The changeover of signposts had only happened a year or two before 1970 — if I’d made my pilgrimage earlier, then the trip to Tiruvannamalai would have been a piece of cake.
The state authorities hadn’t anticipated that others beside the few remaining Britishers would have trouble with the signs. Indians from other states who worked in Tamil Nadu relied on English to help them find their way, so they were running around confused as well. There were already indications that the authorities would think again — trade was beginning to suffer, and pressure was mounting to let the English alphabet return from exile. So if my pilgrimage had taken place in a later year, the last stage of the journey might well have been a simple matter again. It was only around 1970 that a devotee had an extra set of obstacles to overcome — but that was the year I had chosen for my visit. It was as if my whimsical guru had overheard me thinking about the spiritual life as a sort of treasure hunt, and was dropping in a few more puzzles for my benefit, to draw out the game and sweeten the victory, like an announcer who leaves an endless pause after the words, ‘And the winner is …’
Raghu had asked a neighbour, a native speaker of Tamil, to write down the magic word ‘Tiruvannamalai’ on a piece of paper — in fact a sturdy piece of card, of the same weight and texture as the pieces of card which protected Dad’s shirts (to some tiny extent) from crushing when they returned from the laundry. Tamil script is made up of lovely flowing characters, loops, swirls and emphatic dots, which had an immediate appeal, making me wonder why I had ever bothered with shorthand, whose practical utility had been more or less irrelevant to me, if not actually a drawback in my eyes.
Tamil characters display a beguiling combination of architecture and flow, grid and embroidery. A line of printed Tamil looks to Western eyes like a row of irregular little houses overgrown with rather stylised creepers. When it’s written by hand, the curvaceous element predominates.
For some reason the stiffness of the card made me feel much more confident about the enterprise. Surely our plan was similarly crush-proof. Raghu and Sumati could remember the first part of the journey. They could negotiate our departure from the city. It was only out in the country that they would falter. That was where I would take over, comparing the curious loops and curlicues of Tamil script with what I saw written on signposts, and directing us safely to our destination. I said with as much confidence as I could muster, ‘Whenever I see a signpost, I’ll try to match it with what I’ve got written down here. Easy!’ What could go wrong?
Not quite everything, as it turned out. Raghu kindly put me in the front seat of the car, with a canvas of some sort behind me. Sumati was in the back with my things. She said something to Raghu in (I suppose) Marathi after we had set off, and I asked Raghu to translate. He seemed a bit embarrassed, but I told him it was impossible for me to be offended by hosts who were going to so much trouble to help me. Then he told me, ‘Sumati said, “How can such a small person have so much luggage?” She says it’s all right for us up here in the front, but she’s getting squashed by your things.’ I laughed and asked Raghu to translate back to Sumati, ‘Please help this small person to compress his luggage by accepting the small cheese which is at the top of his case.’ It was a Germanic interpretation of Edam — I’d chosen smoked so it would travel better. She ferreted out the sausage of cheese in its tight plastic skin and soon started tucking into her snack.
On our car trip I noticed that the rule of waiting until men had finished eating didn’t always apply. I assume it made a difference that we weren’t at table, in a formal setting, and also that the food was a gift from me. I couldn’t help feeling that I was derailing Raghu’s day, but Sumati gave every sign of having a fine old time. The expedition seemed to free her from the constraints of an Indian lady’s home. Unable to turn round and watch her, I sent out auditory antennæ instead, turning my ears backwards like a cat’s, cocked pockets of vibrating fur. I could hear the little snuffles of appreciation, almost guttural, which Sumati made while she ate.
She who handles nothingness
A little later she spoke again, at greater length, and Raghu translated for my benefit. ‘Sumati is warning you against going on pradakshina with Mrs Osborne late in the day. You understand pradakshina?’ I did. Pradakshina is the ritual clockwise circumambulation of the holy mountain Arunachala. It is to be done barefoot, and in a prescribed manner: ‘like a pregnant queen in her ninth month’. I didn’t know quite how I was going to manage that.
‘Sumati and Mrs Osborne started their walk round the mountain at about four or five, when the worst of the sun was over. She was worried that it would not be until late that they returned home. Mrs Osborne had not told her they would be sleeping by the roadside. When they started walking, she believed they would reach home that night. However, Mrs Osborne said that it was supremely beneficial to sleep while on pradakshina. She was remarkably insistent and Sumati had to give in.’ Here Raghu broke off his translating to make a comment of his own. ‘You will discover, John, that with Mrs Osborne it is usually better to give in.’
‘Sumati was terrified, because as is well known, there are snakes and scorpions on the mountain in great numbers. She mentioned this to Mrs Osborne who said that everything on the mountain was holy. She wasn’t worried, and indeed she was snoring within minutes, while Sumati was unable to sleep a wink. Sumati has never seen a holy scorpion. If she did drop off then her sleep was only jerky, but Mrs Osborne slept well and woke refreshed.’ He added in a tactful undertone, ‘Sumati once expressed the opinion that Mrs Osborne was a suunyakaari. Literally it means she who manipulates nothingness — perhaps you can come up with an improved translation? I have found no English word better than witch …’
Sumati interrupted with a sharp question. It required no knowledge of Marathi to interpret it as meaning, ‘What nonsense are you telling him now?’
All the time we were driving I had been inspecting road signs for their correspondence with the Tamil hieroglyph which was written on the card and also, as the journey went on, imprinted on my mind. I took a certain amount of pride in having mastered a long foreign word in its original script. Our progress seemed to be rather wayward in terms of overall direction, however, and eventually we came across a sign where both directions seemed to point to Tiruvannamalai.
Under this sign of ambiguous welcome we decided to stop for refreshment. I was grateful for the rest. My bottom had started to ache unbearably on the journey. Now that Raghu had opened the car door, I could swing my legs round with his help, so that I was sitting on the edge of the seat. As I shifted round I could see that the canvas cover on the back of the seat had become drenched with sweat. Capillary action was assisting the process of cooling, at the cost of a slight embarrassment.
Sumati had brought a picnic. I don’t know where we would have got food anyway, but Raghu explained she wouldn’t willingly consume any food or drink not prepared within her own house. She had brought along sandwiches and a flask of coffee. I realised that she must have shopped specially for sliced bread and perhaps for the cucumber and tomatoes. I remember Dad telling me that the tomato was actually a native of South America, but it has turned itself into an exemplary world citizen, blending in with every possible cuisine, Mediterranean, Indian, even condescending to enrobe Mr Heinz’s baked beans and be rendered down for his ketchup.