Muslim father and his Hindu Children

This was an article I wrote in The New Sunday Indian Express, dated November 13, 2005

A community of Hindu elders adopting a Muslim as their communities father.

Ever heard of an adult adopting a father? How about an entire community adopting a man from a different religion as its father? This is no feel-good film storyline; it did indeed take place 130 years ago, in Kombai, a small town by the foothills of the Western Ghats in the present Theni district in Tamil Nadu. The community in question is the Idangai (‘‘left-hand’’) caste living within the boundaries of the river Suruli, which flows by the Cumbum Valley. The man they came to adopt as their father was Pakkiriva Servai Rowther, a Tamil Muslim, also belonging to the same region.

Tamil Nadu’s history abounds with references to the conflict between the Idangai and Valangai (‘‘right-hand’’) castes. Sociologists and historians say the raids were a sort of power play; an assertion of one caste’s assumed superiority over the other. On one such occasion, when the Valangai caste was storming through the village and abducting the Idangai womenfolk, Rowther sheltered them all, thereby ensuring their safety. The Idangai community, who unanimously saw this akin to the act of a father protecting his children, adopted the elderly Muslim, Pakkiriva Servai Rowther, as ‘Our father, who saved the modesty of our women’.

The community didn't stop with that. Its headman Navaneetha Krishna Maistry Achari, along with the community elders, decreed that their gratitude be recorded on a copper plate. In it, the community declared that till the sun, the earth and the moon existed, its people would give pride of place to ‘Our Father’ and his family by according them the privilege of being the first to be invited for any auspicious events taking place in their families. Along with the mandatory betel leaves (used in inviting people for any auspicious events in this part of the country), the inviting family was to pay three rupees (in late 19th century, this was a reasonable sum) in cash and about 8 kilos of rice to Pakkiriva Servai Rowther’s family. Apart from weddings, the decree went, a similar honour and payment was also to bestowed on his family in the case of housewarming ceremonies.

To ensure that this decree was not taken lightly, the copper plate, which begins and ends with an invocation to all the family deities, curses anyone who disobeys it with the calamity of loss of progeny. Going further, it warns those daring to disobey that they will have committed a sin equivalent to that of killing a pregnant cow by the banks of the river Ganges.

Though the decree does seem to have been strictly followed by the community, a personal tragedy in the Muslim’s family led to their migration to Periyakulam, a village a little further away. With this move, the practice seems to have come to an end.

Abdur Rahim, descendant of Pakkiriva Servai Rowther, now runs a pharmacy in Meenkshipuram, near Bodinayakaknur, and a chance encounter with Karunandham, an epigraphist with state ASI, led to the inscription on the copper plate being read and recorded in the department's publication, Thamizhaka Seppedukal, Vol 1. Karunandham estimates the incident to have taken place in 1873, by the mention of the Tamil year ‘Sri Muka’ on the copper plate and also by the language and script used.

Though this particular connection might have been forgotten amongst the descendants, the spirit of the communal harmony still persists in Kombai. In this small town, where the mosque stands almost next to the Ranganathan temple, the Hindu women take their sick to be healed to the mosque and the Muslims throw open their mosque’s gates so their women and children can witness the temple car, the Ther. And even today, a Muslim is given pride of place in pulling the temple car.

Going through the epigraphical evidence unearthed earlier in Tamil Nadu brings one to the heart-warming realisation that Kombai is not an isolated case. A careful scrutiny of our past will reveal many more stories of peace, goodwill, and communal harmony.

Stumbling upon History

An article about my search for the maritime history of the Tamils which appeared in The New Sunday Express.

Stumbling upon History
- The New Sunday Express, May 22, 2005
The search for an ancient ship lands photojournalist S Anwar at the Azhaguya Nambi temple in Thirukurungudi. Where on earth is this place? Read on...

It was my curiosity about the ancient Tamils' maritime history that led me to the temple of Azhagiya Nambi at Thirukurungudi. I had heard from a Tamil scholar that the temple had a sculpture with a carving of a ship. It was sufficient to whet my curiosity. So on a trip to Tirunelveli, I decided to steal some time from my assignments and head for Thirukurungudi, about 47 km south of Tirunelveli.

With the Kalakkad ranges of the Western Ghats forming the backdrop and the river Nambi, a tributary of the Tamiraparani, coursing through the village, Azhagiya Nambi's temple, one of the 108 divya desams of the Vaishnavites, is set in the most scenic of surroundings. The unfinished gopuram over the entrance is majestic, with a wealth of sculptural detail. Right on top of the roof, at regular intervals, are monkeys sculpted in various poses, as if frozen in stone whilst busy in some activity.

