A TIME FOR GRATITUDE

 

Celebrate endings - for they precede new beginnings! 

This year has been like no other, in more ways than one. As the year comes to a close, it seems to be a good time for reflection and introspection. The corona lockdown was an unavoidable measure to fight the onslaught of the virus and arrest its spread. At first, I found it suffocating, I didn't know how to spend my time indoors. I was terribly saddened by the cancellation of my visit to be with my grand children. Time, as they say, is a great healer and now I have come to enjoy the slow and relaxed pace of life, doing especially all that I enjoy the most.

My childhood was marked by an absence of story reading, not story telling. Every night, my grandmother would narrate stories and like the proverbial thousand nights, they would continue the next day. This is how I learnt the stories of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. I loved to read my school text books. I also remember the two books I received as gifts as a child, Life with Grandfather and Karna. I might have been in class 7 or class 8 when an elder cousin whom I really adored, got me a gift for my birthday. Looking forward to an Agatha Christie, I unwrapped the gift to find : Autobiography of a Yogi. To a twelve year old, there was no greater disappointment and that one book almost erased all my affection for him. In high school, my history text books were a delight; History of India by N Mukherji and History of India by V. D. Mahajan where Political and Cultural history was interspersed with anecdotes and interesting asides.

I had really very few ways of getting books. Buying them was a luxury those days. I read my father's old collection of books. And then, I used to borrow from the school library or from friends. However, I was very eager that my children should read books. Although reading was never his hobby, their father got them the best and choicest fairy tales, from all over the world, all of which I have preserved till today. As they grew older, I took them, every Friday to the Devanand Lending  Library, an iconic second hand book shop in Bistupur, Jamshedpur. And my children really enjoyed reading the books they got there. They remain ardent readers till today. I still remember the little impromptu jig my younger daughter put up, on finding a book she had set her heart on, Children of the Willow Tree Farm by Enid Blyton. Though I would also issue a few books myself, I never really got much time to read. 

Still, from time to time, I did read books, more out of guilt and less out of interest. My children soon flew the nest and sometimes they would bring in the books they had got and I read them too.  But it was only after retirement that I have gone back to reading in a passionate way. Somewhere along the way, my reading tastes changed. I did not enjoy fiction, they appeared contrived but Non Fiction held a special attraction. Memoirs and biographies, travel and politics threw up something new everytime. 

During my visits abroad, I was very happy to see the number of books my grandchildren got to read, from their local library and from school, both of which provide easy access and a continuous supply of books, suitable to their ages and interests. My elder daughter, still reads regularly, and is a member of two reading book clubs. She took me to the local library where, for the first time, I read  books on the best seller list. In India, for the reader, there are books but they still come at a price. 

I will always remember that evening when my daughter placed the copy of the book Women Rowing North, in my hands. My reading buddies had suggested, the book as a sort of self help guide.  As she was leaving for work in the morning, I wondered aloud, if she could get me that book from the library. I gave her the name and waited for her message. None arrived, and I was sure they had all been issued. The pleasant surprise came in the evening. I must confess that the  book made a significant change in my attitude and here I record my immense gratitude, first to my daughter, Varsha and then to Mary Pipher for having written it.

I can't thank my younger daughter and son in law enough, for the gift of an iPad. It was the oldest version and she wondered if I could use it. Earlier, my daughter had gifted me a Kindle Paperwhite and for the first time I enjoyed reading ebooks. I had  never used an iPad and it took me a while to get technologically savvy but I'm proud to say that I finally learnt enough to be able to download books. The covid pandemic opened up new and free esites and I made the best use of them . Today I own a personal collection of titles. The latest to be added are books by Indian authors. All the books I've read this far have been enriching and very satisfying. For this I convey my gratitude to my younger daughter, Megha and her ever thoughtful gestures.

Yesterday, after one such session, I was unable to open the pages of the new book I had downloaded. To my consternation, the books I had downloaded previously also appeared blank. This was enough to shake me up. It was lunch time and my husband was waiting for me to join him. No way was I going to leave my iPad with all those books in white!  I wondered if I had inadvertently tinkered with the settings, googled for answers and just keep reading about trouble shooting. Soon I discovered that I had too many pages open on my iPad. As I closed them one by one, my books sprang back to life and I went happily for lunch, and indulged in an extra helping. But my husband had been waiting for me and I'm grateful for his support on that day and all the days of my life.  I have done something which took a long time in coming, that which I'm going to do more often, express gratitude and thanks, for just being there. 

But how can I close without expressing my gratitude to my circle of family and friends, with whom I've always looked forward to sharing my time! I have reconnected with my school friends on WhatsApp and if not for anything else, I must thank The Flock of Seventy four, for deluding me to believe I may still be that silly school girl sometimes. They  come up with new ideas of remaining connected; posting photos or names of favourite books and movies or simply zoom chats, or even birthday wishes!! No event can bypass at least sixty responses! Every effort and skill is abundantly appreciated . What I look forward to the most are the good morning waves and wishes.

They remind me of Pippa's Song by Robert Browning:

  The year's at the spring,

  And day's at the morn;

  Morning's at seven;

  The hill-side's dew-pearl'd;

  The lark's on the wing;

  The snail's on the thorn;

   God's in His heaven;

   All's right with the world. 

CHILDHOOD REVISITED

 Last children of the Raj:

British Childhoods in India 1919–1939 

Compiled by Laurence Fleming

Introduction by Mark Tully

The book is a  celebration of childhood, a fascinating compilation of 'a snapshot of memories' very much like a school magazine with photographs, of foreigners, especially English men and women who had spent their early years here. 'India is not a country that one can forget', writes one. Another says 'One could not have wished for a happier and freer childhood than to have grown up in such privileged circumstances'.

