Deeper dialogues from margins

Chennai Kalai Theruvizhas Porombokkiyal is about making new conversations and gaining knowledge that one can probably find inside the walls of classrooms. The learning Community at Quest geared up on Sunday, September 28, with its spirits high rare artefacts and tools from the rural pockets of Tamil Nadu arrayed near the entrance, photographs paraded with pride on the walls, with caption My happy place, the stairs and chairs filled with curious audience. Porombokkiyal 2025 consisted of four conversations and a play. From the grit of palm tree climbers, the persistence of fisherfolks, the unapologetic lives of forest dwellers, the diligence behind percussions, and the young voices of North Chennai, the event was about learning and unlearning, about perspectives. The Palmyra: Tapping the Tree of Plenty (D Pandian and Pa Harris Karishma, in conversation with J Prasanth) After 2015s drought, when D Pandian was surrounded only by parched lands and dried up wells, he turned to palm trees, which not only were a repository of medicinal properties, but became his source of his livelihood. He started making small products out of the trees and brought them from his village in Villupuram district to Chennai. While he started to climb palms when he was 37, his daughter Pa Harris Karishma started it early when she was in class 7. I got used to it, I found my ways to grab the tree the right way. We believe that trees react to our touch, talk, and presence. The father-daughter duo knows the trees in and out. They explained that toddy, karupatti (palm jaggery), palm sugar, padhaneer (palm nectar), pana kizhangu maavu (palm sprout powder), are some of the main produces from the tree. They also make knives from the palm stalk. More than a strong body, we need a strong heart to climb a palm tree, Pandian said. While the conversation was filled with humour and folklore, and the stories they grew up hearing, they also spoke about navigating their way. Palm toddy can be extracted only for six months a year. January is when the male trees blossom and then we begin tapping and go on for four months. By April, we get nungu (ice apple), and by July, we get tubers; and we make thread out of palm tubers. We then harvest palm tubers and sell them. So the cycle of life revolves around the palm tree for all of us, he said. While toddy production is seen as a sin, post the ban since 1986, panaiyeris (climbers) were seen as criminals; they were often jailed upon false charges. More than the physical toil, the greatest oppression is this, Pandian said. Answering if temples dont use palm sugar intentionally, he explained that until the 14th century, palm sugar was used in temples, and there is evidence on stone inscriptions. But it was excluded after the Vijayanagara Empire came to power. The reason could be them associating other palm products with toddy. They consider palm as theetu (a ritualistic pollution). The history has ruthless records of vilification and marginalisation, and many were forced to leave this work, but Pandian asserted that he wanted to revive this dying trade. Whatte Karuvaadu: Women, Labour and the Sea (S Saratha and V Thangamani, in conversation with K Saravanan and Dhaarani) My husband goes at 3 am to fish, and if the waters are choppy, he stays in there for some time to avoid the coastal waves, leaving us anxious, said S Saratha. Quite often, the fish tumbles and slips off, and he has to heave it up. But after all the toil, he brings the days catch to Saratha. And then the process of karuvaadu making begins. Karuvaadu trade is not as yielding as the fresh fish, but needs a lot of care. Sarathas day begins by feeding the dogs and crows, she then has her morning tea and then starts cleaning the dry fish. The fish is thoroughly cleansed, and stringed through the eyes, and stretched them on poles on the beach. Till they are wilted and crispy, they take care of the fish from crows. This is their sole livelihood. She said, If my husband doesnt go, I buy from others on auction and resell them. I have faced losses too, but somehow make up for it on other days. I take loans to keep it going, and when auction-bought fish dont sell, I turn them into dry fish. For V Thangamani, the challenge is the high input cost. The cleaning process takes her almost six hours. We auction fish and then buy what we need. If unsold, we add ice and sell; if it doesnt, we make dry fish. While she has to prepare food at home, she keeps someone else to watch over the fish kept for drying on the beach. They say, Our lives are tied to Urur-Olcott Kuppam; we live and work in poromboke land, and thats our only land. The wide stretch of beach is the only place they dry the fish, and fellow karuvaadu sellers fight for the limited space. That is another challenge they encounter during the making. Saravanan added to the experiences, My aunts make karuvaadu for living. The dry fish basket is so heavy to carry around that it bleeds ones fingers. The karuvaadu makers said that the government is building new harbours, and other developments affect them. As years go by, coastal poromboke lands are taken away by advancing coastlines, eroding beaches, constructions, etc. Offering settlements is never a solution for their problems. They [the government] dont understand that our livelihoods are tied to this very coastal land, and we are nothing when displaced forcefully. They have lived through atrocities like the Tsunami, but what they say is, The coast is our life. Sacred Poromboke: Irula Gatherers and Divine Rituals (Kannamal Soriyan and Pappal Jikkan, in conversation with Uma Maheshwari) Far from the reach of the so-called development, Irulas dwell on the