Saturday, June 7, 2008

Small gesture with a difference

It was 1.30 pm and mercury was soaring like never before on a Wednesday noon . Anyone who standing under the burning sun would have had a sun stroke.

I had a meeting with an operating company Occidental just 10 km away from my office. In Muscat all settlement whether residential or commercials are clustered only on the sides of Dubai High way. All other roads are called service roads. With Gulf of Arabia on one side and sedimentary muddy mountains stretching in a circular fashion ,it seem Muscat city is in a valley. It is like a enclosed enclave with sea and mountains on its sides.

I was waiting for a taxi on one of the service road near my office in AL khuwair , one of the recently developed modern Muscat city. I felt irritated with the hot air burning my skin and nostrils. One Toyota corolla slowed down and stopped near me A Omani sitting in drivers seat dressed in traditional omani style asked me with a smile ' Where do you want to go ?'. Omanies e wear their traditional dress for all seasons. It is a pure white cotton gown covering from neck to toes that is very similar to the nighty , Indian women’s nightwear. Young Omanis do wear shiny gown in plain brown or other attractive colors in evenings. Some wear a funny turban or just the Muslim cap ( thopi) . It didn’t take me much time to realize it was not a taxi and was hesitant to even talk.

I said “ salammalakum , I am waiting for a taxi sir”
He gestured to get in and said , ‘I will drop you on the way’

I was surprised and was hesitant to get in. I asked ‘ Sir Are you running a taxi. I need to go to Gala “

Gala is the industrial estate. He smiled and said he was not a taxi driver but want to help me since am stupid to stand under the hot sun at a wrong place and at wrong time for a taxi. I really felt stupid as well as couldn’t believe someone would be so considerate to help a stranger.

He reassured that he will drop me in a place where I can get taxi easily. It was a mixed feeling. I was uncomfortable and uneasy yet was happy that someone is helping me. I did doubt his genuine concern on a stranger. After all I am an ordinary human who don’t have courage to trust even the angles.

With an half mind ,I got in and moment I engaged the seat belt he asked if I am from Madras. I was amused as mostly people refer the place by its new name ‘Chennai’ rather Madras to which I relate more easily . He gave me the initial comfort yet I was doubting his deed. I am always a devil’s advocate. He advised never to stand under the soaring sun at noon and enquired where I work and if I were new to the place. I was overwhelmed by his kind gesture and kept thanking him for being so kind and nice. He dropped me at a place which was more like a taxi stand. I showed my gratitude in a typical Japanese way by bending down and attempted to flatter him saying Omanis are warm and kind to strangers. He made a sarcastic remark “ Young man , most Omanis are nice compared to Indians here” .

I just blushed as I knew he spoke nothing but the truth. I wanted to defend my fellow Indians but before his kind gesture felt any defense would be of no use The truth is Indians do have their reservation to help their own race. You can realize it at any of the Indian consulates who are supposed to help their fellow people. Their infamous reputation presides everywhere.

His small gesture made a great impression about Oman and her people.

It is small gestures and deeds that make a great difference in world.

Friday, April 25, 2008

Unlucky Disciple

‘I don’t think he should go ‘ said my grandmother .

‘He is too small and he should not while his father is alive’, concurred Chachu patti my granny’s best friend in the village. ‘And you know it is against the norms for children to visit a funeral house.’

I said nothing. I sat on the footsteps of Mitham, a part of the long stretching traditional house. I preferred to conceal what I was thinking and kept my face straight. My Vedic guru and friend lay dead a few houses away across the street. I cribbed going to his house on any other day to learn Ruthram & Chamakam– hymns in praise of Lord Ruthra. Every day I had to sacrifice my evening play and was unhappy with my father for forcing me to take lessons in Vedic chants. He was my third teacher. But today I wanted to visit him to pay my last respect. I didn’t have classes for a week since he fell sick and was very happy to play kiti pul, a local game, in evenings after returning from school.

I was determined to visit the funeral house. Some had tried to fuss over me but had been discouraged by my silence and aloofness. The more understanding of them, my mother, kept her distance. My father who was supposed to reject the idea said no word. Guru was my late grandfather’s friend who struggled hard to make ends meet after his son moved to city. I think my father felt some closeness with him and wanted to give him a monthly pocket money in some form hence he forced me to be his only disciple in the village. He was happy to teach me and eagerly waited every evening for me. He was always seen alone on the sit out or in the temple and I enjoyed the chit chat we had after the lessons. Every evening without fail, he sat on the sit out outside his house with eyes glued on bus stand to confirm if I had returned from school. I never knew if he had any grandchildren. None visited him during summer. At times fondly he would recall the mischief he and my grandfather did during their young days as well as how mischievous my father was. It was exciting to hear the stories about my grandfather and father but I never shared it with any one at home.

As I walked with my mother to the funeral house with a curiosity and respect to see my guru’s dead body, I heard scattered words of condolences passed back and forth ‘ such a strategy!... Has his son arrived…… None realized how serious it was….’ The house was full of people. I felt that everyone who mattered in the village was present. For first time I saw his son, daughter in law and grand children. Every one stared at me and murmured as I went to a funeral house breaking the orthodox convention of the village.

