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November 27th is celebrated as a ‘ Thanks Giving Day’ in USA.
‘The great souls, moving as in a black and white movie, whom am I to thank ?’ I asked, the innumerable faces moving past in my mind, while lying on bed, after dinner in a relative’s house in Delaware. Not one or two, I’m indebted to, in one way or other and it will take years to thank them, even Just to say, ‘thanks’ to express my gratitude.
Women first, always. Senior citizens get preference. So, let me first prostrate before some of the great women of my family, who directly or indirectly helped me to be what I’m today. No disrespect meant for other Jambhavans including my parents, other relatives, my mentors, teachers, former colleagues, friends and numerous others to whom I’m indebted to, in one way or other.
I see before me a shaved head covered with the end of her saffron color sari and shrunken face smiling at me innocently while doing a small mischief of pushing a boiled nethrampazam , cooked plantain, below her bed, to keep it away from my sight. I was a lad of four, five, six, don’t remember. The old lady was trying to save the only fruit she had, for my younger brother, who was not eating rice, didn’t even stand the sight of cooked rice though he liked dosa, iddli and other rice products. ‘The kid doesn’t touch ‘annam’, rice’ – she used to moan and give him special treatment. She was my maternal grand father’s mother, we called her PAppammai, who raised my mother and her three elder siblings, in the absence of their mother who passed away, in her late twenty or early thirty. It would have been an enormous job for the old lady in impaired health to raise four children, three of them girls, perform their wedding, before they attained their age of puberty as was the practice then, within the meager income of her son, take care of the year -long petty demands of the in -laws, take care of the child births so on and so forth. Not only me, all my cousins and our descendants are indebted to our PAppammai, who died peacefully in a house close to the temple in Old Kalpathy. I stop in reverence, for a moment, when I pass through that street.
Another old woman deserving our worship is my father’s mother, whom we used to call ‘Appaammai’. She too had a shaven head, covered with her white sari end, back fully bent and therefore walked on her fours. A severe Smallpox viral attack dragged my mother almost to the border of cemetery and but for my grand ma’s unalloyed affection and personal attention, neither me nor my siblings would have been here.
Days and nights, the old lady looked after the patient suffering from a disease for which there was no remedy, except clearing her throat periodically to remove phlegm using her finger wrapped with a clean cloth. Mucus cleaning was essential to avoid its clogging the lungs and there was no mechanical devises available then for that life-saving process. There were many other duties in hand which needed day and night attention and no one other than those who had the viral attack earlier and thus became immune , was eligible for nursing the patient.
The village senior, after carefully examining my mother, exited, his head sagging with disappointment. He peered through the door of the VAdhyAr’s house. Yes, the Purohit was available for doing the last rites. He asked six young men to be available at short notice for carrying the body for cremation. Opened his safety cupboard and made sure that sufficient money was available in case my father needed financial help. Then he came back and told a few relatives, ‘tell Ananthan ( my father), not to worry about money”
But, there was no need for that. There was no need to remove the patient to thinnai, the raised platform in the house front, a practice prevalent then, for such acute patients. My mother opened her eye, yes, only one eye. It is much better to have one eye than having no eyes and much, much better than having no life.
My life and that of my siblings is the prasad, divine gift, from the yagna or sacrifice my grand mother made. We and our children are indebted to our Appammai, the charming woman who walked on her fours, her head covered in white sari end, as I remember her.
Another woman to whom we owe immensely was my Periammai, mother’s eldest sister. Short in size and black in skin color, an everlasting energy pack and an ebullient conversationalist, she had the ability of converting a sad moment or a bad day into a day of festival. Being elder to my father, she used to address him by his first name and her metallic voice, ‘Ananthaaaaaaaaa!’ Admonishing him for something or other, still vibrates in my ears. My father too respected his wife’s sister as his own, called her ‘Akka ( elder sister) and obeyed her words. After his mother passed away, ‘Akka’ was mother for him. She spent most of her life, looking after my parents and raising us though she had her own family. She was an Ayurvedic healer with no degree whatever, a Midwife or aaya, to help women in confinement, a legal adviser with no law degree and a dependable astrologer and sooth sayer, with no basic knowledge on stars and planets. She had a healing power, purely out of her sincerity to help others. She was everywhere, where some help was needed. She managed to travel alone from Chennai to Secunderabad and stay with me for a few months, in my bachelor days. When she left for Madras, half the crowd on the railways station platform was her admirers assembled to see off a dark, short old lady wrapped in a saffron colour Kasi Pattu sari, many in tears! They had never met her before, no chance of meeting her again. I am yet to see another old woman, like my Periammai, with no physical charm, who had the power to attract men , women and children of any age.
