Tamil Punk

The last rays of the sun suffuse the sand with a warm glow, and there is a murmur in the air, as a restive audience around waits for the next performer of the evening. I’m at Spaces, a one of a kind performance space in Besant Nagar, located right across from Elliot’s beach. Today’s event, the ‘Poda Poromboke’ concert, organized by the Vettiver Collective, is also one of a kind. The packed audience consists of a diverse range of people; maamis in bespoke madisars are rubbing shoulders with hip college students, while kids from the nearby fishing village run around excitedly. It strikes me that this kind of socially diverse crowd in one place is a rare sight, but it is exactly what the Poda Poromboke concert aims to do. Bringing together a wide variety of artists and musical styles – from the traditional folk style of vilupaatu, to Carnatic music and contemporary acoustic guitar music – the concert, a precursor to the annual Urur Vizha, is envisioned as a means to bridge social divides through the power of music.

A performance in full swing at the Urur Olcott Vizha. photo credits: The Hindu

The Poda Poromboke concert, like the Urur Vizha, for me represents a new and welcome means of engaging with some difficult questions on society and culture, that for far too long been brushed under the carpet. For me, it also represented a culmination of a long-drawn discussion on music and Tamil society, which had begun as a bunch of diary entries nearly a year ago, titled ‘What is Tamil Punk?’

In the process of writing this piece, I spent the longest time debating the various aspects of what is obviously a complex and multi-faceted issue – encompassing questions on culture, social structures, economics and politics. How would I present it? What had started out as a simple article on ‘protest music’ began to grow into something far more challenging – an enquiry into the identity of Tamil music itself – and this is an issue that I’m still grappling with.

In the end I have decided that I will simply lay out all my thoughts, and try and make a case for the importance of socially relevant music in a healthy society. But I admit that the essay also touches on various issues that I haven’t yet been able to tie into a coherent narrative. It has been is divided into two parts: the first part specifically focuses on the Tamil music scene – and examines the various issues around an indigenous independent music industry, in a cultural milieu that has historically been dominated by the film industry. The second part of the essay will focus on the various historical factors that have adversely impacted the growth of indigenous musical traditions, as well the potential socio-cultural impacts of an emerging independent Tamil music industry.

As a Tamilian and a music lover, I have often been disappointed by the limited options I have for enjoying good music in my own language. After a point, as one more koothu song on the radio, indistinguishable from the countless others, begins to chafe, I heave a sigh of frustration and turn the thing off. Popular music in Tamil Nadu is almost exclusively film-based of course, but did you know that many online playlists and song collections list Tamil music as a separate genre? It took me a while to realize how odd that is, as if all the music produced in that language should be of the same kind. But it is easy to see why one might think that. Despite the repetitive and overly commercialized formula that the film industry dishes out, it’s almost alarming when one realizes the absolute dominance that film music has in all aspects of our cultural life – a phenomenon that has left us with no room for any other form of music to emerge.

What really set me thinking about this issue was a chapter from ‘This is a Call’, Paul Brannigan’s excellent biography on former Nirvana drummer and current Foo Fighters frontman Dave Grohl. While relating his musical roots and early days as a musician, Dave recounts how he was influenced by the underground punk scene in Washington DC. 

Dave Grohl in his pre-Nirvana days, playing for the punk band Scream. Photo credits: Naomi Peterson

Punk music is in many ways the enfant terrible of the music world – a genre that has always challenged established norms and aesthetic values, and questioned social mores – right from the early days of the Ramones and the Sex Pistols. The underground punk movement in DC in the early nineties was no different – a rebellion against established order. Washington DC, nerve centre of the American federal establishment, was also unsurprisingly, a hotbed of political dissent and anti-government sentiment, especially among the younger generations. Anger, frustration, and pure absolute anarchy embodied punk music’s lyrics – and it lent a voice to an entire disillusioned generation. What stuck with me was Dave explaining how the Punk scene fundamentally influenced his worldview and political stance. Punk, despite its destructive image, helped a number of young people find their footing in a chaotic world and became an outlet for their angst. It was also culturally influential, shaping everything from fashion to environmental consciousness and political beliefs. In other words, I realized that music in that society played a role that I could never imagine in our own.

