A DISTANT REALITY
A number of friends observed that my last post ‘A Distant Dream’
was nostalgic and reminded them of their own childhood and the dreams that they
had grown up with or the books that they had read. So I decided that I shall
once again undertake an exploration through the lanes of nostalgia. There are
two distinct emotions that come into play here – to relive those moments which
have left an indelible imprint on my psyche and a travel down in search of my
roots.
I have never seen my grandfather for all practical purposes. He
passed away when I was only six months old. But I have heard a lot about him
from my mother, elder brother and sister and others. What I did learn and
realize was that he was an extraordinary and spiritually elevated person. It
was in this context that I talked about my native village Gopalasamudram. Ever
since I have nurtured a wish to write about him, but I also realised it can
never be authentic for I have only heard and never really knew him. So I got
down to writing what you may at best describe as fictional biography. I have a
long way to go for I have just started but thought that I should share at least
a bit of what I have begun. I do not know whether I will be able to go forward
and complete it, but the journey is giving me immense joy. I find it extremely
hard to reconstruct the socio-cultural milieu that was prevalent then. One of
the reasons is that this can best be captured only by writing in one’s own
native language.
How can I recapture the raw smell of the soil, the whiff of paddy from the fields, the fragrance of jasmine from among the tresses of women (so
typical of Tamil Nadu) or watch the lazy and languid march of the cattle on
their way back to their sheds as the sun sets with the cowherd walking along
with his arms over the stick on his shoulders, the aging Brahmin standing on
the banks of the river completing his evening prayers or listen to the bells
ringing and the haunting drum beats emanating from the Shiva temple! It is very
difficult. They reside there frozen back in time and in the corners of your
mind. How do I bring them out through words?
‘SANKARA
Sankara
slowly got up from his bed, the time was four thirty in the morning. He made
his way to the puja room, opened the door and then prostrated himself before
the pictures and idols of the various Gods that were enshrined there. He then
washed his face and mouth went to the quadrangular, a common feature of the
houses in the village, picked up his towel and a dhoti which were hung up on
the clothes line to dry the previous day and moved towards the entrance.
Meenakshi was also awake and was moving about in the kitchen, preparing for the
coming day. Sankara called out to her and she went to close the door as soon as
he left. This was a normal day and this was how it began. All these years the
routine had never been broken.
It
was still dark as Sankara made his way to the river to have his bath and be
there to receive the first rays of dawn and say his morning prayers as an
obeisance to the Sun God. As he passed the Siva temple, he bowed his head in
reverence and continued. The silence that engulfed him was briefly interrupted
by the rustle of the leaves as a gentle wind blew across the trees. For a man
of lesser stature, the ghostly shadows and the silence would have been
intimidating, but Sankara found his communion with God in that stillness.
He
walked across the narrow bridge over the vaykaal(canal) and climbed the mound
which separated it from the main river. He descended and went towards the
mandapam ( a pillared outdoor hall) on its banks. The Thambiraparani flowed silently, and
as the dawn slowly broke one could see the silver waters waiting for its first
bathers. Sankara was alone when he stepped in. As he bathed he dipped his head
thrice into the river and stood up facing the east as the sun slowly rose and
the first rays danced across the waters. His hands folded he said a small
prayer. He dried himself in the mandapam and sat down to do the sandhya
vandanam. He loved this peace that surrounded him and as he did his pranayam he
could feel himself breathing in the atmosphere of sanctity that prevailed, the
gentle caressing sound of the Thambiraparani as it wound its way across the
rocks on its bed. He picked up his clothes that he had spread out for drying in
the mandapam and started his way back home. On the way he waved a greeting to a
few of his friends who were proceeding towards the river. Sankara was a man of
few words and his friends knew that and did not stop to talk to him but waved
their hands to acknowledge.
Meenakshi
had bathed by the time her husband came back from the river and set about
arranging for his puja. She knew that he would not touch or have anything to
eat or drink till he had completed his morning worship. Having been married for more than fifty years
now, she was used to his routine.
Gopalasamudram was a quaint little village though a panchayat in
the district of Tirunelveli, in those days unspoilt by the intrusions of city
life. The agraharam where Sankara lived was one long street, where everyone
knew everyone else. The street was bound by the Siva temple at the eastern end
and a Vishnu temple at the western end. The entry in to the agraharam was right
in the centre literally splitting it in to the west side and the east side.
Behind the agraharam on the northern side flowed the Thambirabarani river. One
had to cross a small bridge over a canal which was called as the vaykaal of the
main river before climbing over a mound to reach the river bank. The river was ever
flowing and the water was crystal clear, one could see the bed of the river and
the fishes. The river derived its name from the fact that it was said to
contain copper. Though there have been various interpretations for its name,
there was a sanctity attributed to it as it was believed to be as old as the
puranas and epics. In fact it was said that it is mentioned in the Mahabharata
as an asylum where the Gods had undergone penances for attaining salvation. It
wound its way from its origin in the Pothigai hills in the Western Ghats and
flowed to merge with the ocean in the Gulf of Mannar .’
I could not avoid repeating the last paragraph from the last post
for the sake of keeping the continuity.
But I have expressed my desire to some friends that the richness
of the native literature should be spread beyond the boundaries of its origin.
Though the lyrical quality cannot be captured it will help in understanding the
richness of thought and culture. Authentic translations should be available and
I am sure there are enough scholars to do that now. It will be a great
contribution in creating awareness among the non native population and as a
legacy to posterity. The great writers and thinkers of the twentieth century
though they wrote in their native language, their works were available to a
large audience and spread beyond the boundaries of the country of origin
because of the translations.