My mother in law, is the only living woman in our family, elder to me . She spent her time more for my wife and children than for her own family. Always calm and soft spoken, never interfering, available for any support, she was with me during the days of my high and low, summer and winter. Many auspicious events happened in the family, some deaths too. She was with us, throughout . I’m indebted to her love and support; so are my children. Her audibility has become poor and therefore I don’t talk to her as often as I would like to. My audibility is better; so I can hear her whispers, ‘odambai pAthukkunkol- take care’.
Comments :
Wat a graceful n grateful thanks giving mama!!! I have to thank only God to introduce me to such a wonderful human being i have ever come across in my life span of 60 yrs. I include my first five years too as i remember everything that has happened in my life. Wonderful human being, a friend, a mama, a divine soul who can make everything lively….. Tx for being there as a friend mama
Author: shivam
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'Thanks giving day' musing
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What do men know about mothers' feelings?
My wife had to undergo a surgery under general anesthesia, soon after my daughter was born. I was near her hospital bed, looking at her face awaiting the moment her closed eye lids would open up. My ears also were standing alert not to miss a single lip movement, soon after she recovers from sedation.
She opened her eyes partially and murmured, ‘ ‘Aparna’. That was the name of our days – old daughter.
I was disappointed, terribly disappointed. Even annoyed. I’m ashamed to tell you, I was really jealous of my baby daughter, for no fault of her but for her mother calling her name and not mine, the moment she regained consciousness!
The woman, for whom I was prepared to sacrifice everything, when she was seriously ill, within a year after our wedding, with whom I shared her mental agony from a fake alarm by a gynecologist, during the entire course of her first pregnancy, called her month – old baby’s name and not mine, when she regained her conscious!
“Sorry, you should not have done this to me” I whispered into air, while exiting the ICU.
I was ashamed to mention to her my disappointment in the ICU, for many days after she came back home . When I did so, much later, we shared a hearty laugh.
“What do men know about mother’s love?” She made a casual remark in her proverbially slow and soft voice.
Time rolled by.
I was in Florida when Raaghuv, my eldest grandson was born, some ten years ago.
Anxiously awaiting his arrival, I prayed sincerely that my wife should respond, at least once, to the many distress ‘ Amma ‘ calls from her daughter under deep labour pain.
”Utter just once, her name. Just call ‘Aparna’, from wherever you are, just once, I pleaded. “Your response will reach her, breaking the barriers of space and time, columns of air and clusters of cloud”
She didn’t respond . No, she didn’t.
She was perhaps in a world, where no calls, even distress calls from her daughter, would not reachable. -
A precious addition to the Perinkulam family
fantastic day today!
Delighted to meet Shreya Ratna Perinkulam, who landed just this dawn to join Perinkulam family. She is my sixth grand child, third grand daughter .
Shreya, lying on her father’s lap, looked charming, healthy and quite cheerful Atchu was elegantly holding his first child in his arms. From where did my quite, unassuming, soft spoken son learn this art?
I thought he is still a child for me. I was wrong. He has become a father!
Was very sad to see Anja, baby’s mom, lying like a honey comb after its honey was extracted to the last drop, after smoking the whole tree and disturbing the entire system. Looking at my sad face, my sister, who was with me, consoled:
“This is the normal state of any mother, soon after delivering her baby, by her own efforts, where she had to strain every nerve, every blood vessel, every muscle, every inch of her body” then she added, “Ratna Manni ( my wife) too did undergo such agony”. She smiled. I didn’t.
