How my Mother Met Father (Dug out from archives))

It was the 1960s. Balu Chittappa, my father’s uncle, was living with his son in Muzaffarnagar, UP. He stayed with me in Delhi for ten days for a cataract operation. While Uncle returned to Muzzafarnagar with bright eyes, he left behind equally bright memories of our family history, one of which was how my father and mother met each other. 

My mother belonged to Kizakkanchery, a small village in Palakkad. Her father was an advocate who practised in the Sessions Court in Palakkad. He belonged to a middle class family. 

In sharp contrast, my father’s was an affluent family - filthy rich by the then standards. They had wholesale and retail textile business with establishments in Palakkad, Coimbatore, Ernakulam, Chennai and Mumbai. 

My paternal grandfather, the architect of this ‘empire’, died suddenly in his forties. It is believed that if the marriage of a son is performed within 60 or so days after the demise of his father, it would be deemed to have been solemnized during the lifetime of the deceased. So began a frantic search began for a bride for my father. 

A girl was identified - in Bangalore. The date was fixed with great fanfare.  At the last minute the girl’s parents backed out. This hurt the family’s prestige – a proposal from such a rich, philanthropic family was being rejected. They became adamant that, come what may, they would solemnize father’s marriage on that very date already fixed. Efforts intensified. Someone suggested a girl with good family-credentials, the Karikkar family (my mother’s), in Kizakkanchery, 20 miles away.

Kizakkanchery is a very remote sleepy village. So, on the rare occasions when a bullock-cart made its foray into the village with the ox’s sedative steps, at least one representative from each house would greet it at the front yard to ascertain who the visitor was. And a horse-driven cart with bells jingling around its neck and foot-tapping rhythmic gallops was a sure bet to trigger the ladies to abandon their kitchen, to have a glimpse of the guest. 

Thus, when my Dad and his core-group made their way into the village, with the burring sound of the car engine audible from afar, the whole village was agog – only nadaswaram (shehnai) was missing. Unperturbed and absolutely clueless, my mother, a young lass, was playing merrily with her friends ‘paandi’ - hopscotch, or Langdi. 

Strangely, they asked her where the Karikkar house was. Playing vigilantly, she casually directed them, and busied herself completing her turn. Ten minutes later she was summoned, was escorted to her house via the neighbour’s backyard for any make-up that was possible at such a short time for such an unscheduled visit. “Oh, she is the girl. She was the one who gave us the direction to the house,” the head of the visiting family said.

They gave the green signal instantly. My Mom’s father was however hesitant, apprehensive of the vast economic gap. Ultimately, he agreed.

Everything was organized for the marriage in a chat mangni, phat shaddi style, giving my Mom very little time to get even her marriage dresses stitched. For the ceremony where the bride bids farewell to her village friends on the eve of the marriage in an open hired car, father’s family arranged for a huge elephant. Expectedly, she refused to mount it, still in her teens. Pressure was brought to bear on her. It was a five-day long marriage. She was lean then, and he on the Dara Singh side. (They chose to rob each other’s figure in later life.)

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As fate would have it, decades later when my wife and I were attending a temple festival in my father’s village, we bumped into a lady, and her son of my age, from Bangalore. We got acquainted with each other, and he casually mentioned that his mother was to have been married in this village, to someone from ‘a’ VKR family, and introduced her to us. On elaboration it turned out that she was the one to have been married to my Dad. Curious to know, I asked her why she refused the proposal.  “Even in the wildest of imaginations I could not agree to cook for 30 or 40 persons day after day, let alone take charge of the coffee/tea sessions,” she confided. Yes, the same reason that my Balu Chittappa had cited.

Back home when I narrated this to my parents, my Mom said, “Lucky lady; escaped unhurt,” side-glancing at my Dad with a tinge of taunt.