The Dreadful Commute to School - Memoirs (My Life..., Chapter 12)

The Dreadful Commute to School - Memoirs
(My Life..., Chapter 12)

Boys of our Brahmin-majority village were studious, religious - and non-interfering for a wrong reason. Our counterparts from the adjacent village, Khashitriya-dominated, were self-confident, united - and adventurous, also for a wrong reason.

The B herd walked to school via the single-path bund of the paddy fields. Half way the K battalion would meet with B from their direction. The two groups together had necessarily to march past a common bund for about one hundred yards before entering into the open. This hundred-yard stretch was a real bottleneck, and very often a battlefield between the two clans.

The spark for the clash varied. Sometimes it would be physical smartness. One of them would deliberately trip our boy’s leg from behind while overtaking, causing our boy to fall on the muddy paddy field and get wet. Or, when their boy got past our boy, he would brush our boy’s shoulder a little too fiercely so as to let his books slip in the muddy water.

On occasions it would be a verbal one-upmanship. Taking a dig at our boys for having given the right answer in the class the previous day where the other village boy had fumbled, they would tease, “Ask this Pattar for any doubt, he is a Mr Know-All.” The word ‘Pattar’ is as detestable to Brahmins in Kerala as the word ‘Paappaan’ is to Brahmins in Tamil Nadu.

Or, they would comment on our boys’ casual walk engaged in a lively chat. “Looks like the Sambar-gulping Pattars had a little too much of it this morning. Or, must be coming straight after a free feast at someone’s house. Hence they are swinging, not walking.” They would then render in unison a Malayalam poet’s lines: Eli, Panni, Perichhazi, Pattarum, Vaanaram Tha Tha; Ivar Eivarum Illengil, Malayalam Manoharam, (Rat, pig, bandicoot, Pattar (Brahmin), and Monkey; if these five are absent, Malayalam land would be beautiful). The B clan would retaliate with a homespun Sanskrit sloka that hit the other below the belt as it invoked their parents.

Verbal dual has a knack of assuming physical proportions. It is here that they displayed qualities of Kshatriya dharma. They all united to pounce on the one that provoked them like a lioness and her herd on a prey in Animal Planet. On the contrary, the B gang, firm believers of destiny, would let their member fight it out single-handed. Their sole support consisted of chanting peace mantras as their friend struggled to wriggle out of the ravages of K boys.

In a post mortem discussion of the episode later, each one came out with his reason for abstention. “What if one day I returned alone from school and they catch me. They would deal with me beyond repair,” argued one. “His father and my father work in the same office, and if his father complains to my father?” justified another. Yet another would defend his action: “Well I am not into either friendship or enmity with them. I go to school for studies. As simple as that.”

The net result was the K boys soon realized our weakness - that we would never unite in adversity - and they could have a field day at their asking. Each time they began targeting a new prey.

Kittamani came to grips with the situation and suggested that we should not allow this to go unchecked, but should join hands. His pep talk included: “Our numerical strength vis-a-vis K’s is in a ratio of 65:35, and we have the physique of the likes of Ganai. These should embolden us to mount an attack, rather than be at the receiving end.” His specific reference to Ganai had a hidden agenda.  Despite his better physique than most of the others in either group, Ganai got beaten up mercilessly the last time and no one came to his rescue. Kittamani didn’t want Ganai to hold a grudge on that score.

Everyone agreed.  It was decided that Kittamani would provoke the K boys the next day and, when attacked, all of B boys would spring a surprise and show them their place.

Things went as planned. Kittamani deliberately made a sweeping comment on their clan as a whole that hurt K boys’ sentiments. With a sudden swoop they pushed him down the muddy water. Seeing the swift turn of events, the B boys who had hitherto promised to unite, realized it was not in their interests to associate themselves at this stage. They abstained, content to watch the proceedings with their customary prayers.

Badly shaken, clothes torn, but not totally lost, Kittamani challenged the K boys that he would avenge their onslaught the next evening on return from school. They were only glad at lapping yet another fresh opportunity.

“Are you all men or mice?” Kittamani shouted at us in distress as soon as the K boys were out of sight. He ordered us not to accompany him the next evening, and he would handle them alone. This precisely suited us - what we had individually been praying for.

Come the next evening, Kittamani left school soon after the last bell. He wanted to be sure to meet them. Yes, they were all there. As reinforcement they had brought along two or three seniors who were not part of their regular group. At the intersection Kittamani stood like Goliath, but in a frail frame. The K boys arrived with gusto, all too eager to have a renewed go at Kittamani.

Kittamani wielded the large sickle that he had hidden under his shirt: “Come on boys, decide which one of you would like to be dispatched first, before I take on the second,” roared Kittamani and charged against them. The boys fled in terror in all directions, apparently through the ankle-deep-water paddy fields. Most of them fell flat in the slippery mud. Kittamani stepped on the chest of the boy close by and warned him, “You better listen carefully and tell your boys. Hereafter if any of you try your dirty game on the B boys, this is the fate you will encounter. One or two of you get ready for the dispatch. That is for sure.” That boy lying half under water was number two in the K team, the number one having fled, instead of braving Kittamani. With tears in his eyes and gasping for breath, he profusely apologized, touched Kittamani’s foot, which was still on his chest, and promised to behave themselves.

Since then whenever the K and B groups happened to reach the intersection at the same time, the K boys never failed to mention, “After you, please,” for the B boys, even if their contingent consisted of only one boy and the K’s five or six. For B boys it was no more Kittamani; it was Veeramani thereafter.

V.V. Sundaram

Bangalore

10 December 2012

It's a Small World

It's a Small World

While in US, to keep myself occupied I joined some like-minded mailing groups – Thatha Patty, Iyer-123, US Brahmins. In the process I acquired a few pen friends, some based in India. Gradually it was mutually felt we should meet one another personally when we visited India next.