I looked up and told my wife, “your efforts haven’t gone waste. Both your children have added your name to their daughters’ name. You deserve it. Your name continue to live” -
Bend and thrive
Two years ago, I attended a wedding. The boy, a NRI, asked for a chair, as he could not sit flat on the floor, for the ceremony. It was not that he didn’t want to, but his knees were not cooperating. The girl’s father, an orthodox old man like me, didn’t want to sit on a chair to perform the kanyAdAnam.
“It is against the Sastras” He said. The moment he used the word, Sastras”, friends like me raised our head.
“Come what may, don’t budge an inch from your stand” I yelled. My voice is ideal for such purposes.
The boy stared at me and threatened,”I can’t bend my legs but am capable of bending my hands and fingers”
He raised his fist against me in a threatening manner.
I was excited. Here is a computer-savvy, who can fold his fingers to form a fist.
“Awesome!” I screamed.
“Don’t miss this boy. Sit on a chair or a table or even on a ladder if necessary, but give your daughter to him in marriage”. My voice, reverberated in the marriage hall and the Vaadhyar, purohit asked me to join his group.
The boy was happy. The girl was happy. The wedding took place in a grand manner and the couple lived happily ever after.
Good friends like me may not be always available in the wedding halls. I would,therefore, urge my bachelor friends, in their own interest, practice folding your hands, legs, neck, hip every part of the body. Sit on the floor and eat. Oldies like me should definitely do that. You may argue,”Why should we? We are not going to get a chance to sit on the floor as a bride groom!”
You may not. But there are other places where sitting might be essential. I need not mention such occasions.
Body flexibility is absolutely essential for young and old. Flexibility of mind too helps on several occasions. In the workplace, at home, in business relationship, in your relationship with your children too.
So, friends, bend your limbs and joints.
But beware of those who twist their words and bend to serve the wrong.
Wish you a happy bending session, not only for this day, but for every day.
Bend and thrive. -
A memoir to my parents on my seventy eighth birthday
” Vrichika mAsam, Hastham- that is on 19th November- your birthday,” reminds my younger brother from Hyderabad. I have two more birthdays- Official, October 15 th, stamped on all my records and December 7th written by Mookkunni astrologer, in his own hand in a pocket note book, where he had mentioned the star and the position of planets at the time of my birth. I was born only once but has three birthdays! Similarly, I retired from service only once but had four farewell parties!
Really interesting!
So, there is no doubt that I was born. There are written records to prove. Written records are more important than physical existence.. Last week, I obtained a letter from a Notary certifying my existence, which I sent to my office for releasing my pension payment. Even if I had presented myself personally before my office , spending airfare, my pension amount would not have been released, in the absence of someone certifying that I’m alive!
My birth was not a big event. No sandalwood smell scented the breeze in my village or anywhere in the world to celebrate the event. Nor did the Chand, Moon shine with additional charisma. But, in my mother’s mind did rise a new full moon with unique glory, unseen till then. In the life of my father and other elders, did suddenly flow a cool breeze soaked in the waters of the Ganges flavored by the herbal flowers of the Himalayan valleys.
But again, what is big about it? Any other parents would have felt the same way as my parents did. There was, indeed a difference . My birth was a sooryodayam, Sunrise, for the family sunk in despair following a disastrous tsunami of misfortune, which spared my father, spared my mother too, after extracting her one eye but mercilessly carried away their first child, my elder brother, hardly one year old, through its demon messenger, called small pox.
A male baby was born, all parts in tact. They were at the zenith of happiness. As per the practice of those days, neighbors were distributed a measure of paddy and a small coin to announce the arrival of the new asset to the family. Someone whispered to my grand mother’s ears, ” Ammalu, Atham atchane kollum- the Hastha nakshatram, my birth star was harmful to my father”. There was no need to remind the eldest member of the family the belief that my star was inauspicious for my father and that was not the occasion, but she did it.
My grand mother already was aware of that. In fact, the moment my mother’s labour pain started, she was praying to every god known to her, that the baby should not be born in the cursed Hastham star. By nature, she was a bold lady, who withstood the onslaught of calamities in the family, one after the other, like a stone wall, but the fact that her husband passed away within a short period after my father was born, shook her mental balance.
And my mother- the woman, who lived the life of a hermit after she knew that she was pregnant, was also shaken. Did she, after all the sacrifices, deliver a devil, who would suck her husband’s life?
