Obituary: TC Ganesan : My Sammandhi no more

Obituary: TC Ganesan

 

My Sammandhi no more

 

Tarakkad Chandrashekar Ganesan, my elder Sammandhi, passed away in Delhi two days ago. He was 77. He was on medication for some years, but that never affected his daily life. But in the last few months doctors switched over to just palliative care. May God bless his soul.

 

My association with Ganesan has been somewhat of a ‘so near yet so far’ nature. As a student I go to school via his village, nay, pass through his house. Yet I had never met him. He studied in a different school. Ganesan’s brother and I stayed in the same block in Delhi, and he would visit him. But I had never met him. Later we moved to a house, which was less than a kilometer from his. Still we got no occasion to meet. Yes, we really met the Ganesans only when he and Sita visited our home with a marriage proposal for Sunita with our elder son Shankar.

 

So, when the marriage was fixed and both the families visited Shankara Mutt temple in Delhi to offer our gratitude, the purohit who knew both families very closely, was surprised that the two families knew each other in person only now. But after the wedlock, we were thick, more as friends. He would call me VVS and I, TCG.

 

His strength? He had at his fingertips all cricket statistics. When cricket is on in TV, nothing else matters to him. Then comes his acumen in investing in shares – mostly through the Initial Public Offer. Today, those shares have grown in multiples by way of bonus shares, rights shares, debentures…More importantly, he knew when exactly to exit. He may be younger to me by three years but years ahead of me in practical wisdom.

 

He is very meticulous. Sita now knows exactly which are the investments to do away with, and which ones to hold on to. TCG never missed his morning puja – nearly 45 minutes. He is very good at political analysis too, but with firm likes and dislikes. So when on a visit to Delhi, TCG and I would sit at home discussing politics or cricket, as the two ladies ransack Sarojini Nagar or INA market. That said, TCG knows exactly my preference for khadi and handloom. Some of the best kurtas I have, were bought by him.

 

His weakness? He can count the number of movies he has seen in life. This doesn’t mean he is totally detached from the film world. Waheeda Rahman, then among the top heroines, once spent two hours in his house with his family enjoying Sita’s typical South Indian snacks. The children, Shekhar and Sunita, were in splits in the heroine’s company. It was a treat for neighbours too who flocked around on getting wind of her presence. Waheeda Rahman’s husband was one of the Directors of the firm TCG worked for.

 

In the last few months Shekhar and Sunita have been taking turns to fly from US to be of help to Sita who, in her own right, has been taking care of TCG as no one could, single-handedly.

 

If only Corona had been less virulent in both Delhi and Karnataka, we would have been now physically in Delhi attending the obsequies. Thankfully Sunita flew from the US a month ago to be with him. And on Tuesday morning TCG hinted to her that he would not survive the day; and in the afternoon the end came, peacefully. Luckily for Sunita the memory that she could cherish is that before breathing his last, he looked and smiled at her. As for Lalitha and me, we could spend two full days with him in Delhi a few months back.

‘Blog Uncle’, and other names

Aunty and Gomathy Kaleeswaran were on a stroll when Gomathy’s friend passed by. Gomathy introduced Aunty to her: “This is Lalitha Sundaram, you know her?” “No, I am afraid,” she replied. “You know Sundaram Uncle,” Gomathy persisted. “Who… Blog Uncle?” she asked. Yes, prefixes, nicknames and pet names abound - for different reasons.

 

Drawing from my Pallakkad days, a father ceremoniously whispers into his child’s ear three times; say, “Narayana Swamy, Narayana Swamy, Narayana Swamy”. Normally it is paternal or maternal grandfather’s name - to preserve the ancestral lineage.

 

But there is a problem with this. Both Narayana Swamys (the grandfather and grandson) will be living under the same roof. And by custom no elderly person is hailed by his name. So the bahu will be hesitant to call her son aloud Narayana Swamy lest it offends the senior. To preempt this, many give a pet name as well. I am thus both Narayanan and Sundaram. The latter name stays for all intents and purposes.

 

The name Narayanan is pressed into service only on the rare religious occasions when I have to pay obeisance to the Almighty and elders around, tracing my origin, starting from the Rishi (Kashyapa, Kauntinya, or Bharadwaja….) whose progeny I am, to my given name. This Abhivadaye mantra covers practically everything except the nearest railway station and the platform number.

 

Some houses just continue with the given name. In such cases what started off originally as a fulsome Narayana Swamy, ends with Nanachamy; Parameswaran with Pammechan, or Subramanian with Chuppamani, by villagers who mutilate it beyond recognition in the name of ease of pronunciation. These punctured versions sometimes get prefixes. Thus you have Enna (Oil) Chuppamani, and Pohela (Tobacco) Chuppamani.