After scanning all sides of the gopuram for the engraving of the ship, I moved into the temple only to be overwhelmed by more-than-life-size sculptures, looking as though they were about to leap upon the visitor. For those who have visited Krishnapuram near Tirunelveli or the Patteeswaraswamy temple at Perur near Coimbatore, the hall leading to Azhagiya Nambi is equally grand. With just one roll of film and very little time on my hands, I was totally unprepared for the spell-binding visual onslaught.

I reminded myself of the purpose of my visit and moved further inwards, past an exquisite Rathi Mandapam. By then, I realised that this was a huge temple complex, embellished throughout with beautiful sculptures, and that I would require local help to locate the ship. I decided to buttonhole an old man, an Iyengar, who was resting near on the second entrance. He casually waved his hands above, pointing to a panel right opposite him. There it was, almost 10 feet above us, a very detailed bas-relief sculpture of a ship about to anchor, with a boat beneath it heading towards the shore. Right on the shore was a horse being led by a man, and they seemed to be part of a grand procession of men and animals loaded with goods. The men in the panel seemed to be Arabs with broad, bearded faces and wearing caps. It seemed to be a record of the more than 2000 years old Arab trade contacts with Tamil Nadu. I was amused that these pious-looking Arab traders should be sitting above the second entrance to Nambi. Perhaps in those days religion was relatively a non-issue.

The panel also vaguely reminded me of a sculpture of Arabs I had seen in the ruins of Hampi. I had never expected to see such a detailed panel so far down South, by the foothills of the Western Ghats. But then, Thirukurungudi is closer to the ancient seaports of Tamils. Even closer, just a few km away, is Eruvadi, a small town with a predominant proportion of Tamil Muslims. Buried in this town are some great merchants and seafarers from Kayalpattnam, again an ancient port town.

Wishing to photograph the panel, I went in search of the manager, Thiru Narayanan, who proved to be very helpful. He arranged for a ladder to be brought so that I could photograph the panel without any distortion. This was not the only panel. Right above and opposite it were panels describing scenes of war and, apparently, scenes from Puranas. Above me on the ceiling, along with a lotus pond, was a procession of musicians and women, their bodies turned towards the Gajalakshmi, a symbol that one comes across in temples built by Nayaks and the rulers of Vijaynagar.

After exhausting my roll of film, I reluctantly got off the ladder, curious to know more about the builders of this great temple. The sthala purana handed over to me spoke about its association with Sri Ramanujar and the Alwars. Unfortunately it did not have any information on the builders of this great temple. However, it did have an interesting story to tell, that of Nampaaduvaan, a devotee born of lower caste (Paanars) and hence denied entry into the temple. According to the story, on an ekadasi day, while Nampaaduvaan was on his way to the temple to worship Nambi, he was confronted by a hungry demon who wanted Nampaaduvaan for his next meal. While Nampaaduvaan was willing to be the prey, he had just one request — to be allowed to conclude his ekadasi fast in front of Nambi at the temple. After expressing some doubts, the demon relented. Nampaaduvaan's heart-rending hymns sung in praise of Nambi in Kasiski Raga pleased the Lord, and he granted his devotee the moksha he wanted. And how? Azhagiya Nambi gave darshan to the untouchable devotee who had been denied entry into the temple by moving the Kodi Maram, which had been obstructing the view.

It reminded me of a parallel story in the Shaivite tradition, where Nataraja gave darshan to an ardent devotee from a lower caste, Nandhanar, by moving the Nandhi that similarly obstructed the view at Chidambaram. A drama based on Nampaaduvaan has been revived, informed Thiru Narayanan, and I realised that this was the Kaisiki Natakam. Danseuse Anita Ratnam, with the help of Professor Ramanujam, was involved in reviving it as an annual event during Ekadasi at Thirukurungudi. Incidentally, Thirukurungudi is also the birthplace of the legendary TV Sundaram Iyengar, founder of the TVS group.

With time running short, I left the temple without even getting a look at the wooden sculptures on the vimana and also Azhgiya Nambi. I knew for sure that I would be coming back, Inshallah, with a lot more time in my hands. For there seemed to be lot more to Thirukurungudi, not just for the spiritually inclined but also for connoisseurs of art and social historians.

Gunpowder lies cold

This was an article I wrote in Sunday Pioneer, in 2004

Gunpowder lies cold
- Sunday Pioneer, December 19, 2004.
Pulicat's excellent shipping facilities enabled the Dutch to keep their holdover east Asia, finds S Anvar

Appearances can be deceptive. Not just with people, even with places. When the long, winding road that branches off from National Highway 5 comes to an abrupt end, just before a waterfront, in what looks like a main bazaar that also doubles up as a noisy, crowded fish market, one needs to be reassured that this is the historic Pulicat.