Chaos ensues as the Melvins begin their set at Houston, TX. Photo credits: Daniel Jackson

Why could there never be a Tamil Punk? More specifically, why hasn’t anything resembling a cultural or artistic movement, spurring new modes of musical expression, occured within the context of Tamil music? The idea seems alien, almost laughable – but it leads us to question the historical, social and cultural factors that have shaped Tamil society’s attitudes and engagement with music, and the arts in general. The first and most significant point to discuss is the dominant role of film music in our society. In ‘The Eye of the Serpent: An Introduction to Tamil Cinema’ Theodore Baskaran delves into the historical processes that have led to the dominance of film music in Tamil Nadu. In many ways, this is unique among music cultures around the world, and it becomes interesting to see how this has affected the cultural significance and modes of engagement with music.

‘The dominant hold of film music in society has hindered the development of any other kind of popular musical expression outside of cinema.’ (Baskaran, 2013) Following Baskaran’s observation, the first point of my argument is that the pervasiveness of film music, backed by a robust and commercially oriented industry, has reduced popular music to a superficial form of entertainment, leaving no scope for anything like Tamil Punk to emerge. The second point is that the role of the musician as a cultural figure has been relegated to the background, which in itself diminishes the power of music to directly engage with society.

Creative limitations on film music:

As Tamil music is largely produced in the context of cinema, music itself automatically begins to play a secondary role, supporting or adding value to the visual medium, rather than as a distinct aesthetic form to be enjoyed in its own right. Since the subject matter of film music largely depends on its relevance to the narrative of the film, this begins to limit its aesthetic boundaries. As Baskaran describes, songs ‘are featured in stock situations in films,’ and as commercial Tamil films themselves largely depend on a formulaic themes and plot structures – the subject matter and style of the songs also become standardized and predictable. An assistant director friend of mine once confided that discussions on music for an upcoming film often begin with a list like this:

Hero introduction song

Romantic song

Item number/Party song

Gaana/ Folk song

Feelings song

Etc.

This list is laid out before the script is finalized, and then modified to suit the theme and milieu of the film. Since the songs themselves are rarely ever relevant to the narrative, one could replace a romantic song in any one film with another, and it would make no difference. I must clarify here that I am not commenting on the quality of the music, only on the scope of subject matter and musical styles that film songs are limited to. I am not denying that there is plenty of good music out there, with many talented musicians working in the film industry. However, as Baskaran comments, ‘songs for the most part are socially and politically superficial in content’. There is a common perception that music is solely for entertainment value, so it rarely, if ever, confronts issues important to society.

We are still a society that doesn’t like talking about its problems, of course, so our music involves flights of fancy and extravagance rather than trying to be relatable. Kaber Vasuki, vocalist of Kurangan, one of the bands performing at the Poda Poromboke concert, mentions in an interview that this was one the reasons that he began to write his own songs. “Basically adolescent love or hero worship is something cinema music does well, other than that it doesn’t do much. I wanted to write songs that connected with me,” he says.

This brings us to the crucial point – that music in Tamil culture has failed to become established as an aesthetic form with a cultural role independent of cinema. There exists an entire paradigm of music that Tamil music has never engaged with – music for protest, political criticism, music of despair, of rage, or that which engages with social issues. Similarly the music’s ability to be personal, acting as a conduit between the musician’s emotions and the listener, is also diminished (There are exceptions like AR Rahman). In short, the impact that music is capable of making as an art form remains severely underexplored.

Tamil film music is often used as a platform for promoting hero worship

Film music’s specific requirements also mean that since commercial prospects override any artistic considerations, there is no scope musical experimentation, challenging aesthetic norms, or freedom for the musician to innovate. This is perhaps one of the biggest tragedies of our society, Imagine a band such as Nirvana, or even a Tamil Tupac rapping about poverty and crime in the slums – imagine the power of Dylan’s protest music to galvanize young people. Where are the songs of oppression or social inequality? Imagine for example, our very own fisherman’s blues, sung by someone from a place like Urur Kuppam, which remains at the fringes of the city despite existing long before Chennai did. Music in many situations can be powerfully cathartic – to oppressed communities it is a form of resistance; to confused and angry young people, it becomes a means to channel their conflicts. It becomes a platform for social commentary or political dissent. None of this is possible in a cultural landscape monopolized by a commercially oriented industry.

