Vembu went to his usual spot at the Maniyachchi Railway Station platform and placed his basket there. He picked up a small table from the station master’s office. Spreading a white cloth over the table, he placed the leaves on it. Then, he took the Kadambur poli from the basket, and began arranging them on top of the leaves.

As he went about setting up for the day, Vembu began humming a tune in the mohana ragam. There was a good half hour for the first train to arrive when he returned to the office with his empty poli basket. Vembu was still lost in the beauty of the ragam, when he sensed that someone was walking towards him. The visitor was waving his hand.

The visitor was Periya Arunachalam. He belonged to the music troupe of virtuoso Karukurichi Arunachalam. Both men played the nagaswaram, the wind instrument whose auspicious music reverberates at Hindu weddings and temple festivals throughout South India.

Both Arunachalams were from the town of Karukurichi. They were like brothers, Periya Arunachalam being the elder brother. Both men loved the Kadambur poli and were willing to travel any distance by train if they could snack on this sweet delicacy. Thanks to them, the entire music troupe was addicted to Vembu’s poli.

Whenever Arunachalam passed through Maniyachchi railway station en route to a concert, a boy from his troupe would burst forth from the first-class compartment. Upon seeing him, Vembu would begin packing the poli in the leaves, very generously. As soon as the boy reached the spot, Vembu would transfer the parcel into his hands, and urge him back to Arunachalam’s compartment, saying “Run de! Run!”

Each time Vembu pulled off this seamless relay, he would lose part of his weekly income from the sale of polis. He knew his wife Sundari would make up for the deficit somehow. Even if she couldn’t, Vembu would not have dreamed of accepting money from Arunachalam, the pride of Tirunelveli District. Before Arunachalam arrived on the scene like a gandharva, the neighboring Thanjavur District of Tamilnadu had been synonymous with Carnatic music.

Wherever Arunachalam played the nagaswaram in the Tirunelveli District—at the Tiruchendur Pacchaisaathi, the festival at Tirukurungudi, or at Suseentharam’s Aaram Thirunal—Vembu would be there. However dense the crowds, Arunachalam would somehow sense Vembu’s presence, and invite him to come sit in the first row. Vembu could even lay down his life for that gesture. Why, he got goosebumps just thinking about it! Can mere poli recompense for that kind of respect?

And this morning, surprisingly, Periya Arunachalam was there, ahead of the train. 

“Tonight, we have a concert at Ottapidaram. When he saw the signs for Maniyachchi on the way, he remembered you,” Periya Arunachalam said, referring, of course, to Karukurichi Arunachalam. “That's why we are here. The car is waiting outside.”

Vembu hastily packed some poli and rushed outside. Seeing him, Arunachalam got out of his Plymouth car.

“I did not know about tonight’s concert at Ottapidaram,” Vembu said, holding out the parcel, “I will be there!”

“Iyerwal! I have been wanting to talk to you about something for months now,” said Arunachalam, ignoring the parcel. “This can’t go on.”

Vembu had no idea what Arunachalam was talking about.

“Every time our boy comes over, you give him the parcel of poli and chase him away. You never let him pay. Once in a while, this is alright. But you shouldn’t be making a habit of it, right?”

Vembu smiled.

“If you refuse money, I won't take the polis from you anymore.”

Vembu continued to smile.

“After hearing you play the bhairavi ragam and huseini ragam, people will happily bequeath their entire fortunes to you, but all I have to offer is this poli,” he said. “Listening to you play the nagaswaram every month is such a treat to these ears! I really don’t need any other payment.”

“This won’t do,” said Arunachalam adamantly.

“So, I have to take something from you. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“I don't want money. Can I ask for something else?”

Arunachalam immediately said, “Ask for whatever you want. The answer is yes.”

“Think before you agree. You shouldn't back out later,” Vembu said as if he was bargaining with a child.

“I have already thought about it! Just tell me what you want.”

“In this Tirunelveli district, there is hardly a town where you have not performed. But in the twenty-five years since you started playing, we have not had a single concert of yours in Maniyachchi. Music from your nagaswaram should flow like a river in my hometown. If that happens, just once, I will die a happy man.”

Arunachalam, who did not at all expect such a request, acquiesced readily. “Consider it done. I will come to your house and play the nagaswaram.”

“No! No!” said Vembu, shaking his head vigorously.

A vision unfolded before his eyes. Thousands of fans sitting in the pandal, listening to Arunachalam play on a big stage.

“On the day of Sankatahara Chaturthi, I would like you to play at the Station Pillaiyar Temple,” Vembu said. He handed the parcel to Arunachalam and started back toward the platform.

Vembu felt triumphant, like he had conquered the world. “Moodhis! People who do not know how to cherish this musician, this precious jewel, that has been given to us. What is the use of their wealth?” he thought, “The way he plays improvisations of the abhogi ragam, and lands tenderly on madhyamam, the fourth note, as if he were caressing it, if the listener cannot nod along in appreciation and say, yes, oh my goodness, yes—what is even the point of being born human?” he asked himself

When Vembu woke up the next morning, he realized the magnitude of the task he had undertaken.

True, Arunachalam had agreed to perform without a fee, but there were so many other outlays: a stage for the performer, a pandal for the listeners, rental loudspeakers. Rental chairs to seat the many dignitaries who will show up for an Arunachalam concert. And if not a full feast, at least, a fistful of sundal for people to snack on?

The thought of all these expenses made Vembu dizzy. If he settles the poli account for the week, that will leave him with thirty-five rupees in hand. How can one organize a concert with that kind of money?

Vembu met the townspeople he knew and told them what he had planned. But if the residents of Maniyachchi were the kind who would pitch in to make the event a success, surely, the town would have hosted an Arunachalam concert by now ! Most people gave him nothing. Hearing the name of the legend, some shelled out five rupees, a few parted with ten rupees. In all, Vembu managed to collect one hundred and fifty rupees.

