From the author’s archive
The car drove through its streets and halted before the magnificent gopuram. Mylapore certainly knows how to make an entrance. “Konjam thallanga” was my debut interaction with the neighbourhood. I turned back to see a dynamic woman duo holding a platter of assorted flowers. They were rather concerned about the arathi they might miss, or was it the prasadam? Well, we’ll leave that to them, but the Neyi Pongal aromas were unquestionably tempting. They walked past with their proud kanjeevarams and mallipoo, retiring from my
sight.
I took my rudimentary steps toward the interiors of the holy place to find myself navigating a massive mob. I was aware that temples were customarily crowded on the weekends. But this troupe ruled over the Sunday circumstances. The numbers kept escalating. Amidst the chaos, I approached an instantaneous silence. I took a one-eighty-degree whirl to witness the man responsible for the attendant of the entirety (quite literally)—the “kapaleeshwara” himself. It was that time of the year when the lord took rounds around the temple’s pranganam. An annual festival.
I then advanced into the venue, and toward my right, I noticed another assemble through the periphery. They were all seated facing a pedestal about four feet high, in complete admiration.
It all seemed like bait for a curious mind, and I fell. It took a quick few steps into the site, and gradually the dancer revealed herself. She was performing for one of the “Thyagaraja Keerthanas”.
The whole spirit of the place had no discrimination rooted in social, cultural, or natural aspects of the civilization that had been imposed. It all seemed to run in unison. Everyone was vested in one thing alone, “the art." The dancer held the locus; she portrayed pain, but the crowd wept. She was in joy, and the clan celebrated, and when she showcased devotion, the public witnessed it with the utmost sincerity. It was a spectacle. The outlook of subordination and sovereignty seemed to have evaporated coherently.
Walking out of the premises in a daze, I was quickly intervened.
The street adjoining the Kovil held a multitude of affairs, ranging from the everyday street business to the local cuisines that served the finest authentic menu. Strolling through their lanes, I paused for a signature drink, “rose milk,” at the oldest establishment. The shop was more of a ritual for the visitors, as it touched down the road of nostalgia.
The reminiscence of their childhood.
Further wandering the lane, we reached the renowned “jannal kadai”. The hot bajjis with karam chutney that arrives out of the compact fenestration is a joy in disguise. Run by an elderly couple, the idly vadai with Pongal was certainly mouth-watering, but what made it so flavoursome was the tenderness with which they served it. Their passion for nurture made me think of how the world is so cutting-edge but delicately balanced in the cardinal relationship of human beings.
Mylapore meant much more than the pilgrimage and its people. It’s the way of life that refused to mutate while the world ran a mile ahead. It’s effortless at its best.
I walked back to the car bumping into the woman duo again engrossed in their whispers while drinking their filter coffees and having their best time well....until a lady with similar kanjeevaram paraded through.
About the Author:
Priyanka Vaadulasha is an undergraduate architecture student who’s determined to study the field of Art and Architectural journalism. An aspiring writer understands spaces as characters personified to form an exemplary world. She perceives the art of architecture as how people commute, communicate, and cater with an inanimate aspect bringing out each other’s finest features.
Linkedin - www.linkedin.com/in/priyanka-vl
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