Four generations:
Three continents: Two world wars: One village
These are tales spanning four generations spread across three continents in between and after the two world wars of people who set forth under different circumstances from one small village called Agaramangudi.
These are tales spanning four generations spread across three continents in between and after the two world wars of people who set forth under different circumstances from one small village called Agaramangudi.
The story line traverses through different time lines, locations or
incidents with no particular order. The only order being the
alphabetical one – A to Z meant purposefully for the A to Z challenge. These
posts can be read as standalone posts, but would be best comprehended if
you read them along with their prelude provided as a link.
Click here for the prelude A - Agaramangudi 2009
Zephyrs of change -2014
Click here for the prelude A - Agaramangudi 2009
Zephyrs of change -2014
S P
Thenmozhi – Panchayat President, Agaramangudi, announced the shining brass name plate
at the immaculately arranged table behind which was a rotating leather chair.
This was the office of the Panchayat President of Agaramangudi.
A
little Less than a century earlier the centre of action was the other end of
the Agraharam where the upper caste Brahmins lived, and this place was the cattle
shed where a certain Padayachi woman and her children toiled and reared the
cows, buffaloes and worked on the vast cotton and paddy fields that stretched
beyond the cattle shed. There was a mango orchard and a pond where the Brahmin
women came to bathe and wash clothes.
At the
turn of the century or perhaps gradually, over the years, the Agraharam turned into
a ghost settlement, with all the Brahmins selling off their lands and emigrating
to the cities all over the world.
While
thorny wild bushes were growing on the remnants of what was once the
Flamboyant Sri Lakshmi Nivas, its cattle shed was now the office cum residence of the most powerful citizen of Agaramangudi.
In 2009 S P Thenmozhi, was a middle aged woman with strands of grey sprouting at the
sides of her temples. A well built woman,
she inherited her father’s light skin colour and a sharp nose, slightly bent at
the tip which flared up the nostrils when she smiled. Flamboyance and a sense of confidence that
skirted on the signs of arrogance was
certainly a dormant gene in her father
that she inherited.
The Dravidian revolution that had steadily gained political power since the 1930’s through the 1970’s
eradicated all references in names of people’s caste in TamilNadu and some other regions in the south of India. The caste name that erstwhile signified one's social standing by way of the caste one came from was no more required to be mentioned as one’s last name. No one was
referred anymore as an Iyer, Naicker, Naidu,
Mudaliar , Chettiar, Vanniar or a
Padayachi as the last name.
You
were simply known by your first name with your father’s name and the village name forming the initials. With
the change in nomenclature Sivachami
Padayachi ‘s daughter now hid her caste in her middle name and she never
needed to expand the initials.
She was a woman who had come into wealth and power. The political clout of the lower caste labourers and the increased migration of the upper caste Brahmins were the catalyst for the changes.
She was a woman who had come into wealth and power. The political clout of the lower caste labourers and the increased migration of the upper caste Brahmins were the catalyst for the changes.
Thenmozhi was born and
raised at a place and time which saw the radical change unfold over the years. When
the nine year old Thenmozhi, perched on her uncle Palaniselvam’s shoulders on the
streets of Nidamangalam in 1960 listened to E V R Periyar’s passionate speech
beckoning all lower caste labourers to revolt and claim their self
respect, little did that motherless child
fathom that she would be the product of
that change almost half a century from then on.
The air
conditioned out-house, which was the
office of the Panchayat President was
immaculately done. Framed pictures of E V R Periyar and Annadurai hung aesthetically
over the walls. On the table besides a desktop computer was a framed black and white photograph of her Father and Mother.
Sivachami and Nagammai Padayachi. What
once was a cattle shed, was now a plush bungalow that belonged to S P Thenmozhi,
the Panchayat President.
The
Zephyrs of change had swept away the old social order and the new seeds that
were pollinated many years ago were now
the dominant power structures that ruled the landscape across the fertile Cauvery Delta.
Jaanu, weary
with travel and excited with her find of the remains of Sri Lakshmi Nivas was
curious to visit the mango orchard and the pond where she had spent many a
summer vacation during her childhood days in her grandfather’s farm estate.
There was very little left off the pond. There were mounds of Garbage strewn across the periphery of the pond and the pond itself was choking in
plastic. It certianly was not shocking compared to what she witnessed while on the road for nearly 100 miles alongside the banks of the Cauvery river. For miles and miles, the river was now bone dry.
Along the river banks, massive trucks carrying loads of river sand, illegally from the dry Cauvery along the Tiruchy- Thanjavur state highway were raking money by supplying them to feed the insatiable demand to the construction sites in big metropolis cities of Chennai and Bengaluru.
Acres and acres of what once were paddy fields were now converted to residential plots. Over the years the land had turned barren with increased use of pesticides and the multicrop cultivation of the hybrid varieties of high yielding seeds. The water table had drastically dropped ever since the dams built on the Cauvery river had rendered the downstream bone dry even in the best of monsoons.
