TRIBUTE

DATED DECEMBER 12, 2008

Till yesterday, we were seven.
Today we are only six.

Today my brother Ambi (Mama) is no more. He was my older brother, but was called Ambi (younger brother) by our parents and everyone in the family. He was the second among us, but was the oldest son.

He was my friend – yes, my friend - when I was about fourteen or so. My older sisters had got married and left home. He used to tell me so many things that were happening in the world and our neighbourhood. He used to tell me things that would interest a girl of my own age, like new cinemas being produced with new stars. I heard about M. S.'s 'Savithri' first from him. He even discussed the famous Lakshmi Kantham murder case. Lakshmi Kantham was the publisher and editor of a yellow journal bearing his name.

Some memories remain vivid. I remember the evening I went with him and Vijaya Manni (my sister-in-law) to the famous 'Ayyappa' drama by TKS Brothers. Our car gave us trouble and would not start on our return trip. There were no taxis in those days, and he brought us back home in a bullock cart.

He was a jolly person, and along with the husband of my oldest sister, used to tease me a lot when I was a very small child. When I grew up he once told me that ear drops did not suit me. I removed them at that very moment and never wore them again. When I got married he told me, "You took off your earrings when this Ambi told you to, now you wear them when your Ambi (my husband was known as Ambi in his family) wants you to." I respected those words so much.

He was a father figure to me. Thatha (our father) was always busy with his judgements and court work, and in the evenings with his tennis and Masonic Lodge. So I always approached Ambi to get permission to go to excursions with my classmates, or to go to a picture, or whatever else I needed.

He was eleven years older than me, and was my friend, philosopher and guide. When I got married he advised me not to say anything negative about life at my in-laws to anyone. I took him in earnest and never breathed a word to anyone about what happened within the four walls of my home.

Whenever we met at Lakshmi Nivas (the name of my parents’ house) afterwards, he used to talk to me about many things that troubled him. I was proud to be his confidante.

He was very proud of his job as a judge. He had told me that he never encouraged divorce and advised couples who approached the court for divorces not to go through it and give themselves another chance.

I was very close to him and I always had respected him and the advice he had given me time and again. I can never digest the thought that he is no more. As long as I remember him, this memory of mine will keep him alive for me.

The photo above was taken when he was about 35 or so.

MY GRANDMOTHER

Like every child in each family we also had two grandmothers, Paati and Karamanai Ammai. Paati was our father’s mother. We never got to know her well, for she stayed alone in her own house, after her husband’s death. Paata passed away when their eldest son, my father, was only 22 years old. Even when Paati visited us, she never stayed for a whole day, always in a hurry to return to her place. When we visited her also she had no time for the kids. I came to know later on that she was like this with all her grandchildren, had no patience or time for them. She passed away soon after I got married.

Karamanai Ammai

My other grandmother was the one who helped my mother in bringing us up. Her name was Parvathi. She lived in Karamanai, a suburb of Trivandrum, on the banks of the river Karamanai. It was then a Brahmin settlement, comprising nearly ten streets, lined with row-houses, all double-storied, with common courtyards and separate backyards. We called her simply Karamanai Ammai. (Karamanai Mother).

Karamanai Ammai slept with us, woke up with us, laughed and cried with us, nursed and tended us in our sickness, told us stories, scolded us for our misconduct, praised us to the skies even for our small successes and good conduct. She endeared herself to us to such an extent we always wanted her to be with us, fought with each other to sleep by her side at night. She taught us what life was, to use discretion, to talk less and work more. She disciplined us to be self-sufficient, to run all our errands inside the house, and not depending on others to do things for us.

Her favourite proverb was, ‘Uthadu theyamal ullangal theyanam.’ Which means, ‘Instead of wearing out your mouth, use your feet’. This is engraved so deeply in my mind, even today as far as possible, I try to do things for myself. Her favourite curse for her grandchildren was , “Nasamattu poka”, which literally means “Be free of all that is bad and unwanted.”