 A remarkable feature was that, at least one of their parents was born in India, many had grandparents who were living in India or had worked here, in various capacities. They served as  professors and teachers, nurses and doctors, they were to be found in the Army, Police, and Railways, they served as Forest Officials , Civil Servants, Missionaries, Geographical Surveyors, traders and  engineers. It is interesting to note that they lived all over India, in the North, West, East, South, in the interiors, in towns and cities, capitals and hill stations. 

On reading their accounts, it is heartening to note that their 'family life seemed idyllic, and in retrospect, self-contained'. As children, their 'parents never warned them of any dangers – they didn’t think there were any. Their memory of the indigenous population was that they were friendly and peaceful. All of them  remember leading comfortable lives, by today's standards and they were provided the services of all or several of the following- a nanny, an ayah, a cook, a gardener, a driver, a tailor and several  attendants including a cook’s mate, a butler, a water bearer,  a guard and a washerman. 

Their memories are filled with 'a glorious childhood, with sunshine, brilliant colours, multitudes of people, magic and mystery, strong scents, fabulous journeys'. They learnt to speak the local language and some grew quite proficient at it. They enjoyed playing unorganised games and several memories centre around animals.  One even mentions 'the Eastern attitude to death, which was so natural'. Some memories echo the conditions which sadly remain unchanged- of India as 'a land of contrasts, where beauty and squalor walked hand in hand with opulence and poverty'.

Several of the contributors were born in India or joined their parents as soon as they could. However, what stands out are the partings – the sacrifices made by both parents and children in order to obtain a good education. Usually, these children were sent away to a boarding school at the age of 8, sometimes, left behind in the UK, with grandparents or aunts. I can only imagine the trauma faced by both parents and children. Yet they took it all in their stride. Many of them revisited with their children  and were happy to be remembered by old acquaintances. 'In reminiscence, our time seems the most magical part of my childhood, and the pictures it has left are vivid, though fragmentary'. What a reaffirmation of the joys of childhood! '

REMEMBRANCE

 I have just finished reading the book: CRACKING THE CODE: MY JOURNEY IN BOLLYWOOD, by Ayushmann Khurrana. It is a gem of a book, written with youthful enthusiasm, and a rare wisdom and maturity. Ayushmann's slow, steady and successful rise in stardom brought back memories of another young star, that shone bright, albeit briefly, that of Sushant Singh Rajput. From chasing his dreams to living it - Sushant's life appeared like one dream run! But it was all real, and it was there for all to see. 

Several of his videos are testimony to hours of rigorous workout he put in to maintain that chiselled handsome look. The pages in his diary reveal the hours of planning and preparation that went in, not only for the role at hand, but also to achieve personal goals. He was an excellent dancer and a connoisseur of books and comes across as an unusual combination of brawn and brain. He was a student of science, he had a deep understanding of physics, he was a star gazer.  With information available on the public domain, one could also say that he was spiritual, charitable and generous to a fault. 

The rewards of the success he enjoyed were also there for all to see. By the age of 33, he was the proud owner of the best luxury sports car available in India, a Maserati Quattroporte,  his 'time machine' the Meade 600 telescope, an expensive flight simulator, and the only Indian actor to own a piece of land on the moon. He spent his time at his comfortable Dream Home and Farm House and his entourage included his pet dog Fudge. Sadly, he did not pen his memoirs, and the details of his meteoric rise can no longer provide inspiration to pursuers of dreams . 

And that is why it was difficult to accept his sudden and untimely death this June at the age of 34.  His current partner sang a discordant tune for what she divulged did not match the image of the actor; drugs and depression, failed relationships and family estrangement. Six months have passed since Sushant's mysterious death. Transcending bereavement, his shocked  family has asked for closure as they mourn their loss. 

 His Friends and fans from all over the world, initially clamoured for answers. They reinvented themselves as warriors and fought for justice over social media.  Overnight fan groups were formed and twitter was abuzz with news and views on his untimely death. The Central Bureau of Investigation has stepped in and is investigating the matter. As I await the findings, I only wish that Sushant Singh Rajput is in a better place. RIP, SSR. 

Jamshedpur Diaries

I have just finished reading "Bihar Diaries" by Amit Lodha, a policeman, who writes about the nexus between the the police, politician and criminal and about his success in eliminating criminal gangs in the state. The 90's were tumultuous times for the state and Jamshedpur too bore the brunt of criminalisation. Inspired by "Bihar Diaries", I write about my experiences, after almost half a century, about run-ins with criminals which disturbed our peaceful existence. 

To begin with, newspapers reported incidents of kidnappings and dacoity on a regular basis. One came to learn that Kidnapping served many purposes, from obtaining easy money to a coveted bride or groom of choice, anyone could be snatched at gunpoint. The other profitable haunt of criminals was the train. 

During one such night journey to Patna, as the train slowed down, my mother awoke to a strange sight. The comforter, protecting my sick father, was being pulled out of the window. Had my mother delayed even a moment in raising the alarm, my father would have had to spend a cold sleepless night. It took a whole compartment to pull it back. 

Another favourite of the train pirates was the Bokaro Allepey train, the only train, in those days, travelling to South India. On one such occasion, my grandparents were travelling by themselves to Chennai. The dacoits jumped into the compartment as the train slowed down on the outskirts of an approaching city. They passengers were forced to hand over everything of value - wallets, handbags, purses, money and jewellery, of course, at gun point. My grandfather had already surrendered his purse, still he approached the robber, waiting to disembark. He spoke to him kindly, "Look son," he said kindly, "just give me 10 rupees from my purse. I'm travelling with my old wife. In case my son is late, we can at least have a cup of tea". The robber returned my grandfather's purse. He had made a very good killing. And as quickly they had entered, the robbers vanished into the darkness as soon as the train gathered speed. 