My father stood unshaken. Death was not a stranger for him, after he saw his father’s and then brother’s death, during his very young age.
He came out of the house and assembled his friends and organized a betel leaf session.
“Onnu Murukkam” let us enjoy a betel leaf chew”, he said and placed his casket
full of fresh betel leaves, areca nut seeds also fresh from the tree in the backyard and Guntur tobacco leaves, specially imported from Andhra.
Unaware of all those TamAsha, wrapped in my mother’s cotton wears , I was enjoying the fresh smell of the soil carried by the cool winds from the Western Ghats, passing through the Kalpathy River sanctified by the sounds of the small brass bells and conch from the Shiva Temple.
I dedicate this memoir to my mother who suffered for me even while carrying me in her womb, praying and starving on many auspicious days, undergoing unexplainable anxious moments, before and after my birth and also to that semi educated, smart, handsome man of great dedication and will power who taught me the primary lessons of leading a good life, decently, helpfully, smilingly, equally enjoying the heat and cold, day and night.
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Comments:
That is a nice depiction.
Very descriptive, poetic as well.
The last para is really touching. Akin to Adi Sankara’s Mathru Panchakam.
Thanks for sharing.
Incidentally I am 77 today (DOB 20.11.1937) Aardra star.
Regards.
R.Lakshminarayanan.
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Many to watch my mistakes and correct
A sister of mine, who is now in USA, corrected the position of my monkey cap, before boarding the car in our Boston trip. I reproached her: “remember, I’m not a child, but elder to you by 14 years!”.
While doing pradakshinam in the Guruvayoor temple, long ago, she warned me:” anna, your veshti boarders are not in alignment”
I chided her,”to think of my dothi folders while worshiping ! concentrate on the fold-less inside the sanctum “. Now she is after me to visit a barber!
My sisters are very keen that I should always look good, wear good dress. So are my DILs. My daughter scolds!
Man, my plight doesn’t end there! In the far away Geneva, there is a girl, my net friend, sitting with binoculars, to watch what error I make in typing! (as you know,I’m very liberal in that! ) . The message comes instantly, reproducing what I typed and what mistake I committed! I was extremely glad to receive a call from her recently.
How to express my gratitude to the Almighty, for opening for me several doors, though he closed one, perhaps inadvertently. God too makes mistakes. His sister doesn’t perhaps, correct His monkey cap or dothi alignments!
Poor God! -
The tragedy stricken Kumbalakodans
Mother was upset when learned about my job transfer to Hyderabad.
“No, you are not going” she was assertive,”anywhere in Kerala, yes. Coimbatore or Chennai, where we have relatives, too is acceptable. Not a mile beyond that”
Father’s reaction was not immediately known. “Get my chellapetty,” he asked mother to get his betel leaf casket, sat in a corner, enjoyed his chew and asked for my opinion, looking firmly into my eyes.
“I want to go, Appa” I told him,”the Institute is expanding and I expect a bright future. I can convince mother”
Appa didn’t say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. He put on his usual white half shirt, called Sulaiman, his horse- cart driver cum attendant and drove to consult a friend, a physician familiar with WHO and UNICEF projects.
“The Doctor said, ‘ don’t block his way. He will prosper’, said my father, on return.
“Didn’t I leave my mother alone at half his age?” He asked mother. “Andhra is a good place. I have travelled extensively. The Telugu people are good, the land is fertile, climate favorable and konthai ( me ) won’t have have any problem for food or accommodation in his new place”
“Didn’t I leave my mother alone at half his age ?” Yes he did. There was no option left for him and that was a turning point in our family fortunes.
My forbears were known as Kumbalakodans, after the palatial farm house besides a vast area of agriculture land owned by our family, in a village called Kumbalakode near Alathur, in Palakkad, Kerala. To demonstrate how such an ocean of wealth became a desert, father used to fill a vessel with a whole in the bottom. and pour water in it.
