Seniors settling in foreign lands with their sons or daughters, is a sensitive issue for them, not withstanding the assured support available, which is essential, from their children.
The main stumbling block is the feeling of not belonging to the country of settlement. Even while in India, there are many who would like to go to their native villages, after retirement, where their parents and grand parents lived and died. Even me, after spending over five decades in Hyderabad, where my children were born, those close to me breathed their last, had a nappasai, chinna, chinna asai, small desire, that I should go back to my ancestral village to spend my evenings in life, the only attraction being the soil, water and air, which carried the vibrations of the breath and smell of the sweat of my grand parents. However, wisdom overtook emotion, when I thought about the practical difficulties and stopped wandering on the imaginary valleys and hills.
Non belonging to the place to be settled, is one reason; leaving the belongings behind, is another. The belongings could be house, relatives, nearby temple, pets , plants even big vessels and granite grinding stones, which were in use for ages! Payikka , (given beautiful name Bhagirathy) , left her Vaikkom home only once in life, as she had always a cow or a calf or both in her cattle shed, to look after and refused to leave them under the neighbor’s custody even for a few weeks!
The memories, habits, customs and practices are other weights pulling towards the native land. Memories, as you know, are powerful catalysts.
If the above considerations could be overcome, settling aboard with their sons or daughters could be considered, if living alone back in their country is not safe or undesirable. The reason for my ‘if’s and ‘but’s is that the first choice of almost all seniors is to stay back in their own country, own house, eating the food and going to the places of their choice. When they settle abroad, the oldies should be prepared for some adjustments on their part, may be at the cost of their beliefs and practices.
The medical attendance may not be available immediately, unless in the case of emergency, though they can expect to have good medical care. The milk, fruits and vegetables are pulled out of the temperature- controlled chests and not fresh from the cow’s udders or from the back yard garden. Daily temple visit many not be possible unless the shrines are in walkable distance, a rare possibility. Outside movement will be restricted to great extend if they are not equipped with a permit to drive and know how of driving in high speed, which many elders may not have.
In short, there are difficulties here for the elders in settling permanently. Homes for the aged in India, at affordable price and with essential facilities seem to be an option, If living alone, single or in pair, is impossible.
All these thoughts enter the mind only when one’s body and mind start walking in different directions.
When that happens, depends on many factors, including our way of living, management of thoughts, events and balancing of good and bad things and events.
Preparedness to accept the inevitable, and ability to accept the non acceptable and less acceptable events and things, is a boon, in any age, all the more during our old age.
Flexibility in attitudes and behavior is essential when you get transplanted. It is possible, without sacrificing your basic beliefs. Last evening, while attending an orchestra organized by the fifth standard classmates of Ananya and also on earlier occasions when I had attended non Indian programs, I used to complement myself for my capacity for adaptability, without which , I would be missing many things.
Be open to changes, many doors will open !
Keeping away from life is pushing yourself to oblivion.
Category: A12.01 About me
'How do you spend your time here?'
‘How do you spend your time here?’
Some of my friends in India, who comes to USA on a holiday, ask me, within a few days, ‘how do you manage to spend your time here?’ They have a point. Neighbors here, don’t come home for a ‘chai par charcha’ in the evenings or we don’t entertain them when we meet on the street corner imitating cat calls of the Upper House or the ‘tushum tushum of the Lower House of the Parliament.
We also miss the fun of bargaining with the vegetable vendor who comes to our gates and invite us to come down, by his standard sweet yelling, which many times we wait for. We can’t with or without a banian, carrying a shoulder bag, go to the corner shop, chat with the owner, assistant and other customers for a full hour and return with a few packets wrapped in newspaper, with the satisfaction that we made a great sacrifice for the family.
We can’t, after bath, come out barren chested and spread the wet clothes for drying on the rope tied in the front balcony or back trees of our house, moving the cloth up and down and making sound big enough to reach the kitchen, to announce the great work we did.