The Secondary role of the Musician

Like music, the role of the musician has also been relegated to the background, secondary to the actors of the film. This explains the curious lack of musical idols in our society, whereas film stars are blindly worshipped. Again, it has a lot to do with the dominance of the visual medium. Since film songs are always accompanied by dancing or some other performance by the actors of the film, the song becomes associated with the movie or its actors, rather than the actual musicians, who remain in the background, left out of the visuals. Of course it seems to matter very little who was actually producing the music – because the focus was never the music itself.

If there is any musician who gains some kind of recognition, then it is the ‘playback singer’, whose voice naturally gives the song its identity. The playback singer also plays a far more important role than the accompanying musicians because Tamil musical tradition, even historically, has been largely a vocal tradition. This can be traced back to the influence of literary forms and poetry in the early days of Tamil cinema, and the importance of the spoken word – in the form of speeches or debates – to Tamil culture in general. But again, playback singers also face limitations in the industry. Singers are chosen largely chosen for their voice and vocal style, and rarely have an opportunity to compose their own music. This is usually the work of the lyricist and composer. The composer also arranges the other parts of the music such as melody lines and interludes.

Playback singers such as SP Balasubramanyam have gained recognition for their work

In this hierarchy, studio musicians are the most neglected lot – contributing very little to the creative process, and usually playing standard, industry-prescribed styles and orchestration. There is a big disjoint between their musical skills and the scope they have to utilize these skills for creative exploration and innovation. A number of them are very talented, with a breadth of musical knowledge, and yet they have no recognition. In a recent film awards show, a music composer who had received an award had to remind the audience to not just applaud for him, but also the many great musicians who made the music possible. However, they remained unnamed and invisible. In the larger cultural paradigm, the act of making music itself is under-appreciated, because there is little widespread knowledge about how music is made and limited exposure to live performed music (except vocal concerts, where the musicians are herded in a corner and continue to play second fiddle). I am going to argue that if an independent music industry is to grow and thrive, the musician has to come into the forefront in popular consciousness, and begin to play prominent cultural roles in society.

Reasserting the Social Power of Music

Bob Dylan and Joan Baez in concert in 1982. Photo credits: Scott Harrison

Here, socially relevant music is often misconstrued as ‘protest music’. Of course protest music can be influential – a lot of Bob Dylan’s music is considered protest music, and his concerts draw massive crowds. Music can catalyse social change, but protest does not have to be the only mode of socially relevant engagement. What has been more significant about Dylan is his cultural and aesthetic impact on an entire generation. Social relevance is first and foremost about bringing the musician to the forefront of popular expression, rather than the specific message or style of their songs. That’s why Tamil Punk’s relevance is only what it stands for and not indicative of any particular genre. When the musician is an identifiable figure that people can relate to, the music itself makes a personal impact. The musician through performance brings the act of making music back into public view, and in response people begin to take ownership of the act of making music, allowing for it to become an integral part of our daily life and modes of expression. In a society where the act of making music is democratic and widespread, music becomes capable of rising above mere entertainment and becoming more meaningful as a whole. Such a society also provides the space for independently made music to experiment and evolve, allowing for a constant exploration of musical forms that could give rise to new indigenous genres. Democratize the means, make exposure to such music more widespread, make musical instruments and music education more accessible – and we will start to see a change in the way music is made and enjoyed.

The closing act at the Poda Poromboke concert, Kurangan, the Chennai-based acoustic rock band, offers perhaps the most tangible example of how a new mode of cultural engagement is possible. The crowd that night went crazy as the band members came on stage, and it is clear during their set that most people in the audience are familiar with their songs. Again this fan base cuts across socio-cultural divides, and appeals to a wide range of audiences. Kurangan’s stripped down singer-songwriter aesthetic and vocalist Kaber’s singing style may seem unusual for Tamil music, but that is exactly what makes it work. Even if the musical style is unfamiliar, it is easily embraced when the music is authentic –the lyrics are unique, meaningful, and have an impact on the audiences. This combined with Kaber's gift for writing catchy hummable tunes and guitarist Tenma’s great acoustic guitar playing combine to create a compelling musical experience.

