A Tamil story by S Ramakrishnan, translated by B.Chandramouli
From Public Domain
That town had fewer than a hundred homes. Children playing in the street looked at them curiously when they alighted from the car. Kandasamy called one boy and asked him where Venangulam was. That boy asked him mockingly, “Do you want to do a penance in the Venangulam pond?” and pointed him towards the south.
His wife, their only daughter, and the astrologer who had brought them to perform the penance got out of the car. The astrologer tightened his loose dhoti and said, “This is a powerful pond, Sir; all your ‘dosha[1]’s would wash away.”
Kandasamy nodded and started walking towards the south.
Kandasamy had been suffering for over ten years with a skin disease; he had suffered an unexpected loss in his business. There were problems in his daughter’s in-laws home as well. As if these were not enough, he lost an old lawsuit he had been fighting in court. He felt as though the snake in the Snakes and Ladders game had brought him down. He visited many temples, performed pujas[2] and penances; nothing had worked. Only then did an astrologer tell him about Venangulam and the story of the king of Venangulam himself, who had dipped in that pond to get rid of his doshas. Kandasamy felt a sense of hope and agreed to visit Venangulam.
It was a small village with red tile roofs and somewhat broad streets. However, the people had nearly deserted it; some houses were locked up. When they went to Venangulam, they found it to be dry; the steps were dusty. There were four idols on the four sides of the pond.
Doubtful if that was Venangulam, he asked a person splitting logs nearby, “Is this the pond for penance?” That person nodded yes and continued his work.
Kandasamy stood on the dried-up pond’s steps and waited for his wife and daughter.
He wondered if they had come there not knowing that the pond had dried up; he felt angry thinking, “Didn’t the astrologer inquire about this even?”
The astrologer, Kandasamy’s wife and daughter, came near Venangulam.
The pond was full of torn clothes, dried leaves, and plastic waste. Kandasamy said to the astrologer, “There’s no water in this pond.”
The astrologer said,” It had been dry for several years. You get down, imagine that there is water, and sprinkle water on your head.”
“How can I bathe without water?” asked Kandasamy angrily.
“Can you see the sins you have committed with your eyes? But doesn’t the mind feel them? Similar to that, this pond contains invisible water; if you feel that and have a bath, your sins will wash away. Belief is everything, isn’t it?”
Kandasamy descended the steps of the dry pond. Though the pond appeared to have only ten or twenty steps, as he descended, the steps seemed to keep going down forever. Kandasamy kept on descending the steps alone. He did not know how long he had been descending, but when he looked up, it appeared as though he had descended into an abyss. He had not yet reached the bottom of the pond. The steps still kept descending.
He got confused, thinking, “What kind of magic is this? How did this small pond become so huge?” Various thoughts crowded his mind. He thought of how he had deceived his elder brother when they ran a joint business, and how he had cheated money entrusted to him. All these past sins returned as memories.
How can a person who deceived his own brother not fail in life? Suddenly, his elder brother’s face flashed in his mind. In that minute, the thought that until then, he had been pretending as though he had committed no mistakes bothered him. Kandasamy felt that one’s mistakes become weightless when hidden, but once you start realising them, they feel heavy.
Kandasamy realised he was descending the steps of his conscience.
He felt that to relieve himself of his sin, he must return the money he had cheated from his elder brother to his brother’s family. No sooner had this thought occurred to him than he felt a sudden wetness on his feet. The step beneath him seemed to be underwater. He pretended to bend down and sprinkle the water from the pond onto his head.
When his wife asked him loudly, “What are you thinking, standing on the steps?” he came to his senses.
Thinking, “Have I not gone to the depth of the pond? Was it all in my imagination?” He looked closely at the pond. He saw only dried steps and a pond without water.
He realised that the pond awakened the conscience and made you understand the crimes you have committed. It was indeed a magical pond.
He pretended as though he had had a bath and came out of the pond.
The astrologer said, “Think of something in your mind and throw coins into the pond.”
He took coins from his pocket and threw them into the pond, thinking that he would pay back the amount due to the family of his elder brother.
The idols’ eyes in the pond seemed to smile at him mockingly.
S. Ramakrishnan is a writer from Tamil Nadu, India. He is a full-time writer who has been active over the last 27 years in diverse areas of Tamil literature like short stories, novels, plays, children’s literature and translations. He has written and published 9 novels, 20 collections of short stories, 3 plays, 21 books for children, 3 books of translation, 24 collections of articles, 10 books on world cinema, 16 books on world literature including seven of his lectures, 3 books on Indian history, 3 on painting and 4 edited volumes including a Reader on his own works. He also has 2 collections of interviews to his credit. He was awarded the Sahitya Akademi Award in 2018 in the Tamil language category for his novel Sanjaaram.
Dr.B. Chandramouli is a retired Physician. He has published several translations. He has translted Jack Londen’s novel, White Fang and Somerset Maugham’s Razor’s edge (2024) to English and various English translations of Tamil fiction and non-fiction.
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The van suddenly went quiet. Night had fallen and our driver was negotiating the bends and turns in the road carefully. The yellow fog lights cut through the mists lighting up the dense forests on both sides. We were in Idukki district in the western ghats of the southern Indian state of Kerala. This region is called the high ranges. Areas above 600 m in height from the mean sea level in the central Travancore region of Kerala have rich biodiversity and a cooler climate. The weather was beginning to get colder.
We were ill prepared for the cold as we were students from Thrissur in the plains, where it was always hot and sticky. The road continued over the top of a dam. The security officer wanted to talk to us in person before letting us through. We boldly rushed out in our slippers and lungis[1] only to return at double the speed to the warmth of the van. It was freezing outside. The short but intense exposure to the cold may have frozen many vital organs. During winter, the temperatures here can dip to around 4 degrees Celsius once the sun goes down.
We were on a college trip to Idukki while studying for our undergraduate medical (MBBS) course. We had visited Thekkady and Peeramede and planned to spend the night in the hill station of Munnar. The trip was long and tiring as we drove through the mist along winding roads. The night in the hotel was freezing but we managed with the clothes we had, and the blankets provided by the hotel. The steaming tea with cardamom was the highlight of the morning. We hungrily gulped down several cups to chase away the cold.
I eventually completed my MBBS and got an offer to work at a hospital in the high ranges. The place was Ellakkal at a height of about 1100 to 1200 m. The road diverted from the main highway to Munnar at a place called Pallivasal, the site of one of the earliest hydropower stations in Kerala. The village is also known as the gateway to Munnar. The area had a mix of Malyali and Tamil culture. Many poor families from Travancore had migrated to Idukki in search of land and better prospects. Tamil families had migrated too. The nearest village to Ellakkal was Kunchithanny (little water in Tamil). I had seen a similar system of naming places after water in Nepal. There was Kalopani (black water), Ratopani (red water), Ghorepani (where horses are watered) and Tadapani (far water) among others.
St Xavier’s hospital where I was working was situated up an incline from the main road. The location was spectacular. The hospital was established in the 1960s and was once the only source of medical care for a large region but now several clinics and hospitals had been established in towns and villages. The view across the valley was breathtaking. In the evening the mist slowly moved down the valley eventually reaching the river far below. The thickly forested green hills draped in thick white mist that slowly cleared as the Sun gained in strength was the highlight of my mornings! The hospital was run by the Medical Sisters of St Joseph and owned several acres of land on the hill. They grew coffee and cardamom and other spices. My quarters were a newly constructed annexe to an old house situated halfway up the hill. The view from the veranda was spectacular. I used to spend my afternoons and evenings drinking in the magnificent views and reading my books and magazines. The hospital still exists and provides affordable health care to the people.
Dr Rodney Sebastian, the other doctor at the hospital had graduated from Kottayam Medical College. He was from the high ranges and a devout Christian. Many evenings there were prayer meetings at the hospital and people from the neighbourhood participated. The convent for the nuns was nearby. There was an old nun who was fond of gardening. Flowers grew well in the rich soil and the cool, moist climate. Multi-coloured roses were the highlight of the garden. There was a priest (Father) who lived on the other side of the hill next to the church. The deep phut-phut of his Enfield Bullet as he rode to the hospital was distinct. This heavy motorbike has a solid presence and is stable to drive on rough roads and undulating terrain. My cousin brother used to also ride one.
In the mid-1990s there was no internet and no mobile phones. The hospital had a landline. We lived more in the moment. Letters were still an important means of communication. My mother used to say that the arrival of a letter was as good as the arrival of a person. I have not posted a letter for a long time now choosing to go with email, voice chat, Skype and WhatsApp. During those days these were, however, all in the future. I never imagined the changes that would happen during the next two decades when I began working at Ellakkal.
Iduppi townEllakkal WaterfallFrom Public domain
We mostly had outpatients though we did admit people. Most of the admissions were for fever. Leptospirosis[2] was common. We also had X-ray facilities, and we sutured many wounds mostly caused by farm injuries. We did not handle surgeries and deliveries. We did not have any intensive care units and our lab investigations were basic.
We used to occasionally drop in to meet a doctor couple, Dr Verghese at Kunchithanny. His clinic was named John’s clinic, and he was called Dr Johnson by the locals. We knew some quacks, that is unqualified self-styled doctors, also practised in this area. The nearest big town was Adimali Adimali had a movie theatre, and a huge rock dominated the town. There were tribal settlements on top of the rock. The tribals were a deprived community. Long distance buses as local transport was something peculiar to the high ranges. The buses started from the town of Ernakulam over a hundred kilometres away and reached the high ranges through Kothamangalam. The buses had glass windows and were comfortable. Ellakkal was on the route to Rajakkad (literally the King’s Forest). There were many places named after rocks (para in Malayalam). Poopara (Flower rock), Santhanpara, Chaturangapara viewpoint were the most prominent.
Munnar was famous for heavy, dense white fogs that were almost opaque. The place was covered by a heavy mist most afternoons and evenings. The mist began a few kilometres from the town. Drinking cups of cardamom flavoured tea in the cold mist was a highlight of my visits to the place. The restaurant also served crisp dosas. We went on a trip to the Eravikulam National Park which took a lot of planning as both of us (Rodney and I) would be away from the hospital for over eight hours. Some of our local friends accompanied us. The route was through rolling Kanan Devan hills and expansive tea gardens.
