The mystic Chera king, Kulasekhara Alwar
My interest in Vaishnavite traditions and Divya Prabandhams grew as I prepared for my CD recording (see main page). My article on Kulasekhara Alwar, the philosopher-king was published in the Sunday Herald a few weeks back. I've posted the article here for your convenience.
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The Mystic Chera King
“I may appear crazy to others but it is they who are really crazy. Yes! I am madly in love with my Lord!' (in Tamil "Peyarai yenakku yaavarum yaanum oru peyanai evarkkum idhu pesi yen").
Were these the words of a madman? These words form one of the 105 quatrains (pasurams) of Kulasekhara Alwar's Perumal Tirumozhi. that speak of his love for Lord Ranganatha of Srirangam. Kulasekhara, was a Chera king who ruled over present-day Kerala in the 9th century AD.
Beginning in the 7th century, the Bhakti movement centered around Lord Vishnu saw a resurgence in South India. Twelve poets, collectively called the Alwars, over the span of two centuries, created an exquisite collection of hymns, collectively called the “Divya Prabhandham.” These hymns are known for their exquisite lyrical content and high emotive appeal. Allegorical and set in first person, the hymns convey the poets' intense feeling of bhakthi towards the Lord.
The ninth of the twelve alwars, Kulasekhara Alwar, whilst still engaged in matters of state, showed great interest in spirituality. Several tales, possibly apocryphal, talk of his intense love for his Lord. Once when listening to a narration of the Ramayana at court the king, was so caught up with the story that in an emotional outburst, ordered his troops to prepare for the battle against Ravana! Only when the narrator brought the story to an end with Rama's victory did the king heave a sigh of relief.
Another story speaks of how his single-minded focus on serving Lord Vishnu alarmed his courtiers, who felt he was ignoring royal matters. In an atttempt to discredit the priests that the king patronized, they charged the priests of stealing the temple jewels. The king in an effort to disprove their suspicions, declared that he would place his hand in a pot of poisonous snakes. "If I am bitten, then what you say would be true. If my faith in the priests of Vishnu is justified, I will not be harmed." It goes on to say how the king was unscathed, after subjecting himself to this test with a pot of poisonous snakes.
Kulasekara eventually renounced his royal responsibilities and proceeded to Srirangam, the bastion of Vaishnavism. It was here that he composed his most famous work the Mukundamala (“garland of hymns for Mukunda") and parts of the Perumal Tirumozhi. The latter part of his life was largely spent in Tirupati. The threshold at the sanctum sanctorum of the Lord Balaji Temple in Tirupati is known as the "Kulasekhara padi" - a tribute to this philosopher king's desire to serve the Lord, if only as an inanimate object in his temple!
Though Kulasekhara Alwar is believed to have died young, before he reached his 30th birthday, he lives on in the regular chanting of his Perumal Thirumozhi in temples throughout South India. In the first week of March, this mystic king's birth anniversary, under the Punar Poosam star, is being celebrated by the Hindu Vaishnavite community all over the world.
Raga Dreams….DH middle
- Image by JIGGS IMAGES via Flickr
Even as I'm shuttling between Bangalore and Chennai for the music season (performing, listening) the Deccan Herald featured my article for the middle column today
"There's one Hollywood number in the list," declared my 10 year old. She had just returned home from her rehearsal for the annual day bash at our apartment complex. In her inimitable style, she stood there rattling off the details. "Nine items - different groups of children dancing to Bollywood numbers." Each year the children in our complex practice hard for the annual show and it’s the highlight in many a parent and grandparent’s lives. Dressed in their Sunday best, little ones and not so little ones put on their most creative dance moves watched by the adoring crowd of relatives and friends. This year my daughters were the emcees for the show and they walked around as if they‘d won the lottery!
“Why is there no traditional music or dance programs at our annual day?“ Girija aunty was busy bending the ear of anyone who’d listen. It was her reedy voice in my head that set me thinking about Bollywood and its pernicious influence. Why do kids today act as though Indian culture means Bollywood? Going by the number of Bollywood dance classes mushrooming all over the city, I won’t be surprised if schools take it up as a vocational hobby class. I recall as a kid that there were times when I’d rather have learnt western piano or sang ghazals with Jagjit Singh than do what my mother wanted me to - learn Carnatic music. Today as a practicing classical musician and a mother I try to understand why our kids are not more enthusiastic about traditional music.
