Wednesday, June 20, 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……

Friday, June 15, 2012

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……

Monday, June 4, 2012

My Life.... - Chapter 10, In Memory of Lakshmi


Chapter 10

In Memory of Lakshmi

“Unleash your cows,” was the call-out with which cowherd Chellappan marked his entry to the village at nine every morning.

With his unkempt, long and dry hair, his bulging eyes reddened by previous night’s liquor, a glass too many, and wielding a cane, the scene in no way reminded me of the cowboy Krishna descending on earth for the job. On the contrary, if Chellappan mounted a buffalo and the cane replaced by a mace, he would pass for Yama Raj on a morning shift for a hurricane cattle sweep.

Accustomed to his drinking habits, impatience and short-temper, the moment ladies heard his shout they suspended all their kitchen activities, rushed to their cowsheds and unleashed their cows or buffalos before he got past their homes. He would never look back to check if every household had released its cattle. The delayed ones were at their own peril to join the herd. And the ladies couldn’t just let that happen, for they tended these not only to meet their own domestic needs but also to sell the surplus in the form of milk, butter, or ghee. It was in a way the ladies’ source of input to the family kitty. So they could ill afford their cash crop go astray.

Chellappan herded the forty or fifty cattle to a vast meadow past the village. The cattle too did not create any problem to him. Either they knew too well his nature or were eager to enjoy in the open a temporary freedom from the life under leash in the cowshed.

He allowed them to graze there happily as he reshaped his shoulder towel into a pillow for a nap under the shade of a bush to get over what was still left of the hangover. Often a passerby innocently stepping on him walking along the single path, a snake hissing past his legs, the in-fight grunt among the cattle for territorial grazing rights, or the oppressive sun caused him to wake up from the siesta. He would look up at the sun for the approximate time. If there were still some moments left, he would light a bidi and smoke to the last puff - or till his finger felt a burn. Around 3.30, he would get the cattle together and take them back.

This went on regularly for years until his dedication deteriorated. He began bringing the cattle back initially at 2 pm, then 1 pm, 12 noon, and finally at 11.30 am. The ladies found this unacceptable. That gave a totally different twist to the term ‘till cows return home’, which meant sunset. Surely, even in the wildest imagination the sunset couldn’t commence at 11.30 in the morning, they felt. But Chellappan had his own explanation: “Dry ground. No grass to graze. Subjecting the cattle unnecessarily to the scorching sun could impact the milk output.” But the ladies knew no less about cattle; they did not buy this. At the same time individually no lady had the guts to argue with him fearing that he might stop taking her cattle for grazing from the next day. So they were content grumbling about it among themselves during their afternoon chat or while at the pond for a bath next morning. Some guessed a possible second marriage as a strong reason, others his worsening drinking habits.
 
Unable to bear it any longer, my Patty took a bold step to withdraw our cow and buffalo from Chellappan, and entrusted them to the Dhobi’s young son whose right leg was affected by a polio attack. It was thus two birds in one shot – a modest response to Chellappan’s dictatorial attitude, and giving life to a physically challenged boy. Starting with just our cow and buffalo, in a month’s time the number began to swell to ten. He gave the cattle a bath as well in the canal. This disturbed Chellappan’s peace of mind. He couldn’t let this go unchecked.  But at the same time his return-hour schedule witnessed no change.

It was past 4 one evening and still there was no trace of our Vellachi Maadu (snow white in colour, hence called so; otherwise her name was Lakshmi). The milking time was 5 pm. Patty got worried. Enquiries with the ladies who entrusted their cattle to the same boy revealed that their cattle had returned since, but unaccompanied by the boy.

Patty sent me on a search mission. I ran across all possible places; I could not locate Lakshmi. No trace of it. I got worried. I asked all passersby if they had seen a white cow grazing. No positive response, until one man said that he had noticed an animal lying at a far end - 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. I called her by name, “Lakshmee…, Lakshmee,” my volume increased and the duration of the call prolonged.  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 out of her eyes because of pain. 

I sped home, informed Patty. She mobilized manpower and had her loaded on to a cart drawn by two oxen. The Government Veterinary Hospital was closed for the day since it was 6 in the evening. But the doctor lived next door to my Vadakkantharai house. I ran as fast as I could from Ramanathapuram to Vadakkantharai and brought him along. After a thorough examination, he opined it was not any vehicle accident but a deliberate act 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 leg did not help. There were clear indications of puss formation. The leg was amputated. In course of time Lakshmi managed to move around, one leg short. But Patty did not want to send her again out for grazing. One of Thatha’s clients had a huge agricultural land in his village twenty miles away. He volunteered to have her taken there and let her lead a peaceful life grazing there. Eight or nine months later we got the news that Lakshmi 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 all along 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 Patty it was still worse, for while she milked Lakshmi, on several occasions she would talk to her, direct her not to move her legs or to postpone her excreta disposal act till she finished 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 Patty to let me milk Lakshmi.