It was she along with the midwife who helped us deliver our babies. It was her strict rule and order that during the labour, we should never make a groan or grunt which may be heard by the others waiting outside the room. We sisters instilled this rule in our daughters also at the time of their confinement, and if Karamanai Ammai was alive today, she would be proud of her great granddaughters. My sisters and I always went to our parents’ place to have our babies. In those days one did not go to the hospital to deliver babies. The midwife used to come home to check us periodically and help us with the childbirth. After that it was Karamanai Ammai, who took charge of the new mother and the baby for the next four weeks. She would herself prepare the lehiyam (special medicine) which was a must for the next 90 days.

When we were little girls along with her storytelling, she taught us a little about sex also. I remember one or two of those stories. A poor couple was cutting grass in the fields, when they heard an announcement that the Maharaja was coming that way. Immediately the woman undid the mundu (piece of cloth worn like a skirt) she was wearing around the waist, and covered her breasts with it. When asked why she did that, her answer was that what she was born with was nothing to cover, but what she had developed after growing up, should be hidden from other eyes.

Karamanai Ammai was born in the 1870s. She got married before she was eight years old, as was the custom in those days. What really intrigued me was that she started running her house for her husband when she was barely 11 years old, just a child and not a woman yet. My grandfather was a school teacher, and he was sent to a distant town (from Karamanai, part of Trivandrum) to teach. So Karamanai Ammai was sent with him to cook for him and generally take care of him. Nowadays one cannot even imagine such an idea. Even at the tender age, she was able to stop the landlady, a widow in whose house they lived, from pilfering her kitchen provisions. She used to insert a stick from the broom in the container in a particular way. If the container was tampered with, the stick would be out of place, which helped her to tackle the old lady.

Once they settled down in Karamanai, she became very friendly and popular with everyone in her neighbour hood. She was ever ready to help and advise everyone who approached her. She was listened to with respect and love, and was generally known as Parvathi Chithammai.
Though my grandfather’s pay as a school teacher was very low, she used to help people both in kind and cash. She even managed to save enough money to leave a substantial amount for her four children when she died in 1959.

My grandfather, Karamanai Appa, passed away when I was four years old. Still, I remember him - a pious, god-fearing man, loving and caring to his grandchildren, he always had a stock of crystallized sugar and dried grapes to give us whenever we visited him.

She had four children, three daughters and a son, and my mother was the eldest. Our uncle (mama) and his wife were childless. Though my aunt conceived many times, no child survived. In those times women who were childless were looked upon with disdain, and excluded from auspicious occasions. Karamanai Ammai was entirely different. She never let her daughter-in-law down. My mami was the one to lead in all auspicious occasions, whether it was a wedding in the family or kaapu, the seventh day ceremony, of the new born baby. There was so much affection and understanding between them.

My mother, seated centre, with mami on her left. The other ladies are my sisters, and the children my nephews and nieces.

A neighbour of Karamanai Ammai had two daughters of marriageable age, ten and eight. They had fixed the marriage of the older child. Karamanai Ammai suggested that they get the younger one married on the same muhurtham , to cut down expenses. She herself chose the girl’s mama (maternal uncle) as the bridegroom, and she allowed her friend to borrow her daughter-in-law’s wedding sarees, ornaments and a few silver pieces for the occasion. Our mami also raised no objection. Everyone in the locality applauded the generosity of my grandmother.

My grandmother was very shrewd, at the same time very diplomatic and solving her own and others’ family problems. I used to feel that given the chance and proper education, she would have been a good match for any of today’s well-educated, highly placed women in any capacity. The pity is that such women were born a hundred years before time, and lost their chance to become celebrities.

My father had great respect for her wisdom and shrewdness. He consulted her in many family maters, including his sisters’ marriages and settling them down. With her limited resources, she helped my parents also, helping them to settle down in Trivandrum.

