Nagendra Bharathi

Friday, June 12, 2026

“Tailor Anna” – Utharakosamangai Relationships – 6

“Tailor Anna” – Utharakosamangai Relationships – 6

(Illustration by Usha Bharathi – thanks)

'Thanks to ChatGPT for assisting in the English translation of my original Tamil creations.”)

Just like the famous Chithirai festival in Madurai, the Chithirai festival in Utharakosamangai was celebrated grandly. Following that, like the Azhagar festival, another celebration would take place at the Govindan Temple near the large village tank. The next day, food would be served to the entire village. The taste of the pumpkin sambar served that day was unforgettable.

The festival at the Govindan Temple was conducted jointly by all the streets—North Street, South Street, East Street, and West Street. Among them, the people of South Street held special rights. They were the ones entitled to carry the sacred poles during the procession of the Amman deity through the streets.

“Tailor Anna” belonged to that South Street.

For their family, shirts and blouses were always stitched by him. The boy would often accompany his grandfather or father to the tailor shop. The piles of colorful fabrics stacked in one corner were a feast for the eyes. A young assistant would sit there, stitching buttonholes. The boy had a habit of picking up small leftover cloth pieces and arranging them into patterns, experimenting with designs. He didn’t speak much with the tailor then.

Though only slightly older than him, Tailor Anna had learned the trade early and was already running his own shop. He was also skilled in swimming—jumping from temple platforms into the temple tank—and was an excellent kabaddi player.

Once, he organized a kabaddi match between their village team and a neighboring village team. Though the boy could play a bit, he remembered attending only as a spectator.

In their village team, Tailor Anna and one of the boy’s school friends were outstanding players.

What they didn’t know at the time was this: the opposing team, though skilled, was aggressive. If they lost, they had secretly hidden sticks in a nearby scrub forest, planning to attack the home team.

The match was intense. Thanks to the brilliant performance of Tailor Anna and the boy’s friend, the Utharakosamangai team won.

The opposing players grew furious. But Tailor Anna, with his calm and composed words, managed to pacify them and send them back without trouble.

Seeing this, both the boy and his friend grew very close to him.

The next day, the village Panchayat Chairman (who would later appear as “Chairman Thatha” in these stories) called Tailor Anna’s father and explained how serious the situation could have become. He warned them not to bring players from neighboring villages for matches again.

After that, they continued playing only within the village grounds near the temple tower.

Thus began a friendship—born out of kabaddi—that created countless memories.

After that match, Tailor Anna became very close to them. Whenever they called him—anytime, anywhere—he would leave his work and join them.

For making “exploding coconuts,” he would bring coconuts, roasted gram, sugar, cardamom, dry ginger, and matchboxes from his father’s grocery shop. The boy and his friend would go ahead into the scrub forest, gather dry sticks, and prepare a spot.

Once he arrived, they would open the coconut’s eyes, stuff it with powdered gram, sugar, cardamom, and ginger, seal it, place it inside the burning sticks, and step away. After some time, the coconut would crack open with a soft popping sound.

They would then pull it out, pour water over it, break it open, and share it among themselves.

The taste of that roasted coconut mixed with sweet and spice was something special.

Another adventure—his school friend was an expert at collecting honey.

The three of them would enter the forest like masked thieves, covering their heads and faces. Spotting a beehive, the friend would poke its center with a stick. The bees would swarm upward. Quickly, he would break the branch holding the hive, discard the lower part, and run back with the honeycomb.

Some bees would sting them—it would hurt and swell—but soon it would subside. Some bees would helplessly settle on the broken hive remains. The honey they had stored would drip richly from the comb they carried.

And then… they would share it—some for themselves, some to take home.

Each tree—karuvelam, drumstick tree, neem—gave honey with a different taste.

That scrub forest was not like today’s invasive growth. It was native growth—slightly greyish, with long thorns. Using those thorns, they would craft simple windmills with palm leaves, fix them to sticks, and run while watching them spin beautifully in the wind.

And that forest held many more adventures…

Catching pigeons and cooking them, milking goats and drinking fresh milk…
Perhaps best not described in too much detail!

