Or if you're resting, then it's 'Kidukkua?' (Resting, are you?).

In North India, even before starting a conversation, people touch the feet of their elders saying 'Pai laagoo' (Hindi) or 'Pairi pauna' (Punjabi). This greeting literally means 'I fall at your feet', and is a way of showing respect to older people. The usual response is an affectionate blessing - 'Jeete Raho, beta' - may you live long, child.

India has many ways of saying even the common 'How are you?'. In Gujarat it is 'Kem chho'. The Maharashtrians say 'Kasa kai', the Bengalis 'Kaimon aache' and the Tamilians 'Eppudi irrukenga'. It is impossible to list greetings of all communities. With 22 official scheduled languages, and 415 other living languages, India has among the most diverse spoken cultures in the world.

Often, greetings involve the names of Gods. In Maharashtra, the standard greeting in villages is 'Ram Ram' - referring to the God Rama, hero of the epic Ramayana. If you meet someone of a higher status, you add 'Saheb' to it, to acknowledge the difference in status - Ram Ram Saheb.

Muslims in India, in general, use 'Salaam aaleikum' - Peace be upon you. Many Hindu religious organisations have evolved greetings of their own. If you call the ISKON temple, you'll be greeted on the phone not with a 'Hello' but with a 'Hare Krishna'. The Chinmaya Trust uses 'Hari Om', and devotees of Sai Baba say 'Sairam' as a form of greeting.

And so it goes on. The manner in which a person starts a conversation provides clues to the identity of the person. In a diverse country like India, this can be quite useful!

Mumbai, of course, has it's own style. The busy Mumbaite, rushing to catch a local train, has learnt how to begin and end the conversation at the same time - 'Hi yaar, how are you, chal, see you!'

Perfume-crazy

- By Deepa Krishnan

Anyone who has travelled to India will tell you that we're very fond of perfume. Flowery perfume, that is. We strew flowers on our marriage beds. Women wear flowers in their hair. We offer flowers to our gods. Roses are a great favourite - we sprinkle rose-water on guests at weddings.

Among the most popular flower-perfumes is kewra. I've often seen little bottles of kewra essence in the Muslim shops on Mohammed Ali Road. But until recently, I didn't know where the perfume came from.

Last month, I was walking through Bhuleshwar, when we spotted a flower-seller's basket.

"What are these?" I asked the flower-seller, pointing to the long spiny leaves.

"Kewda", she said. "Here, see how nice it smells."

Inside the closed pod, there was the white kewra flower; it is called ketaki in Sanskrit. The smell was sweet, but faint. Perhaps I'd have to open the pod to release the scent.

"Do you want to buy it?" she asked. "Ten rupees for one."

"What do I do with it?", I asked.

"Offer it to Ganesh-ji" she said. Apparently, the Elephant God likes this stuff. His father Shiva used to like the ketaki too, until one day, the flower earned his wrath by bearing false witness. Do you know the story of how the ketaki flower fell from grace?

I decided against buying. Whether the Gods like the ketaki or not, I don't. The smell is too flowery, too intense for me, although it is a scent associated with romance.

Here is a love-poem compiled in the 11th century by Vidyakara, a Buddhist monk. It's about a rainy night, and the flowering of the ketaki:

A cloth of darkness inlaid with fireflies;
flashes of lightning;
the thunder hints at a mighty cloudmass.
A trumpeting of elephants;
an east wind scented by opening buds of ketaki,
and falling rain:
I know not how a man can bear nights such as these,
when separated from his love.

Put like that, it does sound appealing, doesn't it?

Next time you want to try something romantic on a rainy night, go buy a kewra incense stick. Perhaps the magic of the ketaki will work for you.

P.S. If you're looking for the English name for this plant, it's screw pine. Pandanus something or the other. They use it in Malay and Thai and Indonesian cooking.

