Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Ancestral House Visit Rekindles Nostalgia


We were in Kerala early this week on a pilgrimage to Guruvayur, Triprayar, Kodungaloor, our family deities, etc.  On such occasions a visit to my ancestral house in Palakkad is a must. It helps me rekindle childhood memories. As I negotiated my way through the ruins of my ancestral house that had this time a half-damaged wall here, or a worn-out pillar there, as though to remind me that here existed at one time our main hall, there the kitchen, and over there the store room… 

That took me down the memory lane. No point in keeping an uninhabited dilapidated house, though still in one piece, the elders felt decades ago. They found a buyer.  And I was asked to go down from Delhi and remove all our household articles before the house changed hands. It was in that process that I had this Date with the Dead experience. I jotted it in my blog some years ago for posterity. Here it is, just in case it interests you.

V V Sundaram
Maple 3195
24 Sep 2016


“Sundaram, our uncles have decided to sell their ancestral house, and request us to empty our household items stored there before it changes hands. Can you travel to Palghat and handle it, please?” asked my eldest brother. Those were the items with which we had migrated to our maternal grandfather's house when our father's flourishing business collapsed overnight, thanks to World War II. 

Chudamani, my friend in the village, accompanied me to the decades-uninhabited house that awaited a full-blown sneeze to collapse. He checked the rooms on the ground floor. I went upstairs and tried to climb the attic with a jump-start. It was too high. I found the table and chair that stood by me in my school days still there. I placed the chair on top of the table and barely managed. 

The attic was poorly lit, and the twilight added to the darkness. I felt the dust-ridden items one by one, braving bats, lizards, centipedes, and scorpions that mounted a joint assault at my invasion into their unhindered lives. 

First I chanced upon the set of ten king-size Tanjore paintings (kept one on top of the other upside down so that the glasses stayed safe). I could recollect they were embossed with gold. ‘A solid few lakhs, to begin with,’ I said to myself.

Still groping, my hand reached for a large utensil with ‘ears’ to hold by. It was used in the bathroom, for the maidservant to fill water from the well for all of us to bathe. Suddenly, attired in pancha-gachham and uttareeyam, bright vibhooti on forehead, my paternal grandfather surfaced from out of the utensil, smiling at me. “So you are Sundaram, aren’t you, my child,” he asked. I was both struck with fear and drawn in by his affection. When he died my father was not even married; thus there was no way he could have placed me. Anyway this was no time for logic. 

“Yes, I am. And from the photo I have seen at home, you are my Kunjanna Thatha, aren’t you?” “Yes I am, my child. I used regularly this and a host of other utensils that you see around here for feeding the poor until in your father’s time this particular one found its way to the bathroom. Promise me you will donate all these utensils to the Grama Samooham for mass feeding during religious festivities.” “I shall, Thatha,” I reassured him. He vanished into the thin air.

With pimple-like sweat from head to foot, I looked up through the solitary glass roof-tile for light and, if possible, fresh air as bonus. The branches of the mango tree above were dancing merrily to the late evening breeze. As I tried to enjoy more of it, I saw Krishnan Kutty, the handyman of the village balancing on a branch plucking mangoes. (Every season he plucked from all the five tress at our backyard. In return Patti gave him a basketful of assorted mangoes and a four-anna coin. He never grumbled, but he was hard-pressed for money). His eyes fell on me casually. Instead of extending the customary smile at meeting someone ages after, he stared at me, followed by a volcanic eruption. “Did you know why I had to commit suicide, Sundaram?” I was ill at ease at his calling me by name. I wished he didn’t place me after such a long gap. But he did. “But you are alive, plucking mangoes,” I retorted. “No, I am his ghost. You villagers gave me such a raw deal for my work that I could hardly subsist, let alone get married. That is why I had to take that extreme step.”  

“Sorry friend, I didn’t know it. You know I have been away for many years. Anyway, tell me what can I do for you,” I asked him off-guard not realizing that there was very little I could do to a dead.  “I have borrowed several times from your grandmother vettu kathi, spade, axe, the entwined rope for climbing the coconut tree, the multi-hooked trap to dig out kodams from the well-bed. Look around the attic. You might stumble on them. Hand those over to the President of the Grama Samooham, and instruct him to… No, he might change his mind and keep them for the Samooham. Better still, give them to Chudamani and ask him to donate these to Velu who visits the village regularly looking for odd jobs. He can hardly afford to buy these.” “I shall, Sir,” I added the salutation unwittingly. But then they say the dead are to be treated with more respect.