Nilgiri Tahr. From Public Domain
The hills are owned by Tata Tea, and they grow the famous Kanan Devan brand of tea. I used to remember their advertisements starring the megastar, Mohan Lal. The park is famous for the Nilgiri Tahr. I remember it also for the leeches. We were badly set upon by them and the bites bled for over twelve hours. Once I also took a bus ride with my cousin to Maraiyur near the Tamil Nadu border. The route was through spawling tea estates. Maraiyur was an end of the Road Town those days. The place was famous for sandalwood. The security checks were strict to ensure people did not decamp with a few thousands of rupees worth of sandalwood in their pockets.
I visited Ellakkal once more after I left toward the end of the last century. The ensuing three decades must have brought about a lot of change to this spice garden. Tourism has boomed and Idukki district is a prime tourist destination. Internet has made steady advances and cable TV is now common. Several resorts have opened, and the roads have improved. They have opened a hospital called Morningstar. The pace of life has quickened with all the city folks coming to escape from their hectic city lives. Someone once said about Munnar and I quote, “In Munnar, time slows down, allowing us to savour every moment, appreciate the present, and find joy in
[2] A blood infection caused by contaminated water and soil
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Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.
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The quiet evening sky Holds secrets of unnamed people, Echoes of the screams of some named people. The colourful evening sky Keeps memories of unfulfilled dreams. The vast evening sky Has many stories to tell Of those who refused to waver From their path, knowing it is perilous, Knowing life is but a fleeting moment. The evening sky is witness to it all It has secrets to keep
Jackie Kabir is a writer and translator from Bangladesh. Her collection of short stories Silent Noise was published in 2016. The titular story, ‘Silent Noise’, is being taught in colleges under Manomanium Sundaram University, Tirunelveli, Tamil Nadu.
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The title plunges us into the sacrality of resonant words, the Nadistuti sukta being a hymn in the Rigveda in praise of rivers. Poet, novelist and translator Lakshmi-Kaaveri equates the flow of the waters with ‘the flow of poetry’, the quiet mingling of streams of remembrance and phrases that shape into lines of verse. Her book is dedicated to Jayanta Mahapatra ‘who lives on’ and an exordium titled ‘Naman’ offers gentle tribute to H.K. Kaul, who was among the founders of the Poetry Society of India and passed away during the recent pandemic. Nadistuti is a brilliant and thought-provoking collection of poems that charts the timeless continuums while being aware of the fragility of human existence.
The book begins with a prayer to the River Narmada (meaning ‘the giver of pleasure’), which divides the north from the south of India. Yet the rippling waters have no boundary—a philosophical observation that I find marks much of this remarkable volume. Remembering Ganga, Yamuna, Godavari, Saraswati, Narmada, Sindhu, Kaaveri, devotees recite the shloka[1] at their morning bath seeking the blessings of the rivers. Though such rituals are mostly forgotten in modern times, the climate crisis should remind us of the consequences of such amnesia. The invisible Saraswati is possibly a metaphor for such “forgetting” simply because of her partial invisibility. Lakshmi Kannan’s vibrant lines recall the disappearance of the river as also of Saraswati’s appearance in another form as a revered Goddess invoked by “students, writers, musicians, dancers, painters”. From the Nadistuti I learned the word— ‘potomologist’—the study of rivers, but the book is far greater than an academic enquiry—it’s a recognition of the civilisational bloodline that is linked to the ancient rivers which were the earliest cradles of humankind.
Some extraordinary and innovative aspects Lakshmi’s book deserve special mention. First, the remarkable prose- poem called ‘Ponni Looks Back’ which stretches the boundaries of imagination in a charming manner. Ponni is the name of the river Kaaveri in classical Tamil Literature. It flows through Tamil Nadu and Karnataka and is always perceived as a woman. Lakshmi tracks Ponni’s autobiography as though writing a Bildungsroman, the education and growing up of an innocent girl and her experiences along the way. Therefore, Ponni is born as a small unobtrusive stream on the Mysore-Coorg border. Then she becomes prominent and significant, and a vital witness to history—the Hoysala kingdom, the classical arts of Belur, Halibid, Somnathpur, then carrying on further to wrap around the islands of Srirangapatnam and Srirangam and so on. I enjoyed the autobiographical voice of Ponni reveling in her centuries of testimony to all the changes she has observed and imbibed—till we come to the new politics that is destroying rivers and society today. Ponni says, “One day I heard different voices floating over my waters…they sit around tables, shout at each other and refer to me dryly as the Kaaveri dispute, wrenching my waters apart”. Like yet another goddess, Sita, she chooses to end her journey. Ponni merges with her mother, the Bay of Bengal —her love and amity having completed what tasks she could undertake towards humanitarian goals. The world of manmade disasters is a chapter River Kaaveri would rather not participate in.
My question here is: “Do poetry and politics merge?… Can poets continue to be as Shelley called them ‘the unacknowledged legislators of the world’?” This brings me to another significant aspect of Nadistuti: Lakshmi’s brand of subtle feminism. Predictably, I am drawn to the poems that argue against son-preference, challenge gender stereotypes, and poke gentle barbs at unenlightened men.
Second, I cite a longish poem called “Snake Woman” from the section titled Chamundi, because it combines rituals, dream imagery, gender prejudice and the paradox of son preference. The ritual is called Nagapuja and has strict rules of abstinence from certain foods like snake gourd, and it entails hours of prayer—the chant being:
Please grant me a male child Oh, King of Cobras I will name him Nagaraja In your honour.
Something strange started happening that the pregnant woman could never dare reveal to the world. She dreamt every night of a female baby cobra wearing jhumkies (long earrings) and a jeweled girdle and sporting a red dot on her forehead. Well, the baby born was female—and the happy mother, though a little fearful, called her Nagalakshmi. The mother-in-law showed acute displeasure: “She can have any name. Who cares!”
Another pregnancy, again the rituals of Nagapuja—more stringent than before. No dreams this time. And an eagerly welcomed boy-child is born, enthusiastically named Nagaraja. And guess what? As he grows up, he ‘hissed at is mother’, ‘bared his fangs at his father’ and ‘spewed venom on his sister’. These are poet Lakshmi Kannan’s vivid vocabulary for the revered son! And the snake woman sister, what happened to her? She sloughed off her skin seasonally, grew strong, capable and emerged as a “lustrous one”.
I selected this poem for more than just Lakshmi’s clever reversal of gender prejudice. Snakes have a central place in the folktales and folklore of India. The word used, “theriomorphic”, denotes situations, where animals and human beings interchange bodies and identities. Snakes are not evil—they are often the progenitors of good deeds and the shapeshifting happens for many commendable reasons. The figuration of the snake as exclusively evil does not derive from Indian mythology. Lakshmi’s poem, this one and several others, tread this beautiful territory of humans and non-humans sharing a common abode, the Earth, and there is an implied lament that we have ignored this vital connectivity.
And finally, I am delving into the emotive, personal poems that end the collection. Called ‘Fireside’, it invites memories of WB Yeats’ classic lines:
When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book…
Lakshmi addresses many members of her family; they are named, thanked and remembered for their acts of love and compassion. Because Lakshmi believes in history and continuities, as we have seen in ‘Ponni Looks Back’, and the Nagalakshmi reference, these too are poems about lineage, heritage, respect and love—the attributes that make life worthwhile. Lakshmi’s mother (addressed in the poems as Amma) was Sharada Devi, an acclaimed painter in Mysore and Bangalore whom the daughter remembers with her easel-mounted canvas gently acquiring colours, the landscapes emerging from the contours of her imagination. Today, Lakshmi Kannan, the poet of Nadistuti, looks at a blank sheet of paper and compares that to her Amma’s canvas—the words will surely incarnate. Another poem has a redolent title ‘In Search of Father’s Gardens’, upturning African American writer Alice Walker’s book In Search Of Our Mothers’ Gardens, but for me it’s a tale reminiscent of Lakshmi’s early novel Going Home that I had reviewed decades ago. It was a book about ancestral homes and families breaking up. In the reconfigurations over time, Nadistuti’s final section presents poems to members of Lakshmi’s immediate family, named, but not too personalised, making this an exemplary template for those who hesitate to present the private in public poetry. With beauty, grace, gratitude, humour, irony—each person emerges as a tributary in the flow of the poet and writer we know and love as Lakshmi- Kaaveri. The last poem ‘If You Want to Visit’ is deeply poignant. It’s not a farewell poem—instead it’s an invitation to an eternal companionship:
Come Visit me now I’ll not have a word of complaint I’ll gather all of these and leave with you.
Here is the confluence of all that Nadistuti says: the day’s prayer in the morning, the Ponni River encapsulating history, the rituals that pass through many generations, and the legacy of a poet’s words embedded in the annals of time. An exquisite and meaningful collection of poems, Lakshmi has introduced concepts of poetic writing that are evocative of the ancient Rigveda and equally provide the guiding lamps for modern choices.
Malashri Lal, Former Professor in the English Department, University of Delhi, has published twenty one books of which Mandalas of Time: Poems, and Treasures of Lakshmi: The Goddess Who Gives are the most recent. Lal has received several research and writing fellowships. She is currently Convener, English Advisory Board of the Sahitya Akademi.
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Ratnottama Sengupta in conversation with Sohini Roychowdhury, who uses dancing to build bridges across cultures
“Meet my daughter Sohini,” Uma Di was introducing the dancer who then lived in Madrid. And my first response was, “Why isn’t she in the movies?!”
Sohini Roy Chowdhury. Courtesy: Sohini Roy Chowdhury
Tall, fair, lissome, agile, Sohini Roychowdhury is the stuff beauty queens and show stoppers are made of. That wasn’t surprising: after all, Uma Roychowdhury herself is the picture of perfection in aesthetics.
It didn’t take me long to realise that, much like the well regarded sculptor’s bronzes, her daughter too was made of enduring stuff. One day she was teaching Bharatanatyam to French, Spanish, and Italian enthusiasts. The next day she was lecturing on mythology in New York. One day she was dancing to ‘Jai Ho![1]’ for the director of the Oscar winning Hollywood movie[2]. Another day she was delineating Durga in an Anthropology Museum…
None of these saw her run out of breath. Nor does she, ever, run out of time. When she’s not holding her fingers in a dance mudra, she is holding a metaphoric pen. This month she unveiled her second book, Dance of Goddess Kali. Yes, she has rings on her fingers and bells on her toes — and wherever she goes, there’s dance on the cards!
