My mother, as most mothers are, is the reigning queen of melodrama and a master of exaggeration. Nothing she says could be taken in without a whole packet of salt. There are several instances to demonstrate her specific skill, but this one would remain etched in my memory for a long time as being her 'ultimate' contribution to the noble art of storytelling.
Central Kerala, from where I hail, is particularly popular for a temple named 'Chottanikkara Devi temple', which houses the Goddess in two forms; benign and fury. Every year, following the Malayalam calendar, the Goddess celebrates the height of her power on a particular day. This day is termed as 'Chottanikkara Makam'. To say that the temple would be crowded on this day would be an understatement. In the ocean of humans from various part of the state, people lose their jewelry, footwear, wallets, hair wigs, dentures and children. The more prudent ones settle down to visit the temple on a less important day when Goddess would be more accessible. But the diehard believers ignore the crowd and cry out loud to their Goddess, hoping their steadfastness would impress her more and earn them more blessings than their fellow men.
I have never considered going to this temple on this particular day, though for all other purposes, it is my favorite place of worship. I was married there, my children had their 'Annaprasham' (first mouthful of rice) in front of Goddess and as a firm believer, I am indebted to Goddess for all the good things in my life and would happily drive to the place on any day. But no, not on ‘Chottanikkara Makam'. Especially after the scary story my mother once shared.
I do not know if my mother has met Devakiamma, the protagonist of this incident, not that it mattered to her. Devakiamma is my grandmother's dearest friend. Gran was a strong devotee of Goddess, as was her friend. In one of those moments, which you might later be tempted to erase from the memory, Gran and Devakiamma decided to visit the Goddess on her glory day. Those were the times when females of Kerala wore a saree once they reached the age of 18 or when their breasts were sufficiently noticeable, whichever came first. Devakiamma, at the prime of her age, decided to show off the maroon silk saree that her husband had bought her from Mysore while seeking the grace of Goddess. With grandiose expectations, she squeezed herself into the crowd, taking care of the saree and also counting the number of jealous eyes that she imagined, were falling on her.
In the crowd, between the pushes and pulls, Devakiamma's saree slipped off her chest, revealing her ample bosom beneath the blouse. She realized it a few seconds later, when more eyes were on her breasts than on the sanctum. Realizing her folly, she blushed, and pulled the saree over her and wrapped it tight, avoiding further wardrobe malfunctions.
That is all about the story and would have remained so if my Grandmother had not shared it with my mother, who dictated it fancifully to every woman she came into contact with.
I heard it first in a tea room chat with my paternal aunt who suggested that we visit the temple on the big day. “Oh Chechi!” said mother, “Don't even think about it, listen to a real incident that happened to my mother's friend when they visited the place”. And she started…
As Devakiamma was completely immersed in praying, she didn't realize the saree falling off her chest. The tip of the saree got hooked to the shirt button of a man standing near her and when he walked away, the saree went with him. He disappeared in the crowd and when moments later, she opened her eyes, Devakiamma found that she was standing in her underskirt and blouse and nothing else. In fear she looked around and found a flash of maroon somewhere in the ocean of bodies. Crying out loudly 'Deviiiiiiiiiiiii', she grabbed the inch of cloth showing out and pulled and pulled it until she got her saree back. She thanked the Goddess for saving her honor and continued praying.
When I asked my mom how Devakiamma had managed to drape the saree again with all the people around or what my Grandmother's response at this point were, she acted deaf and moved to juicier topics.
Subsequently, depending on how imaginative and vengeful she was, mother tore Devakiamma's saree into 2 pieces, made the men around her grab her breasts and got her into a public bus in her undergarments when she could not find her saree.
I still don't know how much of her saree Devakiamma actually lost in the crowd on that day.
When the cloth is 6 meters long, the possibilities are endless.
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