Kurangan’s act represents the potential for Tamil music to appropriate new forms and establish a new kind of relationship with society and music. Through performance, they have been able to connect more closely with people. Through their musical style, they open up the possibilities for new forms to emerge, while remaining rooted to their context. Can this small, but growing movement in the independent music scene usurp the hegemony of film music? Certainly not immediately, but already a new cultural paradigm is beginning to emerge - one that blurs social barriers and brings a new identity to Tamil music. Kurangan’s success may spur the growth of other independent musicians, setting in motion a movement that will only gain in influence in the coming years, and perhaps come to represent the new face of Tamil music.

Violin Woes

The Early Days

The scratchy banshee wail of the violin in my untrained hands still echo in my ears, dragging me back into that gloomy, carpeted back-room, back to good old Miss Yeoh and her monosyllabic admonitions. And pain – oh the pain shooting down my arms and tingling my fingers as I struggled with that unwieldy bow. My first violin classes, all those years ago – exist in my memories with a vividness that only traumatic events have. Today, I can look back at that time with a nostalgic smile, but that wasn’t always the case.

It was in Malaysia, where I spent a lot of my childhood; in the late nineties – a decidedly different era. The world seemed simpler, and hardships in life amounted to unfair quantities of homework, and having to wake up at six in the morning for school. One day, my parents suggested that I learn to play an instrument. I had no clue what learning an instrument would entail, but it was an alluring idea, and I said yes.

I can’t remember how I decided on the violin, but once the instrument was decided, all I needed to do was buy the violin and sign up for lessons. My dad drove me to an after-school activity centre near my home, which conducted drawing and music classes on weekends.

During the registration, I was introduced to my tutor, one Miss Yeoh, whose skin seemed to be made of that hard white plastic that they make switchboards with. I can’t remember her face, except the steely remoteness of her eyes  There was something almost robotic about her, and it gave me a bad feeling. However, despite my misgivings, I decided to go ahead with it. More than anything, it was the excitement I had felt when holding the violin in my hands, that got me into it.

My first violin was a thing of joy. I enjoyed rubbing the yellow stuff they called rosin onto the horsehair of my bow – it was curious how a bit of dried pine tree sap could suddenly coax such a strident sound out of the instrument - it seemed like magic. But my enthusiasm was soon shattered. In my first few classes, Miss Yeoh, taciturn, grumpy and decidedly unpleasant, would tolerate about ten minutes of the banshee wailing, before going down for her first of several cups of tea. She’d return about half an hour later, smelling of cigarettes, and say “whai you no pway lah!!” and then stalk off again, leaving me alone in that gloomy, high-ceilinged back-room. She always wore grey, and the lack of colour added to the brooding melancholy of the place.

I don’t think Miss Yeoh considered it important to explain to me what exactly I was supposed to be aiming for while practicing, or why it was even important to practice. My class usually went like this: She would give me a series of curt instructions on preparing my violin (that's right, violins need to be prepared before they can be played). Then, after telling me to repeatedly play the A note until it at least sounded like it came out an instrument, she would simply walk out.

 For a good Music Teacher

Now before I go on, I must say that this isn’t an indictment against learning music as a child at all. In fact, I really think it’s important for every kid to learn music, at least a little bit.  But I also believe that it is a teacher’s responsibility to first introduce a young student to the joys of listening to and creating music. This goes without saying, but it’s strange how rare it is to find a truly inspiring music teacher – maybe I was just unfortunate in this regard.

The rigours of practice and all the aching limbs can seem pointless unless you have a clear idea of what you can expect at the end of it. Maybe if Miss Yeoh spent the first few classes playing records of famous classical violinists, or her favourite pieces – just making me listen, I might have grown to appreciate the numbing pain in my knuckles.

But I hardly knew what was going on. Why did I have to deliberately inflict pain on myself, endlessly dragging that godforsaken bow over those strings? How was this better and more meaningful than playing with my digimon? Who was going to even appreciate it if I did manage to get a sound out it? It didn’t make sense to my eight year old, music-illiterate mind.

On odd days, Miss Yeoh wouldn’t show up at all – and I would have to sit in a Chinese drawing class where the teacher would teach us to draw ducks. There I learnt to say “thank you teacher” in Cantonese, which is probably the most useful thing I’ve learnt in that place. After a couple of months, in which time the only discernible improvement in skills was that my A note now sounded like a frog croaking, I decided that Miss Yeoh’s reign of terror would have to end.