Here is a story which shows how much my grandmother was respected by young and old. My mother, a native of Karamanai, never got over her love for a bath in the river. Living in the city, she just could not find the time to go to the river everyday. But once a week, mainly on Saturdays, after my father left to go to the court, she used to take me and my sisters to Karamanai to give us a good oil bath at the river. One day, after bathing in the river we went to our grandmother’s place for lunch. Suddenly while eating my mother remembered that she had folded a Rs.100 note in her saree pallu when she left home. And that it must have fallen in the water when she was undraping the saree to take a bath. When my grandmother heard this, she stopped eating at once, and went to the river bank, where there were a few late bathers and children playing. On enquiring, she found that a poor boy had found a Rs. 10 note floating in the water and had taken it home. It took some time to locate the boy. On being asked about the money, he did not admit at first to finding it. But the very sight of my grandmother made him come out with the truth. He had taken the money to the local (and only) grocer, got half a rupee’s worth of one day’s requirement (like rice and other condiments) for cooking, and had given the change to his mother. My grandmother heard him out, and took him along to the grocer, and challenged him. The grocer came out with the truth, and said that the boy had mistaken Rs. 100 note for a Rs. 10 note. He also admitted that he had already stocked his shop with groceries he had bought with the money. He requested my grandmother not to go to the police, and that by next morning he would come home and pay her the full amount. Such was the respect she commanded.

In those days Rs. 100 went a long way. One could buy enough groceries to last a year. Or six to ten silk sarees, or about 25 cotton sarees. And more than eight sovereigns of gold. (A sovereign is 8 gms of gold, and costs about Rs. 10, 000 today).

The pictures above were taken by my younger brother Moorthy, an avid and enthusiastic photographer.

MY GURU

Anantharama Iyer was his name. He entered into our lives - mine and my two older sisters as our tuition master, when we were 8, 10, 12 respectively. Our father came to know about our poor performance in the term exam of the school year. So this person became our tuition master.

He was formidable to look at. Dressed in a 'panchakacham veshti' and an 'angavastram' to cover his bare torso, he had a 'kudumi' (the way the purohits of today have their hair styled and most Brahmins of those bygone days). He had three fingers of 'vibhoothi' (sacred ash) pattern on his forehead, with a sandal paste 'pottu' in the centre - and always a two days growth of beard on his face. He was tall and hefty, with broad shoulders and a broader waist. Just looking at him gave us the shivers.

He was a teacher in the Model School for Boys, teaching Mathematics and Sanskrit. He was good in these two subjects. He soon found out that though we had nothing to do with Sanskrit, that we had no interest in Maths also. He changed all that very soon.

Every evening by the time we came back from school, we found him waiting for us. There would not be enough time for us to change our clothes, or take our coffee and tiffin. Coming home before us, we found out in due course that he would have had his share of coffee and tiffin at our place, for he came here straight from school to teach us. By the time we three sat in front of him with our home work, almost everyday he would start napping, snoring loudly. This noise used to wake him up with a start. Then he would remember where he was and what he was supposed to do. So by turn, he would look into our notebooks, find the mistakes we had made, explain the problem, and make us do the work again, while he went back to sleep. If ever he found out that we were making the same mistake again, well, our thighs would be turning red and blue in colour, because of his hard pinching. It was terrible.

Once our tuition time was over it gave us utmost pain and at the same time pleasure in comparing the marks on our thighs and finding out whose was worse. We never had the guts to complain about this to our parents, for we knew that we wouldn’t get any open sympathy from our mother.

This master of ours had endeared himself to our parents by conversing with them about their favourite topics. My mother’s weakness for pooja, her commitment to certain ideas and beliefs prompted him to suggest to her to conduct 'Bhagavathi Sevai' every month. He added that if this pooja was conducted every month on my father’s star, it would benefit him professionally and personally. My mother who always had my father’s welfare at heart agreed to this. So from that month onwards the 'Bhagavathi Sevai' was conducted for the next so many years with the tuition master turned into the vadhyar (priest) to conduct the pooja. And my mother had the satisfied feeling that the Devi’s blessings were showered on us.