"I really don't understand the nuances of classical music, it's just too complicated for me!" Maya, my friend’s eighteen year old shakes her head in despair. “The hardest part is when the musician breaks into a raga” she says, looking at me for sympathy. “Do you realize that many of your favorite filmi numbers are based on these very ragas?” I ask her. I see that perks her up, at least that’s what I think her raised eyebrow meant. “There‘s only one way to get past this. Listen to a wide variety of artistes. Classical music has a way of growing on you. Soon you'll wonder if you’d have enough time to hear all that you want!“ To my amazement, she resisted the urge to roll her eyes. I hope my advice and our children’s natural curiosity will bring more of the Pappu can’t dance crowd to the classical concert halls.
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Call of the Samurai…
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| The Aoi Matsuri festival in Kyoto with jostling crowds and carnival makes CHITRA SRIKRISHNA feel right at home. | |
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[this article appeared in Deccan Herald sometime ago] The lights of Tokyo were everything we had imagined and more — it was almost too much to absorb in such a short time. Our vacation was truly going to begin in Kyoto, where we planned to take an easy four days visiting temples and getting to know historic Japan.
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I I have seen my share of Ganeshpuja visarjans and Mylapore chariot festivals with their jostling crowds, food stalls and overall carnival ambience, having grown up in Chennai and Mumbai. Nearer home, the Karaga festival in Bangalore last year was the most recent trigger of my pleasant memories of festival days. So imagine my surprise when within minutes of arriving in Kyoto, Japan, recently, my family and I found ourselves in the midst of such a festive parade.488 Views |
The sixty four arts…
- Image via Wikipedia
This article originally appeared in the Deccan Herald
“That sambhar doesn’t look right — too much water”. My mom was watching me cook the evening meal with a critical eye. “It has to have the right consistency. Why don’t you learn from Radha Chithi?” At times she forgot that I was approaching middle age and had two nearly teenaged daughters to boot. In her mind, I was still a child whose education in certain areas was sadly incomplete.
“Do you remember the fluffy aapams that Girija maami made during Krishna Jayanthi? And Padma akka’s cheedai was so crisp, you never stopped eating them. You could still ask them to teach you.” If mom was impressed with someone’s skills whether it was cooking, painting, singing, writing, or any of the other sixty four arts, they got into “Mom’s Hall of Fame”. She kept her lists constantly updated. There were some perennial favourites in every list but rarely did anyone get bumped off any list. Cousin Gowri, my bete noire, featured in the writers and super cook list. Even if I had ever aspired “to be like Gowri” my mom’s constant anything-but-subtle reminders had put an end to it.
Uncle Andrew, our erstwhile neighbour and the resident art expert played a starring role at our post-prandial discussions when my daughter struggled with her pencil sketching. “He would bring Elizabeth Taylor to life, you could imagine blooming irises when you gazed into the eyes,” Mom sighed dreamily as she was an art enthusiast herself.
"How does it matter, Amma, if I simply can’t whip up perfectly shaped murukkus that gives you a crunchy feeling at the first bite or my articles are yet to see the light of day in The New York Times?” I argue with her.
“If I never egged you on to realise your full potential you would have ended up like me! I never had half the opportunities that you do.” My mom had had a hard life growing up, with her own mom passing away before she was fifteen. I knew I wouldn’t be where I am today if not for her prodding and support. And when I now insist that my older daughter sign up for the upcoming school debate, much to her dismay, I realised that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree!
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Releasing your inner Attila….
[this article appeared in DH this week]
Confronting her did nothing. She was weepy at first, then slowly turned belligerent. “Do what you have to do!” she declared staring me down. Earlier that day I had discovered my maid trying to steal some jewels. My faith in her for three years had been rock-solid, so this volte-face on her part stunned me. I had to let her go. The next day she was back demanding her pay for the previous five days. For a moment there, I admired her gumption.