 When the all clear signal sounded, my grandmother finally removed the shawl covering her head . Only then did one realise that she was not merely protecting herself from the cold, she had covered her ears nose and hands, bedecked with diamond jewellery. I was sure that information about the South Indian women's love for jewellery must have reached the ears of gangsters. Sporadic cases of loot were often reported. A Tamilian friend of ours, recently married, was returning late one night from the club. He stopped his scooter to remove the logs blocking his path. They had been waylaid and the terrified new bride handed over the little but expensive jewellery she was wearing. 

We had been hearing of thefts in our area. But nobody took them seriously because we were so used to the safe and comfortable life in the Steel City. Then news trickled in that a family in KD Flats had been robbed. But information was scarce and people were  reluctant to believe such news. And then it happened in my house; I was very young and didn't understand the gravity of the situation but I recall it today with great trepidation. Early one morning, possibly between 2 and 3 am, I woke up to commotion in my house. My parents were dazed, they were in a state of shock and bewilderment. My mother was crying and gently rubbing her red bruised neck, from where her gold chain had been ripped free. She had felt someone standing behind her, cutting the chain and pulling it, she tried to scream- but no sound escaped her lips, her throat had gone dry. The thief jumped over my father and this woke him up. He screamed. 

My parents were asleep in their bedroom, they preferred sleeping on the floor. My sister and I were in the other room, my grandparents were asleep in the third bedroom. Listening to my father's screams, my grandfather switched on the light and rushed out from his room. My father pointed towards the side door screaming, "He went that way". Father and son rushed out and found the grill door wide open. It was a heavy iron door and it had been unlocked. We kept asking and listening again and agin and when the first lights appeared, our neighbours rushed out. Only then in the light of dawn, did we see the bunch of keys lying on the stair case leading to the flat above. My mom was sure that there were at least two of them and then we discovered that they had entered our ground floor house by removing an iron rod from the toilet window.

After entering, they must have used a flash light, gone from room to room and by chance, found the house keys. A wrist watch and some cash was also missing. And we were sure chloroform was used, because we didn't seem to find our bearings for a long time. My grandfather insisted on reporting the matter to the police, against good advice. The policemen came, went around the house and enjoyed a cup of coffee. "Tell us, whom do you suspect? We'll catch the culprits immediately!" This was their refrain and after three visits to the police station, my grandfather gave up hope. We got no help from any quarter, but the robbery in our house was neither the first nor the last carried out by the gang. 

Later, some well meaning friends told us that a young man named Biru (name changed) was involved in that gang. He had somehow managed to befriend my authoritarian grandfather. He used to visit our house often and had won us over with his friendly and helpful ways. Once, he even insisted we attend  his brother's wedding reception. Strange enough Biru never ever visited us after the robbery and this made us suspicious of his involvement. 

Soon after, a particularly violent attack was unleashed in a locality nearby. The victims were again another ordinary Tamilian family like ours. One night, about half a dozen masked men, made their way across the river on a cloudy, starless night, cool, yet heavy and dark. The men were on a mission- they were each assigned a task. A couple of them broke into the corner flat, their target. They had bolted from outside all the outer gates of the surrounding flats, arresting the people inside. So even when the neighbors heard cries for help, all they could do was scream some more or throw down pots from their balcony. 

The masked men broke open the door and confronted the frightened family. The most terrifying one looted the 70,000 Rupees withdrawn from the bank that morning towards construction of their home. Then the retired father and son were  bludgeoned and thrown out of the house. The daughter-in-law hid in the back yard and silently removed all her jewellery and dropped them gently  into the dark coal shed. Misreading the silence, the mother in law emerged from the bathroom and the last of the masked men decamped with whatever jewellery she was wearing . He disappeared into the dark night along with the others, crossing the river and making good their escape. It took a long time for help to arrive and by the time I went to meet them the next morning, the men had been hospitalised in a serious but stable condition. The women were shocked, it was they who narrated the details to the neighbors and policemen.

I'll never forget my visit to Baba Dham, the holy shrine in Deogarh, Bihar. After having sought the blessings of Baba Bholenath, we were on our way back home. It had been a long winding and tedious journey and as soon as we boarded the train from Deogarh, I fell asleep. I woke up suddenly, something seemed amiss. There was an eerie silence broken by screams and shouting in the compartment. I sat upright in the middle berth. A young man kept calling out to me, "Bhabiji, Bhabiji, get down". He was already hiding under the lower berth.  My husband was crouching and so were most of the other passengers. The young man continued screaming, "Bhabiji, you are too brave! Please duck before you are hit".

Only then did I understand the enormity of the situation. I saw two armed guards of the Railway Protection Force and they were pulling down all the shutters and the train was screeching to a halt. We heard gun shots and the policemen were returning fire and a pitched battle was going on. The armed bandits, hiding somewhere in the dark, firing indiscriminately at a moving train. This time, a failed mission. Finally the all clear signal sounded and normalcy returned. 

I remember the case of a dynamic young IPS officer, a doctor by education, posted as city SP, Jamshedpur. He was successful in controlling and decreasing crime rate during the 1990s, when crime was at its peak. This much is fact. But the rest of what I write is all heresay. Much like Lodha, he had been assigned the task of nabbing a dangerous criminal, who was on the run. During one of his official briefing duty, he found the criminal enjoying political hospitality. The policeman resigned immediately, joined private service and then plunged into politics, and was elected Member of Parliament from Jamshedpur Lok Sabha Constituency. 

There are so many childhood memories like these, that you just want to keep going back to, no matter how old you become. When I look back, in spite of it all, everything still seems alright. I would never trade my childhood days for anything else in the world for I realise how lucky I was. I can't even imagine what my life would be like, if I had a different childhood, if I had lived in a different town or met different people! 

