Did Guruvayoorappan make a fleeting appearance in MPH2?

They say the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Given this to the Sampoorna Narayaneeyam chant yesterday in Club House, there can be no better truth. 

Lalitha Mami, or Guru, (I deliberately avoid the expression ‘lady of the house’ this time because that was far from the role she was at, then) had hosted jointly with one of her students Usha, the chanting of Sampoorna Narayaneeyam yesterday in Club House, lasting seven hours, with two breaks - 15 and 10 minutes.    

About thirty ladies and our solitary but solid male Sashidhar chanted in unison - achieving near-synchronization - reverberating MPH2 and bringing forth exalted moments to both chanters and onlookers. One wondered if Lord Guruvayoorappan descended to MPH2 for a fleeting moment to bless the proceedings. Yes, that is what you tend to surmise when you spot someone immaculately dressed, known to none around, arrives, makes a brief appearance and departs. That said, give me a week and I shall confirm if he is one of the mere mortals of SFV like us if I happen to cross shoulders with him. Till then it is Lord Guruvayoorappan.

For the uninitiated, Narayaneeyam is the condensed version of Vedavyasa’s Srimad Bhagavatam which runs into 18 000 verses in 335 chapters. Melpathur Narayana Bhattathiri (1560 AD), the author of Narayaneeyam, who suffered from paralysis and arthritis severely crippling him, sat on the side of Guruvayoorappan temple (the place is marked on the left of entrance) and prayed to the Lord in these lines in probably 41 days, got both darshan of the Lord and cure from his ailment. His composition runs into 100 chapters in 1036 verses. On her limited part, Lalitha Mami helped 60-odd members, mostly of SFV, to learn chant them. 

In order not to be left out and be part of the proceedings, each member volunteered to bring befitting prasadams for such chapters as Narasimha avataram, Rama avataram, Krishna avataram, etc. It was very nice to watch/visualize miniature versions of these milestones.

Prasadams that members brought included mysore pak, coconut burfi, maa laadu, nei appam, jaggery-avil (for Kuchela charitam), panakam (concentrated jaggery water), dry fruits, butter and milk (for Krishna avataram), pal payasam - not to speak of bananas from left, right and centre.

Kaleeswaran, of Ebony, performed what function our Naveen Kashyap does for pan-SFV functions - pujari. Viswanathan replaced him when Kaleeswaran went to do his daily puja at home. Muralidharan, of Cedar, helped with odd jobs assigned from time to time. 

Among the co-hosts, Viswanathan and Usha jointly did all the legwork. Mami attended to the nitty gritty to ensure that we miss nothing to the extent possible. while I did my role – look busy, do nothing.

Shekar Natesan, yes, my co-brother, is very helpful – if he and when he wishes so, that is. Otherwise, he gives directions – do this, do that. But this time seeing me move around with a walking stick, he took charge of most of the dismantling work – the one harder than assembling.

Normally the Hall is thrown open for use only at 8 am. But since the function had to start at 6.30 am the MC member in charge made sure it was open. And chairs and tables were in place on time. MC deserves compliments. Rest assured, I am not on any Vote of Thanks spree.

Luckily the ready-made prasadam-lunch that we had ordered on the caterer, such as sambar rice, curd rice, Sakkara Pongal, potato curry, raita, vadam, curd rice, pickles, etc., turned out well, and were in plenty. Normally there are shortcomings on occasions – less salt in one dish, too spicy, or quantity was found wanting, etc.

With everything going so well for both Usha and Mami, their sole grouse was that they had to confine the invitation to students – no more, no less. But then there is always a next time.

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Birthday Bash - Just-80 invites Seasoned-80s

There is a rumour that the seniors are emerging as the single largest population-group in SFV. Couldn’t agree more. 

And, among the seniors roaming around, if you happen to notice someone doing his rounds somewhat quietly, take my word, it is Dr Neelkant Panigrahi, of Maple 3. His children had organized in Club House a birthday bash to celebrate his 80th birthday. 

Every member of the family had invited his/her circle of friends. Dr Panigrahi, on his part, made sure none of his morning and evening walk friends, mostly in their 80s, were left out. 

I cannot claim to have known Dr Panigrahi for long, but what little association I have had, has been meaningful and qualitative. A very nice, sober, and unassuming person. 

Appearances are deceptive, they say. Seeing his innocent face one could seldom make out that he is an Obstetrician and Gynocologist and has done over 10 000 cesareans, let alone countless deliveries in Orissa. 

Post retirement he ran for years a full-fledged nursing home at Bolangir until he decided to lay down his forceps, clamps and scissors, in favour of chef’s knife, ladle, or vegetable peeler to help the lady of the house in the kitchen. But unfortunately, it did not last long. Reason? A la his operation-theatre style, he began stretching his hand and demanding his wife for: mustard, kari patta, lemon squeezer, grater, colander... The lady took it in the stride initially until one day she could take it no longer, and told him, “Stop treating me like a nurse? Either you do things yourself or allow me to do. This is nothing new for me; I have been doing it for decades.”  