Without any sense of age difference, Tailor Anna was truly one among them—a friend.

Even today, when the boy spoke to him on the phone and said,
“I’m going to write about you,”
he responded with joy and shared more memories.

Now, he lives a contented life with his grandchildren. He still supervises his farmland and proudly spoke about good harvests. He also spoke about the recent festival at the Govindan Temple. His tailor shop has now become his daughter’s tea shop.

He happily noted how the temple where they once played freely has now gained global recognition.

And finally—

“Thank you, Kathiresan.”
(Oh—did I mention Tailor Anna’s name?)

– Nagendra Bharathi

My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English

Wednesday, June 10, 2026

“Soaking Water Ammachi” -Utharakosamangai Memories – 5

“Soaking Water Ammachi” -Utharakosamangai Memories – 5

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(Illustration by Usha Bharathi Madam – thanks acknowledged)

('Thanks to ChatGPT for assisting in the English translation of my original Tamil creations.”)

There was an old lady in the neighboring house. She had a stout build, a dusky complexion, and a face that clearly showed the energy of hard work. In that house, all the water—used for washing rice, cleaning vegetables, leftover starch water, even slightly sour water—was collected and poured into a large container in the courtyard by his grandmother.

This neighbor had a cowshed at her house. She would take that collected water to feed the cows, calling it “soaking water” (“ooratha thanni”), and carry it away.

She would come through the side entrance in the backyard with a bucket and scoop, take the water, and leave. No one really knew her real name. Because of this habit, he simply called her “Soaking Water Ammachi.”

His grandmother and this lady had been friends since childhood. His grandmother had become a widow at a young age and lived in her brother’s house, raising the children there. The neighbor was from the next house, and their friendship dated back to those early days.

The neighbor had a settled life—two sons and a daughter. The daughter was married off in Madras (now Chennai). Seeing his grandmother’s life, she had a deep affection for her.

She would fondly call his grandmother “Sornam.” Between their houses, near the side, there was a wall with a small opening the size of a crescent. Through that gap, snacks made in one house would be exchanged with the other.

That gap wasn’t just for food—it was their communication channel. They would stand there and chat for hours. Their conversations were filled with laughter, gossip, and often crude jokes, half of which he didn’t fully understand.

But in those days, such conversations brought them immense joy. Their laughter would echo loudly enough to be heard inside the house. It was their form of happiness.

His grandmother rarely stepped out, while “Soaking Water Ammachi” worked in the fields, leaving in the morning and returning only in the evening. She knew all the village news. After returning, she would feed the cows with the collected water and then stand by that wall opening, chatting away. To him, this was all quite amusing.

Even after all that talking, it wouldn’t be enough. At night, she would come sit on the front verandah and continue discussing village stories. To him, her voice was like a lullaby—he would fall asleep listening to her.

Their shared life stories felt like grand tales. Now, he remembers none of them.

Looking back, he realizes how many stories were hidden in the conversations of village elders. Later, when he read stories by Ki. Rajanarayanan, he felt a regret—he hadn’t paid enough attention to these real-life storytellers.

There were also street quarrels among women, filled with words that couldn’t even be written down. He didn’t fully understand their meanings but knew they were crude.

Near the bus stand, by a large temple tank, there was a mandapam where elderly men sat smoking and talking. Their conversations were even harsher. In both these places, and in Ammachi’s talks, there was often mention of a particular woman—someone who lived freely, worked somewhere, and didn’t care about what the village said.

To some young men, she seemed like an outlet for their desires. Her life, along with its hidden sources of income, was an open secret in the village.

“Soaking Water Ammachi” had two sons and a daughter. The daughter, married in Madras, would visit once a year with her child. In those days, the Rameswaram train from Madras would take a long route through Thanjavur district—nearly a day and a half journey.

From the very first day of their expected arrival, Ammachi would be full of excitement.

The daughter, with her powdered face and eyeliner, looked very different from the village women. For that one month, Ammachi would braid her granddaughter’s hair, decorate it with flowers, and take her to the temple proudly.

From Madras would come colorful chocolates wrapped in bright paper and biscuits in fancy tins. To him—used to groundnut candy, murukku, and spicy snacks—these felt like nectar.