Tree Tales

"Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps a singing bird will come." 

Chinese Proverb. 

Every time I enter my apartment premises, I get an opportunity to meet my green friends. Rather, the first to greet me is the Lemon tree, near the big black gate. In the beginning, the Lemon tree used to greet me, incognito, because I didn't know who she was. I could barely distinguish between the dark green leaves and the dark green fruit the tree bears. But once they ripened, and acquired yellow hues, they revealed their sweet-sour identity - the Wild Lemon. The thick peels are slightly bitter, the lemon very sour and with the addition of jaggery, the sweet chutney makes a delicious addition to any meal.

The others are old friends, I used to know their cousins in Jamshedpur and Nagpur, where I used to live. Standing next in line is the neem tree, her light green leaves swaying in the breeze. They are very valued for their medicinal properties. The very bitter small white flowers are in great demand during the month of April. They are roasted in clarified butter, ghee, and added to the sweet mango chutney, to usher in the Indian New Year, to remind us of the sweet, sour and bitter moments in the ensuing year. 

The Gooseberry tree in my compound is a young tree, but has already borne fruit. Its small round green gooseberries taste sour, unlike those from my childhood,  where I could devour handfuls during the summer months. No wonder, my Chennai Aunt used to pickle them as they are considered a delicacy. The  Jamun tree,  has just started spreading out her branches, She bore her trademark purple fruit for the the first time this year. The fruit is soft with a delicate peel and it's a tricky business collecting the fruits. The birds do have the first share and sometimes, the path strewn with half eaten fruits is a sight to behold.

And then there are a few strangers who I see daily but haven't been introduced to. I'm yet to learn their names. They are all so different in foliage but green and upright all the same. I turn the corner, to be greeted by the Drumsticks which fruit all round the year. Sometimes they are spindly, sometimes fleshy and waiting to be picked. And the very very Magical Henna, whose green leaves will turn to a deep orange when crushed and applied, to the palms or as a dye on the hair. An Almond tree in the corner promises to grow tall and wide. And  I enjoy seeing all of them from the confines of my balcony, while reading 'Trees and Canopies', the inspiration for my blog.

" The trees encountered on a country stroll

Reveal a lot about that country's soul..." W.H. Auden

Often I take the tree lined Besant Avenue for my evening walks. One day, I saw a young man, up on his bike, trying to reach out to the low lying brown tamarind pods.  As the young man offered the fruit to his girlfriend, I asked her if they were sweet. Her expression told me that they were indeed sour. And as I looked around, I saw the Tamarind tree on both sides of the road. These huge ancient trees with widespread branches lined the street, where bunches of ripe tamarind tried to hide behind the small green leaves.

And I remember my grandfather telling me that Ghosts live on tamarind trees and that's why they were never planted in the yard surrounding the house. But Besant  Avenue is lined with these trees and no wonder, it is one of the most haunted places in Chennai.  The Tamarind tree flowers at almost the same time as the Mango. And looking at the burst of flowers my grandfather would predict the future. He was always happy to see more mango blossoms than the tamarind, for it ensured a prosperous year. We used to live in Jamshedpur then. In spite of it being an industrial town, there were trees of all sizes and all kinds. 

Apartment blocks, as you know are a modern import in the housing scene. When I was growing up in the 60s and 70s, most company homes were called quarters or  cottages or bungalows and they necessarily had a small garden and a smaller backyard. Most gardens had the Guava, the Mango, and the Neem tree. The Champa and Jamun stood in my garden. My lucky friend had 'Ber', the wild berries and the Jackfruit tree. The Wood Apple or 'Bel' was a common sight. The Sitaphal bushes were everywhere but we never got to eat the fruits - the early birds always got them. 

"Let's take our hearts for a walk in the woods and listen to the magic whispers of old trees." Unknown

 A large Pipal tree in front of my house was an easy landmark. It was also the tree the womenfolk circumambulated, praying for their progeny. And there were so many ornamental trees to behold. There was the Jalebi tree and the Palash tree (Flame of the Forest)' the Eucalyptus and Ashoka, and the rare Kadam Tree, The Gulmohar and the Banyan trees. The tree-lined Kadma Sonali Link Road was a walkers paradise, the trees around Domuhani, the Rivers-Meet was a fantastic picnic spot. At the Bhetiya park several Weeping Willows grew beside the ponds. The Jubilee Park, The Dimna Lake and the Dalma Hills were the tree havens of my formative years in Jamshedpur. 

In the school where I worked as a teacher, in Chennai , I saw the Soap Nut tree and often picked up the fallen nuts before the sweeper swept them away. I used to bring them home to show them off to my friends and relatives. In Jamshedpur, they were soaked in water and the soapy solution was used to wash hair and silken and woollen  clothes. Here I laid my eyes for the first time on the huge Raintree. We gathered under it  for morning assembly and minding the children always took precedence to admiring the tree.

 Trees have always fascinated me. Now I have settled down permanently in Chennai and the coconut palms dot my coastal city, but there's not even one in my premises. I could not visit my younger daughter when she lived on Larch Road in London and missed the  wonderful view of those trees. However, I enjoyed spending time under the huge Maple trees, where my older daughter lives on Maple Tree Street in Bethesda. On my first visit, I had carried a picture calendar, with the names and pictures of animals, birds, fruits, flowers and trees of India. My two year old grandson enjoyed guessing their names everyday. And so I was taken aback, when he came running towards me in the garden, carrying something in his tiny hands. "Look, grandma", he said, "I've got a coconut for you". He had picked up a brown Hazel nut that had dropped from the tree above. 

THE BATTLE TO BELONG

A chance remark by my grand daughter sparked off this trilogy. Here's Part III.

