Sanobar Sultana
As a child I have seen snow, even avalanches in Chennai, such was the usage of talcum powder by the Tamil Brahmins in the city. If it’s attar for Muslims, it’s Shower-to-Shower and Cuticura for them. The need to smell fresh and clean was so great that in summer they seemed like they were shedding snow, and hence the ‘powders’. I mean no offence – please keep this in mind while you read about my experiences. They made me and they broke me.
My childhood memories are filled with the aroma of rasam. In government quarters, you grow up in several houses and I could invariably be found in my neighbour Sandhya Akka’s house, finishing off their rasam and complimenting them for it. The rasam Brahmins make is different; it becomes part of their house odour. It is a smell that is imprinted in my brain. In the quarters, during Krishna Jayanthi, my borderline-obese toddler brother was dipped in rice-flour paste, to recreate Krishna’s footsteps. My mother was more than happy to lend him for the festival. While he bawled away, my mom and our neighbour would have a casual chat about the savouries for the day. Every time I shifted my house or went looking for one, my nostrils hoped for the rasam odour and, most importantly, I think I hoped for the love for me that came along with it. But things changed for me as an adult; I was asked politely over the phone if I was vegetarian, and that ended the conversation shortly thereafter. My dream of waking up to rasam in West Mambalam was over.
The government quarters were the most beautiful part of my childhood. No door was ever slammed in my face, and I could walk in and eat the food on people’s tables. During puja holidays, I sang ‘Rara venu’, wore pattu pavadai, and ate sundal till my stomach hurt. Living amongst Brahmins, my mom felt that I needed to learn music as most established singers had a Carnatic background. Initially, she bought me Tamil film songs that were printed on recycled paper and sold for five rupees. She then took it to the next level by sending me to paattu classes.
My music teacher took gurudakshina from my mom. He never asked her why, as a Muslim, I needed to learn music. A few classes later, when I had reached ‘Varaveena’, I fell in love with it. I thought it was a song about rains because it had the words ‘mridupani’ in it. I found out later that the song was about a beetle-eyed goddess. I thought – why am I singing about someone’s beauty? And with that I quit those Carnatic music classes. Years later, when I sang filmi songs, it occurred to me that I was a hypocrite. The lyrics of most film songs were about the heroine’s beauty.
Anyway, my singing classes were a secret to everyone in my family except my chachi. She was a Brahmin herself, and had married a Muslim man, my father’s brother. We shared a deep bond, and she often told me stories of how difficult it was to earn acceptance from my family. ‘They would talk in whispers around me and refer to me as a kafir,’ she recalled. Every little thing I did would be cheered on by her. It’s a trademark characteristic of Brahmin mothers. They are very encouraging and have the knack of noticing little things about you, and push you to pursue them.
Since I grew up with Tam-Brahms, I could quickly spot the archetypes – the chartered accountant who spoke in monosyllables, loved eating kaju katlis and hated people who wasted time, the honest IAS officer, the talkative Hindi teacher, and the singing mama. The singing mama was my favourite. You could spot him on Sundays, breaking into a song while cleaning his scooter in his old vest. If you ever wanted to know how to open a bank account, or anything at all about banks, you could ask any of them. It’s a great conversation starter and they will overwhelm you with all the details.
I also knew how to spot their houses. The Hindu newspaper, neem, curry leaf, banana and mango trees in the garden almost by default, and fresh flowers for the gods in the evening in a plastic packet. The floors had to be granite, and nine out of ten times you would find a white veshti with coloured borders waving in the balcony. And yes, omam water in the fridge. While at the Besant Nagar beach, I found many of them taking a stroll and exchanging their stories. I knew those who wore those shiny sports shoes had done their share of baby sitting in New York. When they saw me in my hijab, they would break into Hindi and joke about life. ‘Why worry, anyway you will end up in a small box. Things have changed, ma, now we have the electric crematorium.’ They had a sense of humour. With kids living in American cities, their large empty houses with swings awaited their return.
Soon, college happened to me, and my hormones spoke aloud at home. I rebelled, yelled, and I was too proud to ask for money, as my father had just retired. I met Anusha, an event manager, who hired me. I did the backstage work for all her shows. Her family despised her because she had married a north Indian and was a social drinker. She was a hard taskmaster – when I was done for the day, I could barely move. But she made all employees feel like family. One day, she took me along to her cousin’s house for lunch. When we entered the place I could see the displeasure and disrespect in their eyes for her. Then I turned towards the dining table and my heart leapt. Crisp vadams, rice vathals, vathakuzhambu, curd rice and amber-coloured rasam swirling merrily, dancing with coriander to Mozart.
I walked like a zombie and piled rice and everything I could grab and smartly hid them below the large cumin-dotted vathals. As I sat down to eat, I noticed a boy had walked in. I mentally named him butterball for his pale glistening cheeks. Butterball put very little on his plate and smiled politely at us. His father spoke at length about their plans of sending him to Caltech or Berkeley. Butterball was in his twelfth grade, and his family decided for him.
This incident gave me an insight into the amount of pressure this particular community exerted on its kids. While the rest of us were happy aiming for Anna University, for them it was IIT, Caltech, and much more. Those who didn’t make the cut had a tough life, both at home and outside. I once interacted with a famous singer in the city who told me about the pressures she faced in school. I was an RJ (radio jockey) with an English FM channel, and she shared this with me off-air. She wasn’t good at maths, and her teachers berated her for being a Brahmin and not being able to crack it! Later on, when multiple awards came her way, her school paid her the respect due her.