From the backyard, the girl would sometimes sing Hindi songs. Ammachi would beam with pride: “My granddaughter sings Hindi songs! I don’t understand a word—but it sounds wonderful!”

He had heard such songs before in a nearby place called Ekakudi, where mostly Muslims lived. His father would sometimes take him there for a haircut. In the barber shop, songs of Mohammed Rafi and Lata Mangeshkar would play. Posters of Dev Anand, Dilip Kumar, Vyjayanthimala, and Madhubala adorned the walls. The granddaughter’s songs felt familiar from those memories.

After a month, when they returned to Madras, Ammachi’s face would lose its glow. For a few days, she wouldn’t come to the wall to chat. But only for a while. Soon enough, her loud voice and hearty laughter would return to normal.

Once, when he returned home from college in Sivagangai during holidays, he heard a familiar voice:
“Nagendra, you’ve grown so much!”

He turned around. A thin, frail, darkened figure stood there, weakened with age.

“That’s Soaking Water Ammachi,” his grandmother said.

He was shocked.

— Nagendra Bharathi

My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English

Tuesday, June 9, 2026

“Soil-Eating Maragatham” – Utharakosamangai Memories – 4

“Soil-Eating Maragatham” – Utharakosamangai Memories – 4

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('Thanks to ChatGPT for assisting in the English translation of my original Tamil creations.”)

(Illustration by Usha Bharathi – thanks)

He had never seen him actually eat soil. And his real name wasn’t even Maragatham. Yet, this nickname had stuck so strongly that people had almost forgotten his real name.

Some friends had given him that name saying that, as a child, he used to eat soil, and that was why his stomach was always swollen. It was true that his stomach was bloated—but anyone who saw him eat would guess there might be other reasons too.

In the First North Street, about five or six houses away from his own, at the corner stood Maragatham’s house. A tiled house with a raised front platform. Every morning, he would go to the fields with his father and return only in the evening. His schooling had stopped midway.

From evening until bedtime, he would sit on that front platform and sing. He had a good voice. Mostly, he sang songs of T. M. Soundararajan. From the nearby library, his singing could be heard clearly. After studying, he would go and sit there just to listen to him sing.

Maragatham would bring out his collection of cinema song booklets and show them. There would be stacks of them—films ranging from M. G. Ramachandran and Sivaji Ganesan to Jaishankar and Ravichandran.

In those days, a song booklet cost five paise. The cover would have a still from the movie. Inside, the first page would carry a short summary of the story—ending with the teasing line: “Watch the rest on the silver screen.”

They had seen white screens and worn-out screens in theatres—but what was this “silver screen”? When asked, he would say, “New movies release on Fridays, right? That’s why it’s called ‘silver’!”

Every word he spoke would end in “-ppu”—“vaappu, okkaarappu, solluppu, sarippu.” That was his style.

From the Panchayat Board radio nearby, devotional songs would play in the morning, followed by news, radio dramas, and film songs. That was how he learned music.

During festival seasons, especially “Mulaikottu” and others, temporary stages would be set up at street corners. Plays like Velan Vedan Viruthan with songs of Sankaradas Swamigal would be performed by actors from Madurai.

Even without loudspeakers, their bronze-like voices would carry across all the streets. He remembered artists like T. R. Mahalingam and M. M. Mariappa performing there.

Maragatham would listen intently, memorize everything, and the very next day, his voice would echo those songs again from the front platform—like “Kaayaatha Kaanagathe…”

The drama would begin at 10 PM and go on until 4 AM the next morning—continuous songs and dialogues. Audience-requested film songs would also be sung.

He would go early, sit on the ground, and listen. Sometimes, he too would go and sit beside him. Sleep would overtake him halfway, and he would return home, lie on the front platform, and fall asleep listening to the distant songs.

The next evening after school, he would go to Maragatham’s house, listen to the full story of the play, and hear all the songs again.

Maragatham had never been to a cinema. But he (the narrator) had gone to Ramanathapuram with his father and watched films in Shanmuga Theatre and Rajaram Theatre. He would buy a five-paise song booklet and narrate the rest of the story—“what happened on the silver screen”—to Maragatham.