This young girl on the threshold of marriage, was ready to face me head-on even though she was guilty as sin.
I remember the first time I tried to confront someone. I must have been 16 then. My bete-noire was the most popular girl in class. I resolved to tackle her on the last day of the school year. On D-day, my palms were sweating as I watched her approach. The cold put-down plan dissolved into incoherent babbling on my part when I faced her and I slinked away on the verge of tears, her high-pitched giggle echoing in my ears.
"Confront your fears!” My husband has a hard time understanding why I avoid unpleasant situations. “Nothing like a healthy fight to clear the air — even if it means facing a recalcitrant friend, or a troublesome sister-in-law.
And when you’ve had not just words but even spice jars flung at you, you toughen up — all that simmering angst comes out in the open!” “It’s easy for you to say that,” was my constant rejoinder.
So when my maid stood outside with that smirk on her face confident that she’d wrangle some money out of me, it dawned on me that I wasn’t 16 anymore. I decided to take my husband’s advice. The look of astonishment on her face was well worth the effort as I sternly told her off. Even though I know I’m not going to morph into Attila the Hun, it was certainly a start. My husband now safely keeps the spice jars out of my reach!
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Agony around the Aunt..
My neighbour's 15-year-old was standing outside, when I opened my front door. "Can I borrow the newspaper...Aunty?" she asked. I handed the daily to her with my best smile and no indication of the storm that raged within me. "...Aunty" the word continued to ring in my ears - here I was still on the right side of thirty and not yet picturing myself as "Aunty". To me, Aunty conjured up an image of a 50-year-old, someone matronly wearing a sari and of ample girth!
The first time it happened was a few years ago, at a party soon after my marriage. I was conversing with a girl who had just entered college and was non-plussed when she suddenly asked, "What does Uncle do?" At first I had no idea what she meant and which uncle she referred to. I did not see any uncles anywhere in the vicinity when it dawned on me. Of course she meant my husband who probably seemed old to her. I soon tried to get away from her as I was unprepared for what would surely follow. After all, Uncle's wife was Aunty and I was not ready to swallow that bitter pill then.
Today, five years later, I am Aunty to my maid, cook and other domestic help as well as all the children aged 3 to 20 in my apartment complex. You would think with so many nieces and nephews, I would be reconciled to this moniker, yet my mind rebels at being grouped along with other aunties.
In the beginning when I would correct people a few years younger, I was greeted with suspicion and sympathy. They assumed that I was having a hard time accepting my age and would simply nod their heads. It took me quite a while to reconcile myself to the reality of being addressed thus. My husband consoles me with the insight that Aunty is infinitely preferable to being called "Mamee"! Though Mamee literally means maternal uncle's wife in Tamil, it is also widely used to address a married woman.
Once when my brother was visiting from the US he addressed one of my mother's friends as Mamee. The lady in question coyly said, "Oh don't call me Mamee or Aunty!" and offered no further suggestion. So what did she want to be called? 'Akka' or 'Didi'? That too with a 20-year gap between the two parties concerned?
On my last visit to Delhi it was a refreshing change to be addressed as 'Behenji' or 'Bhabhiji' by strangers. It seemed to lend some respectability to my status as a married woman. "Oh, it's all in your mind" was the pat reply from my spouse everytime I taxed him for an explanation.
At a recent wedding, when I observed a twenty-something's horrified reaction to my 2-year-old greeting her as Aunty, I realised the wisdom of my husband's words. Somehow the transition from Aunty to Mamee no longer seems terrifying.
This article appeared in the Deccan Herald a while ago.
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To have or not to have…
"Son, you know I am a strict vegetarian" is my father-in-law's first remark every time we go to a restaurant. My husband would nod silently and place the order. I have been a witness to this exchange for six years. This ever- present opening gambit never ceased to amaze me and when I finally asked my husband he explained, "Dad is very uncomfortable eating out. Moreoever, he prefers to go to a restaurant that only serves vegetarian food."