Thus came about an invitation from Mrs Lalitha Subramanian to join them in their hill resort in Yelagiri. We enjoyed a two-day stay with them, marked by enviable hospitality. During the chat it transpired that she was also from Palghat. Nay, she is from the same village Vadakkantharai as I am, and her grandfather was in Police force. I shot back, “Are you Sankaran’s daughter?”  “No, he is my Chittappa,” she corrected.

Feeling a bit sidelined, KS (her husband) began to unfold his antecedents, in a bid to get connected. Lo, he is from Ramanathapuram village, my mother’s place where I spent the best of my childhood. This newfound affinity gave a new fillip to their hospitality, what with Ada Pradhaman, Kalan, Vazakka bajji, onion pakora, masala tea and, in between, indigenous digestive golis as anti-dote. We now look forward to their reciprocal visit to Bangalore before we return to US.

The next was a visit to our place by Mr V. Swaminathan. He was a walking encyclopedia on who is whose who. By way of a formal introduction when my wife mentioned of her Kolkatta upbringing, he was quick to add that he recently attended in Bangalore the 100^th birthday celebrations of his friend’s father, retired as a Head Master in Kolkatta. What a welcome surprise. My wife and her sisters had studied under him; not only that, the two families lived in the same lane.

She got the contact details. His daughter picked up the phone. Even before my wife could give a brief introduction, she jumped in and said: “Yes Lalitha, I remember you very well. Don’t’ you recollect we appeared in the bank examination together? You made it, and I didn’t. But I got a job in another bank.” The next forty-five minutes of their chat were interspersed with joyous laughter, giggles, “Oh My God”,  “Really?” “Don’t tell me”, “I guessed as much”, and the like. In the end she confided that Padma Priya, a leading actress in Malayalam and Tamil movies is her sister’s daughter.

Next, we invited GV, as he is known, and his wife Jyoti. We were meeting them too for the first time. As the conversation progressed we realized that years ago we had enjoyed snacks at his parents’ house in Coimbatore, absolute strangers to them though. It so happened that we were on an unscheduled visit to Coimbatore, and thought of calling on my sister and husband who had just moved in. Watching us knock at my sister’s door repeatedly, GV’s father, next door, stepped out, said they had gone to Bombay, and invited us to his own and treated us with Adai and coffee. As GV and I were sharing this discovery, my wife and Jyoti, pursuing their chat independently in the kitchen, stumbled upon another coincidence. Jyoti’s sister and my wife’s Athai are married to brothers.

We have a few more pen friends to visit or invite. We are keeping our fingers crossed that they might as well turn out to be our distant cousins.

V.V. Sundaram

Bangalore

22 November 2012

Navaratri - Lady's Day Out

NAVARATRI – LADY’S DAY OUT

Perhaps being in India for Navaratri after a long gap permits me to share my experience.

Yes, these nine days of Navaratri - Dusshera, Dassara, Durga Puja, Nav Raaten, or whatever you call it - belong exclusively to ladies. It is theirs. Out and out. To be resplendent with the best sarees that all the year were suffocating under the spell of naphthalene balls and pining to see the light of the day – Kancheepuram-, Benaras-, Patola-, Venkatagiri-, Bengal-, or Kashmir-silk - not to exclude the designer Lehengas, Anarkali (not in vogue?) or other dresses that some prefer to don.

And what are supposed to be the householder’s rituals during this time? Without daring to generalize, you are just a Spouse-in-Waiting - ready to hand the lady the black comb, not the brown one; quickly iron just the border of the saree before she completes her face-wash; give her a fresh towel and not the one dried after bath; simultaneously make sure that the milk being boiled doesn’t spill over (as on the other day – a clarification that is a must).

You are asked to convey Mrs…on intercom that the lady of the house (LOH) would join Mami at the count of fifteen (with no indication of how many fifteens); to request the maid from the number stored in Madam’s mobile (a totally different format from your basic version) to come for work either before 5 or after 7.30 pm; tell the young couple downstairs not to count on us for the music concert in Malleswaram, but will confirm later (still unwilling to let go of the reins).

LOH interrupts her own monologue to announce that the high-end French perfume that you bought for her birthday a couple of years ago has lost its fragrance, and hints you should buy her another – and a better one this time. “Certainly… on your next birthday,” you reassure her. “No. Next birthday is too far off; now itself,” she asserts, too familiar with your procrastinating game plan.

In between, just to keep up your spirits, she recounts the comical scenes in Barfi and English Vinglish movies that we saw recently. “Actually, we should see more of them, shouldn’t we,” she asks, unfolding her real agenda, hoping you would commit off-guard with a ‘yes’.

The outdoor assignment for the festival included escorting her to Ulsoor to Domlur to Basanvangudi to Bannerghata to Banasankari to Vijaya Nagar to Rajarajeswari Nagar to Indira Nagar to JP Nagar to Yelahanka to... By Vijayadasami, the final day, the Lanes, Mains, Crosses, and Circles in Bangalore are as much in your fingertips as that of a double-shift auto driver.

 

At each place, on arrival, the hostess pre-empts your question with such remarks as: “My husband is on tour,” or, “…is stuck in office with a deadline to meet,” as she escorts the lady to her Golu-display room. “You can read today’s newspaper over there,” she adds as a solace. “That is what I have been doing at all these places,” you are about to utter, but restrain and respond, “Thank you.”

Left with no other option, you join the kids in their pranks as their mothers update each other in the Golu room. You try to impress the kids with ancient tricks and games. They shoot back, “These are too old, Thatha”. 

On way back, your shoulder bag is heavier by half a dozen coconuts, bananas that lay smashed since, and prasadams having lost their individual identity. “In the least, you could have separated the sweet prasadams from the salted ones,” points the lady on opening the bag back home. “Anyway, I am full and too tired to prepare dinner.  Can you make-do with this assortment and wash it down with a cup of milk that I shall heat for you (a compromise gesture)? In any case you have been wanting to lose weight; this could be a modest beginning,” she scores once again.

