Celebrating Tree Walk

An early memory is of scrambling halfway up the guava tree in the backyard of our house in Bangalore. And of the joy and sense of accomplishment that came from making it that far up. I didn’t realise it then, but I was fortunate to belong to a generation of urban Indian children who had unfettered access to trees, yards and the outdoors.

Trees are especially on my mind because Tree Walk Thiruvananthapuram celebrated its eighth birthday last week. It was on 12 May 2012 that the first tree walk was held along the city’s Vanchiyoor ‘green corridor’.

Exploring the city's Museum complex

While it’s often described as an “environmental collective,” I’ve always seen Tree Walk as a group of people who are interested in and care about trees. A group that comes together to observe, understand, protect and document Thiruvananthapuram’s tree cover. 

Membership of Tree Walk is largely informal, and sometimes transient, but at its core is a committed group helmed by Anitha Sharma and her sister Santhi. Set up in memory of botanist and tree-lover Dr C. Thankam, who was also Anitha’s and Santhi’s mother, Tree Walk traces its roots to Harithakootayama, a group that was formed in 2008 to discover how people in the city viewed trees and the equation between trees and road development. For in the early 2000s, Thiruvananthapuram — like many cities across the country — embarked on a ‘development’ journey focused on bolstering built infrastructure; a journey that often hinged on cutting down trees.

Early on, Tree Walk was largely about walks to understand and explore trees in different parts of Thiruvananthapuram. Most of these walks — over a hundred till now — were on Sunday mornings in the city’s public green spaces such as parks and along roads, but also in semi-private areas, including school and college campuses.

Preserving the city’s green pockets has always been a part of Tree Walk’s raison d’etre. But this aspect took on a special urgency in 2013 when the city authorities decided to take over a large part of the Attakulangara Central High School campus in the heart of Thiruvananthapuram to construct a bus terminal and shops. A project that would require scores of trees to be axed.

Handout from a walk in the East Fort Heritage Zone

This action saw Tree Walk evolving into a pressure group that worked with other civil society groups on a spirited campaign to save the school — established in the late 1880s — and its green campus. Across several months, the group organised various activities, including several walks and a tree survey to create awareness about how the planned bus terminal would obliterate a significant slice of the city’s irreplaceable natural heritage.

Ultimately, sense prevailed within the State Government. The bus station project was redesigned and the decision to use the school’s land was scrapped.

Alongside, Tree Walk also embarked on several other projects — a butterfly garden on the premises of the State Central Library or Public Library, special walks for school students, collaborating with nature clubs in the city’s schools to document the biodiversity on school campuses and, just a few months ago, an intervention to ‘heal’ a badly mutilated jasmine tree that stands outside the Saphalyam Complex on the city’s arterial MG Road.

Early this year, during the Mathrubhumi International Festival of Letters, Tree Walk held a series of walks designed to introduce the lit-fest’s authors and speakers to some of the city’s special trees. A friend I’d recommended the walks to declared, “It was a fabulous experience.”

Thiruvananthapuram's natural and built heritage harmonise in East Fort

And that’s a sentiment I can relate to. As I wrote in National Geographic Traveller some years ago, I’ve found these freewheeling walks to be a great way to discover facets of the city that would otherwise pass right by us.

As Tree Walk embarks on its ninth year, it is a period of uncertainty; a time when humanity is facing an existential crisis of the sort that no living person has experienced. Even in the midst of this gloom, I can’t help but hope that this crisis we face will give us all at least a sliver of understanding about how vital the natural world’s health is to our own health and wellbeing.

And since I haven’t been on a tree walk for many months now, I look forward to a Sunday — any day for that matter — when we can embark on one. For Tree Walk is quite simply one of my city’s gems; not always in the public eye, but a gem nonetheless.

On a Sunday in Trivandrum

The Sree Padmanabhaswamy temple

Did a version of this story for the July issue of National Geographic Traveller India.