Enough of it, I said, the sweat now turning into a stream. Let me get down; let the buyer of the house take it all, I murmured, and headed down. Now the chair was missing. “Oh my God, what elemental force is loitering around here? Is it the neglect of daily puja in the house for years that is causing this?

No sooner did I utter the word puja than I heard the drumbeat of Chendai from beyond our backyard. It was Friday, and the time 7. Ponnu Thai, the midget, maidservant for many houses in the morning, and an ardent Devi devotee otherwise, was still kicking and continuing with her Friday pujas, I guessed. Yes, as children, we dreaded most the Friday nights with the drumbeat, sound of the oracle wielding her sword, and screams and howling that let our imaginations run riot.

With a full-blown bright red sindhoor, Ponnu Thai confronted me, fully in trance and wielding the oracle-sword.  She smeared vibhooti on me, and asked me how on earth could we think of selling the house. I clarified that it was not mine; it was our grandfather’s. “You... telling me?’ she asked, her sword getting a little closer to me. I pacified her saying that it would in all probability be sold to someone from within the village. “Well that is somewhat heartening,” she said a little pleased, and asked me to continue the good work I was doing. I reassured her. To this day I am figuring out what that good work is.

Hardly had I got over this bout when I saw a chair surfacing all by itself up the stairs in slow motion. This terrified me to the hilt till I saw Chudamani’s head underneath - struggling to balance the chair. “Where did you take the chair?” I asked him in desperation.  “I wanted to check something in the small cellar in the kitchen store-room. The opening was at four feet high. Why? Anything happened?” he asked. “No nothing, just like that,” I said regaining my composure. With utmost care we brought down the ten Tanjore paintings and took them to his house. Under bright light we found all the gold pieces having disappeared, and the hapless paintings staring at us stripped.

I shared with Chudamani disposal instructions exactly the way I received them, but as though they were my brainchild.

“Should we just have one final check to be sure nothing is left out,” Chudamani asked. “No, not necessary,” I replied, substituting in time my real answer, “Never again.” 


Thursday, September 15, 2016

A Date with an SFV-ian Lady


“Nameste Bhai Sahebdidn’t spot you and wife in Mandir for quite some time?”  Yes Mata ji, first there was a bereavement in the family, and then I had a cataract operation. So couldn’t make it.”

“How are your eyes now?” “Fine Ma’m, and am continuing with eye drops. I went for a check up on a morning, got it operated at noon, and returned home in the afternoon,” I said in the Julius Caesar’s I came, I saw, I conquered style, in an bid to impress her on the swift action.

“Well I got mine too done in Rajkot. Mine in the Chat Mangni, Pat Byah style. Today operation tomorrow train journey back to Bangalore,” she said, eclipsing my feat.

Yes, the lady I am talking about is the one and only graceful (sorry, that would be inviting trouble) Vijayaben, Manoj’s mother, and Snehal’s mother in law (Maple 3181). Whenever Aunty and I meet her in the Madheshwar Mandir, we walk back home with her, though that meant a shift to top gear to keep pace with her. 

Vijayaben leads a simple, regimented life. Past her 80, she gets up at 3 am when most of us are in the deep-sleep zone; reads Bhagawat Gita and other religious scriptures for nearly two hours. “Then she would prepare a warm cup of tea to quench her parched throat”, is what you would guess as the next sentence. Precisely not.  She never tasted tea or coffee in life. Can you beat that? And her first contact with food on any day is at 9 am - breakfast.

At 5.30 she is all set for destination-Joggers-Park. When I reach the park at around 6.45, she is mostly back home. But sometimes I do see her on the last leg of her morning quota. Evening, of course, is her unfailing to and fro walk to the Mandir.

“So, you must be compensating this early wake-up with a nap at noon?” I asked her. “No way. Yeah, sometimes I do doze off while sitting in the sofa, but never a deliberate attempt to rest. Never.”  “I must recast my own afternoon liberal quota of sleep, just because I get up at 5.30,” I said to myself.

“Then, surely you must be taking a day off every week - probably Sunday?” I continued, hell-bent on identifying some matching area with mine. “No way. Why should you? Never respond to your mind’s call, it is your worst enemy. Respond only to your body’s call. If your body signals, say, through some pain here or there, then by all means respect it, and skip for a day. Never otherwise.” Now I begin to worry if I should engage myself in further conversation, lest unwittingly I get brainwashed to change my lifestyle. That would mean denying my Sunday off, mid-week skip on the pretext of drizzling, windy, cloudy, or, ‘went to bed late’…
  
“You must be giving a helping hand in the household chores, or you take it easy?”  “Though Snehal insists on me to relax, I volunteer to clean all the utensils. Otherwise my hands will rust. Stay active and alert,” she delivered a crisp message - again running counter to mine: rest and relax. This healthy geriatric hyper-activism reminds me of Geeta Hari’s mother in Palakkad. At 98 - yes 98, no typo error - she gets up at 5 in the morning, sprinkles cow-dung-mixed water in the front yard, draws sparkling rangoli at pre-dawn, washes clothes herself, cooks food - does everything all by herself. Thus, Geeta’s youngest brother who is positioned in the village basically to look after the mother, enjoys being looked after. By the way, Geeta Hari is our neighbour. Strictly speaking, not neighbour but neighbour-in-law, because they are in 3192, and we are in 3195.