P. P.S. Hey Cristy, thanks for the photos!

(Published in the Hindustan Times, HT Cafe City Beat, City Culture - Aug 16, 2008)

The Naming Syndrome

- by Janaki Krishnan

There is one sphere in Indian society that has undergone tremendous changes in my lifetime - the naming of the first-born.

In days bygone, among Hindu Brahmins from the South, naming or 'naamakaranam' was just a religious formality. A priest would be called, blessings invoked, and the name of the child would be whispered thrice into the child's ear. But there was no effort spent in choosing the child's name. No long lists were pored over, and no advice was sought from friends. By convention, the first born child got the name of the father's parents.

If it was a boy, he would be called exactly the same first name as his paternal grandfather, and if it was a girl, then she'd be named after her paternal grandmother.

The trouble was, in a joint family, the child could not be called by his first name, because it was also the grandparent's name. It would be too disrespectful! How do you scold a boy whose name is the same as your father's? Naturally, 'Subramanian' began to be called Mani, while 'Venkataraman' and 'Ramachandran ' were shortened to Ramu and Chandru.

Sometimes, there were added complications. The first-born sons of two brothers would both be named after their paternal grandfather. How do you manage two rascally cousins, growing up together in the same house, with the same name? This problem was solved by adding funny prefixes to names. My grandfather was called Mottai (Baldie) because his father never allowed him to grow his hair, while his cousin proudly flaunted a thick tuft at the back of his head.

Most names were derived from the names of Gods. It was believed that on your deathbed, if you had the Lord's name (also your son's) on your lips, your place in heaven was assured.

The second born child was named after maternal grandparents, reflecting India's patriarchal society. With no family planning, names had also to be found for an ever-increasing brood of children. For the third, fourth and so on, there were no prescribed rules. Usually they were named after the kula-devata (the family deity), or after specific gods and goddesses based on promises made to that god during domestic crisises.

As India's freedom movement gained momentum, people expressed their support by naming children Subash and Lakshmi. When India attained freedom, Bharat and Bharati became hot favourites. When the Second World War ended with victory for the Allies, my own sister was named Vijaya, for Victory.

Then in the post-independence era came our celluloid heroes. Every house had a Rajesh, an Anand, or a Dilip. Although the movie-star craze still continues, our cricket champions are their competitors. There are hundreds of Sachin's all over India.

In modern times, with intercaste marriages and nuclear families, couples have a wider choice in naming their projeny. They choose from books and lists, and from the Internet. Persian names are increasingly becoming popular. And once the first born is named, the second child's name is selected so that it either starts with the same alphabet, or rhymes or sounds pleasing when both names are said together. Ashan-Ahan. Deepa-Roopa. Akash-Aditya. Many Punjabi families pick names that have a Westernised feel to them - Bunty, Pinky, Babli and Sweetie, for example.

From an era where ancestral names were simply reused, naming has now become an art, a reflection of personal taste.

The Ethics of Slum Tours

- By Deepa Krishnan
A newspaper reporter interviewed me recently. One of the questions she asked me was about the poverty in Mumbai, and our tours to Dharavi, Asia's largest slum.

"Is this not voyeurism?", she asked me. "The affluent stare at the poor, and you make money off it?"

The answer to this question is complex, so I thought I'd list my views here and invite comments from you, my readers.

First of all, there is no avoiding the poor in Mumbai. The slums are all-pervasive. In many parts of the city, there are shanties by the roadside. At Colaba, at Horniman Circle, there are the homeless - they are dirty and unkempt, living on the pavements. On a recent drive through Fort, a semi-naked man walked past us, his body caked with dirt, his clothing in tatters. At traffic signals, tourists are accosted by beggars with shocking sores and disfigurements.

For overseas visitors, the image this creates is of two bewilderingly different Mumbais - one that is rich and glitzy and safe in their five-star cocoon, and the other that lives a hellish life on the streets, begging, cringing, with no self-respect whatsoever.