I had nothing against this, but being the youngest , he roped me in to help me with drawing of the design for the base of the padmam, with different coloured powders all made at home, and very organic. It was a very intricate pattern. So every month for many years to follow, I was the one to assist him in this. And he in turn would bless me with a prosperous life with a good husband.

With my father, this master of mine had another trump. Knowing that my father was suffering from back pain, he suggested ‘sooriya namaskaram’. He became my father’s physical instructor and initiated him into it. By 6 am everyday he would be at our place for that purpose, and see that my father did the 'sooriya namaskaram' properly. Well, this did help my father to get rid of his back pain, and at the same time helped the tuition master to get into my father’s good books.

With all his family commitments, he did not ignore his daily tasks as a tuition master. He made us learn the multiplication tables up to 16 by heart. He made us do sums mentally and give him the answer swiftly. So this helped us a lot. He had a way in handling all subjects. I some of the lessons he taught me which made life easier for me in school. When my turn came to help my children with the home work, I automatically followed his method, minus the pinching – not fully minus, a little tap here and a minute pinch there, helped both the teacher and the student.

My tuition master was a great Ayyappan devotee. I imbibed this kind of Ayyappan devotion from him. He used to go to Sabarimala every year for more than 25 years, walking all the way from his home in Trivandrum, all the way to Sabarimalai, a long, long way. And walked back, after offering prayers. It used to take more than a month for this. And the forests were infested with wild elephants and tigers. Every year after his return form Sabari malai he had so many thrilling and frightening stories to tell us. All this only increased my devotion to Swami Ayyappan.

The last time I saw the Master was about 40 years ago. Yet I remember him very well. And today I write this with tears in my eyes and pranams in my mind. He was a great man in his own way. Long live his ilk.

NAVARATHRI . . . .

ALSO KNOWN AS BOMMAI KOLU. . . .

Maiji's Kolu in 1978

. . . .is enjoyed by women and girls all over South India. Now is the time of the year to celebrate the bommai kolu (dolls arrangement). I went to see the bommais (dolls) on sale near Sri Kapali Temple, and was happy to see so many of them.

Click on the picture for an enlarged view

My first recollection of this nine-day festival is that a kolu would appear overnight in our pooja room like magic. Arranged on nine steps covered with a white cloth, the images of all the gods and goddesses, along with the family’s collection of curios, arranged artistically under a canopy of white cloth, edged with red and green frilled border, and decorated with rainbow coloured paper garlands, it would seem to us children like a magic show.

In a single night after we children were sent to bed, my mother with the help of my elder brother and sisters would have the show ready. For the rest of the 355 days these dolls and everything else were stored in my mother’s tallboys in my mother’s store room. During Navarathri in the evenings, my sister and I, dressed in our best pavadai uduppu (long skirt and blouse) were sent to neigbouring houses to invite the womenfolk there to visit our kolu and accept manjal kumkumam (auspicious objects). In the homes where they had also arranged kolu, we would be welcomed, seated on a pattupai,(silken mat) asked to sing a song, and finally treated to the sundal and any sweet prepared as neivedhiyam (sacred offering to the gods), along with vetrilai pakku (betel leaves and nuts), coconuts, and blouse pieces as gifts. We used to feel like VIP s, when we returned home with our loot. All the while my mother too would be doing the same to visitors at our homes who would have come to invite us. Those ten days were really fun for me and I enjoyed them thoroughly.

When I got married and set up my own home in Delhi, I was astonished to find that kolu was non-existent in the north. Very few families belonging to the south, about four or five had kolu. When my eldest daughter was one year old, I started the kolu with a handful of bommais, typical Delhi made ones – I thus introduced the festival of kolu to my neighbours. These dolls were sold in readiness for Diwali festival pooja, performed to welcome prosperity.