Rise early on a Sunday and join one of several free walking tours conducted in Thiruvananthapuram (also known as Trivandrum). While Tree Walk explores the city’s tree wealth, Heritage Walk delves into its social, cultural, and architectural history. I’ve found these freewheeling walks to be a great way to discover facets and stories of the city that would otherwise pass right by us. Both tours usually start at 7 a.m. on Sunday mornings and, over a couple of hours, cover one of the city’s neighbourhoods. Though both walks typically happen at least once a month, they tend to be more frequent from December to April. (Details on future walks on Facebook pages: Tree Walk www.facebook.com/groups/115646138581706; Heritage Walk www.facebook.com/groups/heritagewalktvm)

No visit to Thiruvananthapuram is complete without admiring the Sree Padmanabhaswamy Temple, possibly the world’s wealthiest religious institution, and exploring the busy Fort neighbourhood around it. (Only Hindus allowed in the temple, which also has a dress code: men go bare chested wearing dhotis while women wear saris or dhotis wrapped over salwars. Dhotis are available on rent; footwear, cameras, mobile phones, bags, etc. not allowed inside the temple; )

A few hundred metres from the temple’s main entrance is the Kuthira Malika Palace, also called the Puthen Malika, which houses a museum of artefacts belonging to Travancore’s former royals. (No footwear allowed inside)

A Tree Walk at the Model School

For a further dose of history, art, and greenery, head to the tree-filled government museum complex that contains a couple of museums, a zoo, and an art gallery. At the very least, visit the eye-catching Napier Museum with its mélange of architectural styles and collection of archaeological and historical artefacts. (Open 10 a.m.-4.45 p.m. Tuesdays and Thursday-Sunday; 1-4.45 p.m. on Wednesdays; closed Mondays; entry adults Rs 10; children Rs 5; no cameras allowed.)

Next, stop at the nearby Sree Chitra Art Gallery to see paintings by Raja Ravi Varma and Nicholas and Svetoslav Roerich. (Open 10 a.m.-4.45 p.m. Tuesdays and Thursday-Sunday; 1-4.45 p.m. on Wednesdays; closed Mondays; entry adults Rs 20; children Rs 10; no cameras allowed.)

For a booster shot of history, head to the Keralam Museum of History and Heritage located opposite the main museum complex. The museum, which opened a few years ago, traces the region’s history and global connections across the ages. Its collection includes Neolithic stone axes, a jar and bowl used in Iron Age burials, Roman coins, and sculptures of bronze, wood, and stone. (Open 10 a.m.-5.30 p.m.; closed Mondays. and public holidays; entry adults Rs 20; children Rs 10; foreigners Rs 200.)

Round off a heritage-filled day with a mesmerising Kathakali or Koodiyattom performance at Margi, a cultural organisation that promotes Kerala’s classical performing art forms. Margi conducts regular Kathakali and Koodiyattom performances through the year, but when planning a visit, it’s best to give them a call to find out what’s on. (Tel: 0471-2478806/2473349/98470-99941.

The old Gods haven't fled

A sliver of Thiruvananthapuram's skyline on an overcast evening

This was posted on Kafila a few days ago.

On a morning not long ago, chaya cup in hand, I was getting my regular Kafila fix, when I paused mid-click. What caught my eye was a headline with ‘Gods, Own and Country’ in it. Now that combination of words could only mean one thing — a piece on Kerala. It helped though that right below the headline was a picture of a Kathakali artist in sthree vesham or female makeup.
So I dived right into the essay on Thiruvananthapuram by Professor Mohan Rao. The first couple of lines had me grinning with delight for he wrote of his “four wonderful days” in the city, one that’s been my home for much of the past three decades. 
I was so pleased by this that I skimmed the next few lines. Only to be stopped in my tracks, almost spilling some scalding chaya on myself in the process, by the Professor’s declaration that “… Ganesha is not a deity widely worshipped in Kerala.” 
Now I’m no expert in Hinduism, but I do know that my extended, and very Malayali, family used to perform a ‘Ganapathy homam’ on a number of specific occasions; before moving into a new house, for instance. And this has been going on for decades. I also remember that both my grandmothers had an image of Ganapathy in their personal pooja spaces. Just to make sure that I hadn’t got my wires crossed, I checked with a couple of Malayali Hindu friends who confirmed that Ganapathy and Ganapathy homams were an integral part of their families’ religious landscape too. 
In fact, virtually every temple I’ve been to across Kerala has invariably had a Ganapathy shrine within. Why, the Sree Padmanabhaswamy temple — arguably Thiruvananthapuram’s most well known place of worship — is home to the ‘Agrashala Ganapathy’. And around the corner from the Padmanabhaswamy temple is the ‘Pazhavangadi Maha Ganapathy Temple’. I believe it has been around for a couple of hundred years; since 1795 at the least. And for as long as I can remember, it is to Pazhavangadi Ganapathy that many Hindu denizens of the city, and from elsewhere, have turned to to smooth over obstacles or entreat a shot or two of good fortune.   