He changed lane and began doing morning and evening walks befriending people of his age. Soon he became the centre of attraction among them, each hanging on his lips to listen to more of his experiences. Just one example. On one occasion he was watching a village drama where the bride and the groom were all set for the vara mala. Suddenly from nowhere the villain surfaces and shoots the bridegroom. The audience saw real fire-fly coming out of the pistol. It seems some home-made card-board item was inserted in place of pellets. But it did manage to fly-past and the groom started bleeding on his neck. Dr Panigrahi watching from a backseat rushed to the stage and barely managed to dig out the deep-seated card-board remnants from neck injury. Everybody applauded him.

A few days later the Chief Medical Officer arrived on the scene to scold him for having exceeded his terms of reference. How could the newly posted doctor  embark on such a venture. Later when the two were alone, the CMO took him aside and patted him on the back, “Good job, young man. You will make a good surgeon.” What could have brought an end to one’s hopes of entering the medical profession turned into a compliment. 

Now back to business - the Birthday Bash - the Club House hall was professionally decorated. A prominent display included, “You are not just 80; You are 80 years of stories, strength, and unconditional love; You are 8 decades of wisdom, wit and wonderful experience…” Just to break the monotony of arrive, hi, how are you… and head straight for the lunch queue, they had engaged a professional entertainer to keep the audience in good humour with a host of light but interesting activities all of which kept the audience fully entertained. 

Time for lunch. One saw everyone enjoy the food, the ambience and not to speak of the dessert. As I got up to leave, his younger son, who stays in Maple 3, came up to me to thank me for making it. “Your parents have only reasons to feel proud of you, young man. You had made such excellent arrangements.” “No uncle, we wanted to do it in Taj. But considering that Papa’s friends are the foremost and they might be dissuaded from making it that far, we decided to have it here.” “No less grand nonetheless,” I reassured him.

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Date with Senior-most of the family

Recapitulating the past has been my favourite pastime. So much so, sometimes the lady of the house would shout from the kitchen, “I say I hear you speaking to yourself. Your good old days, again?”

Against this backdrop when I got an opportunity to visit my mother’s youngest brother, (Mamaji as I call him - and ‘Ramachandran Anna’, my wife), the senior-most in our maternal family at 90, it was something that I really looked forward to. He is hale and hearty, does seven rounds of walk in his park morning and evening as he recites Vishnu Sahasranamam once Lalitha Sahasranamam later. Rudram, Chamakam, Suktams and Upanishads wait for their turn back home. 

For me, he is my friend, philosopher and guide, and mentor, though we were born just four years apart. He taught me how to swim, including do somersault jump into the village tank from the higher platform built.  He helped me learn how to ride a bicycle, including how to jump-sit on to the seat instead of balancing with the pedal. That is a different thing that once while attempting it in the presence of village boys and girls, my dhoti fell apart.

Mamaji is very good at pencil drawing and tried to teach me the art but gave it up. Futile.  Gifted with a good handwriting which drew admiration from both school and college teachers, he tried to extend this benefit too to me but stopped short of making sure my handwriting did not carry traces of doctor’s prescription - the best he could do. 

He and Angichi, his immediate elder sister - and the last two children of our grandparents - were very protective of me against the villagers in total disregard to who was right and who was wrong – me invariably. For them I was the youngest nephew living under the same roof and I had to be protected.

Mamaji was also the lead singer of the village Bhajan group. He played Ganjira simultaneously. When his hands got tired, or when he wanted to render a number rather at length, he would hand down the Ganjira to me with explicit instructions just to synchronize the beat and not attempt any nuances. I was happy; I was the owner of the instrument at that moment. And, when the attendance thinned, he would give me the floor for a lead song the highlight of which was often tempo rather than melody.

We also recalled instances when there might not be any prasadam-sponsor for the Ekadasi bhajan. On such occasions, our co-resident who ran a petty shop in bazar would agree to bring six bananas before closing shop – on condition that he would be the lead singer at least for six songs. The sad part was that his songs and taal were poles apart. We would put up with it. We wanted an uninterrupted Ekadasi bhajan. On such occasions the tacit agreement among the core group was that we would continue with the bhajan till the number of attendees reduced to six so that we did not have to cut the bananas for distribution. Each one would get one full. 

Veerumani mama (name changed), who normally hit the bed at 8.30 pm attended the session once. When it was way past 9.30 he slipped out. The number became just six. We sang Mangalam, did deeparadhanai on fifth gear, and were relishing the banana. He suddenly resurfaced and saw us mouthful. He had gone out to pee, and we mistook that he had gone home. He got very angry and swore to tell our parents of our misdeeds in the name of bhajan.

Back here, it was only 3.30 in the afternoon, the sky had already become cloudy alerting us that it might rain any time. Priya, his daughter, hurried to the kitchen and came out with snacks and aromatic coffee. We gulped and hurried to the taxi before it started drizzling. 

“I think hereafter we should spend time with them more often,” I told my wife as we got into the taxi. “Yes, like we tell when we leave Howrah or New Delhi station and forget all about it when we cross Burdwan or Nizamuddin,” retorted my wife, always on the prowl. 

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