For my defense, I say only this :

"Just write the truth! But truths are many, and that is the problem. Memory is treacherous, as distinct from history as emotion."

Cohen, Roger. “The Girl from Human Street.” 

"You can live somewhere for decades, and still in your heart it is no more than an encampment, a place for the night, detached from community."   Roger Cohen

Where we love is home - home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.

As I sit here in my balcony in Besant Nagar, Chennai,  overlooking the lush green trees, typing out my blog, my mind deludes me again  into believing that I'm at home in Jamshedpur. The incessant cawing of a murder of crows brought me out here. Recently,  a nest had been built on the tree and from my vantage point, I could see two black soft heads of the precious baby birds. The parents had protected this pair from rain and storm, and from the lurking alley cat which chose to rest under the tree everyday.  And as this cacaphony reached my ears, I was sure there was big trouble.

 I was shocked to see two monkeys resting on the window parapet and I prayed ferverently for the safety of the nest. The neighbors were already shouting and shooing away the animals. I witnessed the mighty crow clan  cawing and swooping down on those intruders from all sides. They had no choice but to beat a hasty retreat. Since then, this pair of growing twins are having the time of their lives, exploring the world and not venturing beyond the nearest branch, being fed and protected by the constant attention of the loving parents. 

 The story of my life was being played out here! That's my memory of Jamshedpur. My father was born there in 1928 and I was born in the Tata main Hospital in 1959. At that time my parents lived in my grandfathers home in 52 N. Road, Bistupur. I have no memories of that house. But I must record my gratitude and indebtedness to The Tata Iron and Steel company where three generations of my family were employed. My grandfather worked in the Accounts Department, my father was an Internal Auditor and I served as a Teacher for ten years. The Company nurtured us and provided us the succour for the foundation of a happy and successful family and enabled us to grow wings and soar high up in the sky.

I grew up with my sister in Kadma, Farm Area, Road no. 22, Quarter no. 2. I spent my childhood here. I remember the little garden in front of my house. In the corner stood a tall Champa tree and the fragrance of its yellow flowers wafted in those cool summer nights. I went to school by bus with my sister and played a lot with the children in my neighbourhood. Usually in the evenings, we would walk to the main road, and across to the Runkini Mandir to watch the deepardhana. After dinner, most of us came out of our homes and as our mothers sat chatting on the culvert, we played late into the night.  It was here that I leant to cycle, to embroider, to knit, to study and to dream. 

Opposite our lane lived Lal ji who was a teacher. Next door to him lived Mishra ji. Their large families were very close knit. They were very disciplined and soft spoken, very helpful and friendly. There were several Bengali and Oriya families too in our neighbourhood . We got to hear so many languages and enjoy all kinds of vegetarian cuisines. My next door neighbor, Mr. Rao was from Andhra Pradesh. He was the company's official photographer. He lived in quarter no. 1 and had only one daughter, Ammulu. Her mother was 'Ammulu ki ma - Amuulus mother!'. In Quarter no. 3 lived Mr. Malkiat singh from Punjab with 'Mantu ki ma' and their three sons, Mantu, Bittu and Jhantu. I had the good fortune of meeting this old neighbor of mine, now 85 years of age ,  in Birmingham, in 2019. People like Malkiat Singh carry the warmth and love in their hearts wherever they may live. 

From there we moved to a large flat with a sprawling garden, no. 17 K D Flats, Kadma. . These apartments had no balcony and the 'match box' design was the contribution of Russians, who were associated with Tata Steel. The town planning was American, and employees lived in neatly laid out  1, 2, or 3  roomed quarters, flats and bungalows with a kitchen and verandah. The bathrooms and toilet were usuallly situated at the back of the house. Here I formed lasting bonds with my friends and family. I can never forget my high school days, spent in the company of Shamita and Mitali, with whom I was fortunate enough to reconnect after 45 long years. I went to college with the inimitable KG Lalitha, my then  BFF Revathi and the chirpy Shyamala. I remain in close touch with all of them even today, thanks to the tech revolution.

The home at No. 64 XN - Type, Bhima Road, Sidgora, has a special place in my heart. It was a small 2 roomed house with a little garden and a backyard. We moved into this home soon after I got married.  It is here that I learnt to manage household chores and balance my life as a teacher, And enjoy motherhood. My daughters were born and brought up in this home, here my children spent the formative years of their life. They were fortunate to have both their sets of grandparents around and they were spoilt to the core by their aunts. The neighbourhood was very friendly and if they were allowed, I'm sure my children would find friends to play with the whole day! I think I was a strict mother and tried to bring in some semblance of discipline in our lives. My husband was a very supportive parent  and he also spoiled his daughters no end.

We moved  to  13 K. D. flats in Kadma from where both my children also attended school. By this time I had learnt to zip around in my two wheeler. My friend Lata entered my life and she continues to occupy a special place in my heart. That is the house where both our daughters grew up. The house where they read books all summer, under the shade of the trees. Where guavas were in abundance only to be eaten by bats at night. Here is where our pet dog Daisy, the fifth member of our family joined us. It is here that  we loved and lived together as one family and the like of which we would never ever experience again in our lives. 

It's twenty years since we moved into Chennai, after having lived in Nagpur for three years.  Daisy left us  on 15 th September 2001 in Chennai and is buried here. We were indeed blessed to have got her as a month old pup and she showered us with unconditional love in her thirteen years of existence.  She taught us the value of selfless love and the joy of togetherness. For Daisy, the words of Joseph Brodsky come to my mind,  “If there is any substitute for love, it’s memory."

 Within almost a 100 years since my grandfather had set foot in that prosperous land, we left Jamshedpur for good. He had arrived in Jamshedpur with nothing but a hope to provide the basic necessities for his family. To his credit he achieved much more. But it also must be said - Jamshedpur fulfilled the promise she had made to this stranger from Palakkad.

