Monday, December 10, 2012

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

Sunday, December 9, 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 100th 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

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