V.V. Sundaram

Bangalore

22 October 2012

Horanadu, Sringeri, Mookambika, Kollur, Murudeshwara, Udipi, Katil, Manjunatha and Kukke Subramanya Temple tours – Travelogue

Horanadu, Sringeri, Mookambika, Kollur, Murudeshwara, Udipi, Katil, Manjunatha and Kukke Subramanya Temple tours  – Travelogue

Of course there is nothing to beat the Home Sweet Home aura. But a sneak out once in a while is equally enjoyable – like eating out in a restaurant.

The five-day trip of Karnataka State Tourism that we availed of, covering 12 temples (and another 2 as bonus, courtesy the driver-guide team), was well worth it.

As is my wont, meticulous planning went into the selection of the dates – 1 to 5 November. Everyone would be exhausted after celebrating Dusshera. Diwali would be round the corner, and no one would plan any trip in the interim. The bus would thus be empty and the temples less crowded. In terms of weather, the South-West monsoon would be on its way out, and North-East is yet to show up. “The best dates possible,” we prided ourselves.

Unfortunately far too many people thought on similar lines. Consequently, the bus was full, and the temples were crowded. The weather? Well, the trip was in the same week when the predicted Sandy hurricane in the US and Neelam in parts of India were in full blast. Torrential rains, followed by overcast sky engulfed Bangalore, with daytime choosing to be no brighter than twilight.

By custom we set aside a small token money tied to a piece of cloth and pray God to forestall any cancellation of our flight or train. This time we fervently prayed for cancellation of the trip. Not only that, to build indirect pressure, we even repeatedly enquired from KSTDC, in varying voices, if they were calling off the tour because of the inclement weather. Each time they reassured us that the bus would leave on time.

Somewhat soaked, all of us got into the bus at night for an arduous drive through the ghats. But, despite the rains and consequent potholes and pitfalls en route, the driver made it as less bumpy as possible. When we reached Horanadu at five next morning, the hurricane-sweep had turned into a gentle breeze, and the chirping of birds doing their rounds a little ahead of time, as though to welcome us to the abode. We had a good darshan of Goddess Annapoorneswari and, no less, a mass-catering breakfast by the temple authorities  - Avalakki and coffee.

Till now each passenger was confined to his nucleus group. But commuting the distance from bus to the shoe stand and to the temple, having darshan and breakfast together, stealing time to do small shopping before boarding the bus for the next destination, the fragmented groups of 2s, 5s and 8s, converged into one small well-knit family of 32.

Fortified with Avalakki, heaped a little too liberally on each plate, and coffee, we briefly stopped over at Kalaseshwara temple, of Lord Shiva before setting out on a long-haul mountainous drive to Sringeri. The scenic beauty and the bountiful Nature was a visual feast to the eyes as we managed to stay awake despite a heavy breakfast, the all-too-inducing swinging motion of the vehicle, and the far too many aborted attempts the previous night in the push-back seat for a wink of sleep.

That, centuries ago Adi Sankaracharya walked all the way to this difficult terrain to build a Mutt and spread the Sanata Dharma teachings, seemed incredible when these days we wave for an auto to go to the Shiva-Vishnu temple in Anand Nagar, less than a furlong.

We partook the mass-feeding lunch of the Mutt before we headed for the Mookambika temple, another long drive. On arrival in the evening we checked into our respective rooms and, after freshening up, we walked to the temple. It is in this stretch that each time different members moved together in groups and got to know more of each other – someone’s all three sons are married, two settled in Chicago and one in Hyderabad, still to earn the ‘grandparent’ status, and the like.

It being a Friday the Mookambika temple was crowded, as would be any Devi temple. We waited for our turn, had darshan in a reasonably good measure, although, as usual, one would have preferred to stay in front longer than at least the guy in front and back – a natural instinct.

We stayed in Kollur for the night. It was here that, for the first time, the word ‘average’ passed through the mind as we checked in. Before allotting the rooms at random the Guide announced that half of the rooms were fitted with ‘Indian’ and the other “Western” toilets.  The obvious preference nowadays to the latter, the prime concern of everyone was to rush to the toilet to see what was in store for him – some heaved a sigh of relief, and others were heard saying, “Doesn’t matter, we will manage”. Yes, adjustment is the name of the game on such non-exclusive trips.

The next morning was headed for Murudeshwara, Lord Shiva being the presiding deity. The magnificent gopuram, the monumental statues on the hillock and the Arabian Sea by the side are simply breathtaking. One can go up to the top of the gopuram by lift to have a panoramic view of the sea.

Next was darshan of Lord Ganesha at Anegudde before we rode to Udupi, the abode of Lord Krishna. We were fortunate enough to get darshan in about half an hour before we joined the mass lunch by the temple authorities.

Too much of anything is bad, they say. So, shedding the religious tinge for a while, we were taken for a pleasure trip to the Malpe Beach. It is here that a few of our passengers displayed their negotiating ability with the well organized boatmen to bring down their fee for a ride to the nearest sort of ‘island’ and back. Some preferred to play around on the beach soaking their legs, others having a go at the tender coconut, and yet others some ice creams from the only shop on the seashore.

Time, once again, for the next temple – Durga Parameshwari at Katil. Slight showers welcomed our arrival. It was a blessing in disguise. We were able to have a very good darshan here, being able to stay right in front for minutes together – what we were denied at most other places.  We stayed through the closing ceremony, and headed for the mass dinner – again by the temple authorities. Before retiring to bed, everyone thanked KSTDC for accommodating them in one of their own starred hotels. It was very nice.

On day four, we were taken to Kadri Manjunatha temple. (Yes, we were told that the famous Saxaphone player Kadri Gopinath hails from here). Then to Mangala Devi temple before a long drive to Dharmasthala, the abode of Lord Manjunatha. We had to wait here for the longest period for darshan, and got it for split seconds. Not a satisfactory darshan for a last day, we told ourselves, before joining the mass lunch again. On return from lunch, we were surprised to find that there were literally no one for darshan, and we were allowed inside. All of us rushed in, stood in front for as much time as one wished, before rushing to board the bus in time.