Maragatham would be overjoyed. A few weeks later, when the radio broadcast the audio version of the same film, he would say, “You told the story exactly right!”

One day, he had severe eye pain and had his eyes bandaged at the local hospital. Even then, he continued singing the songs he had memorized, tapping rhythm on the stacks of songbooks.

He especially loved songs from Aayirathil Oruvan, particularly “Oodum Megangale…”

When he sang the line, “Among the slaves in this land, I am one in a thousand,” tears would seep through his bandage along with the medicine.

“My eyes are hurting…” he would say.

His eyes never opened again. Within days, he lost his vision completely. But he never stopped singing from that front platform.

One day, when the narrator returned from out of town, they told him:

“Soil-Eating Maragatham is gone…”

They added, “Stomach pain, they say… he never stopped eating soil.”

He didn’t believe it. He had never once seen Maragatham eat soil.

Among the memories of Utharakosamangai, “Soil-Eating Maragatham” will always remain—
“one among a thousand…”

— Nagendra Bharathi

My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English

Sunday, June 7, 2026

“The Library Master” -Utharakosamangai Memories – 3

“The Library Master” -Utharakosamangai Memories – 3

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('Thanks to ChatGPT for assisting in the English translation of my original Tamil creations.”)

(Illustration by Usha Bharathi – thanks)

“Thambi, come tomorrow morning by 8 sharp. New books are arriving. We have to enter everything in the register, number them, and arrange them in the shelves properly. Okay?”

As the librarian said this, he too eagerly waited for the next day to dawn. Once every six months, colorful new books—with fresh smells and crisp textures—would arrive at that district branch library.

To inhale their fragrance, to run fingers over their smooth or sometimes rough pages, to sort them into categories—stories, essays, poetry, English, Tamil—write them into the register, assign numbers, and neatly arrange them on shelves… and then stand back and admire the order—this was a joy in itself.

In between, the coffee, tea, biscuits, and bajji that the librarian would call him in for had their own special taste.

And then, there was another kind of happiness—quickly reading the prefaces written by the authors, selecting a few books, and going home to read them aloud to his grandmother.

Between school hours, fights and games with friends, studies, and household chores—like bringing freshly milked milk from Uthandi’s house in East Street, buying vegetables along with curry leaves and groundnut candy from Ramu Pillai’s shop in North Street, going with his father to the rice mill and watching paddy being processed into husk, bran, and rice, and carrying them back in sacks—after all this, whatever little time remained belonged to the library.

Magazines like Ananda Vikatan, Kumudam, Kalki, Rani, Thuglak, Kannan, Gokulam, Kalaikathir, Amudasurabhi, Kalaimagal, Pesum Padam, and Bommai—some he read, some he just looked at for pictures.

This was the time when his interest in stories, poems, drawings, and essays began to grow—and he too started trying his hand at writing and drawing.

The writings that drew him in were by giants like
Kalki Krishnamurthy, Na. Parthasarathy, Lakshmi, Vandu Mama, Bharathidasan, Thiruvalluvar, Ilango Adigal, Kambar and many more towering figures.

It was the librarian who introduced him to these authors and guided his reading—he remains unforgettable.

The conversations between Vandiyathevan and Kundavai in Ponniyin Selvan,
Sathyamoorthy and Mohini in Pon Vilangu,
Devaki and Eswaran in Mithila Vilas—

And the illustrations by Maniam, Gopulu, and Vijaya that gave life to these characters.

Most books in that library were newly printed, with minimal illustrations—but they captivated him deeply.

From the library books, he learned:

The inspiring life notes of famous personalities through the self-improvement essays of Abdul Rahim
The emotional and patriotic poems of Bharathidasan
The natural rhythm and wordplay in Ra. Pi. Sethu Pillai’s essays
Countless illustrated stories beginning with Vandu Mama’s Maragatha Silai
The satire of Cho in Thuglak
Serial stories in Ananda Vikatan
Popular features in Dina Thanthi like Kannitheevu, Pudhu Penn Ponni, and Adangatha Angamuthu

Detective Govindan from Rangaraju’s novels roaming Triplicane…
Kalki Krishnamurthy’s Ponniyin Selvan, Sivagamiyin Sabadham, Parthiban Kanavu…
Lakshmi’s Mithila Vilas and Suryakantham…
Na. Parthasarathy’s Kurinji Malar, Pon Vilangu, Mani Pallavam…

So many works, so many worlds.