My first kolu was a very small one with just two steps, two feet long and one foot wide. I enjoyed this, and my husband also encouraged me no end. From that kolu, in a period of twenty years, my kolu grew in size and shape, decorated with all the frills my mother had, and also admired by one and all. I am not boasting, but my kolus were well appreciated, and I enjoyed readying them.

Come September, I would start planning for kolu. Apart from the seven steps, I enjoyed having some side shows on the floor, all prepared and made at home with the help of my children. One year it would be a small town with a temple with four towers in the centre, small shops selling things one sees in the towns, around the temple walls; small lanes with bullock carts. Sometimes it would be a hill temple with fields around, and the rich crop nodding their heads, (the crops were grown using fenugreek seeds) and a park with children playing.

One year in Pondicherry I made a model of the whole length of Rajpath of New Delhi, from the Secretariat to Indian Gate, with the lawns, the fountains, and all the buildings including the Parliament House. Everything was hand made with cardboard. Another year it was the seafront of Pondicherry with the sea and the waves, and the buildings on the seashore. Another year I made the map of India, marked the main cities with important buildings, and people dressed in the costumes of the regions.

After coming back to Delhi, I created theme-based sideshows like the Fairy Tales and Nursery Rhymes.

A week before kolu started I would be ready with my plans and start to prepare the hills, the fields and parks with loose earth carried in from outside by the bucketful. The mud was moulded by hand into various objects like walls, shops, huts, with windows and doors. Ice cream cups painted red were used as pots for plants and shrubs. My father-in-law took pleasure in teasing me that the whole room was now a dump. At the same time he would be the first to admire all the handiwork I had done. And gradually we had collected a large number of bommais, all big and small from Trichy, Chingleput and Pondicherry, including the famous Bunrutti bommais.

Yesterday at the shops I found that everything I made then was available readymade – including plots of grass!

My centerpiece was a Lakshmi, about a foot tall, sitting on a lotus flower, six inches high and size of a dinner plate. Two elephants, big, white ones stood on either side of the Goddess with a garland each held in its trunk.

My last kolu was in 1978 in Delhi. Somehow with elders no more, and the older children leaving home, and us moving to a smaller house dampened my enthusiasm. My only regret now is I never thought of taking any photos of the kolu in Pondicherry – they were worth it. My consolation is that my last Kolu in 1979 was photographed and published in the Indian Express newspaper of New Delhi. The kolu had fewer dolls that year, only those that had escaped an attack by white ants, caused by a leaking pipe in the storeroom. I managed to salvage many by repainting and touching them up.

At the kolu in Trichy, with newly bought bommais, I had also made a park with a pond in which fish and swans were swimming and a stork waiting on the edge, as though ready to catch a fish. My first guest was the Collector’s wife. We were meeting for the first time, and both were nervous to start the conversation. Finally she asked me “Do you have a cook?” The question was put in Tamil with only the word cook in English. Before I could say No. my four year old, Viji, came out saying, “Yes, we have one, standing on one leg!” and pointed to the stork. Poor girl – she thought our visitor was asking for a stork. In Tamil the word for stork is ‘kokku’ which sounds like ‘cook’. Anyway that broke the ice and conversation flowed easily.

Now all my dolls are decorating the kolus of my friends and relatives, to whom I gave them away. Only two dolls, a Lakshmi and a Saraswathi, more than 50 years old, remain at Raji’s place – a reminder of the days gone by.

THE ROCKING HORSE AND OTHER TOYS

In today’s children’s world the only toy - is it a toy? – I don’t see is the rocking horse. There are different types of toys for the kids to play with starting with the rattles, and as the child grows up, the toys also change. There are so many of them -, which makes me happy for the lucky children of today.