Also known as Pazhaverkadu (the old jungle of mimosa trees), it was once a thriving port, over which centuries ago, many European colonial powers fought bitter battles. If you expect to breathe history upon arrival, the stench of the fish and complete chaos, typical of an Indian fish market, is what you get. Pulicat is located about 55 km from Chennai. However, having "been there and done that" before, we knew history sleeps in the side roads. Facing the waterfront and a few paces into the road on the left is the Dutch Cemetery, the most visible remains of the colonial past, that also hold some clue to the gory and glorious times.

It was on March 20, 1602, that representatives of the provinces of the Dutch Republic granted the Dutch East India Company (Verenigde Oostindische Compagnie or VOC) a monopoly on the trade in the East Indies. Its purpose was not only trade, the company also had to fight the enemies of the Republic and prevent other European nations from entering the lucrative East India trade.

Vegetable-dyed cottons from Pulicat and its hinterland, a business still remembered in a name that lingers on, Palayakat lungis, was what brought the Dutch to the Coromandel coast, to Pulicat in particular. The Dutch built a fort here in 1609 and named it Fort Gelderia, after Gelderland, one of the states of Holland. Apart from trading in textiles, the easy availability of good quality saltpetre enabled them to start manufacturing gunpowder. This was a vital commodity in the highly turbulent 17th century, when large ships roamed the seas armed to the teeth and the Dutch had to use brute force to establish their hegemony throughout east Asia. Pulicat was strategically located for the distribution of gunpowder as its excellent shipping facilities enabled the Dutch to keep most of the VOC's major establishments in the East well-stocked.

Pulicat remained the chief Dutch settlement in India till 1781 when the British took over. Restored to the Dutch in 1785, it was seized by the British again in 1795, then handed back once more in 1818 before it was finally ceded to the British in 1825. Though nothing is left of the fort, barring some traces of the foundation, thankfully the tomb of Abraham Mendis inside the Dutch cemetery has an engraving of Fort Gelderia on its tombstone. In the centre of the engraving, Fort Gelderia is surrounded by a moat filled with lotuses and fish, with slanted roofed houses in the west.

As we tiptoed across the cemetery, the ASI caretaker showed us another tombstone with a church and a tree engraved on it. Hoping to discover more such, we gentle-footed from one tomb to another, tombs built underneath domed canopies and obelisks over 40 feet high. After a futile search and no further help from the caretaker, we decided to continue our search to the other side of the road, across the market.

On the other side of the market place, there are streets with dilapidated masonry houses, occupied by ethnic Arabian Muslims. A few families are still left over and they possess a document with them in Arwi or Arabic Tamil (Tamil written in Arabic character), which says that they were banished from Mecca for refusing to pay tributes to a new calif, Hajjaj Ibn Yusuf. And so they were escorted out of the land in four ships, one of which landed in Cholamandal (meaning the land ruled by the Tamil kings, Cholas). Over a period of time they spread out and settled in Pulicat. Early in the 17th century, when a Dutch ship ran aground on the Pulicat shores, these Muslims offered food and help to the Dutch. Locals struck a trade partnership with the foreigners, to procure and supply local merchandise for the Dutch to trade with the East Indies. Mustafa Maricair, one of the Muslims, made a fortune out of dealing with the Dutch, notes the document.

It definitely seems to have been a mutually beneficial relationship. Two mosques in this area built in stone, in Dravidian architecture, are around 300 years old, corresponding to the Dutch era. The houses in which these Muslims reside are two-storeyed, some have a distinct European style with pillared fronts and high roofs. We went into one such house, almost in ruins with an old man and his sister being the sole occupants. Inside the house were neatly stacked, huge, glazed Chinese jars. Though the locals claimed they were meant for storing rain water, we wondered whether these were the Burmese martaban jars the Dutch used to store gunpowder. As we paused, our local guide from the mosque, who read out the Arwi document, whispered to us that sometime back a Dutch tourist armed with maps, pointed to this house, recognising it to be the one in which his forefathers had lived. He was willing to give a crore, but it was refused, said the man. Looking at the completely ruined state, we could hardly believe it. But who knows, what is a crore to a man who doesn't require it. The old man, who could easily be mistaken for an Arab, refused to be photographed, saying his wife had just passed away and he was in mourning. To him the ruins probably still held memories of his wife and forefathers.