The six years that I spent as an RJ, I received enormous support from the Brahmin community. How they loved me! They woke up early and I read out the most interesting parts of the newspaper. I was talkative, loud and politically incorrect. My own community, however, was split in its support; after all, I was belting out David Guetta’s ‘Sexy Chick’. I once interviewed Saundarya Rajesh, an entrepreneur – she liked me so much, she promoted me everywhere. When self-doubt plagued my spirit, her encouragement infused hope.
Radio was fun but I wanted to try television, too. I had written to Bala Kailasam (BK) who was with Pudiya Thalaimurai. He had already heard me on radio and wanted me to host an all-women’s programme on a new channel that they intended to launch. The programming team was baffled – ‘A woman in a burqa?’ they asked him. ‘She would be sending the wrong message.’ He argued with them, saying that they could not force someone to give up her identity.
I cried when I heard this. Every person who had ever met me said that there was no chance of me ever getting on TV. Religious identity is more important than talent, they reminded me. I was in awe of BK Sir. Despite being the great director K. Balachander’s son, he was low key. Practically any big name, from Rajinikanth to Kamal Haasan, owed their careers to his father but he never used those favours. He had no airs about him, mingling with the crew, and eating his meals with everyone. He not only gave me the huge opportunity of being part of a TV show, he also played a very important role in my life.
When I joined TV, I was six months into motherhood. My daughter, Mishaal, was precious, I had a supportive husband, in-laws who took care of her when I was shooting but something was off. I lived in fear and paranoia and I couldn’t sleep at night. I had an array of scary thoughts visiting me. One night, I was thinking of how I could use the fridge to block the door in case a mob came visiting. I was living in the heart of Triplicane– an area largely inhabited by Muslims. When my eyes chanced upon a sharp object, I would worry if it would accidentally injure my daughter. I had full-fledged postpartum depression. Nizam, my husband, reassured me, pep-talked me every night, let me sleep to watch over her, but I felt sapped of life, like deadwood drifting in the river.
It was at this juncture that BK Sir sent me to a training programme in a process lab that helped you understand your behavioural patterns and personality. BK Sir believed that I could understand the world only when I understood myself. I felt free at the end of the programme. I understood something very important about myself during this phase. I was a difficult child and my mom would curse me often. As much as she loved me and believed in me, she had the habit of cursing me. She would say, ‘No matter what you do, you will never prosper.’ I wept like a new-born baby when I could see the patterns emerge in front of me. I had believed in this prophecy so strongly that I did everything to prove my mother right; I did everything that made me a failure. I now made the decision that I would break this pattern.
Before the launch of this brand-new infotainment channel, BK Sir had creative differences with the company and left them. He passed away a year later.
BK Sir was a Brahmin who never believed in rituals or textbooks, he only believed in people. I wonder how I can ever repay the gift of life he gave me. He was someone who saved me from myself. I miss him deeply every single day.
In the media world, apart from BK Sir, I admired and respected Kamal Haasan. With Vishwaroopam, Kamal had earned the wrath of Muslims and Brahmins alike. He had the unique knack of finding the positives and negatives of communities and starting a debate by putting it out in the forefront. In Vishwaroopam, he was a Muslim fighting against terrorists who were Muslims. He wanted to prove through his movie that if given a chance a Muslim would fight tooth and nail against terrorism. His message, however, was lost in the political agenda of certain groups. They hounded him and it was clear to me he was shattered – he wanted to help and it had backfired. Many of us supported him but our voices were lost amongst those who threatened him outside his house in Alwarpet. To be honest, those of us who were liberal in our outlook were scared for our lives. Brahmins, on the other hand, were upset that he referred to them as papathi, an offensive nickname for the community. He said ‘Papathi! Indhaa, unakupudicha chicken saapdu’ (you like this chicken, eat it), indicating the changing trends amongst the community in their eating habits. Many youngsters had begun to eat non-vegetarian food against the wishes of their parents. But they did not take to the streets, they used social media to vent their anger. I remember one post: ‘Kamal, it’s bad karma that’s earned you all the trouble for Vishwaroopam.’
But the most poignant of all moments in my life was when my friend Sangeetha got married. She was a childhood friend. As a child, I would walk into her house and spend hours watching TV. When I grew religious in college, and started wearing a burqa, I was no longer welcome in her house. Sangeetha fought with her mother but she did not relent, not even during her mehendi ceremony. Her mother asked Sangeetha, ‘Will Sano’s mother place a statue of our god during a wedding?’ She argued back: ‘The burqa is a type of dress, not a religious symbol.’ Sangeetha’s voice was shaking when she informed me that I was not welcome at the ceremony. I wept, but told no one about it. I wore a grey-coloured burqa to her wedding, looking like a penguin, because I knew black was inauspicious. Her mother glared at me and didn’t speak a word. I understood her anger. As teens, both of us had disregarded everything, even religion. I moved closer to it as an adult, wore a burqa and married a Muslim – while her daughter was now marrying a man of another caste and community. When I went up on stage where the ceremony was taking place, Sangeetha hugged me as her mother looked away. Her aunts, who lived with her, came running up to me as I got off the stage. They asked me why I didn’t visit them any more. My heart danced like a swan with those words, with Carnatic music playing in the background. I pirouetted in happiness when I saw the cook from Gnanambika Mess carry in a bucket of rasam.
Every time I hear Subramaniam Swamy’s rants about Muslims, I remember BK Sir, Sangeetha’s aunts, Saundarya Rajesh, Sriram, who paid my term fees once, and my childhood memories. Everything is okay with the world… Attars and powders both make the world beautiful.
____________
Dedicated to my mentor, Bala Kailasam