While driving we can’t shout at the two legged and four legged friends crossing our way, magically appearing from all sides barring the top, nor escape the cop for a driving lapse, by parting with a chai or biryani paisa.
All these funs I too miss here. But I love living here as my outer world and inner world are here. Without any disrespect or ungratefulness to my ‘Anantha Jyothi’ in Hyderabad, I can say that now, my home is where my children live with their spouses and kids. They take care of me, looking into even minute needs, ensuring that I don’t miss anything in life. More over, my nephews and their spouses who are here, too shower all the affection and care on me.
My inner world are my writing, reading, singing, musing, dreaming, Nature study etc. They are with me through out, with the result, I have no spare time for nagging or disturbing the peace my daughter or daughters -in-laws, sons or son in law. With the constant company of my inner companions, I never felt lonely, though I have been alone barring the company of my younger brother, most of the past several years.
I am not very traditional in my thinking or ways of living. I’m flexible, don’t insist on a specific way of living. I enjoy any food prepared at home as well as in Mexico, French, Italy, Japan or Chinese kitchen, where my children take me to.
I don’t ask them, what they do, why they do and don’t tell them what they should not do on a subject where my knowledge is zero or abysmally below theirs. This lesson , I learned from my wife. I used to receive several phone calls, even at odd times, but she never raised her eyebrows wondering who could be on the other side.
I don’t shout at my grand children but shout along with them, making them ashamed of their pitch.
I still, would like to go back to India to spend sometime there attending to my personal works and also touring places to meet my friends and relatives, which include the gods, throughout the length and breadth of the country.
The country we live in is sweet, if our homes are sweet.
Homes are sweet, if we are sweet.
We are sweet, if our wives are sweet.
Wives are sweet if they don’t question us about the odd time phone calls!
Keep the wives sweet, wherever you are!
Cherunatturi Sahayam
‘Cherunattiri Bagavathy sahayam’ – that is what we write on the center top of our wedding invitation. Earlier, we used to start our letters to relatives too, with that invocation.
Cherunatturi is our Kuladevatha and ‘sahayam’ is help. Please note that we are seeking the sahayam, help of our family deity and not her blessings. From whom do you take help? From friends and relatives. We treat our family deity as a member of our family! We are certain that Her blessings are already with us. After all, She is our ‘Amma’, mother.
When Megh told me that today is Vrichikamasam, Hastham, the star on which I entered this world, my first question to her was whether I was 80. My interest was to claim the Income tax benefit available for those above 80 and when she said, ‘no Appa, you have completed 79 and entering 80 today, I was a bit disappointed! It was then I looked at the picture of Cherunatturi in our pooja, which Megh brought from our Hyderabad house. In fact that was the only thing she wanted from me, when she came to settle her family here, after her wedding.
‘Cherunatturi sahayam,’ I said then, looking at the Devine Mother.
Was it to seek Mother’s sahayam to lead me to the next border line or to make it less thorny than the current one, don’t remember now.
Anyway, Her ‘sahayam’ only brought me to this far and I’m sure that she will continue to hold my hand to walk further.
Cherunatturi sahayam, for all my net family too.
Pulley and postbox
The spread of ‘net’ has taken away the joy of the writing and sending letters. To gain something, you have to lose something !
Appa used to write letters, mostly post cards or ‘inland letters’
and ask us children to post it, put it in the letter box, which was just opposite to our house, on our side of the road. And he used to confirm that we did insert the letters into the mouth of the post box. That red colour post box used to give me the impression that it was not a metal box but someone standing there, mouth- opened to receive whatever we inserted into it. I didn’t like its blood red colour and greedy mouth.
The terrible noise of the big wooden pulley, used to roll bucket down and up to pull water from the well was also unwelcome and even somewhat frightening for us children, at night. No doubt it did a good job by helping the bucket to come down to the water level and going up with water, but why proclaim so loud about its service. One should do silent service. Appa used to ask the servants to oil the joints.