After a few hours of respite, we got ready to visit what was to be the last on the agenda – Kukke Subramanya temple. After darshan we were to have dinner in the temple and commence our return journey to Bangalore. Everybody would be too tired and keen to have a nap before reaching Bangalore early next morning.

So it fell upon me to bell the cat to appeal to the passengers for a liberal tip, to express our gratitude to the KSTDC team - the driver, guide, and the handyman. After requesting the Guide to spare his microphone I positioned myself as though to address a gathering of ten thousand, and requested the Driver to switch off the engine, to be heard. I reminded the passengers that we owed a lot to driver for negotiating his way through the ghat when it rained in torrents on the first night, to the Guide for highlighting the importance of each place that we were visiting, and for his patience to let us maintain our own punctuality at each boarding point, and, no less, to the Handyman for the stool that he religiously kept after the last footboard to ensure a safe landing. Also, to the three for taking us to the extra temples, and for an unscheduled stop by the Netravati river to cool our heels and freshen up. The response was good; we collected a good sum, and the trio seemed happy.

We arrived in Bangalore at 5.30 morning on day five. The team greeted everyone at the exit point, and when it was my turn, the Guide whispered into my ears, “When shall we see you next, Sir?” “God willing, we shall,” I reassured him.

V.V. Sundaram

22 November 2012

In Memory of Lakshmi - Memoirs (My Life...., Chapter )

In Memory of Lakshmi

By V.V. Sundaram

(India Currents, October 2012)

It all started when my grandmother, Paati, couldn’t tolerate the cowherd Aandi Muthu’s lazy and dictatorial tendencies and she withdrew her cow from his charge and hired the dhobi’s young son as his replacement.

Aandi Muthu held reign for many years in the village. Every morning he would mark his entry to the village at 9 a.m. calling  out, “Unleash your cows,” to the villagers as he walked by.

With his unkempt, long, dry hair, his bulging eyes reddened by the previous night’s liquor, and wielding a cane, the scene in no way reminded anyone of the cowherd, Krishna. On the contrary, had Aandi Muthu mounted a buffalo and had a mace replaced the cane, he would have passed for Yama Raj on a morning shift for a hurricane cattle sweep.

Accustomed to his drinking habits, impatience and short-temper, the moment my Paati heard his voice, she suspended her kitchen activities, rushed to the cowshed and released  her cow Lakshmi before he could go past our house. Aandi Muthu never looked back to check if the household had released its cattle. And we couldn’t afford to keep Lakshmi cooped up, for a cow that gets exercise is a cow that is more bountiful. Besides the food for the cows was out there in the meadows and fields. Paati, like the other village ladies managed her domestic needs with the help of Lakshmi and sold the surplus in the form of milk, butter, or ghee. It was my grandmother’s source of input to the family kitty. So, we could ill afford any harm to our cash crop.

Aandi Muthu’s routine was well known. Everyday, he herded the forty or fifty cattle to a vast meadow past the village. The cattle were no problem. Either they knew, too well, his nature or were eager to enjoy the temporary freedom from the cooped up life in the cowshed.
Muthu allowed them to graze happily as he reshaped his shoulder towel into a pillow for a nap under the shade of a bush to get over his hangover. Occasionally a passerby accidently stepping on him, a snake hissing past his legs, the grunting among the cattle for territorial grazing rights, or the oppressive sun would wake him up from his siesta. He would then look up at the sun for the approximate time. If there were still some moments left, he would light a bidi and smoke it to its last puff—or till his fingers felt the burn. Around 3:30 p.m., he would herd the cattle back to their homes.

This went on regularly for years until his dedication deteriorated. He began bringing the cattle back at 2 p.m., then 1 p.m., 12 noon, and finally at 11.30 a.m. This gave a totally different twist to the adage “till the cows come home.” Paati found this unacceptable. Surely, sunset couldn’t commence at 11.30 in the morning, she argued. But Aandi Muthu had his own explanation: “Dry ground. No grass to graze. Subjecting the cattle unnecessarily to the scorching sun could impact the milk output.” Paati feared that if she argued with Muthu, he would stop taking Lakshmi. So besides grumbling and gossiping with the village ladies, she tolerated his lack of dedication for a while. Some village ladies pointed to a possible second marriage as a strong reason for his poor work ethic and others blamed his worsening drinking habits.

Paati finally replaced Aandi Muthu with the dhobi’s son. In time, more and more villagers followed suit. Besides herding cattle to the fields and watching over their grazing, the boy gave the cattle a bath in the canal, as well.

This new trend did disturb Aandi Muthu’s peace of mind and he was heard complaining frequently about the new cowherd.

Then one evening, it was past 4 p.m. and there was no trace of our cow, Lakshmi. The milking time was 5 p.m. Paati got worried. Enquiries with the ladies who entrusted their cattle to the same boy revealed that their cattle had returned, but unaccompanied by the boy.

Paati sent me on a search mission. I ran to all the possible places; I could not locate Lakshmi. No trace of her. I got worried. I asked passersby if they had seen a white cow grazing. One man said that he had noticed an animal lying near the village cremation ground. Elders had prohibited children from going near the cremation ground. So I went just up to two hundred yards from the place and saw a white cow lying motionless. I called out to her, “Lakshmi, Lakshmi,” but she did not raise her head. For once I violated the instructions and went close to the cremation ground. Yes, it was Lakshmi, lying with her right front leg broken and hanging, and tears rolling from her eyes in pain.

I sped home and informed Paati. She mobilized manpower and had Lakshmi loaded onto a cart drawn by two oxen. The Government Veterinary Hospital was closed for the day since it was 6 p.m. in the evening. But I knew where the veterinarian lived. I persuaded him to come home. After a thorough examination, he opined that it was not any vehicle accident but a deliberate act of malice that had caused this. He said he would fix a cast for some weeks and if things didn’t improve, the leg would be amputated.

Two months of vigorous attempts to naturally join the bones did not help. There were clear indications of pus formation. The leg was amputated. In course of time Lakshmi managed to move around, one leg short. But Paati did not want to send her out again for grazing. My grandfather’s client had a huge agricultural land in his village twenty miles away. He volunteered to have her taken there so that she could lead a peaceful rest of her life. Eight or nine months later we got the news that Lakshmi had passed away.

