My Life....Chapter 3, Adolescent Antics

Chapter 3,  Adolescent Antics

Lunch box was a must to school. It was to be kept in the lunchroom. Like birds of the same feather flock together, boys of the same class kept their lunch boxes together so that they could sit, chat and eat in a group.

My lunch box and that of Raghu (Mridangam luminary, late Palghat Mani Iyer’s son) looked alike. One day he went ahead of me to the lunchroom and had almost emptied the contents of the lunchbox when he realized it was not his, but mine. So he opened his own box and began to gobble when I went in.

“Sorry Sundaram, I ate your lunch by mistake.” 

“Doesn’t matter. I will taste your mother’s preparation today,” I said, really looking forward to a change.

“No, that is what I am engaged in right now,” he said with a feeling of guilt.

In those days pocket-money system was non-existent that I could have bought something for myself. Fortunately Raghu had some money, and he bought me a popsicle, a big one, from the vendor – a permanent fixture in front of any school. Though not filling, it was a welcome compensation.

Football and cricket were our favourite games in the village. For cricket, fortunately our senior cousins were members of the school and college teams. So they donated their discarded sets. The only problem was that the bats were a little large for us. But we never lacked the basic courtesy not to look at a gift horse’s mouth.  Although we played with tennis ball, we proudly sported the leg-pad handed down to us, before we walked up to the crease to bat. From their doorsteps ladies and girls watched us play the game, no less the subsequent heated arguments over umpiring decisions or stopping play due to bad light, denying some to bat.

Often we used to invite the neighbouring village for a match. A formal letter was a must. That day it fell on me to draft the letter.

“We wish to play a match with your team, with your ball, with your bat and with your stumps, and in your ground. Ball go, no ball.”  The last sentence was supposed to be a protective clause. Their ground was an open area surrounded by paddy fields. There was every chance that a huge hit might land the ball irretrievably somewhere in the paddy fields, and we didn’t want to be held responsible for the loss.

For football we had no donor. We had to contribute, ranging from a quarter-anna to four annas (twenty-five paise). The collection fell short of the cost of a football. First we decided that each boy would approach his father for the shortfall. We knew it wouldn’t work. Better sense prevailed. We approached each parent in groups of seven or eight, deliberately omitting his own son, to forestall a possible later admonition of scheming it. Fearing that a refusal could attract adverse publicity, each parent obliged and we were left with some surplus money - just enough to take care of puncture and wear and tear expenses, but not to buy a pump to fill it up every other day. But we had a kindly soul in Aamu (Ramu Anna) who had a cycle, and a pump. Elders watched us play and supported enthusiastically. But, with a window or two getting relieved of its glass-panes, and the ball smashing the head-load of oranges of the village’s blue-eyed hawker, we were directed to shift the venue to the field outside the village. That robbed the charm of the game, for players wanted spectators. 

As children we always looked forward to summer vacation. That was when the mangoes in everyone’s backyard would be in full bloom. Most of the houses had mango trees – not just one but, two or three. Some grew luscious mangoes, others good, bad and indifferent varieties. Some were useful for instant pickle, others for long-lasting pickles, yet others juicy ones suited for pachhadi or sambar. But we were attracted to the ones that were ready to eat and were sweet. At two in the afternoon when ladies would enjoy a post-lunch siesta, we would enter their backyard. The bamboo fences having outlived their survival period were mostly on the verge of collapse at the slightest touch. We would enter their backyard, climb the tree and pluck mangoes. Where the trunk was too high, hefty and straight, we would aim small pieces of stones. Sometimes they hit the target, on other occasions the owner’s roof. Fearing damage to the roof tiles and leak during following monsoon the aunties would shout us away - and one particular aunty for a longer duration.

