She had stopped eating meals long ago. She only ate curd and palm jaggery.

Govindappa Nayakkar always thrilled at the touch of those thin, shaky hands. Sometimes it even brought tears to his eyes.

‘What day is it today? What star?’ she’d ask him. Her memory was a bit scrabbled. Perhaps because she mistook the day for night and slept or because she confused the night for day and stayed awake.

She had narrated several wonderful tales of her youth, beauty and experiences. There were many more she was yet to tell. Govindappa Nayakkar loved to listen to her stories; he’d ask for his favourite ones to be retold. The old woman was an ocean of experiences.

When the Kammas left Andhra and migrated to Tamil Nadu, she came along with them. When she told stories about those days and the trials her people had had to face, sometimes she’d become emotional and cry. There were incidents that made her weep or laugh aloud. At times she’d raise her folded hands high and begin to sing. At once people around would leave quietly. Her storytelling for that day was done.

6

THE KAMMAS WEREN’T THE ONLY ones to leave Andhra and come here. There were Reddys, Kambalathars, Chettys, Brahmins, goldsmiths and cobblers who came over too. There were many reasons for their migration.

Some came over because Telugu rajas ruled here for some time, others came seeking jobs, and some for fear of the Muslim rulers.

The Kambalathars got their name because of the long earrings that the womenfolk wore which dragged down their earlobes, says Mangaiathaar Ammal.

She also has an ancient tale of their origin. There was once a demoness on the hills of Nagarjuna. A brave, handsome Brahmin man subdued her, hooked her nose with a crook and dragged her to his home. Since she was dragged so, she wore the crook as her ornament. That’s why the women of the community still wore the crook as a nose ornament.

‘Tell me once more about your people leaving Andhra,’ Govindappa Nayakkar would ask her, not for the first time. He could listen to this story any number of times.

Mangaiathaar Ammal should have been a poet. Govindappa Nayakkar and Akkayya would discuss her way of viewing things and her ability to narrate them for hours. She too loved being the raconteur. And that was the only thing she could do at her age.

When Govindappa Nayakkar would ask her this, Mangaiathaar Ammal’s smiling face would darken. Her eyes would contract and she’d stop focusing on anything in front of her and gaze back at some faraway memory. Then slowly she’d brighten up, then again dissolve into her emotions, clear her throat and begin her narration.

‘My cousin, Chennadevi, was six years older than me. I was nine then. Govindappa, I am so old, but I am yet to see such a beauty again. Wherever Chennadevi was, things would sparkle around her. Maybe because she was born on full moon night, she had this sheen.