There is no room for an understanding of a third Mumbai - the Mumbai of the hard-working poor. The Mumbai of the aspiring migrant, with his fierce drive for survival, for self-improvement. The Mumbai of small enterprise. The Mumbai of cottage industries. The Mumbai of poor yet strong women, running entire households on the strength of their income from making papads. Every morning, these women put food on the table, braid their daughters' hair, and send them to schools. They have hope for the future, you see? This is the Mumbai of dreams, which I want my guests to see.

Dharavi is one place where this third Mumbai is visible. In the papad units, in the little tailoring shops, in Kumbharwada, in the kirana grain stores, everywhere Dharavi displays a spirt that is fierce and energetic. Every time my overseas visitors go into Dharavi, they come back with a first-hand insight into this third Mumbai.
One of my American guests summed this up very well, after a 2 hour visit to Dharavi. I've quoted her before, and I quote her again: To me, this place dispels the myth that poverty is due to laziness — that the poor somehow deserve their lot in life because they are lazy or stupid or otherwise lacking in some important character trait that the successful possess. Dharavi is a resounding rebuttal to that belief.

Seeing Dharavi is not even remotely voyeuristic. Dharavi stands up and demands respect, and guess what - it gets it.

Ganesha in my kitchen

- By Deepa Krishnan

I clicked a photo of the little Ganesh idol in my kitchen, installed and decorated specially for this year's Ganesh festival. My maid was the chief decorator. The props were simple - leaves, fruits, flowers, incense, coconut - but the effect was lovely. The idol looked beautiful and serene.

If you look at the photo below, you'll see the right hand is raised in abhaya-mudra, offering blessings. On the left hand, usually a modak is placed, but my maid figured an apple was a good idea. Hmm. Healthier, of course.

On the first day of the festival, this is what we cooked at home, as offering. My maid is from Andhra Pradesh, so she decided what to make based on what they did in her village.

My mum provided the recipe for kozhakattais - steamed rice dumplings stuffed with coconut and jaggery. Once the food had been offered to the Lord, we then got on with the real business of the day - lunch!

Seeing Mumbai with a New Yorker

- By Deepa Krishnan

I went on a tour of the Fort district yesterday. My guest was a young American lady, a lawyer from New York. She'd just moved to Philadelphia, and she was going to start a new job at a law firm. This was a holiday - she was in-between jobs, and she was travelling alone.

As we walked around the Fort area, we saw a Ganesh procession. It was the first day of the Ganesh festival, when the idols are brought from shops to be installed in large 'mandaps'. Mandaps are temporary constructions of wood and paper that house the deity during the festival. The idols are transported amidst a lot of singing and dancing.

It was the drums that attracted our attention first. And of course, we could hear all the fireworks that heralded the procession (see the smoke?)

We also heard the clanging of the cymbals as the men danced in formation.

As if that wasn't enough, there was this big steel-and-brass gong. They were going at it with a metal hammer.

There were children on several trucks, here is one of them.

Passersby stopped to admire the idols.

The sky was overcast, so this large Ganesha had a temporary glass enclosure. Hmm. I should maybe call this one Phone Booth Ganesha.

There was a lot of coloured powder being thrown around, but no one threw colour at us, or pestered us to join.

Once the processions left, we went inside Victoria Terminus to see the train station. Although it was a holiday, there were still a lot of people buying tickets, walking around, selling trinkets, and so on. No one paid us much attention...we admired the carvings, clicked several photos, and then we decided it was time for lunch. We went to Indigo, near the Taj.

"I think Bombay's a lot like New York" said my visitor over lunch. I looked at her, surprised. We had just seen Mumbai's biggest traditional Indian festival, and she thought it was like New York?

Then she explained - "It's got the same energy. Everyone's busy doing their own thing, no one bothers you. You're sort of anonymous, but you fit right in."

