I've always wondered who I really am? This path of self-discovery started quite late - when I was asked to fill out my religion, caste and sub-caste in my hostel application form (pretty weird but true). Until then it never occured to me that I was from a particular caste. When I filled "Hindu" in all the columns (I wasn't aware of my caste at that point), the clerk raised his eyebrows and mumbled something about the increasing number of youngsters who forget their roots and opt for love marriages.
I called mom the next day (since I had to submit the completed form) and she said I was a Chettiar - a Beri Chettiar. It is not to be confused with the Shettys, Chettys and the Shets. The word "Chettiar" somehow conjures images of a scheming, portly, balding man in a rice shop and counting cash under his desk. This view of mine was reinforced by Santhana Barathi, who played the part of Chettiar so well in "Mumbai Express".
I can't imagine me being called "Palani Chettiar" as is the case with many other castes. Somehow, it never sounded cool to me. So I decided to dig deep - it turns out that Chettiars are a very fascinating community - they were the pioneers of commerce and banking in South India. Apparently, Singapore became an active trading post due to them. These cool people migrated heavily in search of opportunities especially in South and South-East Asia (Burma, Malaya etc) builiding banks, Murugan temples and not to forget the incredible Chettinad cuisine. The story goes that Chettiars were Shiva-bhaktas and since Brahmins were forbidden to cross the seas (and Shiva temples had to have Brahmin priests), they set up Murugan temples, since he was a less demanding! This is very much visible with names like Palaniappan (Chidambaram, our FM), Meiyappan (AVM studios), Murugappan (TI and Parrys). The folklores associated with them are very interesting to read, especially the one on how the entire community was once nearly wiped out.
Coming back to my experiments with tracing my origins, most of the documented material relates to the more economically dominant Nattukottai Chettiars, who were reputed to own the palatial houses in the Coramandel area, but chose to work in the cities and ports (hence they were called Nagarathars) as merchants. I wanted to find more about us Beri Chettiars. It turns out that by the 13th century AD, the Nattukottai chettiars had flourished under the Chola kings and institutionalized mercantile trade and banking. During this time, migrant Telugu traders like the Komatis, Balijas and Beri Chettis came to to southern Coromandel. This interesting article on Frontline talks about Beri Chettiars who prospered a bit under the British era. Not surprisingly my paternal grandfather was with the Pondicherry customs clearing and my maternal grandfather was a self-made goldsmith.
So who am I - a migrant from Telugu heartland or a Tamilian? I have no clue, but I'm really curious to know (I should try to find people from the Nemam temple who profess to be Beri Chettairs). It should be a lot of fun to find out!
As a side note, I don't believe in the caste system and in my opinion, it is the root cause of many problems in modern India. It was a case of a division of labour scheme that went really, really wrong.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Friday, August 26, 2005
Krishna Jayanthi ...
This morning mom sent me an offline message wishing me for Janmashtami (I suspect she issued a warning so that I was atleast aware of it and stayed away from non-veg food). She missed me on such an auspicious occassion.
Her message flooded me with memories of Janmashtami (or Krishna Jayanthi as we knew it). It is truly a great festival and a harbinger of hope. It was my saviour from the tyranny of the prevailing holiday-less calendar. When this festival came, the floodgates were open. We'd soon have Ganesh Chaturthi, Navarathri, Diwali and Christmas (read no school and good food). Somehow the Gods above conspired to load the second half of the year with goodies, while the first part had a dry spell (I can only remember the Tamil New year and that too came during the beginning of the exam season).
Krishna Jayanthi is a foodies' delight - mom would spend weeks thinking about the menu and days making them. It had the best assortment of food - sigidai, different varieties of murukku, sev, sweet poori (Swami, are you reading this?), maida biscuit, "mixture", boondi (sweet and karam varieties), vadai, kasavathu, payasam, assorted chocolates, butter etc etc.
The worst part however, was the build-up to that day - mom would pester us for weeks and have us clean up the house, especially the attic (trust me when I say it was a very messy and grimy place). We had to clean all the doors and window frames while mom would wipe clean the photos of various Gods in the puja room and clean ALL the utensils we ever possessed (she had an enviable collection thanks to her affinity for anything stainless steel and numerous trips to Madras). My brother and I had to deal with the tough task of dividing the labor (we even had points to measure difficulty level of the task and argue about the merits of the metrics - I'll leave that topic for another blog).