Then, they were the shadows of big trees in the backyard and at times, an owl perking on a branch and making horrible sound. It was a bad omen for the elders but nothing bad happened except the fear induced in us.
Due its size and cold water it provided for drinking, body washing and cleaning vessels, our well had an affectionate nick name, ‘Kamalalayam’, though there was no lotus in it.
The neighboring shops used to collect water from it and my mother used to call it Olavakkode Ganges !
I was never born!
I’m a pensioner and unless I submit a notarized certificate to my office , before the end of this moth, my pension amount won’t be credited to my account.
It is not because that I’m away from my office where I worked. Even if I go personally and stand before the concerned officer, who worked under me and tell her that I’m so and so, she won’t release my cheque.
She will say, ‘yes Sir, I know you ( means, how can I forget your ill -treatment?), but I need your life certificate to release your pension.
So, life is not important, a certificate to say that I’m alive is important. The person who certifies had never met me, belongs to a different country and only after his certification, I’m alive for my office, for all practical purposes!
Ithu Eami thamaasa, thammudu? What joke is this, brother?
Going by that analogy, I can say with near accuracy that I was not born at all, as I don’t have a certificate to say that I had born. For obtaining a Green Card for me, my children wanted my birth certificate and the SSLC document where some date has been mentioned, was not acceptable to the authorities here.
I went to Palakkad Municipal office, paid the prescribed fees, waited, the clerks searched the past 80 years’ records( wonder how the rats and rodents have still left them untouched!) and no were there was a certificate copy of my birth. How will it be there, when it was never made? How will it be there when my birth was not intimated to the Municipal Office? Birth certificate was not a ‘prasnam'( issue )at all for my father and other parents too, in the olden days.
Now comes the climax! As I was not born, I need not die, as someone, somewhere has said,
“jatasya hi dhruvo mrityur
dhruvam janma mrtasya ca
tasmad apariharye ’rthe
na tvam socitum arhasi
“One who has taken his birth is sure to die, and after death one is sure to take birth again. Therefore, in the unavoidable discharge of your duty, you should not lament.”
‘It is not someone, somewhere, Thatha,’ corrects my grandson,’it was Lord Krishna, who said so, to Arjuna, in the Githa’
Now, I’m all the more happy. Krishna, unlike me, never tells lies.
And His words never go waste. I need not die at all!
Krishna is a clever guy. You can dupe anyone in the world but not Him.
He taps at my back, looks into my eyes and smiles, saying nothing.
‘What’s up, KRISH?’, I ask Him, raising my head.
‘You, Sathyam, Shivam! You have three dates of birth, not one, remember’
I rub my eyes to grasp what He said, thinking it was a dream. It wasn’t. Krishna was standing before me! In His hands were my horoscope, SSLC book and a Pampu, snake Panchangam.
Perinkulam jyotsyar Mukundan Unnikannan Tirumulpad, whom my father, authoritatively and affectionately addressed as , ‘Mookkunni'( meaning, a small bump on the nose – that was how beautiful names were shortened and tampered in the villages), on my father’s request had made a Janmapatrika, birth record. Amidst ample Samskritham and Malayalam words, he had indicated therein, the corresponding English date of my birth too, in a corner.
But that was not the date recorded in my SSLC book!
While admitting me in the first class ( no L or U Kgs then), my father would have told some date to Govindankutty master, without referring to Mookkunni Manifesto and the teacher would have written some date depending on his mood then. If it were a priest in the temple, ready for doing Archana in my name, Appa would have correctly said, ‘Hastha Nakshatram, Kanya rasi’ but school admission was not a ‘prasnam’ or issue at all those days.
Then, there is a third date of birth for me and that was why Krishnaji had a brought with Him a Pampu Panchankam. To show me the English date, corresponding to my birth star, in Vrichika masam, the month of my birth.
‘So, with three dates of birth to your credit, how do you claim permanent residency in this world?,’ asked Krishna.