The usual practice was to replace a cow or buffalo once the milk yield declined or stopped. But from the time I could remember till Lakshmi’s leg got broken, she was part of our house—milk or no milk. So the news of her passing away was no less than the loss of a member of the family.

For Paati it was still worse, for while she milked Lakshmi, I would hear her talk to Lakshmi, direct her not to move her legs or to postpone her excreta disposal till she had finished with the milking, plead with her if the yield fell short of her daily commitments to customers, or sing songs to persuade her as I sat at a permissible distance enthusiastically watching the proceedings, with occasional pleas to Paati to let me milk Lakshmi. Lakshmi’s loss cut deeply. The loss of a pet is always tough. But, sharing memories can help celebrate the life of the animal lost. This is my way of coping.


Bangalore

19 October 2012

Community Living - Well Begun is Half Done

Community Living - Well Begun is Half Done

So the saying goes - and it applies no less to Srishti Apartments Library.

“My Library @ Srishti”, a brainchild of Sanjay, B-104, ably assisted by Jaya and a few other ladies, was inaugurated last Sunday by Shri V.N Radhakrishnan, A-503. A gathering of around 30 might sound a little less for 144 flats on a Sunday evening, but then it was just an hour before the clash of the Titans – Sri Lanka and West Indies in the T-20 World Cup final. Anyway, small is beautiful. And it permitted a meaningful interaction among the audience. 

Mr Radhakrishnan provided the right impetus by donating nearly 50 novels. We learn Shobha, B-105, followed suit later. Others donated as many as the books they were still left with. One senior confided in me that hardly a month ago he gave away 210 books to a library – engineering, educational, thought-provoking, and what have you.  At home Aunty rang up her younger sister in JP Nagar to alert her to reserve all the novels of her two teenage daughters for donation. But alas, she had already given them away – less in philanthropy than in rage that the girls were more into those books than their own curriculum texts. Aunty now plans to tap her brother whose two sons, also in their teens and voracious readers, to earmark the read books for donation.

From a cursory glance the present Library acquisition doesn’t seem too bad. It has such authors as Somerset Maugham (not more than 3 pages at a time by my reckoning), Stephen King, the king of horror, David Baldacci (one of my favourites), Erle Stanley Gardner, of the Perry Mason fame (a fan of his as a child), Dan Brown, Ken Follett… These books have been neatly classified into Children’s, Adult, English, Kannada, Fiction, Non Fiction… including the name and flat number of the donor. Let’s hope this is a precursor to more books flooding the Library rack – presently an almirah kindly donated by the Sanjay to perpetuate the memory of his father, my friend, Srivatsa ji. Hopefully the books yet to find their way would be J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series, Enid Blyton’s Hardy Boys, and many more that would enthuse children.

Yes, I mean children, because in the thirty minutes that I spent last evening, as Aunty gave a helping hand in disbursing books, I found them (6 to 12) thronging to select books. Normally one finds children rush home for a glass or two of water after a strenuous Karate session, but these children were speeding to the Library to be in time before closure, to pick their favourite books, still perspiring and gasping. I won’t brush this off as initial enthusiasm, but would dare to forecast it as ‘literary giants in the making in Srishti’.

All the best.

V.V. Sundaram

B-703

11 October 2012

Paru Mami's Dignity - Memoirs (My Life..., Chapter 10)

(Published in India Currents, USA, September 2012)

Paru Mami’s Dignity
V.V. Sundaram

(My Life...,, Chapter 10)

Paru Mami (name changed) of my village was, to quote a Hindi saying, Garib ki Joru, Sab ki Bhabhi - poor man’s wife, everybody’s sister-in-law.

Her husband, Nanu Jyosyar’s income as an elementary school teacher was insufficient to feed the family of five daughters and one son. Though his surname (Jyosyar, a version of Jyothishar or astrologer) referred to the family’s age-old profession, that line of work ended with his father. Nanu Mama had no clue whatsoever of astrology; otherwise he would have supplemented his income to make up the shortfall.

Consequently, the family was often in arrears on rent for the house they lived in. The owner, also a resident of the village, didn’t evict them on sheer humanitarian grounds, and compromised collecting rent in bits and pieces.

Wives and mothers in other houses in the village mitigated Paru Mami’s misery to the extent their own situation permitted, ensuring simultaneously that Paru Mami’s dignity was preserved. Whenever there was any family function, the lady of the house would request for Paru Mami’s assistance.

On such occasions, instead of telling Mami to bring all her children for lunch and giving her the feeling that such an invitation was being extended more to alleviate her suffering, the lady of the house would gently come up with a request: “Ha Paru, can I also request that your daughters give me a helping hand to cut vegetables, grind different pastes, pound spices, and fetch water from the well? And, ah, in between your tasks, please tell them not to rush home to prepare meals; prevail upon them to join us.”

This was the most honourable method the elderly ladies deployed to save Paru Mami from having to light the hearth at home. As for Mami’s husband, the ladies made sure to pack enough for a dinner on such occasions. Four or five functions a month gave Mami some respite.

As children, this gesture, when it occurred in our house, did cut into our own quota of appam, vadai, or payasam, but for some strange reason we felt elated watching Mami’s children having a rightfully earned hearty meal along with us.

Most houses also sought Mami’s services for the annual pickle event  – mango, lime, naarthankai (dried lime), veppala katti (curry leaves mixture). And every lady relied on Mami’s hand to add the final heaping of salt and spice for two reasons. First, she moderated the quantities of spices depending on the blood pressure level, or ulcer or other problems plaguing members of the house in question. Second, the ladies believed that under any other hand the pickle would sour and develop fungus sooner than later. At the end of her labours, Mami would be gifted with a jar of the prepared product, and sometimes betal leaves, aricanut, haldi-kumkum and a blouse piece and money.