I thought of my last visit to New York - and the feeling of instant comfort that I had in Manhattan. Nobody gave a damn about me, everyone was busy, and the streets were vibrant with activity. I could walk anywhere, dress any which way, speak in any accent - it was all acceptable. To fit in, all I need to do was look busy. It was a very good feeling. Perhaps my visitor felt something similar in Mumbai.

Towards the close of lunch, she said "You know what, Deepa? When I walk around in Mumbai I get the feeling that as long as I don't look lost or stupid, I'll be fine."

I just *had* to smile. That last sentence was proof - she felt exactly the same way about Mumbai that I felt about New York.

A Walk down Koliwada Market

- by Janaki Krishnan

It was 5:30 p.m. I was on my way to Koliwada Market. Walking eastwards from Koliwada Station, my eyes fell on the pavement dwellers, some squatting outside their huts, others washing and cooking, and the children sitting amidst the garbage with their schoolbooks spread around. Some of the men could be seen doing odd jobs like repairing stoves, welding, etc.

To move further down, I had to push my way between trucks and vehicles and the sea of humanity walking up in the opposite direction.


On the right, a newly painted Gurudwara in white captured my attention.

Truly the Almighty does not distinguish between the rich and the poor - He is happily housed amidst the squalor. With no time to stand and pray, I moved ahead.

Shops selling sarees, hardware, sweetmeats, provisions etc were lined on the left. Women and children stood around, enjoying an evening chat.

A bangle-seller was doing brisk business.

But I wondered why people were crowding on the other side of the road. With all the skill of a born Bombayite, I crossed the crowded road. I heard the vegetable sellers sitting on the road, speaking Tamil. Piles of tomatoes, beans, snake gourds and other vegetables were being offered at incredibly low prices (sans quality).

At one place I found a woman selling lemons, 25 of them for Rupees 5. What a bargain! I normally pay 2 Rupees per piece! I paid a 5-rupee coin, and bending down, gathered 25 of them to make lemon pickle.

At another corner, a lady was selling plaintain leaves, to use as dinner plates.


Further ahead, there were many shops selling furniture. Doors, windows, iron grille-work, chairs, tables, everything seemed to be available. Many of them seemed to be discarded pieces from nearby buildings. Here was a supermarket for second-hand stuff! I stood in amazement, watching people haggle over the price.

I looked at my watch. I had spent almost an hour walking. So I started trekking back. On the way, I saw this child, eating pani-puri happily:

The road back to the Station had an uphill slope. Again, I had to move along with buses, vehicles, and of course, other people like me.

In thirty minutes, I reached home, but the sights and sounds of buyers and sellers, of workers and idlers, lingered in my mind.

- Janaki

Baby Crow Rescue

- By Aishwarya Pramod

It was seven p.m., and we were at my grandmom's house for dinner. My cousin Ramya was there already. We saw a baby crow, fallen out of its nest. It was flapping its wings, trying to get off the ground. If it didn't manage to fly, it was going to be eaten by a cat the minute I went inside for dinner. It was kind of helpless, so I bugged my mom about it, and she finally decided to take it to the Bombay SPCA in Parel.

When we got there, we were directed to the surgical ward. It smelled so medical. Scary. A dog with a frantically wagging tail was on an operating table, being held down by two vets. A vet checked the baby crow. He was fine, just in shock. They placed him in a large cage, and left him to sleep the rest of the night.

In another cage, were 5 beautiful owls, cuddled up together for comfort. They had been rescued from a poacher recently in Powai. They were Indian Barn Owls (tyto alba).

The barn owl rests during the day in dark lofts, shaded corners of buildings, and industrial sheds. It emerges at dark, to feed on mice. It has a long-drawn kheeeeeee screech, which I have heard often in Chennai.

Coming back from the bird cage, I nearly stepped on a slug (ew). Mom filled some boring forms, and then we walked around the place. It was leafy and serene. We saw a stable, where a really thin horse was eating some hay, and a couple of buffaloes were taking a nap. All the animals seemed to be recovering. I'm pretty glad I went to see this place.