“And so, with all work and no play, Vijayaben ji, at what time of the day do you relax?” I asked her. “Every evening I join the ladies meet in the kiosk near the swimming pool, though I can’t vouch I follow all their conversation.” “Why, they speak a language you are not familiar with?”  “No, no, my ears are no longer trustworthy.” 

“Not to worry Ma’m. You are not alone. Mine too have begun to disown me,” I reassured her. “The other day my sister-in-law’s daughter in Oak asked me, “So when did you move in?” And I replied, “No movies… for quite sometime”. Thereafter whenever I utter, ‘Beg your pardon’, or ‘come again”, she would say, “Never mind.”

V V Sundaram
Maple 3195
vvsundaram.blogspot.in



Sunday, September 11, 2016

Theft in Oak, and thereafter

 
When someone’s pocket is picked, say in a bus, your basic instinct is to check your own pocket to reassure your money is safe. Or, if a bag is missing in a train, you immediately look under the seat to ensure that your bag is intact. Similarly, strictly between us, when I heard of the theft in Oak, my immediate reaction was not to ring up the poor guy and ascertain the extent of loss. Instead, we hurried to the nearest bank with all our earthly belongings to open a locker -  a post-relocation task that had long been pending.
  
Speaking of lockers, I have only good memories of them. Decades ago, it is one of these very lockers that brought me The Luck of My Life.  People normally go on a treasure hunt, but in my case a treasure found its way into my locker. Yes, a solid jewel box, heavily loaded. And, disregarding any disastrous complications such ill gotten wealth could get me into, I shared the news with readers of Hindustan Times. Here it is yours for the asking - for a long-weekend reading.


Luck of My Life 
(Hindustan Times, 23 Nov 1983)

Some people strike it rich in a lottery, others in a jackpot, and yet a few in matrimony. But I made it via a treasure box. Here is the true account of it.
  
I earmark Saturdays for doing errands – going to Karol Bagh to buy coffee powder, to avail myself of any ‘clearance sale’ that is on - or to fix the wall-clock glass broken by my son attempting a Kapil shot, indoors.
  
That particular Saturday I had three jobs in hand. First, to take out the jewellery from locker in a Karol Bagh bank (my wife wanted to wear it for a marriage the next day). Second, to meet the share-broker in Connaught Place, to see if the shares he had me buy in bulk a few months ago with great promises, were selling anywhere near par. Third, to collect the colour photos I had taken of my sister-in-law’s marriage, making my debut at photography.
  
Since the bank would close at 12 noon on Saturdays, I listed the bank job first, and headed towards Karol Bagh. I opened the locker and slipped my hand in. What little things we had kept were all safe there. But as I dug deep into it, I chanced upon an antique jewel-box that was definitely not ours. I took it out, It was locked. It was heavy, and when I shook it, I could hear the rumblings of pearls and diamonds.
  
Hitherto I had heard of items being removed from one’s lockers, but never of a thing being added. Anyway, this is not the time to waste on self cross-examination.  I must hurry home to see the contents. Telling myself so, I cancelled the other jobs and drove home straight, at a speed I had never ventured earlier.
  
On the way I estimated the worth by its heaviness, and decided on my plans. ‘Come what may, I must go for a house in a posh locality. A car comes second. Then a colour TV (a few inches bigger than those of both my neighbours), and a VCR. If I am still left with sufficient money, maybe I could buy four identical necklaces for my two sisters and two sisters-in-law, and a slightly costlier one for my wife.’
  
‘Anyway, God is great. If he denied me promotion the other day, he has more than compensated for it in another way.’ “After all’, I asked myself, ‘how could the good deed that my grandfather had done years ago in feeding 1000 Brahmins (Sahasra Bhojanam) in a row go unrewarded? Surely not.’
  
I reached home, and sent Arakkaani, the maid, to a far off shop in the locality to fetch a difficult-to-get item.  My wife was at a loss. I asked her to close all doors and windows and to draw the curtains. She grew suspicious. Then I unfurled the straw mat on the floor. That left her with no doubt. She shouted, “No nonsense, whatsoever.”  
  