His mannerisms were funny and all boys made fun of him while he came to the river for a bath. He was dark and bulky with heavy breathing like an elephant. He carried plenty of nick names but he was never annoyed when made fun with any of those. A humorous man with jokes and stories to tell was lying dead in the hall. I didn’t feel sad on the death of other two teachers. He was not just a master but a friend to me. Together we used to chant Rudram and chammakam in the temple during pooja time and at times we had bath together in river on holidays. It was he who taught me the basics of swimming. Many commented on our friendship, a friendship between an old man of 70’s and a young boy of 7 years. I stood silent beside his wife without knowing how to mourn for her loss as well as mine. She pulled me to her lap and tried to console me ‘You should not cry, your guru is with God and will be your guardian angel’. I felt she reassured herself by telling this.

Some of the able-bodied men lifted the body over the open sarcophagus and carried it to the grave yard for the final rituals. As I walked out with my mother, I heard a few women screaming violently and that scared me. It was neither a cry nor a shouting. It was violent and scaring. I didn’t know where the burial ground was located in the village and wanted to go to which my father did not agree. It was one prohibited place for children to visit. I stared from the corner of street as the small procession passing through the street silently and quickly carrying my friend and guru’s body. I was curious to know what they did in the burial ground. I knew the dead will be burnt to ashes but wanted to see how they did it. I was almost ready to sneak my way to the burial ground but was frightened by the horror stories I had heard about the grave yard.
I waited until everyone had gone, and then left to join my mother at the river for a bath. While walking back home half dried and half wet, I stared at the funeral house which remained in grave silence. I felt sadness creeping within me. I didn’t find my guru sitting in sit out calling me this time. I knew his wife will also leave the village to live with her son far away in city and may never return. It dawned on me that I wouldn’t have any more lessons from him and there would be no one to tell me the stories about my grandfather and father.

I came back home sad and sick. As I walked to the back yard to wash my legs, Chachu patti was still there telling my grandmother ‘Your grandson is unlucky. Whoever teaches him rudram attains the feet of god’. On realizing I was behind her she turned compassionate and told ‘ you are brave, don’t worry we will find you a new teacher’

‘I don’t want to learn rudram from any one any more ‘I said fiercely and ran with tears rolling down my cheeks that I had been withholding till then.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

Theater plays

I saw an advertisement in the free edition of weekly news paper ‘The week’ about ‘Royal Oman Symphony Orchestra’ conducted by Patrick Bailey. I don’t know what symphony is all about although I have listened and enjoyed a couple of symphony orchestra including maestro Ilayaraja’s Thiruvasagam. Its week end and I am getting used to accept Thursdays and Fridays as weekends. I am now slowly gearing up to explore the life in Muscat. To start with I surfed the paper to find if any plays running in Muscat but in vain. I enjoy going to theater plays than music concerts

My father is very fond of theater plays but every where theater plays are slowly dying. Thirty or forty years before, it was more popular in India. He always had information about whose play is running in then called Madras and where. He is a fan of Manohar, YG Parthasarthy, Maouli, even the later generation SV Sekar, Crazy Mohan and Khathadi Ramamurthy. When, in late 1980’s cinema was in peak of its helm in Kollyhood, although theater play did not prove popular with cinema audience it went down very well. There was selected audience who enjoyed it more than cinema like my father and eventually I. My favorite are plays directed and acted by Manohar who revolutionized the drama in South India. My father took me to watch some of these in small saba in then called Madras and I became a great fan of Manohar and Maouli who made it big in Kollyhood and appeared in many movies. Latter even directed some good humorous movies in late 1980s.

Manohar’s stage and art direction in particular appealed to me and his overacting facial expression and body language which I tried to imitate before mirror. I even attempted to direct few mimes in school and college to get a name for myself from the inspiration I got watching his stage plays. The lesser known but very humorous stage play director and actor is Maouli. Forgotten now, few of his dramas and then his movies were quite a hit in its time. He quickly withdrew from the field before he could reach the mass in a grand manner. Latter the stage was occupied by YG Mahendran, SV Sekar and Crazy Mohan who are still popular among Tamil audience.

I have always been drawn to late Manohar, the director, actor, stage play writer, art director and the person. He for some reason ended up as a popular villain actor rather a character artist in Tamil cinema and I still wonder why? Well my child hood happiness I enjoyed while going with my father holding his hand to these stage play had long since disappeared. Its years I been to a theater play. Last time I went was to an amateur play ‘ Electra’ at Francis of alliance to show my friend Gokul, that there are things happening in Chennai apart from movies and cricket matches and it was five years before. I now have over 400 dvd movies but watching a play in stage is more fascinating anytime than watching a movie in home theater alone.
I closed ‘The week’ and open my window to look out the dusty mountains of Oman while those lovely old memories of child hood days going to theaters holding my father’s finger makes me long to watch Manohar in his famous stage sets for one more time.

But for few faithful fans, Manohar is still living so do the theater plays. I will look forward to attend one in future.