We had one boy in our group in whose backyard there was a mango tree which yielded a delicious North Indian variety. Undoubtedly its counterpart grown in the Gangetic fertile belt must have been still sweeter, but this was only a shade less. There was no question of stealing from his backyard. He would give us now and then, but on condition that we should leave behind the seeds in his backyard. In other words he didn’t want any other house in the village to grow this variety. But Balan and I had already set our eyes on it. So on one occasion we got the better of our friend and managed to smuggle the seeds out. Both of us sowed the seeds at our backyard. Luckily, for Balan, the soil picked it up in his house, and not in mine. He began to enjoy the benefits of his action in four to six years.

Of course these escapades cannot be attributed to ‘stealing’ in the strict sense of the word, as most of the ladies knew the children who were plucking a few mangoes. My real litmus test was when I was directed to shoplift ‘cigarette mittai’ (the long one that would melt once in the mouth) from a shop at the entrance to the village.  Only then would I be inducted into the seniors’ group (my two elder brothers and uncle of the age of my eldest brother). The shop belonged to Chitta, a noble old soul.  He would doze off on his seat in the afternoon as he waited for customers.

Driven by the urge to get into the group I mustered courage, got close to the shop window.  I made a mental measurement of the distance I needed to stretch my hand to land on the item in question. It was in a bottle, tightly closed. As expected, Chitta uncle was dozing off, with snores to comfort him. I stretched my hand exactly on my target, opened it. No luck. Tried once again. Still no luck. Saw someone passing by. Guessed he must be coming to the shop – guilty conscience. ‘No time to waste,’ I said to myself, just lifted the bottle, and made good my escape. I think we got four pieces each, instead of just one expected. 

As is wont in village life, a week later Chitta uncle came to know who the culprit was, and requested me to return justthe empty bottle, and no questions asked.  But I was so stuck with a mortal fear that if I returned the bottle, he would be fully armed to go and report it to my grandfather, a strict disciplinarian.

My grandfather was an advocate in the Palghat Sessions Court. When we had our school annual vacation, the court too closed for summer vacation. Thus, vacation was not fun all the way for us as compared to other boys in the village. In the afternoons, after his nap, my grandfather would ask the six of us (five grandchildren, and his own last son) for an elaborate sloka session. “Dharma Kshetrey Kurukshetrey…” (Mahabharata); “Kalaabhyaam Chudaalankrita Sashi Kalabhyam…” (Sivananda Lahari); or “Arey Kwasow, Kwasow…” (Narayaneeyam); or “Sreemata, Sreemahalakshmy, Sreemat Simhasaneswary” (Lalitha Sahasranam); or “Viswam Vishnur Vashat Kaaro” (Vishnu Sahasranam). In addition he also taught us Lingashtakam, and a few other ones. In all it was a two and a half hour session, day after day. Any error in pronunciation, diction meant repeating the correct version five times. There were times when we felt why there was a summer break at all, more so when all the other children in the village were having a gay time. The only occasions we didn’t have a class was when he had cold or  cough. Of course we didn’t wish for it, but when he did have it, we were elated. 

As if these were not enough, he organized with the village Purohit to teach all the boys Rudram, Chamakam, Purushasooktam, in a regular evening class, with Attendance Register, random recital tests and marks. 

In retrospect, it is a pity that I have lost touch with most of what I had learned, and my recitation is now confined to just Vishnu Sahasranamam, at horse-race speed - in 20 minutes from Shuklaam Bharataram… to Kaayena Vaacha... Here too a surgery a decade ago had to intervene to trigger resumption.

(To be continued)

My Life...Chapter 2, All in the Game

My Life: People, Places and Moments (Cont’d…)

Chapter 2, All in the game

Two years later, I moved and joined the school in Vadakkanthara village, my father’s place. The de facto Administrator of the school was Paattu Maash (meaning music teacher, but he taught us everything else). He was my mother’s neighbour in Ramanathapuram village from where he commuted to Vadakkanthara for work. He believed in never speak unless spoken to, and his few responses were in monosyllables. He was happier left alone. While walking he would lower his head to avoid having to greet, or interact with, anybody. 