Along the river banks, massive trucks carrying loads of river sand, illegally from the dry Cauvery along the Tiruchy- Thanjavur state highway were raking money by supplying them to feed the insatiable demand to the construction sites in big metropolis cities of Chennai and Bengaluru.
Acres and acres of what once were paddy fields were now converted to residential plots. Over the years the land had turned barren with increased use of pesticides and the multicrop cultivation of the hybrid varieties of high yielding seeds. The water table had drastically dropped ever since the dams built on the Cauvery river had rendered the downstream bone dry even in the best of monsoons.
Govindaraju
Padayachi, one of the few surviving farm
labourers from the 1970's was showing her around that
afternoon of all that was left of the agraharam. Govindaraju was now an old man in his late
eighties, frail and a little senile with old age. He walked
her down to the out-house which was now the office of the Panchayat President,
Agaramangudi.
As
Thenmozhi entered her office, he unfolded his lungi and folded his hands and
slightly bent forward out of respect for the high ranking public official.
‘Maalu’s
daughter...’, he attempted to introduce Jaanu to the Panchayat President .
Perhaps
because she was lost in her own thoughts or perhaps because it was a busy day,
she said she could not recollect who Maalu was.
‘She
has come from abroad to see our village....’ the old man continued...
Meanwhile
Thenmozhi’s iphone rang. Almost as if
she was expecting it, she excused herself, swung around to the other side in
her rotating leather chair and spoke to
the person over the phone. From
what Jaanu gathered from the conversation on the mobile phone, the national
highway department was building the highway that would cut across the outskirts
of Agaramangudi village to Kumbakonam , Mannargudi and up until Kanyakumari connecting the
southernmost tip of the country with all
the major metropolis. The
farmers who owned lands on the fringes of the proposed National highway were being
asked to sell their lands to the government. Some parts of Agaramangudi fell on the
proposed site for the construction of the National highway. Their Panchayat President seemed to be busy
brokering the deal between the farmers and the government.
It was
perhaps too busy a day for her to host a
jobless Non resident Indian wandering aimlessly in her village, photographing the ruins of an erstwhile Agraharam as well as the cows
shitting by the road side.
Jaanu
sensed the disinterest and decided to cut short the conversation. Hours of back breaking travel and the mosquito
infested lodge in kumbakonam where she spent the sleepless night were now showing on her. She
wanted to take leave and call it a day. She
asked if she may use the wash room.
Sure, gestured
Thenmozhi, non-verbally and generously opened the door to the washroom while she was still busy listening to
the conversation on her iphone.
It must
be difficult for you westerners to adjust here isn’t it., she said, as she finished
her call. There is nothing much left off
the old legacy over here anyways, she added by way of commiseration.
It
dawned on Jaanu that some time ago she perhaps was feigning loss of memory. There
was an unusual sense of discomfort in her body language. She did remember Maalu.
After all it was with Maalu and Neelu that she learnt to swim in the temple pond
when she was barely eight. It was after her mother died an year later that she
went to live with her uncle and maternal grandmother. Perhaps it was a painful phase of her life
that she was trying to forget.
The
wash room was spanking clean. The tiles and the fittings in the western style
toilet were all immaculately done
and seemed to be of a quality found in five star hotels. They spoke of new money and flamboyance. It was a stark contrast amidst all the ruins of an erstwhile Agraharam
just 200 meters from where the plush out-house of the bungalow and its
immaculately done washroom were located.
Jaanu
took in the cooling comfort, luxury and flamboyance of the washroom. As she washed her hands and splashed cold
water on her face, draining all the sweat and salt after the hot and humid day
in the sun, she felt refreshed. She
looked up the massive Oval shaped mirror
above the wash basin as she soaped her
face to wash out the grime out of her face. As she scrubbed her face, she
smiled.
She
smiled and she noticed.
She
smiled again and she noticed.
She
noticed her light skin and her sharp nose, slightly bent at the tip which
flared up the nostrils when she smiled.
It was her face. Perhaps she had not observed it from the
perspective that she was observing it today.
It struck her like thunderbolt. It connected the dots. It felt like the final piece of the jigsaw puzzle.
She
dried herself with the clean white towel and opened the door to the office room .
She
took a deep look at Thenmozhi and the photograph of her father besides the
desktop computer.
'Listen,
we have something in common', she wanted to tell the Panchayat president of Agaramangudi.
But she
let it go. She was not sure she should trust her instincts. Besides, who would believe such a bizarre story. To explain was difficult and perhaps
scandalous.
To
explain would have been an attempt that would be complicated, vast, long drawn and better forgotten.
It would
have been complicated because it was something that spanned atleast four generations.
It was
vast because it spread across atleast three
continents.
It was long drawn because it traced back atleast a 100 years interspersed with two world wars.
It was
better forgotten, because all it involved was scattered as ruins and buried in one village.
But SHE
WANTED TO TELL.
She
could not let it go. That was in 2009.
In 2015
she wrote this for the A to Z challenge.
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you for stopping by ...
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