“This was what happened to our family assets,” he used to mention. ” With no replenishment and only draining, the vessel got emptied” The liberal minded forebears spent lavishly, for weddings or any major or minor celebrations in the family, in the village, for temple festivals, for Pooja’s accompanied by large scale feedings- all good causes undoubtedly, but they never realized their wealth shrinking. The males with academic qualification found it below their status to work under someone. All of them were trained in scriptures, but they imparted their knowledge to others or conducted worships for others , free of cost or for a nominal sum. Earning money was not in their thoughts at all . Rice, cereals, vegetables, fruits, milk and all other essential items were provided from their farms . Requirement of clothes was minimum and that too came as gift from the houses where Poojas were conducted under the guidance of the elders in the family. What was the need for money?
This was going on for years together.
The Kumbalakode lake didn’t go dry in an year or two. There was continuous depletion
with no recharge. That was in fact the case of many Brahmin families, those days. They had no intention to save for the fortune . The false prestige that they were above other castes prevented them to seek work under others nor they were prepared to work hard in their own ventures. There were, of course, a few exceptions and they did well in professions or trade. Some brilliant children came up well in Government service. ‘Live a pious, honest life, harming none, do the daily religious rites and God will take care of us’ – that was the general attitude. Only those who didn’t have any means to survive went after petty jobs or business.
The financial status of my family was at its nadir when my father was born. His birth star was Hastham. That was not good for the father of the boy, warned the superstitious villagers. May be a coincidence, my grandfather didn’t live long . I too was born in the same star, but my father lived long and so am, I still alive with a son of the same star.
AmAvAsya, completely dark night, can’t be far when the waning of the moon had started. Kumbalakodan farm house and agriculture fields were completely lost.
My grand parents and their two sons had no place to go. The two daughters of the family, were fortunately married off and happily settled elsewhere. It was below their prestige to seek asylum in – laws’ houses.
My grand father’s younger brother, Ramanathan had a small house, by the Krishnaswamy Temple in Perinkulam South village. Unmarried, he was surviving on a small income, by doing some sundry jobs.
“Manni ( sister in law), you are not homeless” he invited my grand mother to stay in his house. The house was made of clay with only matted leaf roof, but there was plenty of open space behind. There was no well and water had to be carried from the well in the street corner. But it was a shelter, for the homeless, which my grand mother converted into a home fit enough to receive her would be daughter in law.
The torrential rains have since washed the house off but we are preserving the land as a valuable inheritance from our elders.
Father learned Scriptures from an elder in the village, but he was not interested in becoming a priest. He attended elementary school but found the classroom gloomy, lifeless. His concentration was on playing and swimming in the village ponds. He was tall, well built with a wide chest and long hands and had abundant energy, wits and will power.
Tragedy, like a dark panther behind a bush, was waiting to strike the family.
My grand father, expired on a Sravana Pournami day, soon after returning from a Namboodiri friend’s house, who had invited him for food and a small gift , as a mark of respect . My father’s elder brother, who returned after completing his Vedic studies, too passed away, due to some minor ailments. He was the only hope to redeem the family from its fallen state. The cup of woe was overflowing.
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My Trichur days – part 3
My father left for Palakkad leaving me with our relative Doctor Vaidynatha Iyer who arranged my accommodation in Korangnathu pishAram, in the Vadakkan angAdi Road. PishAram is the house of pishArodi, or Sharodi in short, an ambalavAsi, traditionally a supporting staff for the temple activities. They used to serve temples and temples used to take care of them . My house owner, however, was not a temple dependent, unlike his ancestors.
I joined a small group of bachelors in the side portion of his house and soon became the pet child of VArasiAr , the lady of the house and more importantly, her mother, who treated me kindly and somewhat respectfully too, probably due to my parentage. The Ambalavasies and old women generally had a soft corner for those belonging to Brahmin community and added to that was my age and innocent looks.
With a ‘Kindi’ ( brass vessel with a long nose for delivery) of water, home made tooth powder, tender neem stick for cleaning teeth and tender coconut leaf mid strip for cleaning tongue, the grand ma of the house used to sit near my head and wake me up. ” Swamy kutty, get up. I’m not happy to wake you up, but what to do my child! You have to go for work ” Not used to getting up early, it was initially difficult for me to get up before the sun rise. No excuse though, as I had to be ready by 6.30 am, the schedule time of arrival of the UNICEF jeep, with other teammates to pick me up. The grand ma was insistent that I should visit all the three important temples in the surrounding area of one kilometer after a dip in the pond close by, called Vadakkae chera and then only go for my breakfast in the nearby Krishna Iyer’s hotel, every morning. For a few coins, Iyer used to supply sumptuous snacks and hot filter- coffee . Add one nethrampazam ( banana fruit of special Kerala variety), the breakfast became royal.