“Calm down dear, can’t you think of anything better? See what I have brought for you. I didn’t want the precious items to spill on the floor. Hence I spread the mat. You get it?” I told her.
  
Then I showed her the treasure that had found its way into our locker. Seeing it, she began to laugh uncontrollably. I had known of people falling unconscious at such a windfall, but never of getting a laughing-gas effect.
  
‘Maybe, it is a little too much for her to bear, being of a tender heart,’ I suggested to myself, and began to calm her down, as her laughter could attract the attention of neighbours, and they might see us with a treasure box in hand, if not the mat spread wide, curtains drawn, laughing merrily...
  
A few minutes later she regained normalcy, and said: ‘I forgot to tell you. The other day, before leaving for Madras on vacation, Leela (my sister) gave me that jewel-box for safe-keeping in our locker.’
  
‘Be that so, but you don’t have to laugh like that.’ I told her, trying to retrieve my supremacy. ‘Anyway, don’t broadcast this to Sonu or Babbu’s mothers (neighbours), okay?” Ordering her so, I rushed to the bank to take out her jewellery for the marriage, only to find the bank already closed.

V V Sundaram
Maple 3195
09 Sep 2016

Pratyaksha Ganesha in SFV Club House


The 21st century torchbearers will revolt at any such suggestion of God appearing in person, but I did experience it last evening in Club House. Lord Ganesha, setting aside the lavish celebrations of Ganesh Chaturthi all over the city,  predominantly in Maharashtra, descended in SFV Clubhouse. That is the feeling one got, at least from the large hole that appeared in the ceiling right above the deity installed. 

“No, we didn’t see any hole,” some of the discerning SFVian observers might argue. “Nor did I,” I would say. But definitely there is no restriction on my imagination running riot for a while, given the divine atmosphere that pervaded the hall. Raghu looked his best attired in a dark blue panchagachham (Mysore silk?). I would urge Mrs Raghu to do a Chashme Baddoor (drishti)  if she has not done one. 

A group of young mothers sporting, by arrangement, red sarees, enthralled the audience for full half an hour with well-rehearsed devotional songs. “Couldn’t they have obliged us for a little more time?” whispered the man next to me into my ears. “I can’t agree with you more, sir,” I replied. “What exactly do you mean? You agree with me or you don’t? Be categoric,” he asked me, his voice now raising beyond the realms of a whisper. “I do agree, I do agree with you totally, sir.”  “Then better say that. Okay?” 

Not in passing, but on a firm note, everybody congratulated Dileep for his vocal rendering which fell short of professional heights only for the absence of a mridangam. And the best compliments go to …. guess, well, none other than his son, for giving able support to his Dad in violin. Keep it up, young boy. 

On second thought, I shall take back that ‘dent in the ceiling’ remark. I know no SFVian would like, even remotely, to be reminded of a hole, crack, or leak, what with the building warranty having just lapsed. Already the list has swollen into pages in Hike, if not the talk of the town. And I wouldn’t like to add one, be it imaginary. I shall thus reword it. The Lord made no crash landing. He made the customary super smooth landing to witness in person the devoutness of the gathering in large numbers. The ladies did a tremendous job in adhering to the ‘traditional’ dress code prescribed - a majority of them were dressed so. The menfolk? A handful donned a dhoti and a shoulder towel, most a pair of trousers and shirts, and a few skin-fit jeans and T-shirts. Well, viewed from a positive context, it could as well be interpreted as unity in diversity. 

The best dressed, however, were the children who were probably enthusiastic since morning waiting for it to strike 6 pm to be the first to arrive at the scene. Most of them - sorry all of them - were in their best. Watching them playful, talking, whispering and giggle was in itself a feast for the eyes.

A few, standing at the far end used the occasion for an update session on Modi, Rahul, Olympics or Mungaru Male 2. Thankfully, the solver lining was that they lent their ears in between to the songs being rendered. Well, you can’t expect rapt attention anywhere for anything and everything that goes on.

A variety of prasadams, enough to fill a plate, was offered to one and all to the absence of no now-or-never rush. Everybody waited for his/her turn - no one pretended to be busy talking to someone on the line and quietly joined the mainstream. If the corridor news is correct, the prasadam order was given to  the young couple in the SLV restaurant across the road. They proved equal to the occasion. We wish them a good future.

