Forty Years of Married Life - pleasant and embarrassing moments

Forty Years of Married Life

pleasant and embarrassing moments

Like the TRP rating that assesses the most-viewed TV channel, if I were to select the message that is flashed around most to the three Seniors groups in which I am a member (14 000 membership), I would pick the one on how to spend your time peacefully.

One of the tips is to bask on pleasant memories of the good old days, as opposed, probably, to brood over one's sugar-, cholesterol- or BP-levels, the cataract that is eclipsing one's vision or, at a personal level, which of the 100 civics questions will the USCIS officer select to unleash for you at the US citizenship interview. Precisely why I thought the best way to celebrate our 40th marriage anniversary is to simply go down the memory lane and enjoy some pleasurable moments.

I am not trying to steal a march over my friend's parents who celebrated 72 years of marital bliss. Compared to that 40 years is just a little more than half way mark. But that definitely doesn't deny me the privilege to recall the events that led to the solemn occasion.

Bangladesh had just been liberated and had emerged as a new nation. Along side, the ravages of war had just begun to take their toll with dead bodies strewn all over, and diseases of every kind assuming epidemic proportions. The UN Relief Operations, Dhaka, pitched in for assistance - rehabilitation, resettlement, food, clothing... From Delhi, WHO deputed me to set up an office to help medical experts address public health issues.

On my way to Dhaka, I stopped over in Calcutta (Kolkata) for a day. In the exodus from my village to eke out a living, half the population migrated to Calcutta, and the other half to Bombay (Mumbai). A few strayed into Madras (Chennai) and Delhi. I was keen to meet my village friends in Calcutta.

Manikkam (name changed) took me around the city. During the course, he pointed to a building and said, Over there, Sundaram, works a relative of yours, but I don't know his name. That aroused my curiosity. "Doesn't matter, let's go there." It turned out to be Pammechan, a distant relative. He was as much delighted as I was. He said he would meet me in my hotel in the evening and take over from Manikkam.

It so happened, next to my hotel lived his eldest brother Murthy Anna. So on arrival Pammechan asked me, Wouldn't you like to call on Murthy Anna who is next door?" Personally I was not very keen. As a lad I had seen Murthy Anna in person only once or twice when he visited my village to pay obeisance to my grandfather (one of his elder cousins). But I couldn't say no, because he was after all Pammechan's eldest brother and head of his family. So I said yes. To this day I cherish that decision, for there I met his daughter who was 'next in line' for marriage - second of the seven.

Next, a strategy to stay in touch with her. I didn't know even her name; she just said she worked in a bank. At the hotel I brooded at night and hit upon a plan. I had with me more Indian currency than I was allowed to take to Bangladesh. Early next morning before emplaning I knocked at the house. She opened the door and was ill at ease to see me. She was literally dipped in oil for her weekly oil-bath. She blushed and tried to rush to the kitchen to call her mother or one of her sisters. But before that I handed her the excess cash and requested her if she could make a bank draft and send it across to my bank. And I left my Dhaka address for her to confirm the action taken. It was a 50-50 chance that I took. She could just drop a line confirming the deposit, with or without leaving her address. I received a matter-of-fact reply from her, but fortunately with her address. That was enough to take off - at the rate of one letter a day, to start with. We got to know of each other better and decided to take the final plunge. At this stage I informed my parents. She was clever. On receipt of my thank you and introductory letter, she asked her father: "Appa, today shall we leave for Office together?" En route she showed him the letter. "Sounds a perfect gentleman," he judged on reading it. He had no clue how much I had laboured to get it to that shape. He gave her the go ahead to respond to it.

"No doubt it eliminates the need for a family background check, but horoscope-match is a must," came the diktat from my father. "Not to worry, we will manage," came simultaneous private reassurance from both my elder brothers in Mumbai and Delhi. My father-in-law-to-be verified with his astrologer in Calcutta, and my father with Panikkar in Palghat. The unanimous verdict: "uttama poruttam", or ideal match - of horoscopes. Yes, that was God's way to chart the course to bring us together, and I have nothing but gratitude.

How about the promised unpleasant or embarrassing situations? Well, nothing much of significance - I can recount just three off the cuff. We had sold our Delhi house and were shifting to South. The movers had loaded all the goods. We rang up our elder son in the US to convey that we were heading for the airport, and the goods had all been packed and loaded. "Have you cleaned up everything from the first floor attic?" he asked. "Yes, of course, but why?" "No, nothing, just that years ago when I was stacking all the Brilliant Tutorials IIT Study material in the attic, I stumbled upon the well-preserved bunch of letters between you and Amma wrapped in a lungi."

Second, forty years though, I am still looking for a breakthrough in winning an argument with her. Doesn't matter. At the end of the day, her pronouncements have been more marked than my impulsive utterances.

The third regret, and a sincere one, is that we have only one life to live, to love, or be loved.

P.S. To complete record, our second son in Santa Clara rang me up to greet us on our milestone marriage anniversary. In an effort to sound polite I said, "Yes, it is nice of Amma to have put up with me all these 40 years." "It is not just her, all of us, Appa," he reassured me. 

V.V. Sundaram