18:53
Every November, Kalpathy in
Palakkad rouses itself for the annual juggernaut but the Brahmin
agraharams are no longer the feisty, close-knit communities they once
were
Then Kalpathy had no secrets.
Some four decades ago, remember village elders, an anonymous
letter exploded on a Kalpathy alley to sabotage a
marriage proposal.
Till then a boy's kin visiting the prospective bride's agraharam was a festival for the street with every door decking up to greet the new relation. But this anonymous letter bomb shattered trust, forever. This incident floated on Kalpathy's psyche like an oil slick -sinking hesitantly and contaminating slowly .
Thereafter, none shared any family secrets with their neighbours, separated only by a weak laterite wall. Kalpathy would never be the same again and its high-decibel TamilEnglish-Malayalam lingo became a paranoid's whisper chanting conspiracy mantra.
Every November,
Kalpathy 2.0 dusts its memories much like the workers who refurbish the
huge teak chariots for the annual `theeru' festival. As the community's
interest reluctantly wakes up to haul the chariots through its heritage
streets, it also is audit time.
“Few youngsters share the same enthusiasm,'' says Anantha Narayana Iyer as he wipes his huge torso with an old towel standing in waist-deep blackish waters of Kalpathy river, an apology for its old serene avatar.
Ananthan is the `coach' who trains village youth on how to control the chariots' speed.Like a pahalwan, he wields heavy wooden chocks that have to be skilfully placed under the huge wheel when the 80-tonne magnificence is pushed by elephants.
“There will be hundreds pulling and many
more jostling to touch the rope. It requires terrific focus to place the
chock, made of tamarind wood, to slow or stop the theeru as it wades
through the crowd,'' says Ananthan, who runs a tea stall.
On the wall of Lakshmi Coffee & Tea Stall is mounted a citation
presented to him by people of Kalpathy for training genera
tions of Brahmins in this unique craft.He wipes off dust and cobwebs
from it with his saffron dhoti and says: “Volunteers have to be
dedicated. But some
of the new generation kids smoke cigarettes.'' For Ananthan and his
fellow Kalpathyite writer T K Sankaranarayanan, a non-veg, ciga
rette smoking or drinking Brahmin is still the most unacceptable
species.
“My son is studying in Tamil Nadu. I hope he has not shed our values. I will be deeply hurt if he does,'' says Sankarana rayanan. “As a writer, evolution of a society is my raw material.But the father in me can't stand such a change in my hearth. It really pains to see how Kalpathy life has changed. All values it once possessed are fading,'' he admits.
Like hundreds of other Kalpathy youth, his son won't be participating in the chariot festival this year. “But they all watch it on TV. For us, the festival was the only entertainment event,'' says Sankaranarayanan.
“And with FB and WhatsApp, they get live commentary and photos,'' says Revathy, mother of three teen girls, who lives in Mumbai. Her hus band Narayanan runs a “pure vegetarian'' catering service at Kalyan, Mumbai. “We make it there every year. This time my husband and daughters are not coming,'' she says. “One has to be practical. There is no meaning leaving one's work to participate in a festival. But it was so different in the past,'' Narayanan tells TOI over phone.
This shift in mindset is drying up fund collections. The budget comes around Rs 1 crore.Earlier, Kalpathy diaspora would collect mon ey and donate it to temples. “This practice is still there. But we're dependent on sponsors,'' says Murali C V , organizing secretary .
“In fact, the best days were before the land reforms act was promulgated. Many Brah min families lost their estates and paddy fields forcing youth to migrate from Kalpa thy,'' says Sankaranarayanan. “But they were the best days of my life,'' says Abdul Salim, deputy director, Suchithwa Mission, who lived at Govindaraja puram, stone's throw from Kalpathy . “We had many friends. Later I lived with my family in an apartment complex where we were the only non-Hindus,'' he says. My family never felt alien.
In fact, old maamis would come and give temple prasadam almost every day fully knowing that we're non-vegetarians.“There was no discrimination. We used to go with them to witness the confluence of gods at Theermutty,'' he says. The remnants of a dull kollaam welcome you to Kalchatty Theruvu where Rajammal is chatting up Sesham baal in the latter's courtyard. There is an old Lamby scooter covered in dust; debris of antique furni ture are heaped in one corner of Seshambaal's agraharam. “Termite menace is a big problem. We can't rebuild as this is a heritage zone. Nobody wants to invest because the new generation has lost interest in the agraharam culture,'' she says.
No wonder that the small Kalpathy post office, small Kalpathy post office, which once used to be much busier, is such a quiet place. “We survive because of prasadam covers and not letters. About 50 such covers are posted from here every day ,'' says Jijitha, post al staff. “But no anonymous letters, right?'' “Anonymous? No one writes even personal letters,'' guffaws Jijitha, confused about the interest in anonymous letters. For, she knows not about that catalyst that changed Kalpathy's chemistry , forever.