A few other houses had the same glazed jars and wooden pillars with intricate designs carved on them, a reminder of the good old times. Today Pulicat is a sleepy village drawing the local tourist crowd, which is more attracted by the lake that runs miles to the north and south. Thankfully the ASI takes care of the cemetery, which seems to attract an occasional foreign tourist who has chosen to travel off the beaten track. As we headed back to Chennai, we suddenly realised that the stench in the market had hardly bothered us. Was it because of the hot sun or our engrossing time travel? Pulicat would never be a sleepy village to me again, appearances can be very deceptive.

St Stephen's Church, Ooty

I was recently in Ooty for an assignment. I took time off to wander around and found this old Church, where I found this portion of the stained glass of the Magi with Mary and the Child very interesting. it is inside the St. Stephen's Church, which is located on the Mysore road, near the Collectorate. The St Stephen's Church is one of the oldest churches in the Nilgiris. It dates back to the days of Rt. Hon'ble Stephen Rumbold Lushington, the then Governor of Madras, who keenly felt the need for a cathedral exclusively for the British, in Ooty. He laid the foundation for the church on April 23, 1829, to coincide with the birthday of King George IV. St. Stephen's Church was consecrated by Rt. Rev. Turner, Bishop of Calcutta, on November 5,1830, and was given the name of the Governor since he was the driving force behind it. It was thrown open to public communion on Easter Sunday-April 3,1831.There are stained-glass paintings on three sides, but the west side window was kind of closed and couldn’t see the stained glass without the back light. On the eastern side is this beautiful image depicting Mary holding baby Jesus in her arms and the crucifixion of Christ among others. What you see is the scen from the gift of the magi, when the wise men met Mary and the child Jesus.

To Sir with Love

‘I have booked tickets for you in the Nilagiri Express. We get down at Coimbatore and head straight for school’, declared Sathya over the phone. I was literally being bulldozed into making it to the School after a gap of 26 years. And by booking tickets Sathya, my class mate at SainikSchool, Amaravathi Nagar and Secretary of our Amaravians ’82 batch was just making it all the more difficult for me to wiggle out of it. Did I have a choice? I have learnt that sometimes not having a choice in life actually turns out to be a blessing. Hoping luck would be on my side, I boarded the Nilagiri. And what a trip it turned out to be. It was a trip down memory lane, transporting me and probably others (Kumarasekhar, N Saravanan and of course Sathya) in the group to a time that was the most important period in our life, the childhood days, the period when we get shaped to face our future.

Manoharan our batchmate in school, now an architect, picked us all up at the Coimbatore station and even before the sunrise, we set off to our School, as Sathya had spoken to us about the need to make it early, in order not to miss the morning school assembly. Certainly I too didn’t want to miss the morning Assembly, where I had spoken a number of times on various topics. At Amaravathi Nagar, we were joined by two more of our batch mates, Suresh and V Narayanan. There were a lot more old students, especially from the '83 batch which was celebrating its Silver Jubilee. After breakfast, we were right in time for the assembly and some of the ‘old boys’ were invited to give motivational speech to the assembled students of past and the present. As I sat there listening, suddenly their voices faded and Mu Selvarasan’s booming ‘Thambi antha chunnambhu kattiyai kondu vaa’ (brother bring that chalk piece) rang in my ears. Probably retired long ago, Mu Selvaraasan our towering Tamil teacher was conspicuous by his absence in that assembly. My mind went back to the speech I had delivered in the same assembly almost 26 years back and tears welled in my eyes as I was flooded with memories of Mu Selvaraasan, our beloved Tamil Iyya, who made me feel very special after that speech.

My speech that day was in English and it was about the Disastrous role of religion in contemporary life. It was 1982, Rajiv Gandhi was yet to become PM and unlock the doors of Babri Masjid, vitiating the communal atmosphere and Khalistan was the issue of the day. I, a 12th Standard student began my assembly speech with a quote from Rousseau, ‘Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains’, drawing parallels to the role of caste in Hinduism and how it kept the Dalits (then SC’s) enslaved. I spoke of the futility of fighting in the name of caste and religion by quoting a poem of the Tamil poet Subhramanya Bharathi.

‘Vellai nirathoru poonai
engal veetil valaruthu kandir
Pillaikal petrathu appoonai
Paambin niramoru kutti
Vellai paalin niramoru kutti,
Sambhal niramoru kutti,
Vellai chandhu niramoru kutti,
Inniram siridhenrum, inniram peridhendrum yetram kozhalamo?
Thayai porutha mattil avai yavum oru tharamandro’ from Kottu Murase

In short Bharathi, the great Tamil poet speaks about a white cat in his house that gave birth to kittens of varying colours. “Would the mother discriminate its kittens on the basis of colour? Are they not equal to the mother?” asks he. And that was exactly the point I was trying to make. God, I felt was not going to differentiate his children on the basis of the religion. So why fight in the name of religion, I asked.