Here is what she had to say when I spoke to her:
The Dance of Kali follows Dancing with the Gods. How are the two books different?
Dancing With the Gods and The Dance of Kali are two distinct works, each focusing on different aspects of my artistic and spiritual journey.
Conceived by Monideepa Mukherjee and Sutapa Sengupta, featuring photos from Sohinimoksha
Dancing With the Godsis a pictorial, coffee-table book stemming from my journey as a classical Indian dancer with a multinational dance troupe. Its vivid visuals showcase my onstage performances and behind-the-scenes moments. These are highlights of my career as a dancer, both solo and with Sohinimoksha World Dance and Communications[3].
This visually captivating book focuses on imagery and aesthetics. It offers glimpses into my artistic expression through dance, celebrates my journey around the world, and highlights my life-mantra of connecting civilisations through my craft. This tracing of Sohinimoksha’s journey is for a broader audience: Indian dance enthusiasts, art lovers, and individuals interested in my achievements. The aim is to inspire through visually compelling storytelling.
In contrast, The Dance of Kali is a treatise on the ethos of Goddess Kali and Shaktism. It delves into the deeper spiritual and philosophical aspects associated with the goddess, exploring Kali’s symbolism, mythology, and significance within the context of Shaktism, a Hindu tradition of worshiping the divine feminine energy. The tone of this work is contemplative, as it delves into the profound symbolism and the spiritual aspects associated with the Goddess. It incorporates scholarly research, analysis, and interpretations from various perspectives. Hopefully it offers readers a deeper understanding of Kali’s significance in Hindu spirituality.
May I point out here that The Dance of Kali is not a religious book. It is for readers with a specific interest in Hindu mythology, spirituality, or the myths and legends around the resident Goddess of Kolkata. Those seeking a deeper understanding of Kali’s symbolism and philosophical underpinnings within the context of Shaktism, will find this book dispels disrespectful misrepresentations and unfounded Western misconceptions surrounding the images of Kali as a demonic goddess.
To sum up: both the books reflect different facets of my artistic and spiritual journey. However, they differ significantly in their subject matter, focus, tone, and intended audience. One celebrates my achievements as a dancer through captivating visuals. The other is an academic tome exploring the profound symbolism and spirituality associated with Goddess Kali.
What prompted you, an international dancer, to pick such a rooted in mythology subject?
I have always had a personal affinity with or inclination towards Goddess Kali. Many artistes draw inspiration from their own beliefs, experiences, and cultural backgrounds when choosing subjects for their work. I am no different. For me the depiction of the Goddess is an opportunity for artistic exploration. Kali, with her complex symbolism and multifaceted persona, offers rich material for creative interpretation through the arts, be it dance, literature or visual arts.
This book also celebrates India’s rich mythological heritage and the way it connects to other ancient cultures, in Mesopotamia, Egypt, Spain and France. Kali, with her global soul sisters Ishtar or Sara La Kali, holds significant cultural and religious importance, not just in Hinduism, but other cultures as well, particularly within the contexts of worshipping Mother Goddesses. I delve into Kali’s mythology and symbolism to honour this aspect of Indian life, and its universal resonance.
Yes, Goddess Kali is rooted in Indian mythology. But the themes she embodies — feminine power, transformation, and liberation —transcend cultural boundaries. I hope this book will serve to explore universal themes of empowerment and spirituality. It also aims to provide a deeper understanding of Hindu mythology, and the symbolism associated with the Dark Goddess. Effectively I seek to promote intercultural dialogue and foster greater appreciation for diverse religious traditions. Most significantly, I hope to dispel the uneducated interpretations of Kali as a horrific, savage, demonic goddess. How often she is typecast as a symbol of evil — in popular Western films, books and even as Halloween costumes for disrespectful celebrities like Heidi Klum!
I have witnessed your performance as Durga in an anthropology museum in Madrid. I have noted your commitment to meaningful, even profound themes in your endeavours. What has been your grooming in dance?
I started dancing at a young age under renowned Bharatanatyam Guru, Thankamany Kutty. Later I learnt from Kalamandalam Venkitt in Kolkata. I received rigorous training in Bharatanatyam, the dance that originated in the temples of Tamil Nadu. My dedication to classical art led me to delve deep into its nuances. I mastered intricate footwork, expressions, and storytelling techniques. Over the years, I refined my technique and expression through consistent practice and performance and came to embody the essence of Bharatanatyam.
Your father was a renowned sitarist living in Germany. Your mother is a reputed sculptor of Kolkata. Why did you, an only child, not take to any of these streams of creative expression?
Indeed I was born into a family of accomplished artists. My father, Pandit Subroto Roychowdhury was a renowned sitarist, and my mother, Uma Roychowdhury, is a reputed sculptor. But I chose a different path for myself.
As an only child, I was exposed to various forms of creative expression. But my passion for dance was ignited after watching a riveting performance by Yamini Krishnamurthy when I was about four years old. While I deeply respect my family’s artistic legacy, I followed my own calling and embarked on a journey to carve my niche in the world of dance.
What are the values you have imbibed from them individually?
My father’s sitar schools in Germany have produced hundreds of students — including distinguished sitar players. From him I imbibed a profound appreciation for music and rhythm. I learned discipline, dedication, and the importance of perseverance in mastering an art form. From my sculptor mother I inherited a keen love for aesthetics and eye for details. I learned the importance of expressing emotions and stories through visual and performing arts.
Together these values have steered me towards excellence and innovation in my journey as a dancer and communicator.
Mixed genre performance by Sohini Roychowdhury. Courtesy: Sohini Roy Chowdhury
You have lived in Moscow and Madrid. You are guest professor in far-flung Universities, in America and Columbia. You have danced Bharatanatyam and you have danced to Jai ho! at the premiere of Slumdog Millionaire. What have you gained through your international exposure?
My international exposure has enriched me both personally and professionally. Living in cultural environments as diverse as Moscow and Madrid have broadened my perspectives and deepened my understanding of global arts and communication.
More than 2000 students have ‘graduated’ through my two dance schools in Spain — Casa Asia and Sohinimoksha Artes de la India. In Moscow, more than 80 Russian students performed with me on stage at the Embassy of India and Nehru Centre at the end of their course. As a guest professor in universities across Europe, USA and Latin America, teaching dance, Natyashastra [theory of dance] and Indology, I have not only shared my expertise — I have learnt from students, artistes and scholars from different backgrounds.
Through my performances of Bharatanatyam, and collaborations with international artists, have bridged cultural divides. My dancing to Jai Ho! at the European premiere of Slumdog Millionaire showcased the universal appeal of Indian dance and music. It highlighted its ability to connect with people across borders. Today I can confidently claim to have promoted cross-cultural exchange globally.
Coming from an aristocratic, old Calcutta background, what merit do you see in Bollywood dancing?
Despite coming from an aristocratic background rooted in old Calcutta, I recognise the merit in Bollywood dancing which has become a global phenomenon. Not surprising. For, characterised by vibrant energy, expressive movements, and fusion of multiple dance styles — from Salsa to Tango, Twist to ChaChaCha – Bollywood dancing holds mass appeal. It serves as a platform for artists to showcase their talents to diverse audiences and has contributed to the popularization of Indian culture worldwide. It is rooted in traditional Indian dance forms, yet embraces modern influences. And it reflects the evolving tastes of contemporary audiences.
Since the 1960s, Bollywood has drawn inspiration from various musical traditions across the world. This imparted its films a rich tapestry of global influences. This fusion of world music and dance enriched the aesthetic of Bollywood — and in turn contributed to its cultural significance and global appeal.
In the 1960s, Indian cinema underwent a transformation with the emergence of filmmakers like Guru Dutt and Raj Kapoor, who infused their films with elements of Western music and dance. The most iconic example of this is seen in the song Mera joota hai Japani [my shoes are Japanese] from Shree 420 (1955): here Raj Kapoor’s character sings about wearing Japanese shoes, English pantaloons, and Russian caps — all of which symbolised the growing influence of the West in post-colonial India. And yet, as the song stresses, at core these films are Hindustani — Indian.
Throughout the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s, the industry witnessed the rise of dance and music directors who played a pivotal role in incorporating world music and dance forms into Hindi cinema. Composers like OP Nayyar, Shankar Jaikishan, SD Burman, C Ramachandran, Kalyanji Anandji, RD Burman, Laxmikant-Pyarelal, and Bappi Lahiri experimented with disparate musical styles. These ranged from rock-n-roll, rumba, flamenco to disco, reggae and jazz. This infused their compositions with international flavours.
Similarly, choreographers Sohanlal, PL Raj, Herman Benjamin, Suresh Bhatt, Saroj Khan, Chinni and Rekha Prakash, Shiamak Davar, Farah Khan, Remo D’Souza, Terence Lewis, Vaibhavi Merchant, and Prabhu Deva have blended Indian classical dance with Western styles. This has created the unique dance style that is now identified as Bollywood dancing. It has homogenised movements from hip-hop to salsa and contemporary dance.
Soon stars like Shammi Kapoor, Helen, Asha Parekh, Hema Malini, Rishi Kapoor, Mithun Chakraborty, Jeetendra, Govinda, Hrithik Roshan, Madhuri Dixit, and Sridevi became synonymous with Bollywood’s larger-than-life dance numbers. For, it showcased their versatility and flair for different dance steps. Embracing the twist and turn era of the ’60s to the disco craze of ’70s and the hip-hop-inspired moves of the 2000s, Bollywood stars captivated audiences with their energy and charisma.
Along with Western influences, Bollywood also drew from traditional Indian dances. Its choreography incorporated elements of Bharatanatyam, Kathak, and Odissi. Dance sequences like Dola Re Dola from Devdas (2002) and Pinga from Bajirao Mastani (2015) exemplify the fusion of classical and contemporary dances, blending intricate footwork with dynamic movements and expressions.