I wonder what it really means to call oneself "strict vegetarian". Either you are a vegetarian or a non-vegetarian. What does being strict about it means? When I shared this thought with my friend Rita, she proclaimed in her usual authoritative manner, "Some people feel that the egg lies on the middle path. They claim to be vegetarians despite including eggs in their diet." I pondered on this statement and realised that I belonged to this category. I grew up having boiled eggs for breakfast and yet considered myself a vegetarian - despite my husband's disbelief. I found myself feebly defending my stand by contending that eggs were a good source of protein. If one is averse to dhaal, where is the protein going to come from, I would argue. When I decided to introduce eggs in my child's diet, my husband staunchly put his foot down. "I grew up without having eggs and look at me now - am I not healthy?" he claimed. "No eggs in the house" he declared emphatically before I came up with a counter-argument.
When I shared my secret yearnings, with the ever-sympathetic Rita, to introduce the forbidden food to my child, she suggested "Why don't you send your daughter to my house for breakfast? She can have a boiled egg with my 2-year- old." While I was toying with the idea, my conscience warned me "You will only stir a hornet's nest if you attempt to sneakily do this." I decided to let things well alone.
My cousin, who lives in the US, suggested "Why don't you go vegan? It enriches your lifestyle! You will get all the protein you need." I looked at him puzzled as I had no idea what vegan meant. When he explained that vegans are vegetarians whose diet consisted mainly of soya products, I was horrified. How on earth could one subsist entirely on soya? Undeterred by my distasteful look, the voice of experience continued, "You do have some options. You could be a lacto-vegetarian, and take milk and milk products or vegan, and not include anything of animal origin or yet be an ovo-lacto vegetarian by including egg and egg products, and ..." "Stop!" I implored. My head had started reeling with all this data. It was then that I decided to settle for good old dhaal.
This article appeared in the Deccan Herald a while back.
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Surely not a mirror image?
"Amma, amma" - the plaintive cries of my daughter Ragini jolted me as I was preparing dinner. Alarmed, I dropped everything and dashed to the bedroom. My little girl had removed all my saris from the wadrobe and got entangled in one of them. I felt torn between amusement and anger and when she looked up and gave me a "I don't know how this happened" look. I removed the offending garment from her and picked her up in my arms. My baby girl was growing up so quickly and getting naughtier by the day. Often my patience wore thin and I was tempted to tear my hair (whatever was left of it). How can a two-year-old be exasperating, endearing, tiring and inspiring at the same time?
Ragini's frail appearance is quite deceptive. Her loud voice carries across our street much to my consternation but her doting papa only sees a prodigy in the making. "The next MS Subbalakshmi, mark my words", he insists! But father's joy can also be a source of embarassment. On a recent visit to a hospital the quiet of the reception area was shattered by Ragini's shrill cry, "Appa, you're wearing Amma's shirt!"
Despite her father and my constant attention, Ragini's soft endearments are served for her favourite person - ourmaid. When the latter walks in through the door every morning the little imp is waiting for her with the broom and a huge smile on her face. This is Ragini's moment of joy while I seethe with jealousy.
Keeping up with the little dynamo is quite exhausting. When she falls asleep at noon, the whole house heaves acollective sigh. I can feel the walls humming quietly. It is the lull before the next storm. I try to regain myenergy in the hiatus and so does Ragini - it is a contest of wills!
Ragini's grandparents after their first few visits got smarter. "We would love to have Ragini visit us but sheshould not be separated from you even for a day", is their constant refrain. Visions of some peace and quiet at home by unleashing Hurricane Ragini on them continues to remain wishful thinking!
Early one morning, as I was having my cup of tea, I tried to fathom why my daughter was driving her parents up the wall. I recalled what my sister-in-law had mentioned to us. When she had quizzed the peadiatrician about her daughter's mischievous ways, the doctor replied without batting an eyelid, "Madam, that is acquired behaviour!" Ouch, did that hurt. The doctor's words struck a chord in me as I remembered my mother mentioned how I would run her ragged. It brought home a scary truth - looking at Ragini was seeing myself in the mirror!
This article appeared in the Deccan Herald a while back.919 Views |
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