Continued…

Saturday, June 2, 2012

My Life ... Chapter 9 (Paru Mami's Dignity)


Chapter 9 - My Life ..., Paru Mami's Dignity

In Hindi they say Garib ki Joru, Sab ki Bhabhi – a poor man’s wife is everyone’s Bhabhi, sister in law.

‘Jyosyar Aathu Manni’ in Ramanathapuram typically falls in this category. With five daughters and one son to support, her husband’s income as an elementary school teacher was probably insufficient despite frugal spending. The term, Jyosyar, a corrupt version of Jyothishar or astrologer, referred to the family’s age-old profession, which ended with his father. Manni’s husband had no clue to astrology; otherwise he could have made a side income.

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 moral grounds, and compromised collecting rent in bits and pieces.

To ameliorate their predicament, mothers in other household, in no major lucrative income group either, requisitioned Manni’s services in their kitchen whenever they had a function.

On occasions my Patty did so she would add:  “Also, can we request your elder daughters to give us a helping hand to cut vegetables, grind different pastes, pound spices, and fetch water from the well? And, ah, in between your assistance, don’t rush to your house to prepare meals; ask all your children to join us.”

This was the most honourable method the elderly ladies devised to give Manni a day off from burning her own kitchen fire. As for Manni’s husband, the ladies made sure to pack enough for a dinner on such occasions.

As children personally, though this gesture did cut into our own quota of Appam, Vadai, or Payasam, we felt for some strange reason elated watching them having a rightfully earned hearty meal.

Also to most households Manni was indispensable for their annual pickle event – mango, lime, naarthankai, veppala katti, you name any. And every lady relied on Manni’s hand to add the final quantity of salt and spice for two reasons. She knew the taste bud, the blood pressure level, or the haemorrhoids problem of each member in a house. Also, the ladies believed that handled by any other hand the pickle picked fungus sooner than later. At the end, the lady of the house would hand Manni a jar of the product at the minimum, and sometimes with Vettlai/Pak and a blouse piece or money, or both, depending on one’s own capacity.

Thus, with assistance to a house too many, Manni had a good collection of pickles which came handy for the rainy days. Sometimes driven to despair the family had to make do with a bare minimum meal – rice, and thin buttermilk to go with it. On such occasions Manni 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 kaduku mangai. This presence of mind to divert her children’s mind often worked.

Visit of one’s 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.

Manni’s murukk chuttal, the art of maneuvering the raw paste into twisted rounds of five and seven circles, had a touch of class – perfect like Picasso’s circle, all enjoying equal diameter, radius or dimension. She was best in the village, if not in the town.

However, for preparation of Mysorepak, it was still a trial and error, her years of experience notwithstanding. The outcome was as unpredictable as an ODI match. You stay glued to the TV from ball one only to watch the end turn a disappointment. But on an average her preparation made the grade 6 to 7 times out of 10. 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. You can eat it - just give it a new name. She was a safe bet to make round symmetrical Laddu.

Thus Manni carried her domestic show with great dignity 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.

She gave her daughters in marriage one by one. Their eldest daughter was very fair and attractive. The youth of the village hailed her in private T.R. Rajakumari, the then leading Tamil actress. In fact one of my relatives who visited us often, had wanted me, then probably 12 or 13 years, to hand a letter to her. I refused though I still can’t figure out why I did. A family from a neighbouring district came requesting for her hand for their son, and it was arranged.

The next two were married to widowers, somewhat well to do. The next in line stipulated that she would marry anyone of her parents’ choice, but not in second marriage. And the parents respected her sentiments. She is happily married, and her sons are very well employed. The last of the daughters was also married, but by then I had left the village for a job. So I don’t know much about her.

While on a duty travel to Calicut decades later, I visited Manni who had shifted there with her only son and his family. They stayed in a house of their own. Handsome and charming that he was as a child, I was keen to see which actor’s features he had embellished as an adult, but alas, he was on tour.

Two of Manni’s daughters also stayed in Calicut, one of them operating a pickle business as cottage industry. So, after offering me coffee and snacks, with items more than usual, she said: “We hear your uncles are selling RNP house. I would be keen to buy it, just to perpetuate 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 wholesale shopping bag full of assorted pickles – easily 12 bottles. “What a kindly soul that this girl of a poor but respectable family is repaying to grandson his Patty’s kind gestures of help here and there,” I said to myself. I had a tough time in convincing her that it would be a problem for me to carry it either as a check-in luggage or as a cabin baggage to Delhi.

On my way back to hotel I couldn’t help admire the wheel of time. The family that did not have happy memories to cherish of their life in Ramanathapuram was so serious on owning a house there, and we, who had nothing but pleasant memories, were trying to sever connections. But then that is what life is made of, I guessed, as I dumped all my clothing in my suitcase and headed to the airport.

Continued…






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