A week before D-day, I'd often accompany mom to the flour mill (or "machine" as she called it) and wait in the long queue of people. She was very picky about how the rice had to be ground - especially when the same "machine" ground many cereals (she'd never put it after some person had just ground ragi or wheat since the quality would be compromised). She'd wait longer and even give up her turn so that someone else could grind rice before she did thereby ensuring that grain-flow-path was "pure" once again. She would dictate terms with the operator as to how fine it must be ground until the right texture was reached. I was allergic to all the dust (especially chilli powder) around and would wander off to watch more interesting things - fish mongers (I still remember Managalore Fish stall and Bombay Fish stall) selling assorted varieties of fish or the numerous mutton and chicken shops in that compound (I know mom was never too pleased when she had to be there, especially when she was making food for the Gods).
The next big thing was to control myself. Mom would usually start making goodies a day or two before and we were expressly forbidden to eat any of these things beforehand (She often told me as a kid that God would poke my eyes at night if I did evil things and since then I've been a little careful when it comes to defying Him). It was indeed very difficult to control since I was the official food-taster at home, a role that I relished :). God was indeed very demanding. I vividly remember the times when mom would make my lil' brother Gopi walk down the hall to imprint Baby Krishna's steps. The footprint marks were made from ground rice water.
On the fateful day, we'd wait and watch the streams of friends and neighbors drop by and pay their respects to the God. I'd be watching the food layout on the table even more carefully, mentally planning my moves when the signal would be given. Time was less, the competition was fierce and premium food was limited by our voracious appetite! Then finally, when they guests left, and after mom finished her prayers - the signal would be given! It was every man to himself. We'd eat like crazy and attack the best parts first. I've had many fist-fights with Swami since both of us had common favorites - most notably the sweet poori. Almost always they would be gone faster than we realized.
Now as I sit here typing this out, I realize that I can easily afford good food (there are a dozen restaraunts spread over a half-mile radius) - but the ambience and experience isn't there. Tomorrow I'll probably make some "sundal" and "Instant Mix" Gulab Jamun and recall those priceless moments!
Her message flooded me with memories of Janmashtami (or Krishna Jayanthi as we knew it). It is truly a great festival and a harbinger of hope. It was my saviour from the tyranny of the prevailing holiday-less calendar. When this festival came, the floodgates were open. We'd soon have Ganesh Chaturthi, Navarathri, Diwali and Christmas (read no school and good food). Somehow the Gods above conspired to load the second half of the year with goodies, while the first part had a dry spell (I can only remember the Tamil New year and that too came during the beginning of the exam season).
Krishna Jayanthi is a foodies' delight - mom would spend weeks thinking about the menu and days making them. It had the best assortment of food - sigidai, different varieties of murukku, sev, sweet poori (Swami, are you reading this?), maida biscuit, "mixture", boondi (sweet and karam varieties), vadai, kasavathu, payasam, assorted chocolates, butter etc etc.
The worst part however, was the build-up to that day - mom would pester us for weeks and have us clean up the house, especially the attic (trust me when I say it was a very messy and grimy place). We had to clean all the doors and window frames while mom would wipe clean the photos of various Gods in the puja room and clean ALL the utensils we ever possessed (she had an enviable collection thanks to her affinity for anything stainless steel and numerous trips to Madras). My brother and I had to deal with the tough task of dividing the labor (we even had points to measure difficulty level of the task and argue about the merits of the metrics - I'll leave that topic for another blog).
A week before D-day, I'd often accompany mom to the flour mill (or "machine" as she called it) and wait in the long queue of people. She was very picky about how the rice had to be ground - especially when the same "machine" ground many cereals (she'd never put it after some person had just ground ragi or wheat since the quality would be compromised). She'd wait longer and even give up her turn so that someone else could grind rice before she did thereby ensuring that grain-flow-path was "pure" once again. She would dictate terms with the operator as to how fine it must be ground until the right texture was reached. I was allergic to all the dust (especially chilli powder) around and would wander off to watch more interesting things - fish mongers (I still remember Managalore Fish stall and Bombay Fish stall) selling assorted varieties of fish or the numerous mutton and chicken shops in that compound (I know mom was never too pleased when she had to be there, especially when she was making food for the Gods).