In recent years, Bollywood has continued to evolve, reflecting the changing tastes and preferences of global audiences. Directors, like Sanjay Leela Bhansali and Farah Khan, have pushed the boundaries of traditional filmmaking, creating visually stunning spectacles that showcase the diversity of world music and dance. Stars like Priyanka Chopra, Deepika Padukone, and Ranveer Singh have embraced this eclectic mix of styles, bringing their own unique interpretations to the screen.
Spanish, Bulgarian and other European dancers from my own troupe, Sohinimoksha World Dance, have performed specially choreographed fusion dance items set to popular Bollywood tracks. Kristina Veselinova danced toMere Dholnafrom Bhool Bhulaiya; Violeta Perez and Lola Martin to Senorita! from Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara and Maria Sanz on Padmavat’s Ghoomer on stages across India and the world. So I readily acknowledge the significance of Bollywood dance in preserving India’s cultural heritage while adapting to changing times.
Would you say our films are taking our dance traditions to votaries abroad? Just as Indian musicians of the 1960s had taken our ragas to the West?
In the 1960s, Ravi Shankar, Ali Akbar Khan and other maestros played a crucial role in initiating the West in the rich notes of Indian classical music — and that had enriched the global cultural landscape. My own father, Pandit Subroto Roychowdhury, spent more than 40 years in Germany and other European countries, spreading and popularising Indian classical music through concerts and classes. Today Indian films, particularly Bollywood, are carrying forward this legacy. They are showcasing the wealth that is Indian dance — often fused with world dance influences. Just as our musicians shared the wealth of ragas with the West, Bollywood films are spreading the infectious exuberance of Indian dance to enthusiasts around the globe. This is fostering cultural exchange on an international scale. Small wonder that Bollywood is now acknowledged as India’s most potent soft power.
What, in your opinion, is needed to make GenNext learn from our past traditions?
If we want GenNext to learn from our past traditions, we must provide them with comprehensive exposure to our rich cultural heritage. For this, we must integrate our arts and cultural practices into educational curricula. We must foster appreciation through interactive experiences — workshops, performances, cultural events. Additionally we must leverage modern technologies and platforms to disseminate information. Let’s make traditional arts more accessible and engaging for the young. Let’s cultivate mentorship programs and intergenerational exchanges. For, we must bridge the gap between past traditions and contemporary lifestyles, to ensure their relevance and continuity for the generations to come.
Sohini I have seen you at close quarters, as a mother, wife, daughter, and daughter-in-law even as you criss-cross the world for your dance. How do you still find time to write, which is such a demanding, reflective expression?
I am fortunate to be able to balance my roles as a mother, wife, daughter, daughter-in-law, and a performing artiste. My experience as much as my dedication to my craft honed my time-management skills. Despite crisscrossing the world for performances, lecture tours, and other professional commitments, I carve out time to write, for I recognise its significance as a reflective form of expression.
To effectively manage my time, I set priorities, create schedules, and maximize productivity during the available windows of time. I designate specific periods for writing, be it early mornings, late evenings, or during travel downtime. I try to integrate writing into my daily routine, seizing moments of inspiration and reflection to jot down ideas or draft passages.
My passion for writing is a driving force — it motivates me to make time for it amidst my busy schedule. Writing provides a creative outlet for introspection, and intellectual exploration. It complements my artistic endeavours and enriches my personal and professional growth.
I am grateful for the support I receive from the network of my family, friends, and collaborators. They play a crucial role in facilitating my writing pursuits. My latest book, The Dance of Kali, was co-written with my son Rishi Dasgupta, an Economics MSc from the University of St Andrews, UK.
However, at the end of the day, that I find time to write amidst my multifaceted life, reflects my passion for engaging in reflective expression. Because? It contributes to my holistic development as an artist and an individual.
[1] A song from the 2008 Bollywood movie, Slumdog Millionaire
[3] A dance troop started by Sohini Roychowdhury with presence in Madrid, Berlin and Kolkata
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Ratnottama Sengupta, formerly Arts Editor of The Times of India, teaches mass communication and film appreciation, curates film festivals and art exhibitions, and translates and write books. She has been a member of CBFC, served on the National Film Awards jury and has herself won a National Award.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Our Tanda
Our tanda is a bird’s nest
our homes: broken refuges
and our lives are feathers
swirling in the air.
The moon and the sun
hatch time so long as they wish
and flee, leaving folds,
on the lips of time.
Mirrors raise our hopes
showing ourselves
break our knuckles quietly
shatter into fragments and prick hearts.
Goats, cows, buffaloes, sheep and hearts,
all dig out rivers of forests with desires
as kids draw winged horses on the black of night
with fingers
dreaming of sugary peppermints or custard blobs.
Mothers sing lullabies,
oil-lamps
embellishing the night
to sleep.
Fathers guard homes
one eye on the house
the other eye on the field
with their heads out of their windows
they turn into flaming torches.
The ippa flowers grieve
releasing inebriety
listening to the story of our tanda.
Chakmak
I
There were a few chakmak
at the window, ants and insects wandered
among them.
Whenever I visit the window,
I licked the chakmak,
no sweetness touched my heart,
nor did smell hit my nostril,
though they look like candy jellies.
I picked them
and threw them out of the window.
Daada picked them up,
took them again into the house
and placed them at the sill.
I thought of doing the same again.
He taunted our hen indirectly —
I could understand that the hen was me.
I thought the mysterious relationship
of our folk remains untold,
hid in the skulls
about chakmak.
II
One day when daadi was busy
in stitching her tukri
she kept the chakmak beside her
sharpening the needle on a chakmak.
I sat beside her staring at the chakmak —
darkness and light played about,
I was astonished by the sharp light
emitting from them.
The beads were placed in front of daadi
on a piece of cloth for stitching them on her tukri,
they stopped singing and rolling,
were trying to peep into daadi's honey eyes.
The needle writing the joy of tukri on the chakmak,
white stains swelled out from the black chakmak
when accidentally her sweat fell on it.
She saw me and asked me to sit beside her,
started narrating the tales of chakmak,
as I continued staring at them.
III
Birth after the water broke —
you crept out of your mother's womb
with stains of the eternal world
giving her womb to rest from the eternal sea.
This black stone gave you the world,
cut your umbilical cord
but it suffered by your birth,
fevered, it one day burnt our hut.
At the age of two
when the moon was peeping into the rice
squeezed in my hand with milk,
my hand filled with moonlit serpents crawling down
that trembled in my blood tunnels.
Your daada sang a song —
the red stones brought joy to earth,
consoling the hard skin of daada's hand,
illuminating his loneliness
Then you got an invitation to the wonderland,
and there you slept in the bed of the red stone's reflection.
At the age of five,
we were summoned by the monsoon and started migrating.
We were stuck in the forest
you weeping of darkness and hunger,
in the fierce night.
Flesh-coloured stones devoured the darkness,
sprinkled its hunger on your fear
and roasted a few onions for you.
At the age of eight,
you were anxious about seeing the lunar eclipse —
the milk stone dragged the sky in its reflection.
She kept on stitching her tukri.
I was plunged into gazing at the chakmak,
my heart sensed something strange strange is about to happen.
IV
I picked the chakmak into my palm.
The curves in the palms and lines on the chakmak
are trying to mate, and the curiosity in me reached my neck.
A cleft appeared in the chakmak.
I checked others for any more.
After a few minutes,
a butterfly soars from stone,
a man falls from its wing.
I take him in my hand,
he turns into a flute
made of animal bone.
I train my ear to hear him.
A voice from the bone flute starts talking
from the rusted past,
how we vanished from our identities,
how we were sheltered in the tortoise shells
and hung on horns of deers.
The world is trying to heap the chakmak together,
ransack our tribe for stones
and change the tanda into a haat
of banjara tribes.
The chakmak in the haat were ready to burst
with chronicles untold.
You gather the people.
The flute disappears.
I try fabricating the remaining tale.
Courtesy: Chakmak, art by Ramavath Sreenivas Nayak
Canvassing the Lives of Banjaras
By Surya Dhananjay
Banjara is an indigenous ethnic tribe of India. Banjara were historically nomads and later established settlements called tanda. Generally known as Gor-Banjara, they are also called Lambadis in Telangana, or Banjaras collectively across India. However, they are known by different names in various parts of the country, including Banjara, Gor, Gorya, Tanda, Laman, Lambadi, Sugali, Labhan, Labhana, Baladiya, Ladniya, Adavi, Banjari, Gypsy, Kora and Gormati, among others. The other names also indicate synonyms and signify the principal nature — wandering of Banjaras in various parts of the country.
Banjaras generally suffix Nayak with their names, along with other surnames such as Jadhav, Rathod and Pawar. Nayak was a title given by the local kings, Britishers and Mughals, as the Banjaras were warrior transporters, who transported essential commodities, such as salt, food grains (as well as weapons) on ladenis, bullock caravans for their armies. The titles were bestowed in appreciation of their honesty and hard work. Over time, the title has become the traditional name of many of the Banjaras.
The word Banjara is derived from the Sanskrit word Vana Chara — wanderer of the jungle. The word Lambani or Lamani, by which our community is also known, is derived from the Sanskrit word lavana (salt), which was the principal product the community transported across the country. Their moving assemblage on a pack of oxen was named tanda by the European traveller Peter Mundy in 1632 AD.
Historically, they were the original inhabitants of Rajputana, Rajasthan, and professional cattle breeders and transported these essentials to different parts of the region, using crucial transport routes. They are known to have invented Laman Margass1.
They then migrated to North India, East Asia and Europe in the ancient periods and to Central India and South India in the medieval periods along with the armies of Mughals from thirteenth to eighteenth century.
Banjaras lost their livelihood during British rule when the railways and roadways were constructed and they became the victims of predatory capitalism. Banjaras who were uprooted by the British government from their transportation profession were forced to indulge in petty crimes for their livelihood, which invited the wrath of the British and brought them under the ambit of the Criminal Tribes Act of 1871. Later, abandoning their traditional Ladeni profession, they settled wherever their Ladenis had halted in the colonial period and established their tandas, dwellings.
