From: ramachan@physics.ucla.edu ('Sathyadev Ramachandran')
Subject: nostalgia
Organization: UCLA Department of Physics
Date: Wed, 6 Jan 93 20:08:57 GMT


                   MEMORIES OF A TALAPOLI EVENING                           


                                   
    It was getting very late in the evening as the bus which I had taken
from Triprayaar to Kodungallur slowly inched its way through the festive
and crowded streets . The journey all the way from Kunnamkulam was tiring.
The feeling of numbness, being constantly tossed at the whims of the bus
driver at each sharp curve and his skillful manoeuvres in avoiding the most ominous looking pot-holes had its effect in a sense of nausea. Added to that
was the  constant thought that someone might want to pick up a conversation spoting a ten year old kid travelling all by himself. The questions were always the same mundane things one would normally ask a kid. Yet, it bothered me all the more as it took effort on my part to hide the fact that my Malayalam was at the most broken or as my cousins often reminded me that I spoke like a chettiar. Even as a kid I was no less conscious of my surroundings though I did not let it come in the way of enjoying such ex



changes.

     
     As I alighted from the bus ,the surging crowds into the poorapamaba swept
me along, with little choice I moved on anxiously. It was not until later that
I realised that I had circumambulated the temple premises and was back where I
had begun. All directional senses were lost on me and I quite reluctantly asked
for help to get to Thekke Nada. The direction offered me required cutting across Ambalaparamba into a walkway lined on one side with ambassadors with the word
"TOURIST" written in bold, and on the opposite an assortment of stores mostly
clothes & textiles. A few yards down I could spot the vertical board reading
"Nalanda" in malayalam which I had pictorially committed to memory and was my
destination. As I heaved a sigh of relief, the thunder of the 'kathina' from
temple yard jerked me .However hard I may try this was something I could never
avoid and to this day I find it hard to forgive whoever had invented this form
of offering to the lords. Even when one is given enough prior notice ,the absence of any form of spark or fire except the smoke and the upturned shell after the explosion keeps you in suspension which I find hard to accept.

    At Nalanda my uncle was waiting quite worried till he saw me doddering with
the heavy bag I had over my shoulders . He mentioned that he had sent somebody
to scout for me ,a difficult task for talapoli day but for my blue & white uniform and maroon tie making me more conspicuous in the crowd. He said that the procession wouuld begin in another hour and that if I was hungry he could get me
something to eat. I devoured the rava dosa from 'Arathi' which was delivered at
my uncle's shop. Having regained some energy I set about pestering Panickerettan with questions about the procession. He was in his mid thirties, a jolly good 
fellow who singlehandedly took care of the printing press that my uncle owned,
and foremost of all was easily accessible with a constant smile which seemed
plastered on his face and eyes deep and bright. He would answer almost invariably in a few words or sentences any query teasing me into believing his narration which I did in any case with childlike faith.  

    Far away the din of excitement and the feverish beats of the chenda could
be heard. The light from the petromaxes relected of the the glistening metal bedecked on the forehead of the caparisoned jumbos. I counted nine in the distance as I waited anxiously for them to come closer to where I was perched. The panchavadyam got louder and my heart beat faster with music in my ears as I felt almost lifted to another world. I had earlier heard stories from my mother about the talapoli. Some infact pretty scary. There were incidents when in the past some elephant had run amok in town de



stroyed property and even killed 
it's brave and valiant mahout when he tried to calm the beast. Stories about
one which had to be shot at the kottapuram kadavu after repeated attempts to 
get him back to the fold. I also believed that a panicky "madampottiya aana" elephant would never run forward, hence it was always safer to be in the front than the rear of a procession in case the worst happened. I wonder how I convinced myself of this simple safety precaution but it seemed assuring enough then.

    Bare chested the maraars had their chenda slung over their neck with thick
white cloth twisted into rope and the mundu^ half a feet shy of their feet which probably gave them freedom to move quickly. Their hands playing the stretched leather in ectasy and their bodies gyrated to the beats of their drums.There were also people playing the long flute 'nadaswaram'. But what got my most attention as a child was the 'nettipattam'. That gold plated ornament on an otherwise spartan body seemed an amazing piece of art. The bulbous decoration along the rim of the nettipattam in regularity



 and the central grooves and more minor work which escaped my eyes looked quite surreal.  There must be more to it than met my eye. At each stop of the procession there would be a show of gilt edged and multicolored 'kuda' and swift displays of white plume by the entourage atop the elephants. The synchronisation and variations thereof gave a visual effect pleasing to the eye. The elephant at the centre carried the deity with the priest holding on to it, offerings being made at each stop along the 'ezhunnul



lippu'.

   As the procession moved forward and was almost out of my sight I realised
that my eyelids were drooping, having roamed around in guruvayur the entire
afternoon with my Bethany seniors had taken its toll. I fell asleep on my chair
and the colour and festivities continued in my dreams.


 

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