‘Don’t be childish, Krishna!’ I taunted Him. ‘How can anyone have three dates of birth? Even you can’t have that. You have 1000 and odd names, 16000 and odd wives but only one date of birth’
‘What is that date?’ He asked me, realizing that He was caught on the wrong foot.
Pazhaya ( old ) Kalpathy village.
Kalpathi memories
Old memories surface, more during our old age
I was born in the ‘Edam’ ( house ) of Atchan, Palakkad Raja, who used to address my thatha, ‘ChuppE’ (for Subramania Iyer) . My mother used to address a childhood friend from the ‘Edam’ as ‘AppaE!’ . The Atchan probably allowed my maternal grandfather, considering his services for the Shivan Kovil , to stay in a portion of his house where I was born Not from the Rāja vamsam, I was born in a king’s palace. Not a small credit!
When I was a few months old, my mother took me to Perinkulam.
When I was a kid of 4/5, my grandfather shifted his residence to a house near the Perumal kovil in Pazhaya Kalpathi, where my mother’s grandmother,PAppammai , an old woman with long and skinny hands died. I remember her long hands because , my mother and her three siblings, were fed and raised by those hands. My mother’s mother passed away, at 30 or so, leaving four small kids to the care of her mother in law, my Paappaamai.
Apart from the two women who gave birth to me and my children, my paternal grand mother who brought back my mother from the gate of death and my mother’s grand mother who raised her and her siblings, are among the Moorthis in my idol-less temple..
I remember her long hands for another reason. She hid once, a nenthrampazam, long plantain under her pillar, away from my greedy eyes, to be given to my younger brother, who was allergic to rice then. Wheat, oatmeal or such food alternatives were unknown then, especially for a 90 year old woman. As my brother was not taking rice food, her sympathy with him and not with me, who gulped any food offered. Water always flows to a lower level; so is the affection of parents with their weak and under privileged children. They are the only ones who likes the under-scorers
. I remember walking ahead in the funeral procession of my Pappammai, holding a hand torch, a stick with cotton cloth wrapped at the other end and lighted after soaking the cloth bundle. . I wept, as I knew that she wouldn’t return. Despite her partiality towards my younger brother, I wanted her to stay, though I was not then aware of the sacrifices she made . Later, during school days , I used to join the congress processions, holding a banner or a flag yelling, ‘ Mahatma Gandhi zindabad’ or some such slogans. That was enjoyable, but not the funeral procession of my Pappammai.
Pattali VadhyAr was the temple purohit then. His wife DharmAmbal mami died on her way back from Kasi, or in Kasi itself, don’t remember. A highly respected couple. Their son Keshavan was my classmate in the high school. He was the only boy with kudumai, tuft in our class.
He used to crack jokes and we laughed a lot together.
‘Half the class should laugh for your kudumai, but you are laughing at their expense,’ commented, Panchapakesan Iyer master, a strict teacher who quoted the name of Napolean Bonaparte, ten times a day.
‘Sir! if you sport a kudumai, the whole class will laugh,” replied Keshavan.
The teacher didn’t ask my friend to shut up. He too laughed, instead.
Some teachers like some parents enjoy jokes of the children.
I lost contacts with Keshavan, after leaving the school. Several years later, met his son in Chennai and was sad to learn that my classmate with kudumai had passed away. Didn’t ask the junior whether my jovial classmate died laughing, though he was not incapable of doing it. Nobody dies laughing. I have enough wisdom to know that.
‘Hope Appa had a comfortable journey?’
‘Journey?,’ he laughed. The same lovely, rhythmic laugh of his father and continued,
‘could death be comfortable to anyone?’
A stupid question, it was, mine!
How could death be comfortable? I could have asked him, ‘hope he didn’t suffer much?’ . That would have been apt. But, many time we miss asking correct questions and repent later.