Traditionally, Banjaras depended on the pack of bullocks and bullock carts, called balder bandi in their Gorboli, for carrying out their ladenis and the cattle and oxen only were their properties for the ages, on which they built their livelihood through centuries. Many generations of Banjaras have taken birth on the balder bandi and have used it as shelter too.
Their language is called Gorboli, an Indo-Aryan language in addition to their own culture and traditions.
Gorboli has no script, it is either written in Devanagari script or the script of the local language, such as Hindi, Marathi, Telugu and Kannada, etc.
Most of their populations are concentrated in Maharashtra, Karnataka, Telangana, Andhra Pradesh, Bihar, Madhya Pradesh, Gujarat, Tamil Nadu, Himachal Pradesh, Orissa and West Bengal.
As such the local languages have much impact on their language, the words of which have found their way into Gorboli.
Owing to the fact that it is a dialect, the Banjaras do not have much written literature either. However, they keep their songs, lyrics, and literature alive orally. As there is no written literature available to the outer society about Banjaras, the chances of knowing their history, sentiments, culture and traditions are meagre.
Banjaras show a unique lifestyle, holding steadfast to their ancient dress code, perhaps the most colourful and elaborate of any tribal group in India.
The versatile and colourful Banjaras are found to be interspersed amidst tribal and non-tribal populations and yet tenaciously maintain their cultural and ethnic identity. Their dress and decoration and social practices have remained almost unchanged through the ages despite the habitation shift from northwest India to across India. Banjaras are a strong and virile race with tall stature and fair complexion.
The Banjara women’s dress and jewellery are auspicious and the whole outfit consists of elaborately embroidered and studded phetya or ghagro (skirt), kaacnhli or kaali (blouse), tukri and ghunghto (veil stitched in patches of cloth of various colours along with mirrors of different shapes, cowries and beads).
Women also wear baliya, bangles made of ivory to save their lives from wild animals. They wear many ornaments like topli, hanslo, rapiyar haar, wankdi, kasse, ghughara and phula pawla, which weigh nearly 20 kgs or more.
Banjara men (maati mankya) wear turban on their heads, a few wear babli (earrings) on the top of the right ear, kameez (white shirt) and dhoti, kolda (silver fat ring wrapped to wrist) in turban they hide chutta (cigar), tobacco, beedi leaves, cotton and chakmak (flint stone), etc.
Tattoos on their body parts define philosophies and memories of childhood. The main intention of tattoos is to sell them and buy food after death in heaven or hell. They make sacrifices to the earth and stones because they believe that God is in nature.
Banjaras have their own culture and traditions that reflect their life and beauty. Banjaras celebrate the festival of Goddess Seethla Matha (starting at the time of the rainy season to save us and our cattle from seasonal disease and for good yield) at the end of the rainy season.
They celebrate Teej Festival, a celebration of wheatgrass grown for nine days in bamboo baskets by maiden girls to get married to a good groom in the presence of Goddess Jagdamba,
Baar Nikler/ Baarand khayer is a feast in the forest, exposing the love towards nature that protects them.
Historically they had a big struggle to settle down since they led a nomadic life for centuries. During difficult times, they ate grass and clay. Their regular diet consists of grass poppies, leafy boiled dough-made baatis (chapattis), bran, maize, jowar, deer, pigeon, rabbit, fish, hen, turkey, peacock, tortoise, turtle, porcupine, goat, sheep, radish, raw onions, wild onions, green chilli, roasted potatoes, red clay, black clay, tamarind sprouts, rela pulu (golden shower flower as used to make curry) and monitor lizard.
Few folks sell their children, lands, traditional dress, ornaments and even wombs and many girls and women are known to have faced human trafficking. Many people have slaved as daily labours, women were sexually exploited, many of their tandas were wiped out and they have been killed.
Though The Constitution of India had provided many rights to the tribes, the provisions are unknown to these people who lead their lives as daily labourers, selling firewood and children for food, becoming street vendors, roadside chapati-makers and the like. People who do not know this stare at them. A small percentage of people use the reservation benefits, and most of them are subject to discrimination and exploitation.
As such, not much is spoken about in media channels and newspapers about the atrocities of land evictions and exploitations of Banjaras. This still happens throughout the country.
Only a few scholars have written books and presented papers on their lives. Few non-fiction collections have been published in Telugu, Kannada and Hindi languages. But no creative literature has been produced from the community.
This effort of bringing out the poetic illustration of the life of Banjaras is made by Ramesh Karthik Nayak, a young member of the Banjara community.
He hails from the small, remote village of VV Nagar Tanda of Jakranpally Mandal of Nizamabad District. He has published a poetry book, Balder Bandi (Ox Cart) and a short story collection, Dhaavlo (Mourning Song), canvassing the life of Banjaras in Telugu.
Both books have been received well by the literary world and have since opened the doors to Banjara literature. Within a short span, he has been able to bring before us this wonderful poetic format, which shows his interest in bringing out the historical, cultural, traditional and contemporary issues of Banjaras before the world.
I believe that he is like a popular flower called kesula (moduga puvvu in Telugu), which is seen brightly among all the trees in a jungle.
According to my knowledge, this is the first poetry collection written on the lives of Banjaras in the English language which brings out the rawness of Banjara’s lives and the poems are brilliantly written. It is a rare drop of honey from a kesula flower, in which the lives of Banjaras are carved transparently.
I believe that each poem of this collection is a chakmak, flint stone, which ignites many endless thoughts in the reader. I hope that this poetic creation of Ramesh Karthik Nayak will also definitely be received in a big way by all the literary minds. I hope this introduction about Banjara tribes will help you understand the tribal communities a little.
Finally, without going into the depth of his poems, I would like to quote a few lines from his poem ‘Tanda’:
Our tanda is a bird’s nest
our homes: broken refuges
and our lives are feathers
swirling in the air.
In this poem Ramesh has carved the picture of the status of the lives of Banjara tribes in the present-day context and earlier days. Banjara lives are indeed shattering day by day.
Courtesy: Chakmak, art by Ramavath Sreenivas Nayak
About the Book
Ramesh Karthik Nayak’s poems are marked by rich imagery, poignant stanzas, and moving stories about his people. I enjoyed reading his poems. — Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar
Ramesh Karthik Nayak distills all the pains and fears of his tribe to create a poetry of intense suffering and profound communion with nature. There is something primal, elemental, about his poetry that helps the reader distinguish it from the dominantly urban Indian English poetry. The poet brings a fresh voice, a new tone, and timbre seldom seen in traditional English poetry in the country, without making his poetry less sophisticated. — K Satchidanandan
Through his poems, Ramesh Karthik Nayak presents the celebratory life of the Banjara people; at the same time, he questions his existence. The questions he poses to us are both poignant and plausible. The poet expresses the truth with spontaneity and ferocity that if we are untouchables then, from nature to your vitality to your body, everything in this world has been touched by us. — Sukirtharani
Ramesh Karthik Nayak’s poems represent the dimensionalisation of Indian poetry in English. It’s appalling to think that a mature collection of poetry from a tribal/nomadic tribe poet had to wait for so long after Maucauley’s initiatives. Anchored in his cultural inheritance, Nayak documents with elan his dreams for the future. — Chandramohan S
About the Author
Ramesh Karthik Nayak is a Banjara (nomadic aboriginal community in South Asia) bilingual poet and short story writer from India. He Writes in Telugu and English. He is one of the first writers to depict the lifestyle of the Banjara tribe in literature. His writings have appeared in Poetry at Sangam, Indian Periodical, Live Wire, Outlook India, Nether Quarterly, and Borderless Journal and his story, “The Story of Birth was published in Exchanges: Journal of Literary Translation, University of IOWA. He was thrice shortlisted for the Sahitya Akademi Yuva Puraskar in Telugu.
Chakmak is his first collection of poems in English.
The poet can be reached at rameshkarthik225@gmail.com
Pre-historic cave painting in France La Tauromaquia. Leap with the Spear by Picasso (1881-1973)Courtesy: Creative Commons
There was a time when there were no boundaries drawn by humans. Our ancestors roamed the Earth like any other fauna — part of nature and the landscape. They tried to explain and appease the changing seasons, the altering landscapes and the elements that affected life and living with rituals that seemed coherent to them. There were probably no major organised structures that laid out rules. From such observances, our festivals evolved to what we celebrate today. These celebrations are not just full of joie de vivre, but also a reminder of our syncretic start that diverged into what currently seems to be irreparable breaches and a lifestyle that is in conflict with the needs of our home planet.
Reflecting on this tradition of syncretism in our folklore and music, while acknowledging the boundaries that wreak havoc, is an essay by Aruna Chakravarti. She expounds on rituals that were developed to appease natural forces spreading diseases and devastation, celebrations that bring joy with harvests and override the narrowness of institutionalised human construct. She concludes with Lalan Fakir’s life as emblematic of the syncretic lore. Lalan, an uneducated man brought to limelight by the Tagore family, swept across religious divides with his immortal lyrics full of wisdom and simplicity. Dyed in similar syncretic lore are the writings of a student and disciple of Tagore from Santiniketan, Syed Mujtaba Ali (1904-1974). His works overriding these artificial constructs have been brought to light, by his translator, former BBC editor, Nazes Afroz. Having translated his earlier book, In a Land Far from Home: A Bengali in Afghanistan, Afroz has now brought to us Syed Mujtaba Ali’s Tales of a Voyager (Jolay Dangay), in which we read of his travels to Egypt almost ninety years ago. In his interview, the translator highlights the current relevance of this remarkable polyglot.
Humming the tunes of Mujtaba Ali’s tutor, Tagore, a translation of Tagore’s song, AmraBeddhechhi Kasher Guchho (We have Tied Bunches of Kash[1]) captures the spirit of autumnal opulence which heralds the advent of Durga Puja. A translation by Fazal Baloch has brought a message of non-violence very aptly in these times from recently deceased eminent Balochi poet, Mubarak Qazi. Professor Fakrul Alam has translated a very contemporary poem by Quazi Johirul Islam on Barnes and Nobles while from Korea, we have a translation of a poem by Ihlwha Choi on the fruit, jujube, which is eaten fresh of the tree in autumn.