 I dedicate this and the last two blogs to my precocious granddaughter, who wanted to know if her great grand parents loved her. I'm certain they do and shower her with blessings as only loved ones can. And how wisely her parents have chosen for her a charming name  - Samyuktha. It means to bring together, to be united. She has succeeded already to live up to her name, having brought together the legacy of her family, created a strong bond between the past and the present as she takes forward the story into the future. 

THE REINVENTION

A chance remark by my grand daughter sparked off this trilogy. Here's Part II. 

For my defense, I say only this :

"Just write the truth! But truths are many, and that is the problem. Memory is treacherous, as distinct from history as emotion."

Cohen, Roger. “The Girl from Human Street.” 

"Every human being has a story, and there's power both in the telling and in the listening."                     

The Forgotten Hours by Katrin Schumann.

My great grandfather's family migrated from Kalpathi village in Palakkad in Kerala (southern India) to Burmamines in Jamshedpur in Bihar (Eastern state, now in Jharkhand). Here they found an expanse of green virgin land overlooking the Dalma hills. The golden Subarnarekha river held the promise of prosperity and the rich land was all too familiar! Did it remind them of home? The Kachapeshwar Iyer family grew roots in Jamshedpur. 

My grandfather arrived here in 1917 and was soon  joined by his siblings -  his brothers Ambi (Parameshwar Iyer) and Kunju (Raman Iyer) and his sisters, Chelli, Salakshi and Lakshmi. As my grandfather was the eldest, they respectfully addressed him as 'Anna - elder brother'. Listening to everyone around him, his children also addressed him the same way.  When his nieces and nephews arrived, they called him 'Anna Mama - Elder Brother Uncle'. My father was the oldest in his generation and he became 'Kunju Anna- young elder brother! But I was always confused when it came to addressing my aunts. Who should I call 'Athai' (Bua - father's sister)  or 'Chitti' (Chachi -father's  brother's wife) ? Everyone seemed to belong to one big family!

I used to meet my first cousins, Sheela, Ananth, Bhawani, Shuba and Swarna when they visited Jamshedpur during holidays. But I grew up with my second cousins - Rajani, Ramani, Rupa, Rajesh, Ranjana, Rajiv, Rajan! Even my sister was named Rathi! I had many more cousins, Usha, Vishu, Kannan, Shekhar and several third and fourth cousins! I played with all of them and went to school with some. We eagerly looked forward to every family gathering. Then the whole party of cousins got together and played with abandon.  During my early years, I am unable to recall a single friend outside this sheltered community. We visited our uncles and aunts often and I received immense love from them, and as I recollect those days now, I still feel that same warmth. My cousins from my fathers side are scattered all over the country and reconnecting with them has reestablished that warmth.

Did my father ever visit his ancestral home ? I do not have any such recollection. Neither have I been to Kalpathi. So, If I was deluded into believing that Jamshedpur lay in the outskirts of Kalpathi, I would not be very wrong. For me, Jamshedpur and Palakkad have always been synonymous. In Jamshedpur the Kachapeshwar Iyer family  recreated for themselves their very own Palakkad Province. With family and cousins, relatives and friends, and everything else they managed to bring - their culture, traditions, rituals. Even some of their prejudices! 

I remember a street on our way to the main market in Bistupur - none in my family would ever pass by it. They preferred a circuitous route to avoid a house named School View. These two words were never uttered within hearing distance and if someone were to inadvertently mention its residents, he was admonished with cold silence. Once my mother told me in whispers that the bungalow had been built with ill gotten wealth, the stolen valuables from Kachapeshwar Iyer's store room, by foul means, from the Palakkad home. My fertile imagination worked overtime, who from the family had been honey trapped? Who was the bait? I had no way of knowing the truth.

Neither will I ever know how my grandfather made his way east, traversing two thousand kilometres , through uncharted territory! His path took him through three states , with no direct train links. He neither knew the language nor did he know what natural conditions to expect. What he had was supreme confidence in himself and an unshakeable faith in the people around him. He arrived with only great hopes of a good life in Jamshedpur, for himself and his family.  How, apart from a deep sense of trust and faith, must this caravan have made this journey? And how with brotherhood and love they rebuilt their lives! 

As I grow older, I can only fathom the upheaval in their lives. The anxieties, doubts and  uncertainties that must have dogged them. Perhaps they understood there was no going back. It seemed as if they had every reason to look forward and work hard.  They found a fine balance. Tradition, custom and ceremony took a back seat. It was time now for academic and professional excellence. Not once, did I detect in them a yearning to go back, never once did I hear them complain.  Their laughter and bonhomie are the images which come to my mind . Today, I look back with wonder and amazement at the resilience and courage of that tribe. 

My maternal grandmother lived in  Nagpur. My grandfather had died six months before my mother was married. She was the fifth among ten children. Rangan, Dharmu, Chandru and Visalam were older. But by the time I made my way there, they had married and moved away. Only my younger uncles Cheenu, Baba and  aunts Jaya and Meena remained in that house. But they were not the ones who came to receive us - me, my mother and younger sister, on the first trip I remember. I must have been about six or seven years old. I can vividly recall my grandmother, Bhagirathi Ammal , waiting for us at the station. Talking nineteen to the dozen, she told us that she had walked down from home. She put us on to a rickshaw with our big box and by the time I could register to the new environs, we were home.

We reached grandma's home in Buty Sangam Chawl, in Sitabuldi, Nagpur. Three generations of my mother's family have lived here. A part of the chawl was razed for redevelopment twenty five years ago and that included my grandmother's house. As I stood at the gate, I felt I was entering a country cottage. Quaint and cosy, it had two rooms, a kitchen and two tiled verandahs, one in front and one at the back of the house. The inside was cool and dark unlike our company quarters back home. A wooden staircase in the large central bedroom led to an attic which was used as a storeroom for the family's ration. I was always tempted to climb it up but never had the courage after listening to the story of how my mother, as a girl, had been bitten by a scorpion there.

