Tuesday, December 14, 2010

A Date with my father (or, your Thatha)

A Date with my father (or, your Thatha)

It was English class, 8th standard. The lesson done, the teacher posed questions to students at random. A question was directed at Thatha. He drew blank, fumbled or the answer did not measure up to the level, qualifying for punishment. “Stand up on the bench,” ordered the teacher. Thatha refused. He repeated it. Thatha did not budge. The third time the teacher thundered, “I say stand up; do you get it?” Any other student would have wet his pants at this decibel. But Thatha quietly packed his belongings, stepped out of the class, and the school, never to resume his studies. Thus came his academic pursuit to an unceremonious end.

Thatha’s father was either too indulgent, or he firmly believed in the Will of God - that everything is pre-ordained, or both. Or, Thatha was unrelenting. The net result? His father asked Thatha to accompany him to the shop, inducting him into the family business. Thatha felt on top of the world, able now officially to throw the books up in the air. Thus started Thatha’s association with textile goods at the age of 13 or so.

He got exposure to all facets of the operations – inventory control, marketing, relations with customers, traders, and stockists; and public relations. The elders in the shop soon recognized his forte – that he was very good in calculations. In those days it was very difficult because it was not metric system where everything centred around 100. One rupee was sixteen annas, and one anna was four quarters. The measuring unit of the cloth was in feet and yards – 3 feet for 1 yard, and so on; in short disadvantageous on both fronts. But he calculated mentally with incredible speed. Thatha’s father’s destiny-concept did not go awry. Upon his demise at 42 or 45, his three bothers handed pro rata share to Thatha to set up his own business. He was very young. But this experience stood him good stead.

It is believed that if the marriage of a son is performed within 60 days or so after the demise of his father, it would be deemed to have been solemnized during the lifetime of the deceased. So began a frantic search for a bride for Thatha. A girl was identified in Bangalore. At the last minute, however, her parents backed out. So Thatha’s elders became all the more adamant that, come what might, they should solemnize the marriage on that very date already fixed. Efforts intensified. Someone suggested a girl with equally good family credentials as the VKR – the Karikkar family in Kizakkanchery, 20 miles from Palghat.

Kizakkancherry is a very remote sleepy village. Only for its Car Festival and Vinayaka Chaturti celebrations it attracted outsiders. So on the rare occasions when a cart made its foray into the village with the ox’s sedative steps, at least one representative from each house would greet it at the front yard to ascertain who the visitor was. And a horse-driven cart with bells jingling around its neck and foot-tapping rhythmic gallops was a sure bet to trigger the ladies to abandon their kitchen, to have a glimpse in time. So when Thatha’s core-group made their way into the village, with the burring sound of the car engine audible from afar, the whole village was agog – only nadaswaram was missing. It is seldom that a boy’s party took the initiative to ask for a bride. Unperturbed, Meena Patty was playing merrily ‘paandi’ with her friends.

Everything was organized for the marriage in a chat mangni, phat shaddi style, giving Meena Patty very little time to get even her marriage dresses stitched (Pavadai, blouse, of course; she was too young). For Thozi Pongal (the bride bidding farewell to her friends on the eve of marriage), the bride went around in an open car. But for Meena Patty a huge elephant was arranged. Expectedly, she refused to mount, still in her teens. Pressure was brought to bear on her. It was a five-day long marriage – unheard of in those days, and probably even now. (As fate would have it, when Lalitha Mami/Chitti and I were attending the Vadakkanthara Velai, a temple festival, in March last year, we bumped into a lady and her son from Bangalore. Her son and I got acquainted with each other, and he casually mentioned that his mother was to have been married in this village, to one of the members of the VKR family, and introduced her to us. On elaboration it turned out that she was the one to have been married to Thatha. She said she refused it because even in the wildest of imaginations she could not bring herself to agree to cook for 30 or 40 persons day after day, let alone the coffee and tea sessions.

Thatha had a weakness for sweets. It runs in the family even today. Jangiri/jalebi, or the Amriti as it is called in North, was one of his favourite dishes. Close to our shop there was a famous Veerakutty Hotel. The standing instruction to them was to send to our shop 3 pieces of hot jalebis, from the first lot each time it was prepared. Patty used to prepare hot snacks and send across to him in the evening.

Sedentary habits - continuous sitting at the cash counter from 10 to 8 - three king-size sugar-soaked jalebis five days a week, unchecked variety of food items for the morning meals, and ordering ad hoc snacks from hotel when VIP customers visited, began to take the toll on him. Obesity of the third-degree. Age 25.