A poem which starts with a translation of a Tang dynasty’s poet, Yuan Zhen, inaugurates the first translation we have had from Mandarin — though it’s just two paras by the poet, Rex Tan, who continues writing his response to the Chinese poem in English. Mingling nature and drawing life lessons from it are poems by George Freek,Ryan Quinn Flanagan and Gopal Lahiri. We have poetry which enriches our treasury by its sheer variety from Hawla Riza, Pramod Rastogi, John Zedolik, Avantika Vijay Singh, Tohm Bakelas and more. Michael Burch has brought in a note of festivities with his Halloween poems. And Rhys Hughes has rolled out humour with his observations on the city of Mysore. His column too this time has given us a table and a formula for writing humorous poetry — a tongue-in-cheek piece, just like the book excerpt from The Coffee Rubaiyat. In the original Rubaiyat, Omar Khayyam (1048–1131) had given us wonderful quatrains which Edward Fitzgerald immortalised with his nineteenth century translation from Persian to English and now, Hughes gives us a spoof which would well have you rollicking on the floor, and that too, only because as he tells us he prefers coffee over wine!
Humour tinged with irony is woven into Devraj Singh Kalsi’s narrative on red carpet welcomes in Indian weddings. We have a number of travel stories from Peru to all over the world. Ravi Shankar takes us to Lima and Meredith Stephens to Californian hot springs with photographs and narratives while Sayani De does the same for a Tibetan monastery in Lahaul. Keith Lyons converses with globe trotter Tomaž Serafi, who lives in Ljubljana. And Suzanne Kamata adds colour with a light-veined narrative on robots and baseball in Japan. Syncretic elements are woven by Dr. KPP Nambiar who made the first Japanese-Malyalam Dictionary. He started nearly fifty years ago after finding commonalities between the two cultures dating back to the sixteenth century. Tulip Chowdhury brings in colours of Halloween while discussing ghosts in Bangladesh and America, where she migrated.
The theme of immigration is taken up by Gemini Wahaaj as she reviews South to South: Writing South Asia in the American South edited by Khem K. Aryal. Japan again comes into focus with Aditi Yadav’s Makoto Shinkai’s and Naruki Nagakawa’s She and Her Cat, translated from Japanese by Ginny Tapley Takemori. Somdatta Mandal has also reviewed a translation by no less than Booker winning Daisy Rockwell, who has translated Usha Priyamvada’sWon’t You Stay, Radhika? from Hindi. Our reviews seem full of translations this time as Bhaskar Parichha comments on One Among You: The Autobiography of M.K. Stalin, the current Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu, translated from Tamil by A S Panneerselvan. In fiction, we have stories that add different flavours from Paul Mirabile, Neera Kashyap, Nirmala Pillai and more.
“One of the children gave it [the bunch of bananas] to the child sitting in front. An emaciated girl and a little boy were seated next to me. I told them to pass on the fruit to everyone in the back and keep one each for themselves. The girl looked curiously at the bunch as she turned it around in her hands. Then she looked at the other children.
“‘I’ve never seen an onion like this one,’ she said.
“Her little companion also touched the fruit gingerly and innocently added, ‘Yes, this is not even a potato.’
“I was speechless to say the least. These children had never seen anything apart from onions and potatoes. They had definitely never chanced upon bananas…”
Heart-wrenching but true! Maybe, we can all do our bit by reaching out to some outside our comfort or social zone to close such alarming gaps… Uma Dasgupta’s book tells us that Tagore had hoped many would start institutions like Sriniketan all over the country to bridge gaps between the underprivileged and the privileged. People like Satyarthi are doing amazing work in today’s context, but more like him are needed in our world.
We have more writings than I could mention here, and each is chosen with much care. Please do pause by our contents page and take a look. Much effort has gone into creating a space for you to relish different perspectives that congeal in our journal, a space for all of you. For this, we have the team at Borderlessto thank– without their participation, the journal would not be as it is. Sohana Manzoor with her vibrant artwork gives the finishing touch to each of our monthly issues. And lastly, I cannot but express my gratefulness to our contributors and readers for continuing to be with us through our journey. Heartfelt thanks to all of you.
Migrant stories of yore from Malaysia by Farouk Gulsara
“There she goes again,” thought Saraswati as she cut vegetables she had never seen in her native country. “Here goes Ah Soh cooking her stinky dish again.”
Ah Soh with Nand Lal, Sarawswati’s son.(Photo taken circa the early 2000s).Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara
Saraswati, Ah Soh and the rest of the pack are people commonly called fresh off the boat. They hail from various parts of China and India.
The loud beating of a metal ladle against a frying pan, accompanied by the shrilling Chinese opera over the radio and her shrieking at her children, need no guessing whose kitchen ‘aroma’ is coming from. Everyone knows Ah Soh is frying belacan, a fermented Malay shrimp paste.
A house in the New Village (Photo taken circa the early 2000s). Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara
Ah Soh is Saraswati’s immediate neighbour in a New Village in Ipoh. Ah Soh, by default, is the self-appointed leader of the pack. Since she is one of the oldest occupants of New Village, she leads the group of housewives, all living along the same row of single-story wooden houses. These houses were the brainchild of the British when they wanted to keep the communist at bay in the 1950s. More than ten years into its inception, the houses are still strong and are a catch for many newcomers to Malaya.
Ah Soh and her husband, Ah Leong, hail from Canton, China. Escaping poverty and famine, Ah Leong scrapped the bottom of the barrel to buy himself a one-way ticket to Singapore in the early 1950s, then an up-and-coming international port, to try his luck.
After trying a few odd jobs here and there, Ah Leong heard of an opening in newly opened tin mines in Ipoh. He made a dash for it and found Ipoh and the work he liked. Soon, he saved enough cash and paid an agent to bring over the newly married wife that he left behind in China. Ah Leong, Ah Soh and later, their two young daughters develop roots in the New Village.
Life was no bed of roses for Saraswati either. Losing most of her family members to famine, a 13-year-old Saraswati was bundled off to a distant relative’s house in Bihar. Saraswati is pretty sure she was sold off to work as a maid, as she scrubbed and cleaned from dawn to dusk.
Lady Luck manifested most peculiarly. Saraswati was labelled bad luck when many mishaps hit her new family soon after joining them. One of the kids died of diarrhoea, and a big branch of a peepal tree growing in the compound fell on the house, destroying the roof. So, when the family heard of an elderly widower looking for a suitable bride, Saraswati was bundled off yet again.
Hence, Saraswati’s next phase of life started with her boarding a ship, S Rajula, from Calcutta to Penang, Malaya. She spent an entire month suffering from motion sickness, not only from the ship’s motion but by the various smells of people and their cooking. Starting life as a complete vegetarian, by the time she arrived in Malaya, after overexposure to a plethora of aromas and sights, she had garnered enough courage to taste various types of meat.
So, Ah Soh’s pungent belacan was tolerable to Saraswati’s smell buds, even though she hails from the Hindi heartland where, by design, everybody in her community was vegetarian.
Saraswati’s husband, Lal, had his own tale of melancholy. After losing his family to famine, he became an orphan and a guardian to his 12-year-old sister. With much difficulty, he somehow, doing odd jobs, managed to sustain his little family to adulthood. He was in the marriage market after getting his little sister happily married off. Unfortunately, three months into his marriage, the young bride succumbed to tuberculosis, then a deadly death sentence to anyone. Even the President of Pakistan had died of TB.
Nursing a heartbreak, he heard the news that some people he knew were going to try their luck in Malaya. The talk around town was that Malaya, the land of milk and honey, was the darling was the Empire and had great job opportunities. So that is how he landed in Malaya.
Again, after doing whatever work that came by, he landed in a more secure job washing the British Army’s dirty laundry in a camp in Ipoh. Cleaning, starching and ironing kept him busy, but he was happy for the first time. With money in his pocket and regular meals to look for, he ventured out for humble accommodation. That is how this New Village house came about.
He returned to his hometown in Bihar, India and got a bride for himself. So, here he is, with his second wife, Saraswati, and two young boys.
The New Village is a melting potpourri of people escaping from famine and depravity. If in the 1950s, this place protected the country from communist threat, in the 1960s, it was a pillar of hope for displaced people to start life anew.
Ah Soh had her kind, who hailed from China, and Saraswati had hers hail from various parts of India. It is incredible that despite the skirmishes between the two countries, they were bosom buddies here. These economic immigrants soldiered on, straddled in unfamiliar circumstances, struggling towards an uncertain future with zest in their chests and youth in their limbs. They go on to build their camaraderie, work, mingle, and live in harmony. Graduating from convenient sign language, they have now mastered the art of communication. Like how a cat would communicate with a dog in an adverse situation, such as absconding from the animal catcher, they cling to each other desperately as they go on with life.
Saraswati’s new home gave them, the newcomers, a simple language that contained many Chinese and Indian words to use. Language or no language, they were still able to communicate and fulfil each other’s needs. If one person from one part of China or India could not connect with a fellow compatriot, here they had a motley crew of economic migrants from these countries speaking, eating and looking out for each other.
Lal’s contract workers took him to various towns and kept him away from the family for months. An illiterate Saraswati with only street smartness skills would go on to manage the children and household on her own. With the convoy of housewives from New Village, Saraswati would do her marketing and grocery. Pointing and making gesticulating would constitute making an order, and hawkers were honest enough to return correct change. Slowly, she began to develop a liking for Chinese food.
Monthly grocery was by credit, and things were obtained from Ah Meng’s sundry shop, packed to the brim with everything under the sun. Lal would pay the bills at the end of the month as he returned from numerous contract jobs.
Besides her Chinese neighbours, Saraswati had neighbours from Punjab, Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh. Ajit Singh had a few dairy cows at the back compound of his house. From Ajit, Saraswati and her children had an uninterrupted supply of fresh milk.
R-L: Shobha(Saraswati‘s daughter) , Ah Soh(by then in her early 70s), Meela (Sarawati’s daughter), Saraswati and Kamala. (Photo taken circa the early 2000s). Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara
Two doors away from Saraswati’s house was Kamala’s. It was always a hive of activities from day to night. Kamala had so many children that Saraswati had lost count. People came and went as if it were the marketplace, and their main door was always open. There were always people singing, dancing or simply yakking there.