But, can’t death be comfortable ? My question was not totally absurd, when I recollect death of some friends and relatives. Some deaths gave comforts to the owners of death and others to their relatives.
Owners of death? Am I making another stupid statement ? How can I own my death? Death owns me, not the other way. Did I own my birth? Stupid question again, silly fellow! I didn’t even own my birth!
So, I own neither my birth nor my death. Then, what do I own? My own life . Once it was handed over to me it is my duty to take care of it till death takes it away.
Some thing is wrong again here. Is my life completely under my control to take care of it? Many things have happened in my life without my desire, without my knowledge How could I take care of it?
Forget about life and death issues . Let us come back to my Kalpathy days. Thatha, Subramania VAdyar, Chuppai for friends and the Raja of Palakkad, is sitting prominently on the front seat of Pallakku, mini chariot of the Shivaswamy, his ebony- black chest and limbs smeared with white vibhoothy lines. His kadukkans, ear ornaments with white pearls, shine in the black background of his ears. A big Rudraksham, bordered with gold linings hangs from a gold chain from his neck, pushing aside a humble tulsi Mala on his broad chest. He cracks the whip in his right hand while producing ‘ha, ha sound’, encouraging the animal pulling the Pallakku while, the Nadaswaram and Thavil sounds reach the silent sky. What a pride on thatha’s face! ‘I’m the charioteer to the great Charioteer of The Universe.! . Had he been on the ground, I would have heard his metallic voice breaking into a sloka, ‘Kalaabhyyam choodalamkritha sasi Kalaabhyyam nija thapah: bhalAbhAm baktheshu prakaditha bhalAbhyam bhavathumae:’ . He would also be explaining with facial expression and hand movements the majestic appearance of Lord Shiva wearing the crescent moon on his head while the holy river Ganges flows down from the thick locks and other hundred details about the Lord on the Himalaya mountains. He enjoyed the presence of God as he enjoyed his river bath and Sooryanamskaram. For people like him, life was never a burden, despite all the weight thrust on their shoulders.
Though not grown here, I have many memories on Kalpathy villages and the temples around as well as the river which we used to cross everyday to reach our school and college. Some of my best stories like, ‘Kamu, my childhood friend’ and ‘Mayilkkan veshtikal’ were born here.
Musing from a barber's chair
26 degree F. ( – ) 3 degree C. Chill wind. Despite thick coverage, even the walk from the car to the barber sop was difficult. The shop is a neat one, though small, run by Koreans. There is a small temple inside with two Apple fruits placed before the deity.
In Olavakode, a suburb of the Palakkad town, there was a barber shop, close to our house. The owner was Pazhaniyandi, a congress leader who claimed that he went to jail several times and on one such occasion, Gandhiji was in the opposite room and on another Nehruji was in the room next to his. “You should see Gandhiji’s smile and Nehruji’s skin colour” he used to tell every customer, “the first one was silver and the second one gold”. I used to admire his facial expressions when he explained his jail days. Having exposed to the talks of freedom struggle whole day, we children had almost become mini freedom fighters mentally and the barber’s spirited narration of his jail experience was a thriller for me. My hero -worship of him, was however, short -lived. I happened to meet his wife, on the way to school and she told me, “Nuna, kutty, nuna.. VayapolitchAl ayaalu nunayae Parayoo- he is a lier. He tells nothing but lies”
Back home, I enquired Appa and he clarified,’ what she said was true, though earlier, before Pazhani married second time, she used to tell everybody that her husband had followed Gandhiji in his DandiyAtra and went to jail along with him several times.
The truth is Pazhani never crossed the ValayAr forests”
However, I used to admire his khadhi dress, neatly pressed and his Malayalam sparingly mixed with Hindi, which he claimed was the result of his association with Congress leaders in Delhi. And also his song, which he whispered into my ears, while passing the scissors through my hair:
“Porbandharil janichoo Gandhi, Kas-
ThorbhAyiyae veli kazitchoo Gandhi.
