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)