Routinely, after the post-lunch first period - 2.45 pm to be precise - he would hurry across to our house (100 steps far) and ask my mother: “Meena, can I have some warm water to drink, please? My throat is parched.” My mother knew what he really wanted, and would offer him a cup of coffee. He would gulp it and rush back to school to be on time for the next class. He did this twice or thrice a week. On other days he graced my cousin’s house. The ladies understood the old man’s predicament. He wouldn’t set his foot in a hotel, one couldn’t expect him to walk three miles home for coffee, and he felt restless without an afternoon coffee.

This gesture in no way minimized the punishment he awarded to me for errors and omissions - to stand upon the bench, or be at the receiving end of his cane. On a solitary occasion he displayed a soft corner for me. Soon after World War II when shortage of goods was the name of the game, our school received a bulk supply of milk powder. God knows from where – Denmark, Switzerland, Sweden, New Zealand or Australia. All I could fathom was that if a remote school in less known Palakkad could get such large quantity, what would be the supply at the national level.

I helped him in its dispensation within the school. At his suggestion, I brought a two-litre empty container from home.  He filled it with the milk powder and asked me to take it home. I felt on top of the world at that day’s earning, and proudly presented it to my mother, only to be told casually to keep it aside. “We will give it to the maidservant tomorrow.”  She probably was content with the milk our two cows yielded.

Venku Maash taught us mathematics. He was a fire-brand, given to short temper. You never know what would provoke him and when he would flare up – highly inflammable in other words.  His name was used in the same way as Gabbar Singh of Sholay in later years, to instill fear in children. On a particular Friday afternoon as he concluded his class, he gave us home work and said: “Bring these unfailingly tomorrow.”  Quite unwittingly I replied, “Sir tomorrow and the day after are Saturday and Sunday. We can bring them only on Monday.”  This kindled other students to laugh aloud, and he took it as an affront. That was enough incentive for him to award me corporal punishment to last the weekend.

Getting photographed was an event in those days. The school arranged for a group photograph, my maiden appearance-to-be in front of a camera. Accordingly my father, a cloth merchant, got a special dress stitched for me.  Everything was arranged; the photographer got underneath the black piece of cloth and was all set to click when my friend Mani from behind tickled me. I had already booked and paid for a copy of the photograph, which now serves me as a relic with my back in front.

Some sentiments too go with this school, though not for a good reason. My father’s academic pursuit took a turn for the worse at this school.  It was his English class. The lesson done, the teacher posed questions to students at random. A question was directed at him. 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. He refused. The teacher repeated it.  Father 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 my Dad quietly packed his belongings, stepped out of the class, and the school, never to resume studies. The best of persuasion by grandfather did not alter his decision not to return to school. So grandfather, a firm believer in destiny, asked him to join his wholesale and retail textile business. Thus started my father’s full-fledged association with textile goods even as adolescence had still not bloomed in full.

Once cholera epidemic swept Palakkad. Dr Venkatachalam, family physician to a few households, was summoned to administer cholera vaccination to one and all. Children flocked around in large numbers as they would on such occasions. It was decided that he would vaccinate children first, just in case vaccine-supply fell short of demand. No child would come forward for fear of the pain it inflicted. Dr V played the child psychology card. “I know Sundaram is very brave; it doesn’t pain him at all. Even on more painful occasions he had not cried.” It was news to me, but I had to give in to his honeyed words. I stepped forward to be his sacrificial goat. The strategy worked. Other children began to fight for the next spot.

My childhood was not without its embarrassing moments. When I was 8 or 9, my mother allowed me for the first time to accompany the old gang - my brothers and cousins - to a movie. It was Ezai Padum Paadu, the Tamil version of Victor Hugo’s classis, Les Miserables. After stealing the silver candlesticks, Jean Valjean, the petty thief, was escaping at midnight when the night patrol police spotted him. He squeezed himself under a manhole, and waded past the sewage, full of filth.