I cannot believe I was that snooty cousin who found life in Nagpur too backward. Modern amenities had already reached us in the industrial town of Jamshedpur and we had piped water and a proper sewage system in place. To my shock, on my first visit, I found these missing in Nagpur. Later, there were other reasons I did not enjoy my  visits. My paternal grandmother, Thangammal was a liberal. My maternal grandmother was very orthodox and insisted on my aunts being segregated during their periods. This social practice troubled me no end. Also, I was so used to the gentle ways of my paternal uncles and aunts, they were soft spoken and always used endearments while addressing those younger than them. My other set of uncles were loud, cursed liberally and enjoyed a laugh at the expense of others. All of them (including my mother) spoke fluent Marathi, and I was sure they were teasing me as soon as they switched over to that language.  After a few visits, I never looked forward to visiting Nagpur.

My mother, Pathamadai (village name) Ramaswamy (my grandfather's name) Sharada (my mom's given name)was a teacher. To me she has always been Smt.Sharada Eshwar. Soon after her matriculation, she found employment with the Madhya Pradesh State Government where my grandfather was also employed. But in 1956 after the States Reorganisation of India, Nagpur was transferred to Maharashtra. My grandparents, as prevalent in those days, chose to get her married off rather than send her alone to far off Bombay, the new capital. Soon after marriage, she continued  to work as a teacher. When I was in school, I remember my father was pursuing his LLB degree and my mother often consulted books and wrote notes for him. This provided her the impetus, and she worked hard, earning herself a Bachelors degree in Arts and a degree in Teachers Training.

I know very little about the growing up years of my parents. Perhaps there was no time to share those stories with me.  My father's first assignment at seventeen years of age was in Nagapattinam. I gathered that he enjoyed his stint there. Then why did he return ? I also observed that he used to come alive only in the company of a few chosen friends. But at home, he was a quiet man who enjoyed the company of his books. I know the pain my mother went through after the death of her first child (son) right after birth. I believe she never recovered from that trauma. But she never spoke with me of either her joys or her sorrows. Looking back, I wish we had talked more often and shared those stories of long ago. I got married early and left home.  I also lost my father early, he was only 64 years old when he died. My mother lived longer but the years had taken its toll on her. Today I remember more of  the silences.

 Still, I remember more conversations with my mother than my father. One such was about her visits to Pachmarhi during the time she served at the State Government. Every year in summer, the government would shift the summer capital to the cooler climes of Pachmarhi. And she loved her stay in the pleasant and picturesque hill station. The stories of Palakkad and Pachmarhi may never be told. But my children and grandchildren will forever enjoy the story of Jamshedpur.

THE DEATH OF MEMORY

A chance remark by my grand daughter sparked off this trilogy.  Here's part I. For my defense, I say only this :

"Just write the truth! But truths are many, and that is the problem. Memory is treacherous, as distinct from history as emotion

Cohen, Roger. “The Girl from Human Street.” 

“People have two deaths, the first at the end of their lives. The second, at the end of the memory of their lives.”

                                          Raghu Karnad, 

                                             Farthest Field.

“Naani”, asked my five year old granddaughter, in all her worldly wisdom, “Where are my Great Grandparents?  Do you think they love me?” As I prepared to answer her inquisitive queries, my mind wandered, to my Great Grandparents! Who indeed were they! What a profound chord her innocent words had touched! What did I know of my  great grandfather, who had lived and died before I came into this world!

Kachapeshwar Iyer was my great grandfather's name. Eshwar for short. I know for sure. My grandfather carried his name in his initials, it was also my father’s name. In those days, grandchildren were always named after their grandparents. But I know little else for sure. Except bits and pieces from memory, from what my father and grandmother told me, but mostly what my mother told me.

Great Grandfather Kachapeshwar Iyer was the only child of his parents. They were rich landlords and he inherited vast fields of fertile land and the huge family home. Also chests of gold ornaments- somehow my mother always said – Buckets of Jewellery – stored away in a small store room in the large house. Who were his parents and from where did they hail? Nobody knows. Perhaps my grandfather knew. But he left my life for good when I was twenty five years old, when these questions never entered my head!

So, when was Kachapeshwar Iyer born? Definitely around 1850 – in Palakkad? Who knows! But his fields were in Old Kalpathy Village of Palakkad. His home and family, all thrived for decades in this cool green mountain pass in the Upper reaches of the Western Ghats, on the banks of the river Kalpathy in Palakkad. That’s the home of the quintessential Palakkad Tamil Brahmin Iyer.

Palakkad Iyer culture is inherited and passed on in unique ways. I have grown up, believing in the Palakkad Pride, our claim to fame being that we were highly intelligent, educated, well off and successful.  We spoke Tamil with a Malayali accent, our wholesome food contributed to our health and happiness. And for this proud inherited heritage, I am indebted only to Kachapeshwar Iyer. For the later Eshwar clan: my father, I and my children were all born in Jamshedpur, erstwhile Bihar.

 My great grandfather was born with a silver spoon, rather a golden spoon would be more appropriate! He lead a king’s life, a true blue zamindar. An aunt remembers that he had his own bullock cart and he got their large showy horns encrusted with gold.  He was a very rich man.  My mother told me that he lived his life without having done even a day’s work with his hands. He inherited wealth, sadly, he never learnt how to earn it or manage it.