The doctor came heavily on Thatha. He prescribed strict diet control and hour-long brisk walk daily. “But I can’t leave the shop,” Thatha seems to have quipped. “Well the choice yours – health or wealth,” the doctor replied. “You already have an early death in your family, unless you wish to regularize it,” he alerted Thatha of his father’s premature death, though the cause of that was cirrhosis of the liver. Thatha got scared and adhered to the walk and diet regimen strictly. From the time I can remember, I have never seen him take dinner. Meals at 9.30 am, a moderately heavy snack at around 4 pm and a big glass of milk at night. Peak business hour or no peak business hour, he stepped out of the shop at 4.30 pm on the dot for his walk.

Was his life, then, confined to shop, shop, and shop? You might ask. No, he took keen interest in music. He used to whistle well, though my Chittappa did better. In our house, Periaam, I remember chamber music having been held, of veena definitely, violion vaguely, and also vocal performance. Thatha was a Bhajan addict too. The famous Nurani Appu and party, and a shade less Thondikulam Hari and party, had performed long hours of enchanting bhajans at our house with all accompaniments. Thatha was very keen to be a front-line singer as well, but never mustered courage to do so. He had a fairly good voice and, given good guidance, he could have been an above-average singer. He had engaged a tutor to learn Carnatic music, but the business reversal cut short the sojourn.

Dramatics was equally close to Thatha’s heart. He was chummy with the then most famous Drama Troupe, TKS Brothers of Chennai. Each time they came to Palghat for their ten to fifteen days’ performance, he would watch all the unseen ones. They would also visit him at the shop for a chat during the day and make some purchases. Even now TKS Bhagavathy’s role of Ravana in the Tamil Sampoorna Ramayanam movie stands head and shoulders above the umpteen other versions.

Now I am unable to vouch for this story. Thatha always categorically refuted it, but my Chittappa maintained it to be true. He said that Thatha had acted in a local drama troupe at PSV Hall. He played a king. In one particular scene he was to punish a man for a serious crime he committed. Thatha took out the cardboard sword, pasted with silver foils collected from cigarette packs, to inflict a fatal blow on the offender’s neck. This action was to be preceded by a forceful Hhmm from the nostril to bring full impact. No sooner did he release it than the handlebar moustache clipped to his nose fell off, unable to stand the velocity of the air. This sent the audience to a rapturous laughter in what was to be a very serious situation. That marked the end of Thatha’s encounter with dramatics, my Chittappa insisted.

Meena Patty was very charming, as we seniors know. Thatha was very possessive of her. Whenever we had to go to his shop, bazaar, or to a movie, he specifically asked us to engage only the old, lame Chennu’s cart, drawn by his equally old ox. There was the other middle-aged guy (I don’t remember his name) whose ox ran faster. But Thatha would hire only Chennu’s cart. And his instructions were that one of us male members should sit next to the ‘driver’ in the front, then Patty, and another male member at the edge.

When he experienced difficulty in swallowing food and it was detected to be esophagus cancer, we told him we would seek a second opinion in Mumbai, but did not specify where. When the taxi stopped in front of Tata Memorial Hospital, Thatha was taken aback. “So this is it?” he said in abject reconciliation. He knew what this institution was all about. After examination, Dr Praful Desai, then No. 1 in the Hospital, wrote on the right-hand top of the file ‘Eso.Ca(T)’. When asked what T stood for, the Malayalee Matron whispered into my ears, ‘Terminal’.