Ah Soh’s house was next to Devi’s house. Her household was loud, too, at the end of the month, but for a different reason. Devi has five children to show for her seven years of marriage. Her husband, a postman, also had something to offer, a mistress. Somewhere along the way, he picked up drinking, and his frequenting at the local liquor shop introduced him to a dancer. It was a routine that at the end of the month, as everyone received their pay, the neighbourhood would be filled with much noise; the clanging of kitchen utensils from Devi’s, music from Kamala’a and shuffling of mahjong tiles from Ah Soh’s front porch. Devi’s family quarrel noise over money got buried over the rest.
Saraswati has been feeling easily lethargic these days. She realises that her monthlies have been delayed. Her husband’s monthly visit has been productive. She now has to get used to the idea that there will be an addition to the family.
Maybe it is the pregnancy; she is getting a little pensive these days. She sometimes reminisces about the life that she had. Uprooted from her family by the forces of nature, she started a life as a child labour. Because of superstition, she was packed off again into marriage. Driven by economic hardship, she and her husband crossed the dreaded Black Waters to try their luck in a new land.
From an illiterate teenager, now she has morphed into a woman who could command leadership in her circle of friends and care for her family. From a meek non-adventurous vegetarian, she has savoured all meats and dishes, some of which her ancestors would have never dreamt of tasting.
She wonders what the future holds for her, her husband and the three kids she will raise to adulthood in this independent young country called Malaya as it crawls into the mid-1960s.
The foreground: Rohan, Saraswati’s grandson. In the background, Kamala’s son, Raja, in deep conversation with Nanda Lal and Shobha (Saraswati’ kids). The same house they all grew up in, albeit the extensions and refurbishments. (Picture taken circa the early 2000s) Courtesy: Farouk Gulsara
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Farouk Gulsara is a daytime healer and a writer by night. After developing his left side of his brain almost half his lifetime, this johnny-come-lately decided to stimulate the non-dominant part of his remaining half. An author of two non-fiction books, ‘Inside the twisted mind of Rifle Range Boy’ and ‘Real Lessons from Reel Life’, he writes regularly in his blog ‘Rifle Range Boy’.
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Recently, a realisation dawned – it has been over a year since I have watched an adaptation of a Jane Austen novel as a film or television series. My earliest memories of watching them go back to 1995, when the BBC’s version of Pride and Prejudice was released – I would watch the DVDs, or episodes on YouTube, with some enthusiasm. Over the years, I didn’t lose a chance to watch others: Sense and Sensibility, (film), Emma (BBC television series) Pride and Prejudice (film) and so many others. Looking at the comments on YouTube, it was evident that the Jane Austen adaptation fandom was large, and on a global scale. The seamless way in which the adaptations were consumed in so many Indian homes, including mine, puzzled me. I was familiar with the novels, as I had been a student of English literature in postcolonial departments in India, but that could not be true of so many others.
I fretted about the fact that my literary moorings were not so much in my own mother-tongues, but in English. Middle-class India was forgetting its own languages. English has crept in slowly, unnoticed. We could of course, think like Chinua Achebe, the Nigerian novelist, for whom writing about our own cultural contexts, our histories, landscapes, and memories in English, changes the texture of that language, and diminishes its colonizing weight. It is also the attitude, conscious or unconscious, of so many Indian writers in English. Curiously not many Indian producers have picked up on the idea of serializing the novels of these writers – either in English or in an Indian translation – which should be easy to do. It was the BBC that first produced an Indian novel – Vikram Seth’s novel, A Suitable Boy as a television series (for a global audience).
The Kenyan writer Ngugi wa Thiong’o has a much more radical perspective than Achebe – that it is not enough for people in previously colonised cultures to write in English, nor to claim it as their own. The very process by which English was acquired was violent and repressive. “(So) wherever you look at modern colonialism, the acquisition of the language of the coloniser was based on the death of the languages of the colonised. So it is a war zone.” Unless previously colonised cultures begin to train to think in their mother tongues again, he says, we will never really be able to shake off the mantle of colonisation.
This is a compelling, if daunting prospect – the work of decolonizing our minds perhaps begins within the education system which, in India, shows little inclination to change – it continues to lie in the shadows of the Anglo-American system, as it has for centuries. I draw comfort from Achebe’s attitude to English, which is the reality of many Indians. I don’t have to give up on Austen. But how do we rescue ourselves, and Austen? A critical and self-aware engagement with Austen – both the novels and the adaptations – seems to be a good place to begin. Reading Austen is arduous for those not born into English: I could hear my mother tongues tiptoe away as I read her. Reading is a solitary activity that connects us with the worlds of others, through the imagination. Watching an adaptation, on the other hand, can be solitary, or not. The visual text communicates through the senses rather than the imagination, although it does not mean it is not involved here.
It was not difficult to identify signs of England’s colonial links in either Austen’s novels, or the adaptations. Distant colonies such as the Caribbean and India were mentioned not infrequently in the novels: much of the income of the vast estates owned by the gentry was obtained from the colonies. Watching BBC’s Pride and Prejudice – and not for the first time – I spotted the tea, drunk in fine cups, the cigars that the men smoked, the cotton print dresses that women wore. I mentioned to a friend that some of the fabrics looked like the double-shaded handloom weaves from Andhra Pradesh, or Tamil Nadu. She agreed. Sometimes, the dresses also had paisley designs – these hugely popular prints were adaptations of Mughal mango motifs on textile. We, the global audience, need to train our gaze to the material roots of the English imagination, and be critical of it, rather than unreflectively consume its creations. Scenes of opulent country manors would appear repeatedly in many of the adaptations, and it was hard not to notice a kind of nostalgia for the glories of Empire. So much of the popularity of the adaptations seemed to be the result of clever packaging of Regency era settings and countryside.
Even as the lavish settings seemed to engulf Austen’s ingenious stories at times, a great deal of effort went into modernizing them. When Colin Firth came striding out of the lake in dripping wet shirt in 1995, the scene seemed to set the tone for other serials and films to become more inventive – as long as it created a stir. Almost every adaptation slipped in new scenes to suit their own narrative. They brought about a kind of visual cohesiveness to the series or films. Informal and relaxed body language, and facial expressions, and the manner in which emotions were expressed were adopted – rather than the stiff, stylized ways of the past. What we watched on screen was a hybrid text. I had no problem with this, unlike many die-hard Jane-ites the world over, who are perhaps purists at heart. Modern informality is, after all, a sign that the boundaries of class have become less rigid.
When Austen’s world in the novel became too distant, and removed from my own, I would turn to the adaptations. They became relatable on screen. Besides, the adaptations were open to emotional expressiveness, where in the novels, emotions are sub-textual: I have lost count of the number of times I watched Elizabeth Bennett’s (Jennifer Ehle) fiery rejection of Darcy (Colin Firth) in Pride and Prejudice (1995, mini-series) or Elinor Dashwood (Emma Thomson) fall in love with Edward Ferras (Hugh Grant) in Sense and Sensibility (1995, film).
One of the main features of modernisation is the highlighting of the romantic plot. Love, is of course, central to Austen’s concerns, but on screen, it is difficult to see the larger moral order of which it was a part. Often, the biggest obstacle on the individual’s path to win over the object of their love is a moral flaw within themselves. Instead of Austen’s ironic, witty voice showing us the complexities of the individual, and of their interactions with society, we have to rely a lot on dialogue, and the point of view of the main character. Rather than the multiple layers of narrative in a novel, we have a linear effect in an adaptation. Everything is propelled towards a rather sentimental ‘happily ever after,’ which is not necessarily the point of a Jane Austen novel.
We do not – perhaps cannot – get to know the thoughts of Elizabeth Bennett or Elinor Dashwood on screen, independently of others. If emotions were more readily expressed on screen, we also had to contend with the loss of inner worlds, which a reader has access to. Action is all-important in an adaptation. The expression of physicality was thought to be enough to drive it, making up for our inability to know anything else. This seems to be the view of Andrew Davies, one of the most prolific adapters of Austen to the television screen. According to him, sexuality was already a major driver of the novels – his only task was to flesh it out. “Don’t be afraid (to represent) physicality… these are young people full of hormones and they are bursting with energy,” he says, when asked for pointers on adaptation.
In the novels, we also see how a character is separated from, or unable to communicate with the object of their love, until a morally satisfying solution is found. In Pride and Prejudice, Mr. Wickham’s true character had to be exposed, and Elizabeth could overcome her pride, and could accept that Mr. Darcy was right. In Emma, the eponymous heroine had much to learn in order to fully grow up: to be more self-aware and free from vanity, and realize she loved Mr. Knightley. Austen’s dislike of melodrama and writing that was overly invested in emotion is well-known. And so, it seems logical to think that she would not have liked mere ‘feel-good’ romanticism in the productions of her writings.
Morality as a force was more vivid on the page rather than the screen. It was arguably, an imaginatively constructed entity that was contemporaneous with the white man’s burden of colonization. Austen’s depictions of the world she lived in make her a ‘quintessentially English’ writer that is difficult for others to understand. But over the years, I learnt to understand her from my vantage point in post coloniality – the world is constituted of multiple identities and historical contexts, and being curious and open about others is a reasonable way of engaging with my own existential and sociological identities.
Austen was an insider to her world – she deferred to the fact that women were very dependent on male approval and protection in order to survive. Most of the women in her novels were teenagers when they began their rounds of courtship, and often subjected to severe scrutiny by the world at large. But her women also used wit and rationality to make themselves seen and heard. Elizabeth Bennett (Pride and Prejudice) and Emma Woodhouse, (Emma) for example, challenged the existing model of the ‘superior,’ rational man.
Within the psychological worlds of men and women, Austen sought to describe the play of feeling, will and reason. Post-feminist critiques of Austen have been critical of her acceptance of these opposites and their implied gendered roles. Many adaptations exist, such as Lost in Austen, Pride and Prejudice Zombies, that satirize and parody Austen to a degree that ‘faithful’ adaptations do not aspire to. The comparisons and defenses could go on.