lush green hills of Maruthamalai. Reaping the gifts of the forests, Kannamal Soriyan and Pappal Jikkan from the community gave glimpses from their everyday lives. In 2003, they fought for their rights to pick grass from the Coimbatore range, stopping others from taking tenders to exploit the resources. With grit and pride, this duo said that they will fight if someone tries to usurp their land. They say that there is a risk of them being cheated by forging and coercing signatures. But we will never give our lands. When asked why they didnt want to live in the lower terrain, they said that they have a cleaner terrain and a unique life there. They have their own way to communicate with wild animals, and even to keep themselves safe. They eke out a living by harvesting seeemar pul (which they say is in high demand), kadukkai , and nellikkai . The hills have several species of long grass like vaalam pul , beecham pul , too. Kannamal and Pappal answered every question with humorous stories and songs very close to nature, as if they were conveying information integral to the forest. Unbothered by the fast-paced consumerist life, as they braided the long leaves to make a broom, and showed it to the audience, they sang songs in a language, crude mix of Kannada and Tamil. These songs were passed onto them by their ancestors they were also a way to understand the life around them. They concluded, When the next generation doesnt sing them up, the folklore and the stories behind them are all lost forever. Dead Beat: How to Make Leather Sing! (Antony Sowriyar,in conversation with TM Krishna and Praveen Sparsh) The audience was in for a musical treat not a performance, but an in-depth journey into the making of the traditional musical instrument of south India itself. Antony Sowriyar, a third-generation mridangam maker from Thanjavur, took the stage in conversation with singer and festival organiser TM Krishna, assisted by mridangam artiste Praveen Sparsh. Together, they offered a rare glimpse into a craft where tradition meets meticulous artistry. Sowriyar led the audience through the delicate process of crafting a mridangam, beginning with jackfruit wood from Panruti, mainly chosen for its density and resonance. Every measurement mattered: the thickness of the wood, the dimensions of the thoppi (left side) and valanthalai (right side), and the layering of cow, buffalo, and goat hides. The black paste made from pulverised Thanjavur stones mixed with cooked rice, applied carefully to the thoppi , gives the mridangam its signature pitch and depth. Throughout the session, Krishna helped bridge the gap between craft and the audience, breaking down technical jargon into simple, vivid explanations so that one could follow every detail. I watch the mridangist closely. Veteran artistes can describe exactly what they want, which makes it easier for our workers to create it. But young musicians often dont know how to explain. With my experience, I can sense what suits them best just by seeing them play, Sowriyar said. He also noted that the close connection between makers and musicians is gradually fading. The session also traced the crafts deep roots in Thanjavur. Art was born there (Thanjavur), he said. Raja Serfoji fostered music and all forms of art; before that, artistes were mostly playing what they had learned, without that structured support. As Sowriyar demonstrated tuning the instrument with vaar pudi adjusting leather tension and explaining subtle choices that shape pitch and bass, the audience was drawn into a dialogue between craft and performance. The mridangam emerged not merely as an instrument but as a testament to legacy, innovation, and collaboration, carrying the echoes of Thanjavur. Oru Ooru La Oru Aaru: Childrens Play (By the children of Arunodhaya) The percussion beats did not conclude with Dead Beat but rolled into the epilogue play in the festival. This time, it wasnt the resonant mridangam but the parai the mother of all percussion instruments that announced the finale. Keeping with the classical tradition of Tamil theatre, ten children from Arunodhaya began with a spirited five-minute parai showcase. What followed was not merely performance, but a plunge into their dreamscape one rooted firmly in reality. The play, Oru Ooru La Oru Aaru (Once There Was a River), reimagined the idea of a good city from the perspective of North Chennais young residents. For decades, their neighbourhoods have borne the brunt of rapid industrialisation declining fisheries, polluted wetlands, and toxic air. Yet through song, dance, and storytelling, the children transformed these struggles into a vibrant peoples narrative. The play began with an interactive exchange: the performers asked the audience what made their own areas special. The question lingered, expanding into a larger provocation - what truly makes a city a good city? With this, the stage opened into a retelling of Chennais past, its troubled present, and the possibilities of its future. What made the performance remarkable was not just the content but the commitment. The children had rehearsed for only two days, yet carried the play with astonishing confidence. Even when power cuts threatened to disrupt the flow, they continued seamlessly, their energy unshaken, their voices steady. It was as though their stories demanded to be heard, no matter the obstacles. The play concluded with a poignant question that cut to the heart of belonging and inequality: Will the other parts of Chennai accept us if we move and come there to escape the deprivation? It was less a closing line and more an open challenge one that left the audience reflecting on the fractured dreams and shared futures of the city.