Tracing VKR-Family Roots


Tracing the VKR-Family Roots
I shall attempt to trace the VKR roots, if not from the Bronze Age, at least from the time it came to be known as such. The sketch is based on Bala Chittappa’s account (Sethu’s father, or Sheela’s grandfather) narrated in the 1960s when he stayed with us in Delhi for about ten days for his cataract operation. Some portions, heard from my father, have also been added.
Famine or greener pastures caused an exodus of Brahmin population from Thanjavur, probably in the 19th century. Our ancestors headed 350 km down to Palghat . The Rajas of Palghat, Kollengode, Calicut, Cochin, welcomed Brahmins as they were Vedic and Sanskrit scholars, and offered them land to set up homes. Thus sprung up ‘agraharams’ (villages) in Palghat – Kalpathy,Vadakkantharai, Ramanathapuram, Chattapuram, etc.
As was expected, in each of these new villages birds of the same feather flocked together. Chokkanathapuram consisted of migrants from Madurai, and they built a Meenakshi-Sundareswarar temple to perpetuate their origin. Nurani’s population came from Tirunelveli side, and they follow Sringeri Swamy-ji. By this token, residents of Vadakkantharai must be from Tiruvenkatam, as the name of the village Siva temple, Tiruvenkatappan, suggests. Our family deity is Vaideeswaran Kovil, near Seerkazi. The roots:
Venkateswara Iyer-1 migrates from Thanjavur. (Unsure what he did for a living.)
Krishna Iyer, his son, known also as Krishna Pattar, starts selling thortha mundu (bath towels) – pedaling his way on bicycle from village to village.
Ramaswamy Iyer-1, his son, upgrades it. Sets up a shop, adds more textile goods. Names it VKR. Brings it to a take-off stage.
Venkateswara Iyer-2, his son, popularly known as Venku Iyer, builds it up further. Apportions assets to his brothers to start business independently – all with the prefix VKR. Thus emerge VKR Venku Iyer & Sons (his own), VKR Appadurai & Sons, VKR Vaidyanatha Iyer & Sons.
Ramaswamy Iyer-2 (my grandfather), son of Venku Iyer, heads the operations along with his three younger brothers upon the demise of Venku Iyer. Adds name and fame to the establishment. Expands scope of business to both wholesale and retail. Opens branches/administrative offices in Ernakulam, Coimbatore, Madras and Bombay. Raises it to a level to be hailed as the golden age of the VKR era. The family becomes synonymous with wealth-aplenty and benevolence. He is very religious-minded - covers with gold the village Siva temple gopuram, and instals a huge ‘aala vilakku’ at the front. (The name inscribed on the vilakku can be seen - on a day the rock-like oil deposits are scratched, that is). Our ancestral house is still called “Periaam” – the big house. Does pada pujai to the Paramachariar when he visits Vadakkantharai. Performs Sahasra Bhojanam – feeding 1008 scholarly priests and honouring each with gifts: agricultural land, house, cow, cash, etc. (Their descendents still own those houses, while we check into a hotel on visits to our ancestral village. No regrets.)
Upon the death of Ramaswamy Iyer-2, at a young age of 42 or 45, his three younger brothers jointly run the show (Sheela’s grandfather, Ramu’s (CISCO, California) grandfather, and Ramani’s (Chennai) father. Just possible you may not be able to place Ramani.
Venkateswara Iyer-3 (my father) and his younger brother (Calicut Vasantha’s father, or Prasad’s grandfather) get pro rata share upon the demise of their father, Ramaswamy Iyer-2. They set up an independent business; styles it VKRV Ramaswamy Iyer Sons. Their business flourishes no less than VKR Venku Iyer Sons along side.
World War II breaks out. Shortage of goods. The business community gets wind of British Government’s plan to enforce price-control by stamping their own sale-prices on all goods. My father suggests to other VKR constituents to retain a nominal stock and transfer the rest to the stockist in Pondicherry, a French territory then where this regulation does not apply, and to retrieve the goods after the War. The suggestion is rejected outright because it is against the spirit of VKR’s integrity and business ethics.
Government implements price-control. Goods bought at, say, @ Rs 100 per unit are stamped to be sold compulsorily at, say, Rs 80. In other words, sell at a loss - and in a wholesale business. The financiers who advanced us money get panicky. They rush to demand their money back. We are unable to comply, more so with the stocks still unsold. Next course. The government arbitrator; does a valuation of our movable and immovable assets and decides that for each Rs 100 that we borrowed, we would repay the financiers, with their consent, say, @ Rs 70. Accounts are settled in full by each constituent by selling all their agricultural lands, residences, and jewellery collection. The financiers suffer a marginal loss. All the VKR establishments – Venku Iyer, Ramaswamy Iyer, Appadurai Iyer, Vaidyanatha Iyer – collapse like a pack of cards. Overnight all are on the streets penniless - from prince to a pauper.
Two of my father’s Chittappas are rehabilitated by their wife’s relatives. The third and my father’s younger brother take up employment with local cloth merchants – from being employers of many to mere employees themselves.
My mother’s father comes to father’s rescue. He shelters all the seven of us in his house in Ramanathapuram village, in addition to his own family of four. Gives us, children, basic education, and packs us off one by one with his sons to Bombay and Delhi to earn our livelihood.
The tree’s branches now extend to four continents – Asia, Australia, Europe, and the US – with gratitude to the Almighty that the good deeds of both paternal and maternal grandparents have not gone unrewarded.

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