Thus, Mami had a good collection of pickles on hand. Sometimes driven to despair the family made do with a bare minimum meal – rice, and thin buttermilk. On these occasions Mami made up for the absence of a full course with an offer to her children to choose their own pickle: Karikkar Mami’s mango pickle; Karimasseri Mami’s lime pickle; or Kolathu Mami’s hot kadugu mangai (whole mango pickle). This effort to divert her children often worked – the children forgot what was missing on their plates in their eagerness to grab the pickle of their choice.

The visit of a son or daughter from Bombay, Delhi, Calcutta or Madras on a holiday was an annual or biennial occurrence in most households. It was a custom that when they returned the mothers packed them a tin of savoury – murukku, thattai, ribbon pakoda, or thenkozal – and some sweets: laddu, or Mysorepak. Mami would be commissioned to prepare these snacks.

Mami’s murukk chuttal, the art of maneuvering the raw paste into twisted rounds of five and seven circles was as perfect as Picasso’s symmetrical rounds. She was best in the village, if not in the town.

However, it must be admitted that her Mysorepak was a trial and error effort despite her years of experience. The outcome was as unpredictable as any One Day International cricket match. This however is not to suggest that on the not so successful occasions the product turned so bad as to be fit only as glue for Navaratri Kolu decoration. It could be eaten, just under a different name.

Thus Mami carried her domestic show with great aplomb and self-respect. If at any time she had to draw temporarily a measure of rice, or cooking oil, it was just from our house - and our house only.

While on an official visit to Calicut decades later, I visited Mami who had moved there with her only son and his family. The five daughters were all married by then.

Two of Mami’s daughters also lived in Calicut, one of them running a pickle business as cottage industry enterprise. I called on her. After offering me coffee and snacks, she said: “We hear your uncles are selling the ancestral house. I would be keen to buy it, just to perpetuate my childhood memory. Can you put in a word to them, please?” I promised to convey her wishes. Yes, at that time all members of our family had moved to cities, and the house was vacant, on the verge of dilapidation. My uncles were seriously thinking of selling it.

As I prepared to take leave, she asked me to wait. She went inside and returned with a shopping bag full of assorted pickles – easily 12 bottles. I had a tough time convincing her that it would be a problem for me to carry it either as a check-in luggage or as a cabin baggage.

I couldn’t help admire the wheel of time. The family that had endured hardship in the village was keen to own a house there, and we, who had nothing but pleasant memories, were trying to sever all connections.

But then that is what life is all about, I thought, as I packed the pickles with my clothing and headed to the airport. 

Bangalore, 10 Sept. 2012

Community Living: A Delightful Evening - Srishti Day

Community Living: A Delightful Evening - Srishti Day

With the Rain God in an uncharitable mood last evening despite our month-long notice, I had already decided mentally “The Flop Show that It was” as the caption for the write up. Fortunately. He responded to the silent prayers of Srishti-ites, after an hour. Maybe, that too was His deliberate ploy to keep stallholders happy, for they had a field day, and all whispered to the Secretary that Srishti could count on their presence for any functions.  The Menu board soon was replaced by “Sold Out’ placard, as they busied themselves tallying the day’s collections.  The less confident few participants (the likes of me?) who felt ‘forced’ into for the new item, Ramp Walk for a chosen cause, were happy at the prospect of the item getting axed because of the delayed start. But Sudha, the chief architect of this item, was made of a different mettle.

Someone, more down to earth, hinted to the Secretary that a stall holder or two should be asked to put up their stalls every fortnight, to combine a pleasant get-together with a gourmet’s delight.

Until now attendance at a GBM was the benchmark. But yesterday’s gathering belied all expectations. It was a treat to watch so many rushing to occupy vantage points despite water trickling right on one’s head with clock-wise precision from the drenched shamiana. Watching the seven to seventies perform sometimes takes precedence over such little inconveniences.

There were many where both husband and wife took active part – the Srikants, Menons, Paturis,  Bhashyams, to mention a few.

Well begun is half done. There could not have been a better start than an invocation by the cute little ones. One felt like walking up to the stage and hug them – they endeared themselves so much to the audience instantaneously. There was a touch of professionalism in the Bollywood dance numbers – credit equally to be shared by the Srishti children and the choreographer. I would bet my last penny on him for a bright future.

In between the programmes, as the stage was being re-set, the Menons kept up the spirit of the audience with a quiz here and there. Thank God those were directed at the kids. I had no clue to any of them.

Happily, the Surekha-Geeta duo’s performance has become a permanent fixture at Srishti functions. One could hear the participants humming along with them the Sharma Bandhu’s famous bhajan, ‘Suraj ki Garmi se…’ Later Surekha gave a solo of the classic. That was a tall order, but she executed with gusto.

The boys were brimming with confidence in their skit, as at their Supandi enactments. There were a few girls, like Ashutosh’s  daughter, who took part in almost all events.

The lady who rendered a Carnatic song once again reminds Srishti-ites that there is no dearth of talents. For many it was a welcome change from the ‘Sheela ki jawani…’ type numbers.

Some of the established artists like Murali Krishna’s daughter, Raji’s daughter, etc. were missing. But then they are into college and their preoccupations couldn’t let them take part. We missed them. Thankfully, Jasmita, Jayasree’s daughter, and her companion rendered a very good number.

“These are all there every time. Anything new, Mr Sundaram?” one might ask. Yes, there were – three. One, we saw a lot of new residents - happily all pleasantly disposed. Two, personally I was sorry that my friend Keyboard Krish, another permanent fixture, chose to be in US (along with Gautam, another pro-active Srishti-ite).  But thanks to the interest generated by Krish, Srishti boys in their teens rendered three numbers together on keyboard. Their performance as well as the announcement from one among them was very well received.