The next big thing was to control myself. Mom would usually start making goodies a day or two before and we were expressly forbidden to eat any of these things beforehand (She often told me as a kid that God would poke my eyes at night if I did evil things and since then I've been a little careful when it comes to defying Him). It was indeed very difficult to control since I was the official food-taster at home, a role that I relished :). God was indeed very demanding. I vividly remember the times when mom would make my lil' brother Gopi walk down the hall to imprint Baby Krishna's steps. The footprint marks were made from ground rice water.
On the fateful day, we'd wait and watch the streams of friends and neighbors drop by and pay their respects to the God. I'd be watching the food layout on the table even more carefully, mentally planning my moves when the signal would be given. Time was less, the competition was fierce and premium food was limited by our voracious appetite! Then finally, when they guests left, and after mom finished her prayers - the signal would be given! It was every man to himself. We'd eat like crazy and attack the best parts first. I've had many fist-fights with Swami since both of us had common favorites - most notably the sweet poori. Almost always they would be gone faster than we realized.
Now as I sit here typing this out, I realize that I can easily afford good food (there are a dozen restaraunts spread over a half-mile radius) - but the ambience and experience isn't there. Tomorrow I'll probably make some "sundal" and "Instant Mix" Gulab Jamun and recall those priceless moments!
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Saturday, June 18, 2005
I need a tooth fairy ...
For 25 years my pearly white teeth never let me down - until my Maker decided to recall some parts.
While munching on a snack, I suddenly felt a crack inside the mouth. It was a very strange sensation. I spit out the remnants of my enamel and admired the size of the gaping hole it left behind. So much for enamel being the strongest part of the human body. I felt like a vulnerable king - with my crown exposed!
The torture wasn't immediate - it wasn't until the next day when a few morsels found their way into that hell hole. The pain was immediate and searing. I weathered in stoic silence praying for relief. After 15 minutes I felt normal again - but it was the proverbial calm before the storm. Next day it was worse - a dozen pain killers and 3 days later I decided that I had enough. So I went to the campus health center for help.
For some strange reason the already bloated, inefficient and expensive healthcare system in the US places dentists on par with aristocrats and celebrities. For us grad students, who are indeed the lowest form of life in this planet - the health insurance (I pay $1200 annually) extended to us refuses to acknowledge dental problem as a "health" issue. It is not covered under insurance - except under extraordinary circumstances - like when you meet with a bad accident and your tooth isn't the only thing that needs to be fixed! So technically, if I someone were to run over me while I was munching my snack, things would have been a lot easier for the insurance company!
The fun part starts now - I pick a catalog of dentists in the neighborhood and call them. Halfway through the list I figured out that no dentist would want to even see you if you can't fork out $100. After a week of enquiries within the desi-community on campus (they never visit dentists I think), I was led to a "reasonably priced" $75 clinic. After an hour-long torture of filling the 8 page disclosure document promising not to sue them and letting them know my entire medical history, I was led to see the dentist - or so I thought.
They took me to a room and X-rayed my teeth in all the different angles possible (only later did I know that they charged me for each and every one of them). All the while I kept telling the nurse that I had a problem with that single upper molar on my left jaw. But they seemed extra cautious - or perhaps they decided to use me to recover their cost of investment on that X-ray gizmo. So after 15 minutes of measuring weight, BP, height (yes that's true!) later I was led to the clean room and wait for the doctor. And BTW, the nurse who measured my BP tried to do it 3 separate times (for the first time in my life BP measurement was painful!) and managed to get it wrong each time. She mumbled about me having a very High BP and left.
I have my oral cavity clipped open and tongue depressed so I cannot speak - while the doc was dictating notes to the nurse. The doc never spoke a word even after the clip was removed and even when I started explaining my problem - so he still doesn't know why I came there! I was led out to a room where I met with a cost analyst. She made me watch a video showing the risks involved in wisdom tooth extraction while she drew up a quote of extraction, cleaning, filling and root canal charges. I told her I didn't care about wisdom tooth extraction (that was the only concrete sign of my wisdom, so why bother to remove it). I was a poor graduate student just hoping to get the barest work done with as little expense as possible until I could afford a separate dental plan. Well - I got a quote for $3000 for this job - and an attractive incentive to pay it in "easy" installments. Now I can imagine what a single mom with 3 kids and working on minimum wage can do!