       

The next morning I had to remain innocuous, and tried my best to blend in with the living room furniture. The plan was to escape the attention of my parents by pretending to be a potted plant, hoping that maybe it might slip their mind that their son had a violin class to be taken to. But my ruse did not last long. It soon became apparent to discerning members of the household that a little squatting boy wasn’t likely to be part of the living room furnishing. I was picked up bodily, and violin case was thrust in my hands. As I was being ushered out of the room to wear my shoes I started to increasingly panic. At the doorway I did the only thing I could – I starting bawling at the top of my voice.

It had the desired effect. Parents halted mid-push, and I remember I made a scene. Slowly I related to them the tyranny of the insufferable Miss Yeoh, and between bawls and whimpers, why I thought she was determined to mutilate me by forcing me to play until my arm fell off.

I was accordingly consoled, and promised that I would never again be dragged to that godforsaken place. But the disappointment in my parents’ faces was evident. I’m sure they had imagined a little Yehudi Menuhin in their midst one day, and now it didn't seem like that was going to happen.

 Another go

      

It wasn’t the last time that I tried to learn the violin though. Three years later, when I’d moved back to India, I joined classes again, this time for the Carnatic violin. I would like to say that I made a valiant effort, but it was evident from the start that this was a disaster waiting to happen.

 My new teacher taught at a nearby school. He was a fossil of some kind, kept alive with frequent cups of coffee and copious amounts of grey holy ash smeared on his forehead. I began to learn that grey was a violin teacher’s favourite colour. We sat on the floor in a circle around him, as he rocked and creaked like a boat, exhorting us to play, play, play.  

He played the violin well, but while he could make his violin talk with lucidity, it seemed that he himself had once stuffed a large sponge into his mouth, and forgotten it there. Incoherent teachers are something that all kids eventually get used to, but there was another problem. My grey old guru was a purist from the old school, and had never taught someone left-handed before. He didn’t seem to think that left-handedness was possible, and often looked at me as if I was an abomination of nature. “There is only one way to hold a violin,” he would tell me pointedly, “and you’re doing it the other way around. You won’t learn anything this way.” That was a great source of encouragement.

If I remember right, that class ended three months later, with the him angrily complaining that ‘I had no hope with any instrument’, since I kept using the wrong hand. I made no further attempts with the blasted piece of polished wood, and charitably ‘handed down’ my violin to my young cousin. It was the right decision – he has really learnt to play on that violin, and has become a bit of a virtuoso now.

I never touched the instrument again after that. Looking back, maybe I could have tried a bit harder. There’s a twinge of regret now and then. But the thing is, my two failed attempts at trying to learn the violin in some curious way sparked my interest in music. Today, music is a big part of my life, and at the end of the day, I’m thankful for that.

Revisiting Dharavi!

Two years ago, I had first arrived in Dharavi, Mumbai’s famous slum, looking for a story – and I had to find a good one, if I was ever going to start research for my thesis. Luckily, like the rest of Mumbai, Dharavi is chockfull of interesting stories, and in the little bylanes around Chamda Bazaar, in the heart of Dharavi, I discovered the story of a small Tamil community – the people of Ganesh Mandir. As an architecture student, I studied various aspects of the settlement – morphology, character of the houses and nature of spaces. But much more than the settlement’s physicality, it was its people I found fascinating – people with a rich, if conflicted history, who narrated stories about their daily lives and memories, and all of these I recorded in the form of narratives in my thesis.

Now, this thesis had long since been accepted and I had graduated from Architecture school, and as is typical of any recently graduated architect, I didn’t give my thesis any more attention. However, about a month ago, quite impulsively I decided to pay Dharavi a visit. I had often wondered how Ganesh Mandir and its people were doing. What were the folks I had interviewed up to now? How were they leading their lives – what remained the same and what had changed? Now as a responsible researcher, you might say, I should’ve probably gone a lot sooner then I did – but then an undergraduate thesis barely necessitates all that – it is enough that you spend six years of your life to earn a single degree, than for you to go on post-thesis field visits. Unless of course you suddenly realize that you’re free and in the city, and you might as well. I'm glad to say that a decision taken so arbitrarily, in the end proved to be immensely fruitful. 

24th April, 2016

It is a hot and humid afternoon. To call it humid is an understatement, because in Mumbai, the air is literally wet, and you can’t walk an inch without getting completely drenched. I miss my stop at Mahim and have to take a return train from Dadar. These things happen, and besides the evening was mine and I had plenty of time to kill.