Nirayae kollayaditchoru British
Dorayae thoorae erinjoo Gandhi”
Loosely translated, it means, Gandhiji, born in Porbandhar, married to Kasthurbha , threw out the British, who looted us.
Those days, Britishers used to be addressed as ‘Dorais’. Did our ‘Doraiswamy’ and
‘Appadurai’ names originate from Dorai?
That stanza, later I recovered, was from a book titled, ‘Gandhi nAmAvali’ – a cheap book available from a roadside bookseller opposite to our house.
That was the time when the names of Gandhiji, Nehru, Patel, Moulana AzAd and other leaders were floating in the air, soon after Independence.
Even in the midst of such an atmosphere of reverence for the National leaders, I remember having heard a lone voice of protest from a Kalpathy uncle who used to pass through my house shouting abuses against Gandhiji and Nehru. “Traitors!” he used to curse them. Don’t know what was his grouse against them.
One or two rebels were always there in any society. Good for health.
If there is a rebel child in your house, don’t scold or yell at him. Go deep and find out the causes for his protest. There might be something in the surrounding which he disagrees with. The parent should have patience to delve into his mind and ascertain what he dislikes. A rebel child will be of invariably independent thinking also intelligent
and helpful too. Much depends how the parents mould him. It is better to articulate his protest than suppressing deep into his heart and remain silent.
Suppressed feelings will come out one day as an explosion.
Baltimore,
Jan31, 2015
Sent from my iPad
Another migration
Human, animals, birds, fish, insects – all migrate, for various reasons.
My first migration was on the shoulders of my father, when I was a baby of six months.
By walk or bullock cart drive, he lifted me from Perinkulam to PAlakkAd,. My second
Migration was around December 15th, in the year 1959, when I left for Hyderabad, to report for duty at NIN, on the wind -up of our Trichur Unit, where I had joined a WHO project, some six months earlier. Our Institute, till then, part of the Pasteur Institute building, Conoor, was to have its own building, a much bigger set up, in a 36 acres of land, in the Osmania University premises. That was 55 years ago, when I was 23 years old .
Earlier to that, I had never travelled beyond Madras, the present Chennai. None in our family visualized then, that my migration to Hyderabad was another landmark as that of my father’s, heralding a series of such transplantations later.
In due course, my two sisters too joined me at Hyderabad, got employed and established their families. Me and my siblings would not have had the quality of education we had at Palakkad, had our father not migrated and established a successful business. So were our offspring, had I not shifted to Hyderabad and lived among scientists and academicians.
When I landed at Secunderabad Railway Station on a foggy morning, with an iron trunk, bedroll called hold-all and cash of Rs. 500.00, there was another young man along with me, C,M.Jacob from Trichur, taller than me and lesser talking, my colleague.. Our friendship still continues happily. After retirement, He is settled in a flat in his hometown and I never miss meeting him during my Kerala trips.
Jacob and me, hired a room, in the first hotel we could view, opposite to the Railway station. It was owned and maintained by a PAlakkAd Iyer. Food was OK but nights were nightmares due to the incessant invasion of bed bugs. Not one or two, in hundreds, they attacked us. Not interested in shedding our valuable young blood for no valid cause, we started searching for houses or apartments. One of our senior colleagues, Sri.K.S.Ramanathan, who too was searching for a house, was kind enough to help us. Someone had told him that, in the villages around our Institute, Brahmins were given priority in allotment and bachelor’s were at the bottom of the list.
Three of us, after the office hours, started hunting for house, around our workplace. Ramanathan Sir, pulling out his sacred thread through the shirt opening, holding it in his right hand, used to stand before the house gates and shout, ‘Brahmman, illu unthaa?’- we are Brahmins. House available( for rent)?
I vividly see before my mind’s eye, KSR’s posture with one leg to the front, projecting a part of the sacred thread high in his fingers and our waiting behind him awaiting a positive reply from the prospective house owner.