The visarjan event stole the show, if I may say so. At least I liked it very much. The deity was taken around all buildings. Each person got a turn to carry the deity for a distance. I was offered too, but I was not sure of the weight of the idol. The chants of  Ganapathi Bappa Moria, by ladies and children was the best part of this procession. And, with concluding mantras and final Deepa Aaradhana, Raghu held the deity high above for everyone to bid farewell before immersing the Lord in the cauldron, bringing the Ganesh Chathurti 2016 celebrations to a happy conclusion. 

An enjoyable evening, no doubt.

V V Sundarm
Maple 3195

11 Sept 2016

Monday, September 5, 2016

Cab Rides Re-run


For a trip to Hebbal we ordered Ola thanks to my cataract surgery and Aunty’s stubborn ’No’ to put up any more with my backseat driving while she is behind the wheels. She brands it “more a purgative than a tip.”

The driver confided that his owner’s instructions to him were to take only short trips, complete 18 trips, and  earn bonus daily. Nonetheless, he said, he didn’t decline our long ride. Nice of him. Yes, sometimes you receive such kindly gestures for no apparent reason, while at other times you succumb to bitter ones that make you swear, Never again.

During the trip the driver shared with us, unsolicited, that he lived within a radius of one or two kilometres from SFV, and SFVians could call him at short notice on a private basis also - for airport, railway station, or anywhere.  Also, his wife would be keen to take up a maid’s job in our complex. 

That last sentence woke Aunty up from the nap she was enjoying to catch up with her quota.  “Can she report for duty at 6 am?” “Sure madam,” he reassured. 

“Also, can she cook? she asked - a misplaced one rather. Disregarding the traffic, he slowed down and turned back to us,  “Look at me Madam. I have been eating her food.” he said providing a solid proof.

“No, what I meant was whether she could cook North Indian dishes?” she defended meekly. “Not exactly Madam, but she can learn in a week from the lady of the house,” he reassured us. He gave Aunty his wife’s  contact number. 

Aunty remembered that someone had asked for such a cook but, as usual, was not sure who it was. 
“I say, who was it who wanted a North Indian cuisine cook? she fired a salvo at me. “Sorry dear, I don’t accompany you to your Satsangs, Sahasranamams or Bhajans.” 

That seemed a stronger dose. “But you extract all news from me even before I am fully back into the house, and you couldn’t have missed this one,” she shot back, never failing to be at her wit’s end.

Moral: If anyone is interested, Aunty can share the contact number. 
* * * * * * * * * * 
The return journey with a young cab driver is worth writing home about. It was also an Ola cab and, unasked for again, his first statement was the same as the earlier one - that it was not economical for him to take on long trips. On the contrary, Uber’s incentives were on turnover, he said. But he would never say no to trips.

Then he began unfolding his story. In 2009 he came to Bangalore from Chitrakoot (?) district in Tumkur with one set of clothes. He worked in restaurants that entitled him free food, then as an attendant in a car, took driving lessons simultaneously, and bought his owner’s car paying back in instalments. “Yes, this very vehicle is my first one, sir, although I have two newer vehicles also. But this gave me life, and I will never sell it.”

He now deposits in the bank two lakhs per month - I repeat, two lakhs. He would unfailingly complete 18 trips to claim bonus every day.  He doesn’t owe any EMI payments. He takes a sumptuous lunch every day - even if it costs 100 of 150, he proudly says. He takes no tips.

Earlier his house in the native place was just the inside size of the Indica he was driving, but now he has bought a spacious house, and 18 acres of land for his father to cultivate.  Once in a while he would bring his parents to Bangalore, take them around the city for four or five days and visit the best of restaurants.

Once when his mother was travelling in a car along with his father’s relatives for a marriage. When they saw she did not wear any jewellery, they threw her out of the car. To compensate for that agonising experience, he has now bought her Rs.4.80 lakhs worth of gold. Now all relatives from his father’s side are very keen that he gets married with one of their relatives, but he is going to marry from his mother’s side. She is now studying law, and he has organised her apprenticeship with a law firm which hires his cab regularly. He has already bought all the marriage items, including the jewellery for her. 

We wished him well as we alighted from the car, and paid Rs 240 for his bill of Rs 239/-. He hailed us back and returned one rupee.

I am no Nostradamus, but I would place this on record. Who knows, one day this young man might make it to the top like the home grown Infosys Narayanamurthy, Flipkart Bansals, Paytm Sharma, or the internationals - Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, Zukerberg, or Jeff Bezos. I can then pat on my back and say to my grandchildren: “Who…? that Manjunatha? Well, I had enjoyed a ride in his taxi some years ago…”  and get them to flock around me for yet another story. 

Moral: Order Uber for long trips, and Ola for short ones.

V V Sundaram
Maple 3195
05 Sept 2016







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