Father’s Day – Recollection

My father was born with a silver spoon in his mouth – filthy rich by the then standards. Stretched till now, it is a story of rags to riches to rags, to normal.

Centuries ago, our ancestors moved from Thanjavur to Palakkad, in search of greener pastures. The first one began earning his livelihood by selling bath towels going around on bicycle from village to village in Palakkad, and managed to open a small shop later. Down the generations, the shop was shifted to the central business area, upgraded from retail to also wholesale, gradually opened branches in Ernakulam, Coimbatore, Madras, Pondicherry, and Bombay. 

My father was still in his teens, studying in class 8. The teacher was taking the class. Out of the blue, he posed a question to my father who was in his own world. His question and my dad’s answer were poles apart - like, the teacher asking him: What are the mines in Kerala, and he responding: Teak, rosewood, bamboo…  

The entire class burst into laughter. The teacher took it as an affront – on his ability, or the lack of it, to get messages across to pupils. He ordered him to stand up on the bench. A co-ed school, this command did not go well with my flamboyant father. Instead, he stuffed his books into the bag and walked out of the class – nay, school – never to return.

Grandpa knew my dad’s adamance a little too well. He asked my dad to accompany him to the shop daily thereafter. There he found my dad to be adept in calculations. He could mentally calculate the correct amount to be charged for 1.3 yards of a cloth at 9-1/2 annas per yard (the currency of those days). A key factor for a brisk business house. No calculators. Only a slate and pencil, if need be. My dad did not use even those. Soon he was into shop’s activities neck deep.

They say God does everything with a purpose. My grandpa passed away at a young age of 42 or 46. My dad was able to take over and take it to a level to be hailed the golden age of our business. 

Sedentary job, two fulsome pure ghee jhangiris thrice a week from Veerakutti Hotel, began to tell on his health. He became overweight. Doctor advised him to walk from shop to Fort Maidan and back (nearly eight kilometers) every evening. “Doc, but evenings are brisk-business hours. How can I?” “Health or wealth, the choice is yours,” declared the no-nonsense doctor. Thereafter dad stuck to two things: never missed his walk; and never took dinner - just a glass of milk. And from fat he became fit

INTERVAL

Come World War II with a bang. No fresh imports possible – had to make-do with existing stock till the sky cleared. Ample scope for goods to go underground and to be sold at double the price. Government jumped in promptly. To control inflation, Government fixed prices and insisted on stamping them on the cloth.  This resulted in our having to sell at par, or even below par. Seeing an imminent downfall, the creditors began to ask for their pound of flesh. Result, closure of business. From rags to riches, and  to rags again. 

Dad had to look for avenues to eke out a living. Thus, from a textile moghul, he scaled down to a textile agent. He took owners of small business houses to Bombay and got them goods on six months credit solely on his credentials. This had its own disadvantages. For one of two  transactions he got his commission; thereafter these business houses placed orders directly. Triangular transactions became bilateral - direct between buyer and seller. Father knew this was an in-built disadvantage. Something is better than nothing.

Time flew. He married off both his daughters. The three of us, his sons, took up jobs in Bombay and Delhi. He was past his sixties He began experiencing difficulty swallowing food. Tests pointed towards possible esophagus-malignant. Was referred to Tata Memorial in Bombay. Influence was brought to bear to have Dr Praful Desai, the Medical Director examine him. He did and wrote ADCO (T) on the prescription pad and handed it to the Matron for further action. I could make out that ADCO meant Adrenocarcinoma but was clueless on ‘(T)’.  I ran behind the Matron and asked her in Malayalam, “Chechi, what’s  meant by (T)?” ‘Malayalee”? she asked as she turned back, and whispered into my ears, T means Terminal. But we are not supposed to tell you this, I will lose my job. This also means, another six months to two years max. 

A true prediction. Just a few days before completing two years he breathed his last. 

(The least tribute I could pay to my father)