I remember paying additional $100 for the X-ray charges and walked off in disgust. This whole system reeked of such inefficiency - a doctor who wouldn't listen, a nurse who can't measure BP correctly after 3 attempts, a cost analyst who cares only about what you can pay the clinic. I spent 3 hours and nobody, I repeat nobody, even asked about my immediate problem.
Have you seen the waiters in small-town "Udipi" tiffin centers? They do a MUCH better job. They're efficient and won't botch up multiple orders -they'll even remember how much of sugar you like in your coffee if you are a regular customer. Or those "dabbawalas" in Mumbai? Ultimately, it's not the million dollar machines and fancy technologies alone that make you feel good - it's the human touch. You need to empathize with the patient, listen to what they have to say and reassure them - instead of worrying about how much your next year's malpractice insurance premium would cost you!
Unfortunately, the goal of most insurance companies is to reduce this human element from the loop! Until something drastic happens, many developing countries will have far more developed and affordable healthcare facilities. I hope to get tooth fixed in India - the root canal and everything for less than $200. Back home it's the doctors that are real tooth fairies!
While munching on a snack, I suddenly felt a crack inside the mouth. It was a very strange sensation. I spit out the remnants of my enamel and admired the size of the gaping hole it left behind. So much for enamel being the strongest part of the human body. I felt like a vulnerable king - with my crown exposed!
The torture wasn't immediate - it wasn't until the next day when a few morsels found their way into that hell hole. The pain was immediate and searing. I weathered in stoic silence praying for relief. After 15 minutes I felt normal again - but it was the proverbial calm before the storm. Next day it was worse - a dozen pain killers and 3 days later I decided that I had enough. So I went to the campus health center for help.
For some strange reason the already bloated, inefficient and expensive healthcare system in the US places dentists on par with aristocrats and celebrities. For us grad students, who are indeed the lowest form of life in this planet - the health insurance (I pay $1200 annually) extended to us refuses to acknowledge dental problem as a "health" issue. It is not covered under insurance - except under extraordinary circumstances - like when you meet with a bad accident and your tooth isn't the only thing that needs to be fixed! So technically, if I someone were to run over me while I was munching my snack, things would have been a lot easier for the insurance company!
The fun part starts now - I pick a catalog of dentists in the neighborhood and call them. Halfway through the list I figured out that no dentist would want to even see you if you can't fork out $100. After a week of enquiries within the desi-community on campus (they never visit dentists I think), I was led to a "reasonably priced" $75 clinic. After an hour-long torture of filling the 8 page disclosure document promising not to sue them and letting them know my entire medical history, I was led to see the dentist - or so I thought.
They took me to a room and X-rayed my teeth in all the different angles possible (only later did I know that they charged me for each and every one of them). All the while I kept telling the nurse that I had a problem with that single upper molar on my left jaw. But they seemed extra cautious - or perhaps they decided to use me to recover their cost of investment on that X-ray gizmo. So after 15 minutes of measuring weight, BP, height (yes that's true!) later I was led to the clean room and wait for the doctor. And BTW, the nurse who measured my BP tried to do it 3 separate times (for the first time in my life BP measurement was painful!) and managed to get it wrong each time. She mumbled about me having a very High BP and left.
I have my oral cavity clipped open and tongue depressed so I cannot speak - while the doc was dictating notes to the nurse. The doc never spoke a word even after the clip was removed and even when I started explaining my problem - so he still doesn't know why I came there! I was led out to a room where I met with a cost analyst. She made me watch a video showing the risks involved in wisdom tooth extraction while she drew up a quote of extraction, cleaning, filling and root canal charges. I told her I didn't care about wisdom tooth extraction (that was the only concrete sign of my wisdom, so why bother to remove it). I was a poor graduate student just hoping to get the barest work done with as little expense as possible until I could afford a separate dental plan. Well - I got a quote for $3000 for this job - and an attractive incentive to pay it in "easy" installments. Now I can imagine what a single mom with 3 kids and working on minimum wage can do!
I remember paying additional $100 for the X-ray charges and walked off in disgust. This whole system reeked of such inefficiency - a doctor who wouldn't listen, a nurse who can't measure BP correctly after 3 attempts, a cost analyst who cares only about what you can pay the clinic. I spent 3 hours and nobody, I repeat nobody, even asked about my immediate problem.