Kalpathy Ramanatha iyer was a simple and humble man. His eldest son Mani, took me to Kothagudam coal mines, on his official trip and from there to the famous Badrachalam Temple. I remember that good friend at times, when I sing Ramdas krities. He died young driving his family and us, in deep sorrow.
His younger brother K.R.Balasubramanian was my college. Balu, now happily settled at Hyderabad, like his father and siblings, has acquired the good qualities of the Kalpathy soil.
Coming back to our house hunt, within a week or so, we were able to get on rent a house for us and one for KSR too, not far from our workplace. Our house, in a village called Seethafalmandi, behind our Institute, was spacious and therefore, we could accommodate three more colleagues, all Keralites from our Conoor office, Chandrasekharan, Balakrishnan Nair and C.M. Manual.. I named our bachelor quarter as Panchavadi, only to match the number of occupants, not in any to remember the forest dwelling of the great Rama. Panchavadi, soon became popular among children, as we allowed them free access to our house and play in the front garden. Our major assets were five steel trunks, five coir cots with bamboo frames which resembled the palanquins of poor people carrying them in their last journey and a few aluminum vessels. The minor assets were, we, ourselves, who never bothered about our future. During summer months, we pulled out the light -weight cots outside and slept facing the stars. We had a cook, Govindan Nair, who made breakfast and lunch for us. For night meal, we used to walk to the Taj Hotel in the city, 5/6 km away. That twelve km walk daily, contributed for the present strength and steadiness of my legs.
Of my room mates, Manual left for Bombay when he got a job with the Air India. In his place, we added Artist Dharamdathan, who later immortalized Guruvayoor Kesavan, by giving a shape to the famous pachyderm’s fame. Yes, the elephant statue, you see in Guruvayoor was sculptured by our friend. Also, the Yakshi at the Malampuzha dam.
When Dathan left, Balakrishnan’s brother, Ramachandran joined us.
I lived in ‘Panchavadi’ for nearly ten years and left that friendly surroundings with a heavy heart to occupy a lovely flat in the premises of our Institute. Manual, Dathan and Nair have left us for another rented or own house, in another world, name I don’t know. Jacob remains unmarried and slowly walks down to the nearest hotel for lunch and
Dinner. He has stopped smoking consequent to the strict warning from his doctor to stop smoking or get get smoked. Soft spoken, cool- headed Jacob ( Chakku for me ) still continues to be a gentleman, despite remaining a bachelor.
In the picture clicked on the eve of our leaving Trichur, posted below, I’m in the center with a neck-tie. To my left, Jacob, to my write Lonappan, one of our Trichur drivers, who too came to Hyderabad but left soon. Don’t know where he is now, in Kerala or with his Father in Heaven.
Mrs. Padma Ganapathy, Dr. Swaminathan and Dr. Ganapathy are seen seated in the front, though their faces are not clearly visible in the photo. Late Dr. Ganapathy, rendered remarkable service in the field of leprosy. His contribution to the cause of lepers, was recognized by the nation through a Padma Award, Dr. Swaminathan lives in USA, with his daughters.
There were nearly a dozen more staff in Trichur, out of which I know about the whereabouts of only one friend, Balan.
Many of my former colleagues have passed away, half a dozen recently. Death was a fearsome monster for me earlier. No more now. One more transplantation- that is how I feel about it now.
Will there be a problem for me to get a home on rent, when I go there?
Who knows the same Ramanathan Sir, won’t come to my help and shout standing at the front gates of houses,’Brahmman, illu untha?
But will he have a sacred thread to pull out from the shirt gap and project on his finger?
It is a silly doubt. But that is the only doubt I have about the life -after.
I see you smiling. But I can tell you, lucky are those who have only such silly doubts about the unknown region of the afterlife. Think of the plight of a friend of mine, who returned after hearing Garuda Puranam discourse and lost sleep fearing what would be his fate, after death, if he slips and falls into the Vaitharani River, while crossing it, holding the tail of a bull calf!