And three, this time around, Sudha thought that the menfolk have all along been backbenchers having fun, and not taking pains to participate in any event. So she roped in a few to do a Ramp Walk for a cause that each one stood for. There were about 20 of them from mid-thirties to a septuagenarian. This was the last item but definitely not the least, if the audience response was anything to go by. If one felt Visweswaran stole the show, then Kannan could rightly claim that his Subramania Bharati attire was no less attractive; or Srikant’s East-West combo – with panchagachan, Nehru jacket, sporting a Western cap; Prabhu’s nothing-special, but everything-in projection; or  Narayan’s, Bhashyam’s,  Jagan’s graceful and suave movements, the compelling walk of Nandakumar, or the towering Murali Parna or the majestic Sanjay.

Any takers?

Bangalore

26 August 2012

My Life... Chapter 12 (The Dreadful Commute to School)

Chapter 12

The Dreadful Commute to School

Vedas divide Hindus into different categories - Brahmins, Kshatriyas, etc. - each performing a designated job. Brahmins are supposed to be scholars and masters of our scriptures. Kshatriyas are a warrior community ever ready to fight.

As students of the Brahmin-occupied Ramanathapuram village we were studious, religious, and minded our own business. Our counterparts from the adjacent Kshatriya-dominated Puthur village were well dressed, self-confident and never took anything lying down.

The Ramanathapuram herd walked to school via the single-path bund of the paddy fields. Half way the Puthur battalion would meet the RNP gang from their direction. The two groups together had necessarily to walk past a common bund for about one hundred yards before entering into the open. This hundred-yard stretch was a bottleneck, and very often a battlefield between the two clans.

The spark for the clash varied. Sometimes it would be physical smartness. A Puthur boy would deliberately trip RNP boy’s leg from behind when he overtook him, causing the RNP boy to fall on the muddy paddy field and get wet. Or, when the Puthur boy overtook the RNP boy, he would rub RNP boy’s shoulder a little too fiercely so as to let his books slip in the muddy water.

On occasions it would be a verbal one-upmanship. Taking a dig at an RNP boy for having given the right answer in the class the previous day where the Puthur boy had miserably failed, they would tease, “Ask this Pattar for any doubt, he is a Mr Know-All.” The word ‘Pattar’ is as detestable to Brahmins in Kerala as the word ‘Paappaan’ is to Brahmins in Tamil Nadu.

Or, they would comment on the RNP boys’ casual walk, engaged in a lively chat. “Looks like the Sambar-gulping Pattars had a little too much of it this morning. Or, must be coming straight after a free feast at someone’s house. Hence they are swinging, not walking.” They would then render in unison a Malayalam poet’s lines: Eli, Panni, Perichhazi, Pattarum, Vaanaram Tha Tha; Ivar Eivarum Illengil, Malayalam Manoharam, (Rat, pig, bandicoot, Pattar (Brahmin), and Monkey; If these five are absent, Malayalam land would be beautiful). The RNP group would retaliate with a homespun Sanskrit slokam that hit them below the belt as it invoked their parents.

Verbal dual has a knack of assuming physical proportions. It is here that they displayed qualities of Kshatriya dharma. They all united to pounce on the one that provoked them like a lioness and her herd on a prey in Animal Planet. On the contrary, the RNP gang, firm believers of destiny, would let their member fight it out single-handed. Their sole support consisted of chanting peace mantras: Sivam, Sivakaram, Shaantam…, Sarvesham Svastir Bhavatu, Sarvesham Shantir Bhavatu…, Sahana Vavathu, Sahanau Bhunaktu…. Here too each claimed that his slokam was more effective than the others’, as their friend struggled to wriggle out of the ravages of Puttur boys.

In a post mortem discussion of the episode later, each one came out with his reason for abstention. “What if one day I returned alone from school and they catch me. They would deal with me beyond repair,” argued one. “His father and my father work in the same office, and if his father complains to my father?” justified another. Yet another would defend his action: “Well I am not into either friendship or enmity with them. I go to school for studies. As simple as that.”

The net result was the Puttur boys soon realized our weakness - that we would never unite in adversity - and they could have a field day at their asking. Each time they began targeting a new prey.

Kittamani came to grips with the situation and suggested that we should not allow this to go unchecked, but should join hands. His pep talk included: “Our numerical strength vis-a-vis Puthur’s is in a ratio of 65:35, and we have the physique of the likes of Ganai. These should embolden us to mount an attack, rather than be at the receiving end.” His specific reference to Ganai had a hidden agenda.  Despite his better physique than most of the others in either group, Ganai got beaten up mercilessly the last time and no one came to his rescue. Kittamani didn’t want Ganai to hold a grudge on that score.

Everyone agreed.  It was decided that Kittamani would provoke the Puttur boys the next day and, when attacked, all of RNP boys would spring a surprise on Puttur boys and show them their place.

Things went as planned. Kittamani deliberately made a sweeping comment on their clan as a whole that hurt Puttur boys’ sentiments. With a sudden swoop they pushed him down the muddy water. Seeing the swift turn of events, the RNP boys who had hitherto promised to unite, realized it was not in their interests to associate themselves at this stage. They abstained, content to watch the proceedings with their customary prayers.

Badly shaken, clothes torn, but not totally lost, Kittamani challenged the Puttur boys that he would avenge their onslaught the next evening on return from school. They were only glad at lapping yet another fresh opportunity.

“Are you all men or mice?” Kittamani shouted at us in distress as soon as the Puttur boys were out of sight. He ordered us not to accompany him the next evening on return from school, and he would handle them alone. This precisely suited us - what we had individually been praying for.

Come the next evening, Kittamani left school soon after the last bell. He wanted to be sure to meet them. Yes, they were all there. As reinforcement they had brought along two or three seniors who were not part of their group. In the intersection between the Puthur and RNP bunds, Kittamani stood like Goliath, but in a frail frame. The Puthur boys arrived all too eager to have a renewed go at Kittamani.

Kittamani wielded the large sickle that he had hidden under his shirt: “Come on boys, decide which one of you would like to be dispatched first, before I take on the second,” roared Kittamani and charged against them. The boys fled in terror in all directions, apparently through the muddy paddy fields. Most of them fell flat in the slippery mud. Kittamani stepped on the chest of the boy close by and warned him, “You better listen carefully and tell your boys. Hereafter if any of you try your dirty game on the RNP boys, this is the fate you will encounter. One or two of you get ready for the dispatch. That is for sure.” That boy lying half under water was number two in the Puthur team, the number one having fled, instead of braving Kittamani. With tears in his eyes and gasping for breath, he profusely apologized, touched Kittamani’s foot, which was still on his chest, and promised to behave themselves.

