Spelling out shlokas saved in his mobile, the chief priest inquired the gotra of Dubai Ganesh; Harida gotram, said Dubai Ganesh to push forward the chanting; then came the query on three generations: father Devarajan, grand-father Bhagavatheeswaran and great-grandfather, Devarajan. for me it is father Padmanabhan, grand-father Devarajan and great grand-father Thanukrishnan; grandmas were not invoked, sad. 'Ashramam viththukkal (Ashramam seeds)', said Rama. A memory story with a beginning perhaps in Ashramam village. Facts zilch. Did they make the long walk from Thanjavur to Ashramam in the 17 th and 18 th century? Dubai Ganesh, Krishnan, son Ganesh, me .... shoeless denizens of a village we know little about, offering the freedom to imagine a family tradition. We can stitch the cloth anyway, stitch into it wayward thoughts. Thanks be. Ashramam village is a bus stop on the road to Suchindram and Kanyakumari. Have been thrice to Ashramam; the agraharam is a five minute walk with a blue Lord Krishna temple at one end; tiled homes with thinnais (verandas), stuck together, dress the edges; today it may be on GPS. Have a black and white photograph of grandmother with grandfather in a white beard and shaved head; take it out when the desire to think a family tale moves me. One fact is certain: Faith flowed in them. They were in a drown. Grandfather Devarajan, something close to a temple priest, walked daily to Suchindram Shiva temple; offered prayers, earned a chakram, going by the telling of father. They were below or on the poverty line; father existed on Uttuparai chappadu, twice a day, at the Padmanabhaswami Temple in Thiruananthapuram before migrating to Calcutta with mother, Sita. An early version of a Food Security Act. Faith ran in them. They were also political. Grandfather admired Hitler; me father read Churchill and Lloyd George; they disliked, well hated, Gandhi and Nehru; admired Dewan Dr. C.P. Ramaswami Aiyer, having watched him from close. If God was an obsession, politics was a passion, quality food a strong emotion. Wild tempered, moody all. Father read The Statesman in detail. Am wondering how much of them runs in me? Lots of it. Kottarakara (maternal village), Calcutta and Mumbai am certain of. They have stuffed me in healthy scepticism and an arrogance. Where does Ashramam come into it; an Ashramam, signed in blue ink in every religious text: D.Padmanabha Aiyer, Ashramam. Me donated them all, unbandaging Calcutta from me being. Perhaps faith. Faith rests as sediment in me soul, after all the reading of Marx, Gandhi, Ramakrishna Paramahamsa, Ramana Maharshi and the rest. Most often, it stays diluted; sometimes gets a bit thick urging me to light diyas to the tiny pack of gods and goddesses in the kitchen. Fluctuations are hard to explain in Ashramam terms but not the temper and moodiness.
Thursday, December 3, 2015
Ashramam village
Spelling out shlokas saved in his mobile, the chief priest inquired the gotra of Dubai Ganesh; Harida gotram, said Dubai Ganesh to push forward the chanting; then came the query on three generations: father Devarajan, grand-father Bhagavatheeswaran and great-grandfather, Devarajan. for me it is father Padmanabhan, grand-father Devarajan and great grand-father Thanukrishnan; grandmas were not invoked, sad. 'Ashramam viththukkal (Ashramam seeds)', said Rama. A memory story with a beginning perhaps in Ashramam village. Facts zilch. Did they make the long walk from Thanjavur to Ashramam in the 17 th and 18 th century? Dubai Ganesh, Krishnan, son Ganesh, me .... shoeless denizens of a village we know little about, offering the freedom to imagine a family tradition. We can stitch the cloth anyway, stitch into it wayward thoughts. Thanks be. Ashramam village is a bus stop on the road to Suchindram and Kanyakumari. Have been thrice to Ashramam; the agraharam is a five minute walk with a blue Lord Krishna temple at one end; tiled homes with thinnais (verandas), stuck together, dress the edges; today it may be on GPS. Have a black and white photograph of grandmother with grandfather in a white beard and shaved head; take it out when the desire to think a family tale moves me. One fact is certain: Faith flowed in them. They were in a drown. Grandfather Devarajan, something close to a temple priest, walked daily to Suchindram Shiva temple; offered prayers, earned a chakram, going by the telling of father. They were below or on the poverty line; father existed on Uttuparai chappadu, twice a day, at the Padmanabhaswami Temple in Thiruananthapuram before migrating to Calcutta with mother, Sita. An early version of a Food Security Act. Faith ran in them. They were also political. Grandfather admired Hitler; me father read Churchill and Lloyd George; they disliked, well hated, Gandhi and Nehru; admired Dewan Dr. C.P. Ramaswami Aiyer, having watched him from close. If God was an obsession, politics was a passion, quality food a strong emotion. Wild tempered, moody all. Father read The Statesman in detail. Am wondering how much of them runs in me? Lots of it. Kottarakara (maternal village), Calcutta and Mumbai am certain of. They have stuffed me in healthy scepticism and an arrogance. Where does Ashramam come into it; an Ashramam, signed in blue ink in every religious text: D.Padmanabha Aiyer, Ashramam. Me donated them all, unbandaging Calcutta from me being. Perhaps faith. Faith rests as sediment in me soul, after all the reading of Marx, Gandhi, Ramakrishna Paramahamsa, Ramana Maharshi and the rest. Most often, it stays diluted; sometimes gets a bit thick urging me to light diyas to the tiny pack of gods and goddesses in the kitchen. Fluctuations are hard to explain in Ashramam terms but not the temper and moodiness.
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