So why, I wondered, did the Professor believe that Ganesha is not “widely worshipped” in Kerala. And then it struck me — perhaps I had been misled all these years into believing that ‘Ganapathy’ is one of Ganesha’s several names!

At this point I decided that nourishment was required to fortify me to read the rest of the essay. Before I placed my order though, I took a few moments to toast the Professor for one of his inferences. He was on to something when he wrote: “Along the roads are posters of Ganesha, surrounded by saffron flags... Thus is the Shiva Sena announcing its presence in Kerala.”

In Thiruvananthapuram, over the past decade or so, Ganesha Chaturthi has evolved from a relatively low-key festival into a big, public celebration, with large Ganesha idols in temporary, road-side shrines and a procession to immerse the idols in the sea after 10 days of festivities. And yes, the Shiv Sena is possibly a major backer of this transformation. But is this cause for concern? I suspect not. For the Ganesha you encounter in Thiruvananthapuram is still a benevolent, lovable avatar. 

As I munched on some nibbles from Hotel Kavitha, my neighbourhood eatery, I learnt that the Professor had been struck by “the large number of vegetarian restaurants” in Thiruvananthapuram. So much so that he actually concluded: “While the local restaurants serving beef curry and appams also exist, they are clearly in a minority.” So astounding was this assessment about the sorry state of non-vegetarian cuisine in the city that I almost choked on my chicken kotthu parotta.

Yes, there are lots of vegetarian restaurants in the city. And yes, we enjoy the dosas and iddlis, puttu and kadala, chappathi and gobi 'manjoori' they dish out. But we love biryani, beef roast, fish curry, chilly chicken, chicken fry, shwarma and all those other delicious dishes that involve animals that were once alive, just as much.

Once again, I found myself wondering why! Why hadn’t the Professor spotted the scores of restaurants in Thiruvananthapuram, at various price points, that cater to our need for meat. In fact, if he’d ventured on to the city’s streets after sundown, he would have found it tough to dodge the ‘thattukadas’ that own the night with some of the best non-vegetarian cuisine in the city.

And for all the ‘arya’ named veggie restaurants that the Professor spotted, he appears to have missed the ones with ‘arul’, ‘saravana’ or ‘udupi’ worked into their names. This isn’t the “North Indian-Hinduisation of India” he believes it to be. It’s just clever restaurateurs trying to leverage the power of strong restaurant brands like Tamil Nadu’s Saravana Bhavan and Thiruvananthapuram’s own Ariya Nivas, which has been around for decades.

By now I found myself wondering whether the Professor had actually visited the city I live in. I know that residents often tend to overlook the familiar and that it is the visitor or outsider who notices things we take for granted. Yet, what was illuminating about the Professor’s essay was that he seemed to zero-in on some things, but was oblivious of other things that are equally, if not more, visible.

Let’s say I, like the Professor, had returned to Thiruvananthapuram after 30 years. What I’d probably notice is that so many men, let’s say ‘84 per cent’, seem to have eschewed mundus for trousers and jeans. But not the Professor, who was more struck that “The proportion of Mallu men without moustaches seems to have reached an unprecedented two per cent.”

Similarly, I’d notice the diversity of the clothes that women in the city now wear — more salwars, churidars, skirts and jeans. The Professor, though, declares: “Strikingly almost all Hindu women now wear bindis — hardly anyone did earlier — and a shockingly high proportion wear sindoors …” I don’t know about sindoor, but I did wonder how the Professor concluded that “all Hindu women” in the city wear bindis. I, for one, know many who don’t, just as I know many Christian women who do.