As I climb up the steel staircase of the crossing over the tracks, onto the bridge that leads into Dharavi, the tops of the tallest structures become visible – ramshackle and profuse as ever. I descend into Dharavi, and see more familiar sights. The same butcher shop, the same cheap cinema and ‘video game’ parlour. I had walked this route daily over a two-month period in the summer of 2014. Adding to the chaos and visual noise was a new hulking structure – an incomplete sky bridge of sorts, extending over the road, with no access and ending abruptly on both ends. It seemed to have been abandoned mid-construction, soon to become a part of the scenery in this insane and chaotic place.

Past the busy intersection (which is always a busy battle between the endless stream of vehicles on the road and the pedestrians of Dharavi), Dharavi Main Road looks in good shape – recently paved, fairly tidy, and not as crowded as usual. However, Dharavi Cross, that branches off the Main Road and leads to Ganesh Mandir, is familiar – muddy, unpaved and with refuse along the street, trampled down by hundreds of pedestrians. All of these bring back old memories and sensations. As I catch of sight of Ganesh Mandir, I get a curious feeling of familiarity and expectation – like some kind of homecoming.

Dharavi Cross road, where Ganesh Mandir is located - in the heart of Dharavi

Ganesh Mandir looks the same as before, though the courtyard in front is strewn with construction materials. As always, work has been going on, but I only get an inkling of how much as I turn into the gully, and suddenly notice that all the single story houses that I had documented in my thesis had now been converted to two story apartments, with metal sheet roofing and tiled front entrances! The homes looked well built, and the insides of the houses well lit and scrupulously clean. I remembered the dingy interiors of the old houses – tiny rooms with mangalore tiles on the roof, and think that the residents are decidedly better off now. How quickly things change!

A view of the houses within Ganesh Mandir

It’s impossible to walk around unnoticed in Ganesh Mandir, and pretty soon wary eyes looked out from windows and doorways to see what I was up to. All of a sudden, an old woman chatting on a front porch recognizes me, “Why, you’re the fellow who came and drew all our houses, aren’t you? Have you finished your work?” I tell her I have, and am glad to know that people still remember me. But it was the kids who’d recognized me first, which was surprising. Soon they crowd around me, and among them is tiny Sam – “Remember me uncle? I was doing homework with Sibi, and then I took you to show my house!” I’m amazed at his memory.

Older temporary structures have been rebuilt in many cases.

   I suppose a stranger coming around to make drawings of your house must be an unusual experience, especially here in Dharavi. I still remember some old ladies wondering what it was I found so interesting. “It’s just a house after all,” old Balammal had quipped, as I measured and drew her loft. I can’t see her around today, but there are a few others whose houses I’ve drawn, so I showed them the thesis and the drawings that I had made of their houses. Many, like Kalavathy, still can’t figure out what I’d done, but are fascinated by the final product – the boys spend a long time examining every photograph and identifying places around them that had changed. “Some of the houses in this book don’t exist anymore!” I tell Reuben. He replies, quite perceptively, “But it is good that you recorded all this – as a memory. I don’t even think Ganesh Mandir will exist in a few years!” 

The neighbourhood boys inspecting my thesis in detail!

The changes have not just been physical. A number of old tenants have vacated and new families have moved in. “Is he a Hindi speaking fellow or a Tamilian?” asks one aunty suspiciously as I show her neighbours my book. She refuses to come near until she is sure that I can understand Tamil. I realize soon, however, that I've caused a bit of a commotion. People have spread the word to their neighbours, and soon a group of women have gathered around, all trying to find their house inside the book. I can’t quite describe how I feel, but I'm glad that I took the decision to come here.

"I don't understand it, but it's very nice!" says Malathi.

As the sun begins to set, the book has finally passed through many hands, and I decide to get on with the goodbyes. “I still don’t understand why you went to the trouble of drawing all this,” says Sowmya, Malathi’s daughter who’d just finished school. “College submission” I reply simply, though inside I know it was much more than that. “Well, whatever it was, thank you. I love my home, you know!” and a fetching grin lights up her face. Just for that, I muse as I make way back towards the railway bridge – just that had made my two years writing an undergraduate thesis worthwhile.

Some of my drawings of the houses in Ganesh Mandir.

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