The next part of his life sees the entry of my Great grandmother into his life. Because every generation of this family has a granddaughter named Parvathy, I have concluded that Kachapeshwar Iyer married Parvathy and brought her home. She was in many ways the Ideal wife – managing home and hearth and a family which multiplied almost every year, with a large retinue of helpers and an absentee husband. Even in the patriarchal system we live in, I'm happy to note that her name and memory live on!

Kachapeshwar Iyer was a ‘Vaid’, an Ayurvedic doctor, by choice. Being a Landlord , afforded him the freedom to indulge in this passion. He believed only in philanthropy – ministering the sick and needy in his village. He collected herbs, leaves and roots, he would grind, pound and decoct them to prepare potions. And when his stash was over, he would begin his annual retreat – and was away from home for months at a time, in search of those rare but precious plants.

He was very proud of the repository of ancient medicinal knowledge he held and refused to pass it down to future generations. Many in his family were keenly interested, including his favourite granddaughter. He refused to pass on this science, saying he could foresee the advent of allopathy and the decline of naturopathy, as a curative science. How true were his predictions! Thankfully, Ayurveda has seen a resurgence in the last few decades, and Great Grandfather's 'jadi-buty' has made a comeback!

Now, going back, Great Grandfather never carried food during his long sojourns, much like the modern forager. My mother told me that he could identify numerous food plants and gather their special leaves, and soak them in water. It would turn into jelly and I would imagine him enjoying a variety of natural puddings. He would traverse through Burma, Indonesia and the lower Himalayas, returning with his yearly cache of herbs.

But good times were not going to last forever. Rains failed over successive years and his vast lands yielded meagre crop, barely enough to sustain his large growing family. Over the years, his family had expanded to include three sons and five daughters and it was time for wedding bells in the family.

This is when Great Grandmother discovered, to her shock, that the chest full of valuables, had somehow and sometime, vanished. Those were the days of innocence and people would borrow jewellery to decorate the temple deity or even adorn, temporarily, a poor village bride. Someone had pilfered them all, leaving the family to face the stark reality – no food and no money to buy it either. It was impossible for the whole family to continue living in Palakkad.

And thus, in 1917, my grandfather, Kalpathy Eshwar Krishna Iyer, (K. E. Krishna Iyer) left Palakkad, at seventeen years of age, to work in the Tata Iron and Steel Company, set up in Jamshedpur (Jharkhand) in erstwhile Bihar. With the help of benevolent friends and family, he joined the accounts department, armed with a high school degree. By this time, his elder sister was married and so were his younger sisters. Some had been married to distant cousins and thus the family stayed together in this hour of need. One by one, each of the sisters moved out from Palakkad and into Jamshedpur, where their families grew exponentially.

My mother told me that Kachapeshwar Iyer spent his last days in Jamshedpur. From then on, he is no longer an enigma. It is said that he was a short tempered man and everyone, especially the children were afraid of him. My cousin learnt from her father that he would try to win them over by placing a sweet on his head,  with varying degrees of success. His wife, daughters and granddaughters, were now tasked with grinding and pounding the medicines, it was a rough and difficult task, and given their age and large families, they found it very distasteful. 

Now Kachpeshwar Iyer was a tired old man, lost and bereft of his moorings. Whatever was left of the hearth and home, he had left it in the care of one of his daughters who stayed back in Kalpathy with her family. Penniless and dependent on the ones who saw him as a waster, and perhaps, sick in body and mind, Kachapeshwar Iyer and Parvathy left behind sad memories of their final rift with Palakkad.

Decades later, my grandfather Krishna Iyer faced another sad truth- he had lost all claims to his ancestral property when he came to hear that it had been sold. Who sold it, when, why and for how much, no one would tell him. His sister and her family remained incommunicado. Kalpathy, the village and home, today live only as memories, waiting for a few more years, before they are finally forgotten.

CORONA COMES CALLING

March 23rd, 2020. The day we would begin our annual holiday to spend time with our grandchildren. Eager and ecstatic beyond measure, we were very well prepared this time, having learned a few lessons from our earlier visits. But by the end of February, we started hearing rumblings and by the second week of March, we had to make an informed decision, of either postponing or cancelling this much awaited visit.

The corona virus had hit the Earth, and unlike the tsunami of 2011 or the deluge of 2015, its extent was not known. Much like a foreign invasion, we got to hear of its coming  from the TV. The origin and spread of the COVID 19 Corona virus, by now, has been  well documented. Pandemic in nature, it has already claimed an unprecedented number of lives, with hundreds and thousands infected. The recovery rate is encouraging . A possible step to check its march, lies in one hopeful action, a lockdown with social distancing. The poor bear the brunt of it, the elderly are most affected.

Life during the lockdown is one big sacrifice, yet it is being celebrated,  to keep hopes alive. Only after it is lifted completely, can any assessment be made, of the losses people and countries endured. But what of life before this terrible faceless enemy started stalking us all at once all over the globe?

Life was hot in all senses of the word. The Earth and her surroundings were hot. So were her people- angry, violent, restless. It was as if man had deleted leisure or paused the rest button. He was always on the move-pushing, shoving , honking. And finally one day, all came to a screeching halt, suddenly, without notice. Finally the Earth and the Sky were able to breathe.

At this juncture, the pro active measures of the government of India to contain the virus deserve praise. I was also happy that they decided to rerun its old TV  programmes on its national channels- Ramayana, Mahabharata, Upanishad Ganga and Chanakya, to name a few. These stories brought back the rich cultural heritage of India. Pride in her history, pride in her wisdom, pride in her values, which had sadly taken a back seat during the rat race. Thus, Noble thoughts started coming to us from every side.

Today as I wait for the lockdown period to end, I pray and look forward to an evolved humanity,  one that has learnt her lessons. One that will not pray to god for rains after cutting down trees, one that will empathise with the poor and the needy and one where the collective wisdom prevails for the good of humanity.