I empathise with the Professor’s discomfort at having to remove his footwear to enter the Sree Chitra Art Gallery and the Kuthira Malika Palace Museum (which he mistakenly calls the “museum of the Sri Chitra Thirunal Palace”). I couldn’t share his distress at this practice though, since I believe the ban on footwear in both institutions is about protecting their rather fragile, old floors. And we should try to take care of our heritage, shouldn’t we?  

As I worked my way towards the end of the Professor’s essay, I remembered the paragraph I’d skimmed over at the beginning. So I returned to the lead to read about the “thick lush greenness everywhere” that the Professor saw from his seventh-floor hotel room. Something I won’t quibble with — Thiruvananthapuram is certainly greener than many other Indian cities, with fewer high rises marking its skyline.

But then, the good Professor gave me another jolt, declaring there are “Hardly any high rises, an occasional mosque, temple or church rising above the green.” This is a bit of a stretch. From my seventh floor apartment it’s not “an occasional mosque, temple or church rising above the green” I see, but regular lines of apartment towers and commercial buildings sprouting out of the green to the north, south and west. And yes, the eastern reaches of the city are relatively greener, but even there I spot more concrete fingers breaking through the green every few months.  

The Professor’s next observation, though, was a sucker-punch. “But not that many apartment blocks,” he wrote, “Unlike Bangalore, the ones that have come up are not named Malibu Towers or Sacramento, but Revi Apartments.” While he is right that Thiruvananthapuram has fewer apartment complexes than Bangalore, not all of them are named like the ‘Revi Apartments’ he encountered. On one stretch of road I know rather well are a ‘Melody’, ‘Symphony’, ‘Alpine Heights’ and ‘Marigold’. And elsewhere in the city you’ll find a ‘Wimbledon’, ‘Carlton’, ‘Tivoli’, ‘Swiss Town’, ‘Kingswood’ and ‘Mayfair’. The Professor is spot-on about one thing though — there’s no Malibu Towers or Sacramento in Thiruvananthapuram. Yet.

And no, the old Gods haven’t fled. They’ve just retreated to the shadows to allow the new demi-Gods their time to Trend or be Liked.

Lord of light

The Sri Padmanabhaswamy temple lit up during the lakshadeepam of 2008

For a long heartbeat it seemed as if all the light in the world had cascaded around me. It was warm, benign light; just the sort of radiance you’d expect from a spiritual experience. And so it was — my first ever lakshadeepam at Thiruvananthapuram’s Sri Padmanabhaswamy temple.
Though I’ve lived in Thiruvananthapuram for 25-plus years, I’ve actually attended only one lakshadeepam, in 1996. And but for that feast of light, there’s little I recall of the occasion.
Celebrated once every six years, the lakshadeepam or lighting of a hundred thousand lamps is among the temple’s most important festivals. Preceded by the murajapam — the ritualistic chanting of prayers in turns by a large group of Brahmins — the lakshadeepam is one of those ‘experiences of a lifetime’.
In A History of Travancore P. Shungoonny Menon writes that the lakshadeepam and murajapam rituals were first performed by Karthaveerarjuna, “one of the Kshatria King(s) of a former age”. The first murajapam and lakshadeepam in more recent times were conducted by Marthanda Varma, possibly Travancore’s mightiest ruler. While the first murajapam was conducted in 1747, it did not end with the lakshadeepam; that happened three years later in 1750. In the 264 years since then, the lakshadeepam and murajapam have continued without a break, every six years.

The eastern approach to the Sri Padmanabhaswamy
temple during the lakshadeepam of 2008

Then as now, the ritual is intended to bring peace and prosperity to the region and its people. The murajapam involves the chanting of three Vedas — the Rig, Yajur and Sama — in a specific cycle and also chanting the Vishnu Sahasranaman or thousand names of Vishnu. The 56-day-long ritual culminates in the lakshadeepam, when a hundred thousand lamps, possibly more, are lit across the temple and its precincts.

Over the past few decades, some aspects of the lakshadeepam have been tweaked to suit changing circumstances. Electric lights have replaced some of the oil lamps used for the lakshadeepam, especially in the outer regions of the temple. Similarly, the temple is now lit not only on the actual day of the lakshadeepam, but also for several days afterwards. And from this year on, there will be another, rather visible, change — high levels of security. For this is the first lakshadeepam to be held after it was publicly revealed that that the temple is the repository of a substantial trove.

