Prologue: this is long winded ramble on old Madras of the early sixties. A part of that culture and life is now gone forever, lingering as bits and pieces in the memory banks of sentimental fools like me, who recall with nostalgia and wish for those fairyland days to be back.

I’ve never been of religious bent of mind: ever since I recollect, temples or places of sanctity were for me of locales for entertainment, people watching, history, architecture, in brief, everything except what the edifices were meant for – supplication to the Maker.

In the early sixties, the then Madras city Mylapore area in which I was frequent passer-by through, is home to one of the more gloriously huge, tier-towered temple, the Kapaleshwarar Temple. The edifice, displays rows after rows atop each other of 3D representations and figurines of the Hindu pantheon of divine – and it gave me endless hours of entertainment enumerating and identifying the identities and marveling at the artistry that brought out nuances and expressions out of clay and color. This Saivite place of congregation has much history, that goes back in time. The name Mylapore itself finds cited in ancient sea-farer’s lore and texts, right from the days of Ptolemy. Obvious to those who know Tamil, the root of the term Mylapore is derived from ‘mayil’, peafowl:

A pair of these magnificent birds were housed in the temple courtyard, housed in a large grilled pen. (I heard that, in recent times, bowing to the diktats of laws of wildlife, the birds are no longer caged here). I’ve spent endless hours watching the pair strut about, picking morsels, and vocalizing with fervor. No holiday of mine, was ever complete without my dropping into the temple square for hours on end studying the pea-fowls there.

I tarried on sometimes into late in the evening, passing time watching the devout, smashing coconuts to smithereens as part of religious ritual – the shattered pieces of shell and pulp, eagerly pocketed by some urchins who hung around all day for the manna. Also, within the premises was a large unusual framed picture, which fascinated me endlessly in my early teen days: the oddity of the image was in that, it showed a painting of one deity when viewed from the left, and quite another when viewed from the right. A most perplexing representation to my juvenile mind – almost invoking awe.

Anyway, the preamble hitherto isn’t about piety or pantheon, but about an incident that I was once involved in just nether to the temple’s portal. At the far end of the narrow Nadu Street leading up to the edifice, on either side of the road, sat hawkers with wares on display – odds and ends, trinkets, bananas, fruits, camphor, coconuts, jasmine and such other items. There always was a throng of people, forever haggling and bargaining at these spots. After dusk, which was quite early as the city is on the east coast, the street-side vendors, mainly women, squatted on straw mats with their meager wares spread on a low small platform: they avidly solicited fare, yelling and hawking, and making incredible chaos and bedlam in the process.

The road was poorly lit back then, the light for business was usually provided by a singe tin-can converted into a kerosene wicker lamp, which also stood, emitting spirals of noxious black smoke and soot, on the low banana leaf covered platform in front of the noisy businesswomen. One of these stalls was manned by a portly woman, whose decibel levels surely created tinitus in the omniscient Kapaleeshwara himself. She had row of extricated jackfruit slivers for sale, arranged into small heaps, side by side, six or seven unseeded pulps to a small pile, each mound selling for two annas (though the naya paisa system was already in, the locals still talked in terms of annas) I wondered what her margin would be for this petty trade, but she survived all right, at least from what I saw of her dimension, which I already mentioned, was obese.

In the dim glow cast by her lamp, she constantly waved one hand to shoo away a swarm of flies which incessantly hovered around, whilst simultaneously yelling, ‘oy yamma, ay amma’ in a bid to attracting attention of passing maamis to her heaps of merchandise.

I watched engrossed, when out of the blue, a small boy, maybe seven, with an untidy mop of unruly hair, bare except for a out-sized hanging khaki shorts - which had been double-folded at its waist to help it find purchase on his wasted hip – dash between the pious maamis and in a jiffy, swipe one pile of fruits and vanish into the dark. The petty burglary, daredevil in execution and speed, got the hawker’s goat, for she quickly rose laboriously, mouthing a tandem of obscenities – not placated by this show of road rage, she huffed and ran after the boy – and how she managed, I couldn’t fathom, caught the waif by his hair and soundly thrashed him, pulling off his shorts for effect. I must add the incident was of much entertainment value, for I stood and continued watching the epilogue, which sadly seemed continuation of the prologue itself, for the boy continued to scream and holler, while she continued to thrash the hapless kid, twisting his ears as bonus.

I had been enjoying the show, but its dramatics got me rattled – too much, that’s enough, I yelled and stepped in. The woman was momentarily stunned, and the boy, seeing the distraction, ran to me, and clutching my knees in a vice like grip sobbed for succor. The fat lady was raving by now, and snootily demanded that if I was such a Good Samaritan, why didn’t I show my nobility and large-heartedness by buying her stock – can't you see how these brats nibble away my wares… having said her piece, she wailed aloud and long, squatted on the road, imploring Kapali for sustenance and security from thieves and their abettors – that, clearly meant, me.

That got me: I dug into my pocket

How much?

Eighteen rupees, for the whole lot

So be it, here take twenty – and give the boy every pile and sliver you have here

She smirked, her betel stained teeth glinting in the kerosene lamp's glow, as she wrapped all nine heaps of jackfruit with a base banana leaf.

‘inda da, porukki payale, eduthittu po (here you scalawag, now take this and beat it) she spat, as she handed over the packet to the boy, who grabbed the stuff and ran away.

I felt smug the whole night long, mentally visualizing the thrill with which one little hungry boy would indulge in his fruity feast.

A few days later, passing by the same stall, I was shell shocked, for sitting right beside the portly jackfruit hawker was the very boy! Siva Siva! the scamp was her son and her willing partner in crime. What a fool I had been! What a ride I had been taken on!!! 

Even now, decades on, I feel red in my face when I recall the incident – what a sucker I was – a total nitwit. Then I end up, correcting the tense from past to present continuous, I mumble, ‘what a sucker I still am’ – for I still get taken on joy rides to nowhere by sob stories, still shed a tear when I see a sad movie or read a stirring verse or overhear a mournful song.

Epilogue: Barnum, the showman whose later claim to the annals of fame was the conception of the circus as a money spinning enterprise, was in his early days an avid collected of curios, oddities and freaks, he paid for and exhibited bearded women or a man with a tail, cretins, pygmies, Red Indians and Tom Thumb and such natural caricatures. He was once asked by a curious reporter, 'did he really believe people would pay to see such oddities?' They will, they will, Mr. Barnum replied, ‘there is a sucker born every minute’. Barnum is right, ask me!