“Strange, it stinks in our bench-row here when they show the sewage scene on the screen,” wondered members of my group. I kept mum. While returning home at 10 pm, I was yards behind them. Fearing they had lost me, they turned back, and saw that my one hand was cupped firmly at my rear end. They got the answer to their sewage-scene doubt. An advance party rushed home to alert my mother.  She kept all the passage doors open up to the backyard and, on arrival directed me straight to the bath area at the end, gave me a cold-water bath scrubbing rather mercilessly with pothangai, as she blamed herself for having given me permission. For the next few days, ‘Sundaram Padum Paadu’, not Ezai Padum Paadu, was the hum of my cousins all the way to school.

(To be continued)

My Life: People, Places, and Moments - Chapter 1, Schooling

My Life: People, Places and Moments

Chapter 1, Schooling

Let it be it that our sons and daughters are preoccupied with their own work, but mind you, they have an eagle’s eye to keep track of what we parents do. 

Watching me glued to the laptop days on, sometimes with earphones plugged in  - a clear sign that I am watching a movie – my second son hinted one day that I should seriously consider writing my biography.

 “I am no known figure, sonny, for any soul to be interested in my past,” I argued. “Maybe so, Appa. If none else, surely Rishi, Ashwin and Rohan can enjoy reading it when they come of age,” he said, playing the grandchildren card, my weak spot. Succumbing to his persistent follow up every evening back from office, here I pen my recollections.

I was born in Palakkad, in Ramanathapuram village, my mother’s place. In terms of aesthetics, this is one of the best laid out villages in Palakkad - two straight rows of about 50 houses on each side, and a wide road dividing them. Vishnu and Siva temples stand guard to the residents at each end of the village. A huge banyan tree at the far end with lush green leaves and a cement platform around its shade underneath provides the welcome setting for hawkers to unload their merchandise for a well-deserved short nap before braving the scorching sun yet again. The adjoining large pond that never gets dry is the rendezvous for villagers for their morning bath - and world news. As boys, we swam across the length and breath of the pond in the morning and evening. Come adolescence, elders suggested against this crisscross as ladies took bath on the other wing. 

A furlong away from the pond is where we all end our journey – the cremation ground. For us children it was a forbidden area. (The only occasion I broke this convention was while trying to locate Lakshmi, our cow, which did not return along with its herd in the evening. Yes, she lay with her leg broken).

At the far end, close to the banyan tree, we had a school too, run by Kitta Maash, the worn out name of Krishnan Master, like Narayanaswamy becoming Nanachamy, or Social Studies getting rechristened Stody Stody at my grandmother’s hands. Without exception, all children in the village got admitted to his school – or, better still, he wangled his way to get them admitted to his school - though there was a municipality-run Koppam school, a little farther. His modus operandi?  Kitta Maash was good at marketing. As the academic session begins, he would handpick in person eligible, and near eligible, children from house to house and admit them to his school. He arbitrarily fixed their date of birth, to suit admission criteria. Sadly, later in life they had to fend for themselves to re-establish their real date of birth, or succumb to retirement months or a year in advance.

Fortunately in my case, this was not necessary. My maternal grandfather, an advocate by profession, wrote diary for years. On the day I was born he had entered in his diary thus, as I verified it later from the diary collection: “Sow Meenal (my mother) delivered a male child at 4.30 am. Both mother and baby fine.”

Sixty-eight years later when I went to Palakkad Municipal office to get my birth certificate, I was thrilled to find my birth recorded, every detail correct, including my parents’ name and my father’s profession. Hats off to the elderly peon who went to trace the pre-historic record from the God-forsaken store room – the domain since of spiders, bats, centipedes, and even snakes as I learnt later – and brought to light the dust-laden heavy ledger book, with termite-invasion attempts at ends. And when I tipped him as a matter of gratitude, and not the least on demand, he flatly refused. I looked small.