What hasn’t changed though is the essence of this unique festival of light. And as dusk falls on January 14, the Sri Padmanabhaswamy temple will be enfolded in a very special radiance.

God’s gold

Everything has changed. In the space of a week, Thiruvananthapuram’s Sri Padmanabhaswamy temple has gone from being one of India’s important Vishnu temples, to arguably the world’s wealthiest religious institution. And Thiruvananthapuram has suddenly become the centre of global attention. 

For years, it’s been hinted that the temple was the repository of a vast trove. But there was little to substantiate this.

Now though all those tales of untold riches seemed to have come true. For the committee appointed by India’s Supreme Court to inspect the temple’s vaults and prepare an inventory of their contents, appears to have found a king’s ransom of gold, silver and precious stones. While estimates of the value of this trove are rising every day, it is important to remember that we can only speculate about its value at the moment because:

• The details of the inventory are not in the public domain, yet. 
• It’s not just the intrinsic value of the artefacts that counts. It’s also their value as antiques, and this may be more challenging to figure out. 

Time will, of course, bring greater clarity to the many questions that the discovery has raised. It is especially important though that great thought and care are applied to the decisions being taken on the future of the trove. For it is without doubt a national treasure.

For the moment though, let us marvel at the fact that even in the 21^st Century, there are treasures hidden in the heart of urban India. What other treasures do India’s cities hide?

PS: A post on the temple's Painkuni festival and another on its Navarathri festival

Vision in white

It’s rather hard to miss the St Joseph’s Metropolitan Cathedral when you pass through the Palayam neighbourhood in Thiruvananthapuram. The church’s bell tower, which looms benignly over the area, can be seen from some distance away.

For many years, the Cathedral was clad in red livery — a distinctive, red-brick-like finish. And the statue of Jesus, at the very top of the tower, was enveloped in robes of silver.

Popularly known as the Palayam palli or church, the 137-year-old St Joseph’s Metropolitan Cathedral was on Pope John Paul II’s itinerary when he visited the city in 1986.

Earlier this month, the Cathedral reopened its doors to worshippers after extensive restoration. Painted a dazzling white, with the statue of Jesus clad in robes of gold, the church is a beacon of light, especially at night.

Though the church’s new livery is striking, it does feel a little strange not to see the familiar brick-red finish when you pass through Palayam. But, it seems, that the original colour of the church was white and the brick-like finish was apparently painted on in the late 1920s, say these stories in The Hindu and the New Indian Express.

Whatever its colour though, the Cathedral along with its neighbouring places of worship — the Palayam Juma Masjid and the Palayam Ganesha temple add to the area’s spiritual energy.

Vampire tales

A Raktharakshas poster

A few weeks ago I attended my first Malayalam theatre performance in a really long time. It was a modernised version of Kalanilayam Drama Vision’s popular production Raktharakshas.

Roughly translated as vampire, Raktharakshas exemplifies popular Malayalam theatre from a couple of decades ago — over emoting actors, pancake-like make up and slapstick dialogues that ooze sexual innuendo. And while the play appears to have been souped-up and shortened to suit the tastes of present-day audiences, it doesn’t seem to have lost any of its original qualities; the dialogues, for example, are still laden with lots of nudge-nudge, wink-wink.

Early this April, the play — directed by Krishnan Nair, the founder of Kalanilayam Drama Vision and written by Jagathy N. K. Achary — returned to Trivandrum after a couple of decades. It, perhaps, has pole position in the company’s repertoire, which includes popular production such as Kadamattathu Kathanar, Kayamkulam Kochunni, Sri Guruvayurappan and Naradan Keralathil.

Waiting for the curtain to go up

As a story, Raktharakshas is ho-hum at best. Where it really stands out though is for its stagecraft, which must have been pretty revolutionary back when it was first performed. Devices like a revolving stage — that made it possible to use real cars as props and also eliminate the time lag between scenes — or a ‘trolley shot’ for extra effect were arguably trailblazers in Malayalam theatre.