After years of reading Austen, my sympathies have recently begun to shift, imperceptibly – from the ‘wild and rational’ women of Austen’s novels, as Mary Wollestonecraft might have described them, to the quiet and introspective ones – more precisely, to Anne of Persuasion. Austen’s final novel seems to have achieved an introspective appeal that the other novels lacked. Anne’s deeply reflective and melancholic acceptance of her situation – a single woman stranded amidst a family that often exploited her situation – is the culmination of all of Austen’s literary prowess, and she herself seems to be on new ground as she explored Anne’s silences. A little into the novel, when she meets Captain Wentworth after eight years, there is some halting dialogue, as Anne comes to terms with her lost love, perhaps for the millionth time. Through these silences and halting dialogues, Austen seems to be testing the waters of what it means to be deeply self-aware. I’ve also read the dialogues to be a way in which words could be used to establish equality between them. It is through friendship that an egalitarianism of sorts is reached, that grows only gradually in strength.
The 2007 film adaptation of Persuasion portrayed the silences and the hesitant relationship between Anne and Wentworth admirably. It is difficult to portray interior worlds effectively on screen, and Sally Hawkins played the brooding, inconsolable Anne sensitively, particularly in the early scenes. Rupert Penry-Jones was striking as the embittered Captain Wentworth, seeking love elsewhere. The tension in their silences was palpably thick.
The letter Wentworth writes to Anne — “I am half-agony, half hope” — is a study in vulnerability: he is the flawed man who has to let go of his own stubborn refusal to acknowledge his feelings. The letter also indicates the difficulty of speech between them; writing is his only recourse. Men’s points of view are rarely presented in the novels. The adaptations turned this around – nearly all of the men have moments of vulnerability. This is a major breakthrough in modernization. Women all over the globe suddenly came upon visible evidence formen’s struggles with their feelings. This single factor alone, may be the reason for the huge popularity of the adaptations – men suddenly, were human and relatable.
When I learnt in 2022 of Netflix’s release of a new version of Persuasion, I began to watch it excitedly. But only a few moments in, I was sorely disappointed. The character of Anne (played by Dakota Johnson) was nothing like Austen’s – she was talkative and answered back. The key shortcoming of the film was the loss of Anne’s interior world. When Anne and Wentworth (played by Cosmo Jarvis) meet, in the film, they engage in banter, from their very first meeting. Nothing much is left unsaid. The absence of speech between Anne and Wentworth, which gives rise to one of the main tensions of the novel, and the earlier adaptation, is completely missing. They have finished saying a lot to each other in the very beginning. We cannot help wishing they hadn’t. Many of the characters were changed beyond recognition, and the sense of many scenes changed.
We know, early on, what the end is going to be. Austen plays words out in the final letter not coldly, but without a trace of extra emotion — that Wentworth’s maudlin show of tears were not for her. Perhaps, that was the final straw that drove me away from the film. I have not gone back to watching a film or adaptation after that. Something within me had died.
References
Language is a ‘war zone’: Conversation with Ngugi wa Thiong’o, The Nation, Rohit Inani, March 9, 2018
Adapting Emma for the 21st century: An Emma no one will like; Laurie Kaplan, Jane Austen Society of North America (JASNA) V.30, no.1, (Winter 2009)
How to adapt Jane Austen to the screen, with Andrew Davies: Guardian Culture, YouTube, 2018
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Deepa Onkar has degrees in English Literature from the Universities of Madras and Hyderabad, India. She was a teacher at Krishnamurti schools in Bangalore and Chennai, India, and a journalist at The Hindu. Her articles and poems have appeared in The Hindu, Punch magazine, The Bombay Literary Magazine, and The Lake, among others.
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Ravi Shankar trots around the globe in quest of the perfect dosa
Dosa is a speciality of South Indian cuisine. Courtesy: Creative Commons
I was intrigued by the filling of the masala dosa. I had never come across a beetroot-based filling before. The dosas of my childhood used potatoes coloured yellow with large doses of turmeric as the filling. The dosa (a thin pancake made from a batter of fermented lentils and rice) was nice and the strong coffee enhanced the flavour. Indian Coffee House (ICH) is an institution in the Southern Indian state of Kerala though they have a few branches outside. The coffee workers’ cooperative operates over 400 outlets in India. The dosa is good and the chain serves decent food and has an old-fashioned vibe with turbaned servers and solid wooden furniture. There are several restaurants run by ICH in the town of Thrissur (Kerala’s cultural capital). There has been one operating for several years at the Government Medical College campus and two at the Swaraj Round in Thrissur.
Bharat is today a very popular hotel in Thrissur, Kerala, and is packed from morning till evening. People crowd all around you as you eat, waiting for you to finish and vacate your table so that they can enjoy their repast. I find this very disturbing and am unable to enjoy my food when someone is waiting in the wings. Bharat had introduced a triangular dosa in the nineties and they offered a good selection of chutneys and powders to accompany the dosa. The huge crowds mean that the server may not always be able to bring your dosa to the table at the optimum temperature.
Dosa should be served at the perfect temperature. Within a minute or two it should be on your plate from the griddle. Too long a wait and the dish become cold and soggy. Not all establishments are able to commit to this tight time frame. Serving a dosa at large gatherings may be challenging as people have to wait patiently for fresh dosas. Creating a perfect dosa requires expertise, commitment, patience, talented people, and maybe a little bit of magic.
In my opinion, there are two main varieties. The restaurant one is crisp, thinner, and larger while the home-made variety is thicker, smaller, and less crisp. There can be a variety of batters ranging from white rice, a combination of different varieties of rice and pulses and millets among others. Making dosas can be a tough task in hot climates. The kitchen is hot, the griddle is sizzling and the flame a glimpse of the fires of hell. Hot weather is needed for fermenting of the batter. Chefs in cold climes face challenges in this regard.
I have always preferred dosas right from childhood. My mother used to make one from a batter consisting of different types of rice and pulses and the thick dosa went well with spicy chutneys.
A dosa uses the nutritionally sound combination of cereals and pulses used by humans throughout the planet since ancient times. The oil required to roll out the dosa from the pan could be a worry for some. But with non-stick pans, the amount of oil required can be very much reduced.
Our hostel mess at Thrissur used to make good dosas though we often had to rush into the kitchen to get it piping hot. We also visited a local tea stall where we had the more homely variety with onion chutney and coconut chutney. Pathans, an old restaurant and hotel in Thrissur serves great dosas as do several other hotels.
During my residency in Chandigarh, I was introduced to more unconventional fillings. In sector 11 next to the Postgraduate Institute there was a restaurant that served a chicken dosa with a spicy filling. Punjabis love their chickens. For a brief period, the hospital canteen at Manipal, Pokhara, Nepal was run by a group from Mengaluru, India. I got to taste the neer[1]dosa that goes well with spicy chicken curry. Neer dosa uses water, true to its name. In Nepal, Marwaris carry on the Indian food tradition but their dosas usually are not up to my standards. I used to visit Coimbatore in Tamil Nadu, India as a FAIMER[2] fellow and faculty and this city has a rich tradition of dosa making. The PSG[3] Guest House has a famous dosa maker whose skills and reputation are legendary
The island nation of Aruba in the Caribbean may not be in your mind when you think of dosas. However, the Taj Mahal Indian restaurant in the capital, Oranjestad, would serve dosas every alternate Tuesday. The masala dosas were quite good and filling. I visited with my colleagues from the University. In Saint Lucia in the West Indies, the college canteen made good dosas and these were available in the mornings and afternoons.
I was introduced to the ragi dosa in the town of Kolar in Karnataka, India. Ragi and millet have gained a formidable reputation as miracle foods. The ragi dosa is darker in color than its rice cousin, thicker, and may be more filling. I really enjoy ragi dosas. These days I occasionally go to MTR[4] in downtown Kuala Lumpur to enjoy this treat. The MTR ragi dosa plate has two delectable pieces with a small dollop of clarified butter and two chutneys and sambar. Filling and nutritious!In KL, I usually ate dosas for breakfast at the Sai Canteen in the International Medical University. The dosas are crisp and go well with the freshly ground chutney. The Indian restaurants in Brickfields in downtown KL serve very good dosas. Saravana Bhavan, Adyar Ananda Bhavan, and Sangeeta are a few examples. There may be a shortage of servers and the dosas may not always reach you piping hot and ready to eat. Making and serving dosas is labour intensive.
In Mumbai, the Udupi restaurants usually serve good quality dosas and these restaurants have become synonymous with South Indian food. I recently had a Mysore dosa at the Ram Ashraya restaurant in Matunga Mumbai. The Mysore dosa has a spicy lining on the inside and is a delightful concept. The waiting lines were long, and the restaurant was old-fashioned. I felt distinctly uncomfortable. The dosa however was delicious.
Pesarattu is a dosa mainly from Andhra and Telugu-speaking areas of south India made of green gram, ginger, cumin, and chillies. I was first introduced to this delight during lunch at PSGFAIMER, Coimbatore. Each afternoon there were specialties from a particular South Indian state. In KL, I can taste pesarattu at the Green Chillies restaurant near my apartment.
The accompaniments play a huge role in enhancing the taste of the dosa. A perfect sambar with drumstick and other vegetables, different types of chutneys, chamandi (a thick condiment made from chillies, coconut, ginger and a variety of other ingredients) and idli powder (termed gun powder). Chutneys can be made from red chilies, green chillies, and mint. There is also a gunpowder dosa, where a paste of gunpowder is smeared on the inner side of the dosa like a Mysore dosa.
Spanish Masala movie poster
I remember watching the dosa-making skills of the actor, Dileep, in the Malayalam film Spanish Masala. Dileep was an illegal immigrant in Spain and invents a new filling for the dosa and names the dosa Spanish Masala. With a dosa batter, a hot griddle, cooking oil, clarified butter and passion you can create magic in the form of a rich, thin, crackling dosa. In many ways, the dosa is as adaptable as a pizza. Various fillings and batter can be used, and the dish can be adapted for various tastes. However, maintaining a dosa piping hot may be more challenging, which may account for its lesser popularity as a takeout item. I may have tasted perfection in a dosa only around twenty times in my life. Often, the dosa was not crisp enough, was not served at the optimum temperature, the accompaniments were not of good quality, or the place was too crowded. I often dream of the perfect dosa, thin, crisp, dark brown, and piping hot, just waiting to melt in the mouth!
[4] Mavalli Tiffin Rooms, a restaurant chain started in 1942
Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.
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Borderless 