Then Kalpathy had no secrets.
Some four decades ago, remember village elders, an anonymous
letter exploded on a Kalpathy alley to sabotage a
marriage proposal.Till then a boy's kin visiting the prospective bride's agraharam was a festival for the street with every door decking up to greet the new relation. But this anonymous letter bomb shattered trust, forever. This incident floated on Kalpathy's psyche like an oil slick -sinking hesitantly and contaminating slowly .
Thereafter, none shared any family secrets with their neighbours, separated only by a weak laterite wall. Kalpathy would never be the same again and its high-decibel TamilEnglish-Malayalam lingo became a paranoid's whisper chanting conspiracy mantra.
Every November,
Kalpathy 2.0 dusts its memories much like the workers who refurbish the
huge teak chariots for the annual `theeru' festival. As the community's
interest reluctantly wakes up to haul the chariots through its heritage
streets, it also is audit time.“Few youngsters share the same enthusiasm,'' says Anantha Narayana Iyer as he wipes his huge torso with an old towel standing in waist-deep blackish waters of Kalpathy river, an apology for its old serene avatar.
Ananthan is the `coach' who trains village youth on how to control the chariots' speed.Like a pahalwan, he wields heavy wooden chocks that have to be skilfully placed under the huge wheel when the 80-tonne magnificence is pushed by elephants.
“There will be hundreds pulling and many
more jostling to touch the rope. It requires terrific focus to place the
chock, made of tamarind wood, to slow or stop the theeru as it wades
through the crowd,'' says Ananthan, who runs a tea stall.
On the wall of Lakshmi Coffee & Tea Stall is mounted a citation
presented to him by people of Kalpathy for training genera
tions of Brahmins in this unique craft.He wipes off dust and cobwebs
from it with his saffron dhoti and says: “Volunteers have to be
dedicated. But some
of the new generation kids smoke cigarettes.'' For Ananthan and his
fellow Kalpathyite writer T K Sankaranarayanan, a non-veg, ciga
rette smoking or drinking Brahmin is still the most unacceptable
species.“My son is studying in Tamil Nadu. I hope he has not shed our values. I will be deeply hurt if he does,'' says Sankarana rayanan. “As a writer, evolution of a society is my raw material.But the father in me can't stand such a change in my hearth. It really pains to see how Kalpathy life has changed. All values it once possessed are fading,'' he admits.
Like hundreds of other Kalpathy youth, his son won't be participating in the chariot festival this year. “But they all watch it on TV. For us, the festival was the only entertainment event,'' says Sankaranarayanan.
“And with FB and WhatsApp, they get live commentary and photos,'' says Revathy, mother of three teen girls, who lives in Mumbai. Her hus band Narayanan runs a “pure vegetarian'' catering service at Kalyan, Mumbai. “We make it there every year. This time my husband and daughters are not coming,'' she says. “One has to be practical. There is no meaning leaving one's work to participate in a festival. But it was so different in the past,'' Narayanan tells TOI over phone.
This shift in mindset is drying up fund collections. The budget comes around Rs 1 crore.Earlier, Kalpathy diaspora would collect mon ey and donate it to temples. “This practice is still there. But we're dependent on sponsors,'' says Murali C V , organizing secretary .
“In fact, the best days were before the land reforms act was promulgated. Many Brah min families lost their estates and paddy fields forcing youth to migrate from Kalpa thy,'' says Sankaranarayanan. “But they were the best days of my life,'' says Abdul Salim, deputy director, Suchithwa Mission, who lived at Govindaraja puram, stone's throw from Kalpathy . “We had many friends. Later I lived with my family in an apartment complex where we were the only non-Hindus,'' he says. My family never felt alien.
In fact, old maamis would come and give temple prasadam almost every day fully knowing that we're non-vegetarians.“There was no discrimination. We used to go with them to witness the confluence of gods at Theermutty,'' he says. The remnants of a dull kollaam welcome you to Kalchatty Theruvu where Rajammal is chatting up Sesham baal in the latter's courtyard. There is an old Lamby scooter covered in dust; debris of antique furni ture are heaped in one corner of Seshambaal's agraharam. “Termite menace is a big problem. We can't rebuild as this is a heritage zone. Nobody wants to invest because the new generation has lost interest in the agraharam culture,'' she says.
No wonder that the small Kalpathy post office, small Kalpathy post office, which once used to be much busier, is such a quiet place. “We survive because of prasadam covers and not letters. About 50 such covers are posted from here every day ,'' says Jijitha, post al staff. “But no anonymous letters, right?'' “Anonymous? No one writes even personal letters,'' guffaws Jijitha, confused about the interest in anonymous letters. For, she knows not about that catalyst that changed Kalpathy's chemistry , forever.
- TOI