In its new run, Raktharakshas retains these touches, but also features a re-worked soundtrack and “dynamic visual effects” as this piece in The Hindu says. And though some visual effects seem a trifle rudimentary, I suspect that even today Raktharakshas is pretty innovative in its use of technology, at least in the Malayalam theatre world.

While it may no longer give people sleepless nights with its brand of horror, Raktharakshas still seems to be able to draw them in. On a weekday night in late-April, the show I attended was about 80 per cent full and there were long queues waiting to enter the makeshift theatre for the second show. And weekend shows were pretty much a sell out I gather. I guess, more than anything else, what Raktharakshas’ apparently good run in Trivandrum shows is that there’s still a place for old-fashioned theatre in the rich spread of entertainment options that exist today.

When heroes visit

I’m walking towards the eastern entrance of the Padmanabhaswamy temple in Thiruvananthapuram and towering over me are five figures draped in billowing red robes. The Pandavas have stopped by on their annual visit to Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala’s capital.

In March/April every year, the Padmanabhaswamy temple celebrates the Painkuni utsavam, one of its two major festivals. And every year, the imposing figures of the five Pandavas are erected during the 10-day festival. Once made of wood, the fibreglass figures are an integral part of Painkuni utsavam.

In Sree Padmanabha Swamy Temple, Gouri Lakshmi Bayi of the royal family of Travancore writes that the figures of the Pandavas are put up to ward off rain during the festival. The belief, she adds, is that the figure of Arjuna, believed to be the son of the rain god Indra, is especially useful to keep the rains away. Which is why the Painkuni utsavam is sometimes also called the 'pancha Pandava utsavam' or the festival of the five Pandavas.

While the figures of Yudhishtira, Bhima and Arjuna are large, those of Nakula and Sahadeva are smaller, with Sahadeva’s being the smallest. A nod, perhaps, to each brother’s place in the Pandava pecking order.

The figures are a big draw, even today. People gather around them; some gawk, some take pictures, while some touch the feet of each idol and whisper a prayer.

The Padmanabhaswamy temple itself is, arguably, the spiritual heart of Thiruvananthapuram. The presiding deity — Padmanabhaswamy — is an avatar of Vishnu and the idol in the temple is carved in the anananthasayanam posture; in which Vishnu is depicted reclining on the serpent Anantha. It is, in fact, believed that the name Thiruvananthapuram is derived from Ananthapuram or ‘the city of the one who reclines on Anantha’. The temple also has smaller shrines dedicated to Narasimha, Krishna and Ganesha.

For centuries, Padmanabhaswamy was the spiritual overlord of the erstwhile kingdom of Travancore. But in 1750, the deity also became the temporal overlord of the kingdom when Marthanda Varma, the then ruler of Travancore, literally handed over the keys of the kingdom to Padmanabhaswamy. Since then, the Kings of Travancore have described themselves as ‘Padmanabha dasas’ or servants of Lord Padmanabha and ruled in his stead.

Located bang in the middle of the city’s frenzied ‘fort’ area, a stone’s throw away from the always-busy arterial MG Road, the temple radiates tranquillity. The sight of the temple, especially the view of it across its pond, is like popping a serenity pill — the heart, dust, automobile fumes and the din from the roads around simply melts away.

While the temple celebrates many festivals, two big annual events are the 10-day Alpashi and Painkuni utsavams; the first held in October/November. Like the Alpashi utsavam, the Painkuni utsavam also ends with the Arat ceremony. During the Arat, processional idols of Padmanabhaswamy, Krishna and Narasimha are taken in a splendid parade and immersed in the sea off Thiruvananthapuram before being brought back to the temple.

An interesting aspect of the Arat procession is that it wends its way from the temple to the seashore by taking the most direct route, which involves passing through the city’s airport. Even today, the Thiruvananthapuram airport’s flight operations are paused while the Arat procession passes through the airport.

What also makes the Arat unique is the strong spirit of religious harmony that enfolds it, particularly as it passes through Vallakadavu, a Muslim-dominated neighbourhood. Residents of the area line the road to catch a glimpse of the procession. The most moving sight though, is that of the boys from the Vallakadavu Muslim orphanage lining-up outside the orphanage to see the Arat go by.