Have you seen the waiters in small-town "Udipi" tiffin centers? They do a MUCH better job. They're efficient and won't botch up multiple orders -they'll even remember how much of sugar you like in your coffee if you are a regular customer. Or those "dabbawalas" in Mumbai? Ultimately, it's not the million dollar machines and fancy technologies alone that make you feel good - it's the human touch. You need to empathize with the patient, listen to what they have to say and reassure them - instead of worrying about how much your next year's malpractice insurance premium would cost you!
Unfortunately, the goal of most insurance companies is to reduce this human element from the loop! Until something drastic happens, many developing countries will have far more developed and affordable healthcare facilities. I hope to get tooth fixed in India - the root canal and everything for less than $200. Back home it's the doctors that are real tooth fairies!
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Robert Service
OK - this is my first real blog. It's been a long time coming - but has arrived nonetheless. What better topic to start of than poetry!
Why are good poets so under-rated. Meet Robert Service - the poor man's Wordsworth. I've read many of his collections online - and never realized time fly by. Here's one of his poems - enjoy!
The Smoking Frog
Three men I saw beside a bar,
Regarding o'er their bottle,
A frog who smoked a rank cigar
They'd jammed within its throttle.
A Pasha frog it must have been
So big it was and bloated;
And from its lips the nicotine
In graceful festoon floated.
And while the trio jeered and joked,
As if it quite enjoyed it,
Impassively it smoked and smoked,
(It could not well avoid it).
A ring of fire its lips were nigh
Yet it seemed all unwitting;
It could not spit, like you and I,
Who've learned the art of spitting.
It did not wink, it did not shrink,
As there serene it squatted'
Its eyes were clear, it did not fear
The fate the Gods allotted.
It squatted there with calm sublime,
Amid their cruel guying;
Grave as a god, and all the time
It knew that it was dying.
And somehow then it seemed to me
These men expectorating,
Were infinitely less than he,
The dumb thing they were baiting.
It seemed to say, despite their jokes:
"This is my hour of glory.
It isn't every frog that smokes:
My name will live in story."
Before its nose the smoke arose;
The flame grew nigher, nigher;
And then I saw its bright eyes close
Beside that ring of fire.
They turned it on its warty back,
From off its bloated belly;
It legs jerked out, then dangled slack;
It quivered like a jelly.
And then the fellows went away,
Contented with their joking;
But even as in death it lay,
The frog continued smoking.
Life's like a lighted fag, thought I;
We smoke it stale; then after
Death turns our belly to the sky:
The Gods must have their laughter.
-- Robert Service
My favorite part pf the collection - Bar Room Ballads - Check out this link.
Why are good poets so under-rated. Meet Robert Service - the poor man's Wordsworth. I've read many of his collections online - and never realized time fly by. Here's one of his poems - enjoy!
The Smoking Frog
Three men I saw beside a bar,
Regarding o'er their bottle,
A frog who smoked a rank cigar
They'd jammed within its throttle.
A Pasha frog it must have been
So big it was and bloated;
And from its lips the nicotine
In graceful festoon floated.
And while the trio jeered and joked,
As if it quite enjoyed it,
Impassively it smoked and smoked,
(It could not well avoid it).
A ring of fire its lips were nigh
Yet it seemed all unwitting;
It could not spit, like you and I,
Who've learned the art of spitting.
It did not wink, it did not shrink,
As there serene it squatted'
Its eyes were clear, it did not fear
The fate the Gods allotted.
It squatted there with calm sublime,
Amid their cruel guying;
Grave as a god, and all the time
It knew that it was dying.
And somehow then it seemed to me
These men expectorating,
Were infinitely less than he,
The dumb thing they were baiting.
It seemed to say, despite their jokes:
"This is my hour of glory.
It isn't every frog that smokes:
My name will live in story."
Before its nose the smoke arose;
The flame grew nigher, nigher;
And then I saw its bright eyes close
Beside that ring of fire.
They turned it on its warty back,
From off its bloated belly;
It legs jerked out, then dangled slack;
It quivered like a jelly.
And then the fellows went away,
Contented with their joking;
But even as in death it lay,
The frog continued smoking.
Life's like a lighted fag, thought I;
We smoke it stale; then after
Death turns our belly to the sky:
The Gods must have their laughter.
-- Robert Service
My favorite part pf the collection - Bar Room Ballads - Check out this link.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
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