It was a difficult task initially to get up before sunrise, but the pre dawn dip in the cold waters of the pond followed by temple visits, became enjoyable, in due course. The morning air was pure and sanctified in the temple town of Trichur where people , after a cold water bath visited temples , wearing neatly washed and well pressed white clothes . The women were appealing with their Golden bordered Kerala saris, pleasing faces and chandanakuri, the sandal pasted forehead.
Though my stay at Trichur was hardly for six months, I enjoyed every moment, my work as well as my living. In villages as well as in the Laboratory, we worked as a cohesive, friendly unit and all of us were treated equal, thanks to the broad mindedness of the two officers, Dr.M.C. Swaminathan ( my Facebook friend now) and Doctor Ganapathy ( RIP) Field work was pleasant and we had a satisfaction that we all were contributing for the health improvement of the poor working class.
I never felt home sick, thanks to the homely environment in the kshAram and periodical visits to my home. My father, who made a visit to see how I was living, was impressed by my schedule , went back and reported to my mother, ” can you believe, he heated water for me and prepared chukkuvellam ( spiced hot water for drinking ), though Varasyar volunteered to provide ? I’m relieved that he can stand on his own”. Appa had arthritics and preferred warm water for bathing.
It was a total surprise for him that not only I got up before him, in the morning, but had kept water ready for his bath!
There was an interesting episode in my Trichur life. I used to visit my home during alternate week ends and in one such trip, a person seated next to me in the bus, casually enquired about my job. Nothing new about it. In my place every one does it. His query deserved only a one- liner but I gave a lecture! My response was an enthusiastic youngster’s boastful talk of his organization about which he was proud of.
“Have you heard about ICMR( Indian Council of of Medical Research in Delhi?. Have you heard about Nutrition Research Laboratories in Coonoor ? Have you ever visited Coonoor ?” Suddenly I recalled that myself had never visited that place, not once before. That didn’t happen even during my service. I could visit that hill station only ten years after my retirement, when my children took me there, in one of their holiday trips. And from Palakkad, Connor was as close as New Jersey or New York from Baltimore, to which places, along with my children, I travel frequently now.
The fair-skinned, soft spoken gentleman in Snow White dothy and kurtha, heard my elaborate talk silently and smilingly and while alighting from the bus at Palakkad, he said,
“I’ll be accompanying you up to Olavakkode as I have to catch a train from there. Would you like to take me to your house, which is on the way, so that I can meet your parents and convey my happiness in meeting with their well articulated son?”
“My pleasure, Sir”, I replied, but wondered what could be the purpose of his meeting . I mused,” he might perhaps be having a daughter of marriageable age. and going by his looks, she is bound to be a charming girl. But, is it not too early to think of my marriage? Why not? Appa got married at a much younger age.”
My thought train was an express and not a passenger locomotive.
Appa received my bus -mate, extending his betel casket, as was his usual way and Amma went inside to bring coffee, as was her usual way. The talk went on for 10 minutes, 20 minutes, they covered almost every subject under the sky but there was no mention of a charming daughter of a handsome man.
At the end, when my father asked me to accompany the guest to the Railway station and see him off, my bus friend addressed Appa by his first name and said
“Anantha Iyer, it was me who signed the appointment order of your son, on behalf of my Director”
That was my first and last meeting with Sri. Chellam Iyer, office head of my Institute, who gave me a job on the recommendation of his friend and counter part in the Pasture Institute, where our Laboratory was housed in Connoor.
Our twin projects in Trichur, ‘protein malnutrition in children’ and ‘Anaemia in pregnancy’ supported by the World Health Organization, was wound up in December 1959 and our Institue in Connoor was shifted to Hyderabad, where a much bigger set up in the 36 – acre land, in the Osmania University premises was coming up.