Earlier the dealing assistant at the Municipal office had indicated a week’s time to trace records, in the order of similar requests. But when I convinced him of my urgency, he lent a sympathetic ear and remitted the sentence to three days. As he handed me the certificate, I ascertained from him if I owed him anything other than my profuse thanks. “No, nothing, but if you are keen, you can contribute to this cause,” he said, and handed me an Appeal. His village community was mobilizing funds to rehabilitate old, sick and destitute women. He gave me a stamped receipt for the amount I donated. In the midst of corruption, bribery and what have you, diametrically opposite kinds of souls did co-exist after all, I felt.

Back to Kitta Maash’s school, I don’t particularly remember much except that Radhai was one of my classmates. Her brother, older by two years, and father were the only male members in her family. My house, on the other hand, was always infested with visits from uncles and relatives from Bombay, Calcutta, and Madras. Consequently I always had a good collection of used blades. I remember having gifted blades to her to sharpen pencils. Years later, about four or five of us from the village, including Radhai, appeared in the Matriculation Examination, and she was the solitary one who cleared it. The rest of us re-visited the examination hall later in October. It was nostalgic when decades later she visited us in Shahjahan Road, New Delhi, with her IAS husband, and we recounted our childhood.

(To be continued)

Finding Foothold in USA

With our departure date finalized, we now catch up with visits that, for no reason, had not materialized thus far.

First it was to a senior couple’s place, the Balans. With the customary exchange of pleasantries and updating, the two ladies conveniently faded into the kitchen for their own exclusive chat, which sometimes acquired a hush-hush tone. The conversation between Balan and me covered health insurance, life in US versus India, California weather, before meandering to his entry into US.

Balan was employed as an engineer in Jabalpur in a private company, staying in a hostel. His roommates heard that US had liberalized visas for engineers, and vied to avail the opportunity. When sounded to his parents, their sole stipulation was that he should first get married. So did he, in 1970, and his office gave him a warm send-off. That night he had an inner call that he had another soul to support. Next morning he rushed to office, withdrew his resignation, continued there till 1977, when thoughts of America rekindled him. He got the visa, sent wife home, and headed westward.

He had relatives in US, but wanted to be on his own. On landing at the world’s busiest and largest JFK airport, surrounded by complicated flyovers and intersections, vehicles plying at lightning speed, and just $100 in pocket, his fortitude disowned him. Aghast and open-mouthed, he just didn’t know which way to go. He telephoned his sister-in-law’s brother, who arrived at the scene and rescued him.

For two months Balan posted his resume to all and sundry. Luck evaded him. Frustrated, he resolved to do any menial job that came his way when an interview-call landed. Who was chairing the selection board? A surprise. Yes, it was his colleague in Jabalpur who did smuggle out to US in the 1970 exodus. Balan got the job.

Now he needed a car. An Oldsmobile owner was just about to pay $50 to the authorities to crush his car at the yard. Balan bought it from him for $ 50 on condition that he would drive it to Balan’s place. Meanwhile he had managed a Driver’s licence.  The very next day he drove the car to Office through highway. Changing lanes at will, as with his two-wheeler in India, just didn’t go well here, and led to an accident. The new car behind, with a group of young girls, got heavily dented. They yelled at him, but fortunately did not make a police case – maybe they didn’t have driving licence.

Later, he bought a brand new Datsun. Strangely, no sooner did Datsun arrive home than the Oldsmobile collapsed. The best resuscitation efforts failed to bring life back.  He laid it to rest at the nearest junkyard.

The doorbell rang to interrupt the deliberations. Our daughter in law stepped in to pick us back. Aided by her we spent the next twenty minutes comparing notes on our respective grandsons when she reminded us we drove home before rush hour traffic intensified.

                                         * * * * * *

The next in the cards is a visit tomorrow to my sister and brother-in-law, to celebrate the latter’s entry to his 80^th year of robust health. I reckon the monologue to revolve around Advaita, Visishtadvaita and Dvaita, or Shri Parthaswarathy’s book, Vedanta: A Treatise, that he has just revised.  Either could prove a tall order for a post-lunch session.

Did someone ask me the other day: “I say how do you spend time in US?”

V.V. Sundaram

www.vvsundaram.blogspot.com

11 April  2012