Since then if ever the Puthur and RNP boys happened to reach the intersection at the same time, the Puthur boys never failed to mention, “After you, please,” for the RNP boys, even if the RNP contingent consisted of only one boy and the Puthur five or six. For RNP boys it was no more Kittamani; it was Veeramani thereafter.

Continued……

My Life..., Chapter 11 (The Inept Handling of Tuft)

Chapter 11

The inept Handling of Tuft

As school children we greeted 9.30 to 4.30, Monday to Friday, with mixed feelings. The pleasurable ones included the time commuting to and from school in groups with pranks and lively chats, the PT and drawing classes, and the occasions David Master substituted for the regular teacher to enliven our spirits with adventures of Tarzan - to an extent that we prayed that all periods were so.

Among the not so pleasurable ones were Mathematics, Science and Geography classes, dry as they were by nature. That the subjects stayed in hands that in no way enhanced the prestige of the faculty made remedy worse than the disease.

Like birds of the same feather flock together, we went to school in groups. We had to walk through the narrow single-path bunds that separated one paddy field from the other. Slipping on the muddy path, and the new textbooks and notes getting submerged in water, were common occurrence. Half way at the paddy fields students from neighbouring village Puthur would join us from their direction. Then we would pass through a small patch of Tarakkad village where Tarakkad students would join us. The three groups would walk together the last five hundred yards to school, from the East.

From the West it would be the Vadakkanthara, Nellissery groups heading, while from the North it would be Kalpathy, Chattapuram groups, and from the South the Pallipuram, Tirulakkadavu students. Thus it was a conglomerate of young human race making it to the school, and to the Government Victoria College in front.

It was a Friday. And on Fridays the TGIF feeling for school children was not any less than for office-going adults. All the members of East group would enjoy top of the world feeling, while the few skirt and dhavani girl students and the saree-clad college-going ladies would walk close by in a group of their own. It is at this stretch that boys would try to be at their best with jokes, mimicry or acts that would attract giggles from the opposite camp.

Sri Ramaswamy Iyer, our Social Studies teacher was walking in front, with three solid lines of vibhuti making full use of his ample forehead. The thick coating was sufficient to take on any sweat without signs of any wear and tear till next morning. Joining the wide gap between the eyebrows was a well-circled kum kum of a diameter even the elderly ladies dreaded to sport. He was a Devi devotee. He was among the three teachers who donned a coat to school. The other two wore it pressed, and Ramaswamy Iyer with wrinkles intact.

He had just knotted his tuft after leaving it loose to dry up in the sun. This action attracted the attention of the boys behind. One of them signaled my youngest uncle to swing the tuft gently. Docile by nature my uncle was hesitant. But the girls had already begun to giggle in anticipation, and it became a prestige issue. He took the plunge, did a few mock sessions initially at a 12-inch distance, then 9, then 6, before he got ready for the final assault. Split seconds before that the teacher turned back and delivered three consecutive slaps on my uncle’s face. Unfortunately they were not a token version, but ones that left a piercing sound in his ears for the next half-hour. He was so taken aback by the sudden onslaught. For the girls his flop-show evoked even more giggle than the original version could have.

The reason for this faux pas was that we were going to school from East to West. The morning sun was at our back. The teacher’s three-times longer shadow was right in front of him, and the advance giggle of the girls made him guess something was amiss, and probably watched in his shadow the attempts. He turned back to act just in time. Many students coming from the other three directions also witnessed this blatant act in public – a delivery that a teacher would normally reserve for the classroom.

Overcome by shame my uncle did not report to school. Instead he hid himself in Chettiar’s shop nearby. Chettiar had provided a bench without any backrest, partly covered with shutters, for students to smoke unseen. An hour later, with no order forthcoming for cigarettes, soda, or even peanut cake pieces, Chettiar felt he could not take this liability. The school and college authorities could pounce on him for giving asylum to anti-social elements and also acting as an accomplice to the wrongdoings of the youth.

‘You better go home and tell your Mom that you have a stomach pain; hence you returned,” recommended Chettiar. My uncle knew that his statement would not be taken at face value and he would be subjected to far too many questions than Chettiar could imagine. And, coming as it would from the wife of a seasoned advocate, he could hardly hope to survive her cross-examination. He knew what exactly was itching Chettiar. So he ordered an item or two on credit. And that set at rest Chettiar’s primary concern.

Meanwhile, in the school the teacher sent for my eldest brother who was in the same class, but in a different section, and asked him for the whereabouts of my uncle. My brother knew his hideout, but pleaded ignorance. Fear began to engulf the teacher. He knew the boy’s father was an advocate. And any legal battle for beating in public an under-18 was the least he envisioned to preside over his retirement.

He went on a convincing spree with my brother. “Yes, it is okay, he could swing the tuft like a pendulum, but his own father’s. The latter might enjoy that as one coming from his last son, grown up though. But definitely he can’t do it with others, especially with a teacher, and in public view. You see my point.” My brother promised to convey it verbatim.

“And, ah, ask him not to bother to tell the incident to his father. I will also not take it up with him. By the way, I find him lagging a little in Social Studies. Ask him to come to my home for an hour’s tuition for two months, and I will get him to the top. Okay?” He conveyed this freebie perhaps as a self-admonition.

Twenty-four hours later everything got resolved when my uncle felt reassured that the teacher won’t report it to his father who was a known instant dispenser of justice with anything that was easily accessible at hand. He politely declined the teacher’s offer of a free temporary private tuition. He didn’t’ want fresh issues to rake up at home, as he was just a middle-grader, and nowhere near the bottom warranting a private tuition.

Thus, the one who wanted to play pranks at someone, found himself being made fun of by the co-students for the next few days.

Continued……