There were only four days left until Sankatahara Chaturthi. Vembu did his utmost, but all this running around did not amount to much.

“Even though Arunachalam will refuse any payment I offer, I cannot possibly send him off empty-handed. I need another five hundred rupees to make this a halfway decent success,” Vembu thought. He sighed as he entered his house.

After dinner, Vembu's wife gave him an envelope. It contained four hundred rupees. “Where did this money come from?” Even before Vembu could finish his question, Sundari pointed to the turmeric-yellow twine she was wearing around her neck, in place of her gold wedding ornament.

“The thaali was the only bit of gold you had left.” Vembu said reproachfully. “How could you pawn that, Sundari?”

“What use is gold if it cannot help even at a time like this?” Sundari asked, calmly and reasonably. “I saw you suffer this entire week and just could not take it anymore.”

Vembu took her hands and gently interlaced his fingers with hers.

At 6 o’clock, on the evening of Sankatahara Chaturthi, Arunachalam arrived in his car. His musical troupe, including Periya Arunachalam, Perumapallam Venkatesan, and Ambasamudram Kuzhandhaivelu, got off their van. Vembu welcomed Arunachalam and led him to the Station Pillaiyar shrine. The priest performed a puja and honored all the members of the troupe.

There was a huge crowd in the pandal. Fans had gathered from many towns – Sankarankoil, Kazhugumalai, Kalakadu, Kadayanallur, Surandai, Ettayapuram, and Puliyankulam. As soon as Arunachalam took the stage, applause filled the air.

Vembu sat in the first row directly opposite Arunachalam. He began whetting the audience’s appetite with gowla ragam.

Arunachalam began a recital of a kriti, a musical composition, titled “Pranamamyaham.” The tempo he had picked was like lightning! The thavil player accompanied him like a charging stallion. The atmosphere was electric as the musicians improvised for well over fifteen minutes.

Vembu was transfixed.

When that song ended, Vembu turned around and looked at the audience. There were so many people. Even if they had paid one rupee per head, Sundari’s thaali could have easily been spared.

Next, Arunachalam began playing a devotional song in the karnataka behag ragam. Nenendu Vethugudura. “Where will I search for you?” the opening lyric rang out beseechingly. The tenderness with which Arunachalam rendered Vethugudura ineffably stirred Vembu. It was as if all the weariness of wandering around in a futile quest had been distilled into that single word. Vethugudura. Search for you.

“It's true, isn’t it? How would I find Him? If God was someone who would show up heeding my entreaty, would He have put me in this situation? My wife had to pawn her thaali to make this concert possible,” Vembu thought. “He will not show up for me.”

Vembu’s eyes welled up at this sense of being forsaken. As Arunachalam played on, he buried his face in his long scarf and wept. But after a few minutes, a great weight seemed to be lifted from his mind. He began to focus on the music again.

The ragam being showcased that day was karaharapriya. When Arunachalam started exploring the ragam in the upper register, time itself came to a standstill. He sent out swirls of notes from the nagaswaram, one after the other, with what seemed like supernatural breath. As each swirl emerged, it rose and unfurled into a single flower, mid-air. The sound of Arunachalam’s own breath, hastily drawn in, was the slender, supple thread stringing all these flowers together. At the end of this improvisatory spell, it was as if a splendid garland had been created for the benign God who loomed over them.

When Arunachalam began playing this kriti, Vembu’s heart was cleansed. “Yes, oh my goodness! Yes!” exclaimed Vembu, nodding along. His very soul was lost in the appreciation of the music.

The concert went on for two more hours. Arunachalam asked Vembu to come closer.

“We are playing at a wedding muhurtham in Erode tomorrow. If we leave now, we can catch the night train. Do we have your permission to leave?” Arunachalam asked, with folded hands.

“Aaha! Aaha!” said Vembu, clasping Arunachalam's fingers, and nodding yes. The music had rendered him all but speechless.

The priest performed one last ritual, for the Station Pillaiyar. Arunachalam played the mangalam, and the concert ended.

-----------------

While the troupe was busy packing up their instruments, the dignitaries and fans flocked around Arunachalam.

The artists made their way to the station. A boy from Hotel Chandra Vilas had brought food for the troupe and was waiting near the first-class compartment.

The train arrived at the platform, as if it too had been waiting for Arunachalam.

Arunachalam boarded the carriage and sat by the window. Vembu stood outside, his hands on the bars of the window.

“Iyerwal! Are you satisfied?” Arunachalam asked.

“If Yama comes for me now, I will happily go with him!” Vembu said, holding out a cloth bag for Arunachalam.

The cloth bag contained fruits and flowers, prasadam from the temple. Beneath that, Vembu had placed a small envelope with one hundred rupees.

If he gave Arunachalam the bag after he boarded the train, there would be little chance for him to discover, or turn down, the hidden honorarium. 

Arunachalam accepted the bag without protest.

The train was about to leave the station.

“Iyerwal! I went to Tiruchendur yesterday. I have brought you prasadam from the temple.” Arunachalam gave Vembu a small bag.

As soon as Vembu took the bag, the train started moving. He put his hands together in fond farewell.

When the carriage was out of sight, Vembu started walking outside, towards the road.

He opened the small bag Arunachalam had given him. It contained the ilai vibuthi, leaf-wrapped sacred ash, from the Tiruchendur temple. Vembu wanted to smear some of this ash on his forehead.

When he put his hand inside the bag, his fingers touched something cold and metallic. What was this? What can it possibly be?

Vembu fished the object out to take a closer look.

There it was—Sundari's thaali.