 

Pulyinchi Pammechan’s case is different. He got this prefix because three years in a row he bought the leftover Pulyinchi at the village auction after the Ayyappa Puja celebrations. For the uninitiated, Pulyinchi is a distant cousin of Pulyogare mix, but a little more liquid. Pulicha Moru Doctor was called thus because he prescribed sour buttermilk for all ailments; and Spade Krishna Iyer, for his passion to declare Spade as the trump in the game of 56. French Mama got the tag because after his solitary trip to France, it was France, France, and France in all his chats.

 

Sometimes childless, or all-daughters, couple undertake a pilgrimage in the pious hope of begetting a male child. And if their prayer is answered, they prefix the holy place to the child’s name. We have thus a Kasi Viswanatha Gopala Krishna Sharma. Also, a Sethuraman, born after parents visited Rameswaram.

 

In Delhi as bachelors we used to have meals in a South Indian hotel. On entering, one would eagerly ask, “so, what’s the menu today?” “Sangam Sambar”, came a reply once from a disgruntled member having his meals. Yes, the restaurant owner began serving Brinjal-Bhindi sambar from the day Sangam movie was released in Regal six weeks ago.

 

Sometimes when two business giants collaborate, they come up with a new name. In some cases both want their full identity on display: Tata Mcgraw-Hill; L&T Komatsu… In some others, the new name reflects the merger in the real sense.  Volkart Brothers, a Swiss firm, and Tatas merged with a new name Voltas – drawing the first three letters of Volkart and the last three letters of Tatas.

 

But what appealed to me most is back in SFV my friend Swarna Kaleeswaran and Gomathy very thoughtfully named decades ago their first baby, Swathy, combining the first and last three letters of their respective names.

 

Some homes give a new name to their bride on arrival. In such cases the bride sets foot in the new home, not rolling down the customary bowl of rice, but being hailed by a new name. A Vedambal becomes Radha, or a Ranganayaki becomes Rajam.

 

However, as early as four hundred years ago Shakespeare has pronounced the last word on this, in Romeo and Juliet:

 

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose,

By any other name would smell as sweet”.

My Senior Friend Hospitalized (Names changed)

Before you ask me “Uncle, did he test Covid positive; and in which block of SFV does he stay?” (uppermost in everyone’s mind), let me assure you it is neither. My friend is in hospital for a fall in bathroom; and he stays in Bannerghatta Road.

 

Mr Rajashekar and I worked in the same Office in Delhi, nay the same Department. He is senior in age, service and intelligence. He hails me affectionately either as “Beautifullam” (his way of translating my name) or just VV. He is very eloquent in his praise of Bangalore as a retiree’s paradise – one of the reasons why I am here. That said, his heart is still in Mysore, his hometown, and drives from Bangalore with Nalini whenever he feels nostalgic. Yes, extensive travel is his passion. He was one of the first buyers of Maruti Van when out in the market, and used to drive to Mussoorie and Dehra Dun on weekends.

 

That was his lifestyle till he was 85. In the last four years his driving is limited to a radius of, say, ten kilometers. Not on his own volition. That is the maximum his hand or leg will cooperate to shift gear or meddle with clutch and brake.

 

To liberate himself from stiff-joints in order to pursue his passion, he tried everything, from grandma’s home remedies, village apothecary, modern medicine, Ayurveda, Sidda Vaidya, Unani, to touch-therapy. Name any system of medicine, chances are he might have tried it.

 

A happy-go-lucky man, he has never allowed this impediment to interfere with his annual trips to Virginia and California in USA, and Calgary in Canada, to be with his children. He undertakes that as religiously as would an Ayyappa devotee to Sabarimala.

 

Very jovial and good sense of humour, Rajashekar was active in the Karnataka cultural circle in Delhi, having acted in dramas. An ardent fan of Raj Kumar, he passes muster as a singer too.

 

And that last talent precisely makes me suspect he might have been singing in the bathroom and, in an ecstatic mood might have tried to shake his legs as well, resulting in a fall on the bathroom floor with a thud.

 

Another colleague, an insurance-entitlement expert, also in his 80s, lost no time to arrange for surgery in a well-known hospital on cashless basis.