There were also:

S.A.P.’s Kadhalenum Theevinile
Cho’s Kovadis
The thrilling chapter titles of Maayavi’s mystery stories
The humor of Saraswathi in Nadodi’s stories
Tamilvanan’s characters Sankarlal and Wahab
Devan’s Thuppariyum Sambu—later seen again as a bound magazine collection in Sivagangai

And illustrators like Vinu (in Kalki), Maya, and many others.

One could go on and on.

Amidst all this, while some friends secretly passed around books like Valibam and Sarojadevi, it was the librarian who guided him toward good reading taste.

He nurtured that taste, fed it constantly, appreciated it—and took joy in watching it grow.

That librarian…
was truly a teacher of the library.

— Nagendra Bharathi

My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English

Thursday, June 4, 2026

“The Sculptor Who Breathed Life”-(Utharakosamangai Memories – 2)

“The Sculptor Who Breathed Life”-(Utharakosamangai Memories – 2)

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'Thanks to ChatGPT for assisting in the English translation of my original Tamil creations.”)

the above image of “Sivagami” was drawn by my wife Usha bharathi madam.. My thanks to her.

As you enter the Uthirakosamangai Temple through the eastern seven-tiered gopuram, and pass the entrance, on the right side lies the Agni Theppakulam (temple tank). The reason it is called so can be learned from various sources.

On the left side, long black stones lie scattered in abundance. There, several sculptors work tirelessly, their chisels dancing over the stone, bringing forth statues. The rhythmic sound of chiseling fills the air like music.

Presiding over them is their leader—the master sculptor, known as the Sthapathi. He supervises the work, while also carving himself.

His school was very close to the eastern gopuram entrance. During school breaks, it was his habit to go inside the temple and stand near the sculptor, watching in awe as the stone slowly transformed under his hands.

“Stand back, thambi… stone chips might fly into your eyes,” the sculptor would warn.

Yet, he himself wore no protective covering over his eyes. He seemed to instinctively know the direction in which the stone fragments would fly.

A long, lifeless black stone would, over many days, transform into a graceful form—as if it had begun to dance. The artistry in his hands, the elegance of his craft, the rhythm of his chisel—it would send a shiver down one’s spine.

Even today, in the corridors of Utharakosamangai, there are sculptures carved by him and his team. A stone ball that rolls within the mouth of a sculpture without coming out, intertwined serpents carved from a single block—these are but a few examples of their skill. There are countless such marvels in the surrounding corridors.

At that time, he had just begun reading 'Sivagamiyin Sabadham' by Kalki Krishnamurthy.

He would sit beside his grandmother, combing her hair with a lice comb in one hand, while holding the thick novel in the other, reading aloud to her.

In that book, there is a moment where Mahendravarman speaks to Narasimhavarman. The essence of that dialogue is this:

Mahendravarman says:

“This is no ordinary stone, Narasimha!

To breathe life into stone—that is art.

These stones will speak…

Even if we humans perish,

they will preserve our thoughts and our glory.”

He continues:

“We may exist today and be gone tomorrow,

but these sculptures will speak for a thousand years.

That is why I love art more than war.”

Narasimha asks emotionally:

“Father, is there life in stone?”

Mahendravarman replies:

“There is life…

if only there is an eye to see it,

and a heart to feel it.”

After reading this, every time he went and saw that sculptor, he no longer saw just a man at work.

To him, the sculptor had become an “Ayanach Sirpi”—one who breathes life into stone.

And for those who have read Sivagamiyin Sabadham, let me add—
this “Ayanach Sirpi” did not have a daughter… there was no Sivagami in his life.

