Nadodi

My writing life began with a walk on the beach. It was 34 Celsius in the shade the tide was out and in the sweat and scorch, I was aging. I took shelter in a church that had stained glass, the hard wooden pew sawed at my bones. I was tired, I slept, I awoke when my head fell. 'Is it evening?' I asked a fellow straggler. He was pissed and he smelled. 'It is yesterday,' he said, pointing behind me. I staggered out, my heels hurting, past the huge wooden door. The breeze hit me, the sea sand swirled, it settled in my hair and sandals. Chappals lined the car parks on the Marina as families walked barefoot towards the water. It was a calling in Chennai, an irresistible urge, to walk towards the Bay of Bengal, look at the endless waves, and feel the sand recede below the water. A boxy kite stood still in the sky, crows hopped between packets, and a tennis ball landed near me. 'Uncle,' shouted a child.

A radio was playing old Tamil songs. It was perched on a handcart, and the owner had bad teeth. I had no memory of the songs being played. My jukebox began when the songs weren't coy, even if the women pretended to be. An enduring image floated past of a thespian called Sivaji Ganesan cycling through fields, a free spirit, whistling as he rode past coconut trees and ponds. I was old as he was, my corporate life was at a crossroads, in that moment I was restless.

I swear, standing near a golden statue on Marina Beach, wondering why golden, this was where the idea of being a writer was born. I wanted to spend my remaining life as a writer, a man who wandered, a nomad searching worlds that challenged him, profound and aimless. In the local language, I would be a nadodi, like Sivaji Ganesan.

The beach sand was warm and sharp, the light still harsh, I shaded my watering eyes shifting from one foot to the other. I was content, I had a purpose. Chennai and Mumbai would be my grazing ground for stories.

There was a large family, only women from three generations, two grannies in heavy sarees, three middle-aged, and some children. There was so much they had to say to each other as they spread a sheet on the sand, anchored it with tiffin carriers, and sat heavily while the breeze rustled through their oiled hair. Who drove the car they came in? Which community was this? I liked to spot caste and community looking at their dress, hearing their words, and sniffing what they ate. Could I make a living from it?

And then I spotted her, my lead character, she looked worried, something was bothering her, the man she was with was attentive, he was trying. I sensed a beginning, it was a familiar pattern where unconnected events came together. I followed the couple with uncommon anticipation. This was it, this was real-time, years of my life hung in the balance. Would this be a worthy story?

Somewhere between these disparate elements, a story took hold of an artist and his neighbor in a nearby suburb called Cholamandalam. That story turned into a full-blown novel called Artist Undone.