 

Meanwhile I got a call from the senior-most in our group, Harcharan Singh from Detroit, USA. He is 92 with failing eyesight. He takes the help of his grandchildren to read and get messages across to us through WhatsApp and email. “Sundaram, Rajashekar ka kya haal hai? Pata karke batao.” I spoke to Rajashekar and updated my Detroit colleague. Half an hour later I got a call from him again, “Mein ne bhi Rajashekar se baat kar liya.”

 

After the required post-operative hospitalization, Rajashekar moved to a hospital, which is more a physical rehabilitation centre. “They take very good care of us, starting from the morning coffee to a hot cup of milk before going to bed,” beams Nalini, relieved of her daily chores.  “Practically we are now on medical tourism, but within the city.” I felt glad the made-for-each-other couple knew how to take things lightly.

 

Because of the Lockdown there are no visitors to the hospital. “In a way it is good,” confides Rajashekar. “Otherwise, with poor bedside manners some of them would begin narrating similar incidents rather than enquire about mine.”

 

The famous Malayalam poet Ulloor Parameswara Iyer’s poem, Veena Poovu (the Fallen Flower), comes to my mind. The flowers that are still on the branches laugh at the flower that has just fallen on the ground. The latter reminds them, “Innu naan, naale nee,” - today me, tomorrow you.

 

But that statement is out and out philosophical or fundamental in nature. Given the physical fall of our friend Rajashekar, the lesson to learn is: Sundaram, better check if your bathroom floor tiles are really anit-skid as claimed, or need to be replaced. After all, you can skip your shower for a day or two, not everyday.

Books All the Way

Though a sheer coincidence, the kindly gesture of a few SFVians to throw open their collection of books for takeaway or to borrow, could not have come at a more opportune time than in the Lockdown days.

 

So, when Sana Khan household shared their collection for takeaway, I thought I would try O Henry’s short stories. But I wanted the younger generation to have the first choice. Thus I thought of writing to the donor that in the event it was not picked up in a week, I would drop in. But that was not to be.

 

It was then Ravi’s (3121) turn to share his collection. Aunty had read most of John Grisham and Robin Cook, but I spotted some that maybe she had not read. And Jeffrey Archer is the favourite of both. Also, I was keen to read Paulo Coelho (The Alchemist famous).

 

Prior to these two announcements I was to contact Shanthy Vaidya to borrow “Charlotte’s Web” from her collection. My eldest grandson (now ready to join College) had narrated the story to me when he was 8. Yes, in a reversal of the universal practice, he told me this as a bedtime story in three instalments - me in bed and he sitting by my side. Initially I thought I was doing him a favour by listening, but not after day one. He could keep the listener hang on his lips to hear more. I still recall the friendship of Charlotte, the barn spider, with Wilbur the pig, how the pig was in danger of being slaughtered by its farmer owner,  and how Charlottee wrote messages on its web praising Wilbur, hopefully to persuade the farmer to give up the idea…

 

Anyway, back to SFV, I asked Aunty if I could grab some of these books. “By all means,” she reassured me from the kitchen, “but not before you complete the top row of books in our own shelf that eagerly await human contact.” That was hitting me below the belt. Yes, our shelf has two rows. The bottom one is replete with religious books. The top row stands elegantly classified: “we shall do justice to these purchases one day.”

 

Luckily the purchase didn’t cost us a fortune. We picked these from a Library book sale in the US. Most of the cover pages carried the marketing inscription, “By the best selling author of…”, or “New York Times Best seller.” The latter inscription just meant that during that particular week, fortnight or month, the book registered the highest sale - nothing more, nothing less.

 

 “Why do you want to buy them when you can borrow them from Library, and return later?” asked my unsuspecting son. “No, no, I want to take these to India,” I asserted. “These second hand books?” he re-enquired to make sure.

 

“Look Shankar, anything that I have not read is first-hand,” I said in defence. He murmured something. Must have said, “Incorrigible”.

 

Undaunted, he made one final attempt, “Appa, you mean you will carry all these at the cost of something else Amma may wish to stuff the suitcase with, say, almonds, raisins, walnut?” he persisted. “For Heaven’s sake, Shankar, don’t give ideas to your Mom for a tug of war on a new turf.”

 

As I was trying to hammer out these lines, a flyer lands from my friend, Dr Panduranga Bhatta, of Oak 1151. He has just published two more books: “The Art of Leading in a Borderless World” in 338 pages, and “Introduction to Sanskrit Poetics”. I wish I were able to write at least a para, let alone a page, on these topics. Anyway, that adds two more feathers to his already crowded cap - a renowned Indologist; contributed immensely to Sanskrit Studies; taught Sanskrit to Ph.D and M. Phil students…