— Nagendra Bharathi

My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English

Wednesday, June 3, 2026

“The Sacred Ash Oduvar” - Utharakosamangai Memories – 1

“The Sacred Ash Oduvar” - Uthirakosamangai Memories – 1

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(Note on Translation:

'Thanks to ChatGPT for assisting in the English translation of my original Tamil creations.”)

The drawing of inside view of utharakosamangai temple is done by me ,Nagendrabharathi

Note:
These Utharakosamangai memories will continue for ten weeks with ten chapters…

The inspiration to write this series first came from Ra. Murugan’s “Rettai Theru” essays about Sivagangai, which stirred my own memories of studying there. Later, Ramya Vasudevan’s series “Avalum Naanum” rekindled that desire.

Many people I have seen and known will appear in this series—
“Utharakosamangai Memories.”

Thank you.

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“The Sacred Ash Oduvar” - Uthirakosamangai Memories – 1

As he stepped out through the northern entrance of the Utharakosamangai Temple, he saw an old man who had been lying on the raised platform slowly get up and walk, leaning on his staff.

The sacred ash (thiruneeru) smeared in thick horizontal stripes across his forehead, chest, and arms immediately identified him.

He went closer and said, “Ayya… Oduvar Ayya…”

Startled, the old man turned and squinted, asking, “Who is it?”

“Ayya, I am the grandson of Nataraja Pillai, the former temple peskar.”

“Oh, him! How can I ever forget your grandfather… How did you recognize me? What I was then… now I’m just skin and bones…”

“Ayya, I recognized you by your sacred ash.”

“Yes… that has always been my identity—then and now,” he said.

After speaking with him for a while, he walked him home and then returned by bus. In his mind echoed that deep, resonant voice of the Oduvar.

“The ash is the mantra,
The ash adorns the gods,
The ash is beauty,
The ash is worthy of praise,
The ash is the sacred formula,
The ash is the essence of religion,
The holy ash of the Lord of Aalavaai,
Consort of the red-lipped goddess!”

(Thirugnana Sambandar ‘s Thiruneetru Pathigam)

Clad in a four-cubit veshti tied high up to his chest, his sturdy body covered in sacred ash, the Oduvar Swami would sing in his powerful voice. Crowds would gather just to listen to him.

Before every ritual, and during the intervals when the deity was being adorned behind the curtain, he would immerse the devotees in a flood of musical bliss, making them wait in joy. He was truly a master musician.

When he once asked his grandfather, “Why does he apply so much sacred ash?” his grandfather narrated the story of Thirugnana Sambandar singing the Thiruneeru Pathigam, and how the Pandya king’s fever was cured. Through that story, he also came to understand the healing and medicinal qualities of sacred ash.

In those days, sacred ash was a remedy for everything at home.

For a scorpion sting—apply sacred ash paste.
For stomach pain—apply it on the belly.
After a bath in the morning—apply it on the forehead and even place a little in the mouth.

He was at the age where he began to understand the reasons behind these practices.

In all temple events filled with the sounds of nadaswaram and thavil, blending music and devotion, the Oduvar Swami stood out prominently.

Later, during festival processions, when the Lord and the Goddess would come in procession through the streets, the Oduvar would walk ahead singing, and his grandfather would follow behind, nodding his head in rhythm. That scene passed before his eyes again.

There were countless types of abhishekam and deeparadhana performed for the deities. Only later did they understand the health benefits created by the vibrations in the temple atmosphere during these rituals.

In those days, the moments he eagerly awaited in the temple were twofold:
the music of the Oduvar… and the distribution of prasadam.

The temple attendants would prepare the offerings with devotion. The priests would present them to the deities—opening and closing the curtain in a ritual manner—and then bring them around the circumambulatory path.

While they waited patiently, it was the Oduvar’s singing of Thevaram and Thiruvasagam that made them forget their hunger—it was like nectar to the ears.

And then came the prasadam—sometimes sundal, sometimes sweet rice, sometimes curd rice. Even now, just thinking of it makes the mouth water.

Along with that taste comes the memory of the Oduvar Swami…
a memory that still lets the music of Thevaram linger on the tongue.

— Nagendra Bharathi

My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English