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.