It’s Day Seven of kolu. I’m down to just three packets of the customary areca nut offered to guests. Which means, so far a grand total of 47 people have seen the kolu, strung with sparkling lights, I lovingly put up with help from the family.
The pulses in the larder are depleting by the day — it was Bengal gram on day one, followed by moong and groundnut. There must be enough variety, so that children don’t leave disappointed at the sameness.
Today, it’s Kabuli chana — plump, soft and tempered with asafoetida, ground coconut and chilli. I’m hoping I’ll get to scrape the bottom of the vessel today as well — it means more visitors, more laughter, more joy.
The sundal’s served to everyone who visits, and then sent home with them in a small packet. It’s always fun to carefully pry open the packet to discover what sundal your host picked for the day.
The most popular hosts are the ones who pack you green peas and Bengal gram sundals. The least are those who settle for pottukadalai podi to make up for the shortage. The rock stars are the women who manage to whip up a decadent mix of jaggery, black-eyed peas, cardamom and grated coconut.
The scene is repeated in many households across the Southern states of Andhra Pradesh, Telangana and Karnataka. However, Chennai and Tamil Nadu is where the real action lies.
I’ve met more folks in my apartment complex in the past 10 days than I have in the two years that I have lived here, thanks to the fact that I’m pretty much running an open house for kolu this year.
The saris are out in strength I notice — both in silk and cotton, many are gifts from mothers and aunts… We gather every evening at the apartment’s community kolu and spend five minutes chatting. We sing a song sometimes, share sundal and a sweet and then depart, all set to receive guests in our own homes. Sometimes, the neighbour sends over her friends with a recommendation to see our dolls.
It’s become de rigeur to talk about ‘how things have changed’ these days. How we make fewer sundal packets every day. After all, life moves on, and so do we. Not many people have the time, or patience, to spend every evening at home, waiting for guests, and making a dash to the next door for vethalapaaku. But, some of us try...
From a kilo of grams every day, when I first started making sundal for kolu, I’m down to sometimes soaking just a handful. But, it’s cooked with the same love, and tastes as great. Admittedly, things have changed. Now a teenager, my son does not pounce on the bouquet of sundal that arrives at home the way I used to. There’s no paatu book, no sound of cymbals, no bursts of laughter from kolu-hopping children. My kolu does not even boast a park with plastic figurines of cricketers. But, what it does have is a sense of tradition and continuity. This is why I do it.
My grandmother’s doll — Shivaji on a horse — sits alongside my mother’s Krishna Sudama and my animal orchestra — one of the many dolls I picked up with my mother on our countless expeditions to Poompuhar and Khadi Gramodyog in Coimbatore. The dolls I bought this year — the highlights are two papier-mâché Krishnas and a Murugan made by master craftsman K.N. Shanmugham — sit resplendent in their shiny newness. Someday, they will be my gift to my son.
The son, I admit, started off being a silent spectator. However, he came home one day to take a closer look at our kolu, because he heard the neighbour’s boys talking about two well-dressed marappachi bommais, which came from Alamelmangapuram near Tirupati.
Chennai’s famed kolu culture, only read about in Tamil books, comes alive in Mylapore. I made four visits this time, returning with bulging bags and cardboard boxes. The marappachis got new clothes, stone-encrusted earrings and a nose ring at Giri Trading. The girl who did the decoration refused to hand them over till I allowed her to hold them for five more minutes — they glowed like newly-weds.
I have other stories. Every time someone points to the kolu and asks about the Kumbhakarna doll or Ghatotkacha with his 11 bowls of food, I preen and start from scratch — about how the former’s rotund belly and the latter’s sharp nose triggered the buy.
I also speak of Nagamma, who sold me the Lakshmi and Saraswathi, throwing in a hefty discount, because it was my first individual kolu after two decades of marriage. She had an answer, with a smile, for everything. “Why is Ghatotkacha’s stomach small?” “He must eat all the food; then you see.” Nagamma drives a hard bargain, but once you are in the sweet zone, she settles.
Then, there’s Shyamala, who sits outside a jewellery store. At first, she appears gruff. After a “Hello” every day for three days, she knew what we were eyeing. “Take the Ghatotkacha; I assure you it’s good,” she said. And then, while we waited for the auto to drop us back home, Shyamala told us how she sells fruits on the train when she’s not dealing with idols. She spoke of a daughter who studies well, a son who is blind, and how she hopes Kapaleeshwarar, whose temple opens out close to her store, will help the family during the tough times.
There’s a sudden downpour, and the tarpaulin sheets are quickly drawn out. Shyamala’s smile is intact as she resolutely protects all the dolls. The next time someone asks me about the dolls I bought from her, I’m going to repeat this story. And, create a new memory.