Love,
SP
Remembering an old mistake
You know who my latest Facebook friend is? A great grand daughter of my aunt or great grand niece of my father! Her cousin, a teenager is already in my Family group. The fifth generation descendants of my grand mother are here with me, to comment on what I post !
How proud I am ! How prudent should I be in selecting my words and pictures!
When my great grand niece, soon after joining my group yesterday, made a comment addressing me as ‘mama’, I remembered her grandfather , my Ambikuttan Athan, who used to call my father, ‘Mama’, who was indeed the genuine mama or maternal uncle fit for that appellation. The uncle and nephew, were more like friends.
Athan happened to stay in our Olavakkode house for a short period, when I was a kid. I vividly remember his coaxing, cajoling, begging and pleading and then mildly threatening me to consume curd or butter milk mixed rice, as I had an aversion for that, then.
Seated close to me, he used to pat on my back and request,
“Muthanna! ( that was how he used to address me, as I was the eldest living son for my parents and he alone had that let name for me ), if you don’t conclude your meal eating rice mixed with butter milk, you won’t grow big; you won’t have good digestion. Your stomach will get upset and with that, we all will get upset”
Once, twice, thrice he used to speak in such soft language and when my adamancy remain undiluted, he used to take out his weapon:
“I will be forced to feed you castor oil or kudukkai kazhayam( a home made Ayurvedic preparation from yellow Myrobalan)”
The moment I heard the names of those two liquids I hated most, I used to devour the food on my leaf and look around to see whether some more was available!
One day, during my college days, I remembered Athan and with Appa’s permission went to meet him in his house in Puducode. I was shocked to see him a totally changed man. He had lost his eye sight, which drained his self confidence, though outwardly, he pretended to be as strong as he was before. He compelled me to stay overnight . I hadn’t carried an extra pair of clothes and therefore, wanted to return the same evening. “No way. Stay” he ordered and I obeyed.
Early morning next day, when I returned after bath, he pulled out from his cupboard a new dothy and asked me to wear it. I didn’t accept the offer. I can’t say now why I did so. I just cannot say and I’m terribly ashamed of my conduct. Whether it was Appa’s general instruction not to accept anything from others or was it my false prestige as a college student, which stood in my way ? Whatever it was, there was no justification for my rejecting that friendly offer from a close relative, whom I knew from my childhood and who cared for me. You don’t know how young minds work!
He coaxed, cajoled, begged, pleaded me to accept that white sheet of cloth, what we call double veshti, but I didn’t yield to his affectionate appeals.
I returned home, wearing my own clothes and didn’t have the courage to tell Appa about Athan’s offer and my refusal.
Once back home, I looked back and imagined how badly I wounded the feelings of a loving old man.
When I thought for a moment that there was a possibility of his attributing my behavior to the economic disparity of the two families, I wept in silence.
One day, a message came asking Appa to rush to Puthucode.
Athan was ill and he was refusing to take his medicines.
“Have your medicines, Ambikutta,” Appa asked him. Like an obedient child, he opened his mouth into which my father poured a few drops of the prescribed medicine.
Ambikuttan Athan, who coxed, cajoled, begged, pleaded me to eat, when I was a child
And did all those again, purely out of unalloyed affection much later for a different purpose, was no more, leaving no chance for me to apologize for my inhuman action.
I have spent later, several hours, repenting over that event. Even today, when his grand daughter addressed me, ‘mama’, in her comments, I hanged my head in shame, reminiscing, my father’s nephew’s affectionate appeal and my rejection of his extended hands of love and compassion,
Would I have yielded, had he threatened me with a dose of castor oil or Kadukkai kazhAyam? I doubt. I was no more a kid ; I was a teenager, a proud college student.
Hell with my growth and student status!
One more starred item irrevocably added to my ‘List of Regrets’ in life.
'Thanks giving day' musing
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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