Having covered my self with quotes from two eminent men, with confidence I moved on to trickier and problematic terrain by pointing out the deficiencies in each religion as it was being practiced then. The caste in Hinduism was unfortunately bedeviling Christianity too, I observed. Even after conversion one is still known as a Parayar Christian or Nadar Christian and so on. Why carry the stigma of the caste, I wondered. And then it was the turn of Islam, where I lamented the fact that some of the preachers and followers were making very narrow interpretations of the religion, taking it to stone ages.

I concluded my speech with a quote from Rabindranath Tagore’s Gitanjali
“Leave this chanting, singing and rolling of beads,
Open thine eyes and see where you are.
You are inside the temple with all the doors shut.
God is there where the tiller is tilling the soil,
And the path maker is breaking the stones.
He is with them in sun and shower.”

This was a speech I had prepared well and it was delivered well without any stage fright, as by then I had given a number of speeches before. As I was walking down to take my seat after the speech, I could sense an approval from the principal and some of the students. Before getting into the class a few students, juniors complimented me. However during lunch at the mess, I was curious about the reaction of my English teacher, a man from the minority faith, who used to sit next to me at the head of the table. I asked him out of my curiosity. He didn’t bother to look at me. Without raising his head from the plate and waving the fork and spoon in his hand, he glowered, “I won’t worry about what I have in my hand, whether it is a fork or a knife. I will just kill you, if you speak ill about my religion next time.” I was a bit surprised and disappointed by his reaction. However I was convinced of what I spoke. Having made his displeasure known, the English teacher continued eating as if nothing had happened. Neither did he demand an apology, nor did I offer one. He was generous enough to forget the whole issue immediately and never held it against me. Probably he thought it was a juvenile speech not worth being taken seriously.

On the contrary Mu Selvaraasan, my Tamil Iyya seemed to have a different opinion, but very typical of him, kept it to himself for about three days. Mu Selvaraasan was an extradinary man. He would walk into the class with an authority, place himself in front of the black board and with his back turned to us, with his right hand extended and looking nowhere in particular, he would ask for a chalk piece in his own booming, pure Tamil, ‘Thamby, antha chunnambhu kattiyai kondu Vaa’(Brother bring the chalk piece). We used to be mesmerised by this man, who spoke unadulterated Tamil and seemed immensely proud about his language and origins. It was he who once looked at me and declared that ‘You Tamil Muslims speak the most pure Tamil’. It was news to me and I felt immensely pleased and proud. He never explained as to how come we of all Tamils spoke the most pure form of Tamil. Nevertheless in a school, where occasionally I used to be bullied and taunted and told rudely to ‘go away to Pakistan’, the Tamil teachers certificate of my uniqueness in upholding the glorious Tamil made me feel at home and ignore those occasional barbs. To a teenager living away from his parents, his words were very comforting.

As I mentioned earlier, Mu Selvaraasan did not react to my speech that day when it was his turn to conduct the Tamil class. I too wasn’t expecting any reaction from him. However on the fourth day, as he entered the class, he closed his eyes, and in a dramatic way with his right arm raised and the forefinger pointing upward as if making a point, he announced “Thambi Anvar, 3 naatkalukku munnar naam umadhu uraiyai kettom. Miga nandraga irunthathu. Anal udanadiyaga naam paaratavillai. Karanam ennvendral, ethanai naatkal nam manathil antha urai nirkirathu endrariyave inru varai kaathirunthom. Moonru naatkalakiyum indrum namadhu manathil andha urai pasumaiyaka irukkiradhu. Mika pramadhamana urai. Emadhu vaazhthukkal.” (Brother Anvar, we heard your speech three days back. It was good, but we didn’t appreciate it immediately because we wanted to see how long the speech lingered in our mind. Even after three days, the speech is still reverberating in our mind. It was a great speech. Congratulations.)

I have received many prizes for my extempore and elocution skills but nothing would compare to the word of appreciation that came from my Tamil teacher, an appreciation which he made it clear, came from the depths of his heart, and deliberately withheld for three days to test the power of my speech.

Coming back to reality, as speaker after speaker spoke at the Amaravians Alumni Association meet of 2008, trying to motivate the young students, it was Mu.Selvaraasan who was looming large in my mind. Missing that great man, a big motivator and influence in my life, who was conspicuous by his absence in that special assembly, tears welled in my eyes.