The Fragrance of a Jasmine

 

Summer is the time jasmines (malle in Telugu) flood the flower markets in South India. It is a busy and prosperous time for the flower merchants in every town and city and these beautiful, fragrant flowers adorn every occasion in every home. Malle has an important place in Telugu weddings. They are used for garlands of the bride and groom, to decorate wedding altars, and, not to forget, for the bride’s poola jada (plait adorned with flowers). I know many of my friends who got married during the months of April/May, daring the sweltering heat of summer, just to have loads of malle for their wedding.

IMG_20190119_155754

                                  My mom Savitri a few days after her wedding (1962)

A few days back I was going through my childhood pictures and my daughters were fascinated with pictures of my sister and me with a poola jada and dressed in traditional attire of pattu parikini (a Kanjeevaram long skirt and a blouse worn by girls on festive occasions). It was almost a ritual during summers to get a flowered plait done at least once. Every summer, my mom would set a date for us to get the poola jada done using the malle flowers that were abundantly available in the market. The program involved meticulous planning and my mom took it very seriously. One particular variety called boddu malle was very popularly used for the poola jada. My brother would be sent to the local flower market in Vijayawada to meet one particular vendor for the ‘best’ boddu malle buds for that perfect jada. He would buy a couple of kilos of them early in the morning. Then my mom would inform a lady who was a distant relative, who specialised in the art of making poola jada. The lady would arrive post lunch and then the important task would start. She was treated with utmost respect and everybody in the house danced attendance around her serving her coffee and snacks and generally keeping her happy.

If you ever harboured a fascination to have a poola jada made for your hair, one absolutely essential criteria was to have long, thick hair – ‘long’ because the poola jada would not look good on short hair; ‘thick’ because if you had thin hair, you would end up with a terrible headache owing to the weight of the poola jada. For those who had neither of these, a hair extension was used to make the plait look longer and thicker, with several knots and elastic bands all along the plait to keep it in tact. Today, as a matter of convenience, ready-made poola jadas are used for brides and flower vendors take orders even a few days before the wedding.

IMG_20190119_155812__01
Posing her best, my sister Aparna (circa 1983)

 

The making of poola jada involved several hours of patience and concentration. First our long hair was neatly plaited till the end which was then adorned with a hair accessory called jada kucchulu (an accessory used to enhance the beauty of the plait). Each malle bud was selected with care and with the help of a white thread, the buds were made into garlands. These garlands, made in different lengths, were then sewed into the plait right from the top of the head and along the length of the plait, carefully tucking away the flowers into beautiful designs. Sometimes other varieties of flowers in different hues like roses and kanakāmbara were used along with malle for added beauty. The lady would take a couple of hours for each of us which meant the entire episode went till 7:00 in the night.

The activity didn’t end there. After the poola jadas were made, my mom would make us wear the traditional pattu parikinis and the gold jewellery while my dad or grandfather would get ready excitedly with their camera, ready to capture the moment. I remember my sister and me grumbling all along for the silliness of the situation. The only fun part of it all was the fuss the elders made around us. We were suddenly treated with a lot of importance and we were fed dinner by my mom or an aunt, narrating a story or two to divert our attention from the discomfort. Bedtime was an agony with capital ‘A’. Lying down on the bed, with the poola jada carefully placed to the side, we spent the rest of the night in just one single position and invariably woke up in the morning with a stiff neck and bleary eyes from lack of sleep. The poola jada lasted the entire day and we would have a dreadful time taking bath and generally going around with the heavy thing following us everywhere.

IMG_20190119_155824
Me, super amused with my attire (circa 1983)

                                            

I remember a couple of weeks before school closed for summer, some girls in the school would come with poola jada and school uniform to go with it!!! It was a common sight in school during the pre-summer-days and teachers didn’t mind girls coming with mehendi designs on their hands, heavy silver anklets over their school shoes or flowers in their hair along with black ribbons.  It was a sight to behold!!

IMG-20190119-WA0031

Ready-made poola jadaas (image courtesy: Valli, my friend from Vijayawada)

I must confess here that my sister and I never actually craved to be part of these occasions since it would only mean two days of discomfort. We would just find ourselves in the middle of one every year, because the fun and amusement derived from these gatherings were purely for the adults, who absolutely enjoyed such occasional digressions from their routine life. But over the years, the nostalgic person that I am, I find the experience really unique and a significant part of growing up, carrying with it the essences of the bygone days.

My Frequent Walks Down the Memory Lane

I live in the past. Nostalgia is my food. I go about my day moving in and out of my memories, some fond, some bitter, laced with sights, sounds and scents of the years which slipped by. Sometimes I have a painful longing to get physically transported to the times when life was simpler, pleasures were not materialistic, wants were limited to basic necessities and time was at your disposal. As I say this, I realise that I don’t like change. I feel suffocated with too many changes and too much transformation.

Of all the images that I cherish the most are those associated with my mother. She was a simple woman and was loved by everyone in the family. She was educated till PUC, learnt Carnatic music and would sing Tyaagaraaja keertanaas with such melodious voice. Draped in a starched cotton saree and with a fragrance of Cuticura talcum powder about her, she exuded a sense of peace and serenity that brought us tremendous comfort and warmth. As children we would just love to linger around her all the time, waiting for her attention. 

My mom, Savitri, with her four children in the backyard of my grandparents’ house (pic credit: J. V. P. S. Somayajulu (my maternal uncle)

Our summer vacation was invariably spent in my maternal grandparents’ village Godavarru, which stood on the banks of river Krishna. Their humble village life and their abundant,unconditional love for their grandchildren were the most unforgettable memories of life in Godavarru. It was a place where time stood still, silence was deafening, punctuated with mooing of a cow or buzzing of a bee. We loved to play hide and seek in the cow shed or lie down on the warm hay stack for most part of the day, completely engrossed in some funny story narrated by a cousin,while a calf softly nudged us as though demanding a little attention from us.  Once when I casually mentioned to my 14 year old daughter, that I loved the smell of cow-dung, her urban upbringing was quite shaken. ‘You love the smell of cow shit? Yeeew, mom what’s wrong with you?!!’ But I was pleasantly unaffected by her outburst and I slipped back into the warm and cosy labyrinths of my mind.

It was in Godavarru that we learnt our first lessons – milking the cows, star-gazing on clear silent nights, textures of the earth, taste of a tender and unripe banana, the sharp pain of a bee sting, fragrance of wet mud, simplicity of the village folk,falling in love with nature, village customs and rituals, the sweet taste of water from a cool earthen pot, the art of relishing sugar cane with its raw stalk and a whole lot of things that are so part of me now.

 Part of the cowshed

Godavarru was like a sanctuary for us and we would escape from the humdrum of the city at every possible chance. For my mom, it was a piece of earth that was hers, the essence of which she carried with her till her last breath. Years later, now when I reminisce those times, my grandmother’s voice singing softly as she gathered flowers from the garden for her morning puja, the rusty but rhythmic sound of the hand pump next to the well, the high-pitched out-of-tune crowing of a cockerel in the yard,temple bells, all come alive as one beautiful symphony.