Raja on his rocking horse

When we were children I don’t remember having any toys to play with. All we had were a few marappachis,(see picture) wooden dolls, and some wooden chattippanai (pots and pans). We, that is, my sisters and friends were happy with these toys. The chattippanai would be divided into equal parts amongst everyone. We would select a niche in the garden to set up house, cook and keep house. The boys used to join us as men folk who go to office, and the younger ones would act as babies. Gradually this kind of playacting came to an end when girls also started going to school.

There were also the other sorts of games, like playing Kattam which was like the Ludo of today. The squares were drawn on the floor with a charcoal piece, or a chalk if available, and for coins, small shells were used. Another game we used to play with our mother and grandmother was the pallankuzhi, a wooden block of 10” and 6” with six shallow pits on the long side and one on the short side with two bigger shallow pits in the centre.

Pallankuzhi with chozhi

This game was played with shells or manjadi distributing 6 to each pit, and changing them from pit to pit. The game had its own rules of picking up the manjadi and dropping it one by one on the pits. The manjadi is a seed red in colour, and shaped like a miniature flying saucer, a very minute one. Today one can find the manjadi, along with kunthumani,(see picture) another seed, red and black, only in a goldsmith’s shop, where it is used to weigh the gold for the last possible minimum weight.

Some years back, Raja took me to Penang for a holiday. We stayed in a hotel by the seaside. It was a beautiful holiday centre and we had a lovely time. While we were having lunch one day, one of the waiters seeing that we are from India, and spoke Tamil, asked me to explain something for him. He took me to the showcase in the lounge, pointed out the pallankuzhi exhibited there and requested me to explain what it was. When he heard my explanation, he was wonderstruck to learn that it was a plaything like a board game.

The boys had their own games like playing marbles. I doubt if today’s children, know what marbles are like. They don’t know the pleasure of confiscating the opponent’s marbles, or the pain when the opponent hits the knuckles with the marble that comes flying from his taut fingers held like an arrow. Another game the boys used to enjoy was the gulli danda - hitting a small wooden object with a bigger wooden stick and finding out who could hit the gulli the farthest.

Gradually all these toys were back benched when board games started appearing in the children’s world. Then came the tricycle, small motor cars and the rocking horse. The rocking horse had a very short life compared to the others. Every child enjoyed rocking on the horse. It was a great toy in the 50s and continued to be popular till the 70s.After that I haven’t seen any.

My own children and the older grandchildren had owned and loved rocking on this wonderful toy. The rocking horse kept the child out of mischief when the mother was busy, and it was so light that it could be carried from room to room or wherever the children wanted. My daughter tells me that her son in London had been looking for a rocking horse in London. They could find it only in one shop, where it was priced at 100 pounds, whereas the one we got for Raja while in Pondicherry cost only Rs. 12 in 1958. It was only Rs. 7 in the late 40s when Raji and Bala were gifted one from an uncle.

Bala and Raji

I have been to the USA frequently from 1975 onwards, but I have never seen a rocking horse with any child, or in any shop and I used to wonder why! Now I wonder if the reason could be this. There was a Hollywood film released in the fifties , based on a short story by D. H. Lawrence, called ‘The Rocking Horse Winner’. I do not remember the story in detail, but the gist of the story was that the boy while rocking on his horse had the gift of forecasting the winning horse in each race at a certain racecourse. The news spread all over the place like forest fire, and the people who were fond of betting and looking forward to making money thronged to his place to listen to his forecast. And they were also willing to pay a lot of money to his parents for this favour. Though I don’t remember how the picture ended, it was said that the young boy who acted in the picture got addicted to rocking on his horse without sleep or food. This went on till he dropped dead one day.

Another toy I remember in those days was the Hula Hoop It was a circular plastic ring with a diameter of 36”. All one had to do was slip the hoop over one’s head, and bring it to one’s hip and keep it there by gyrating one’s hips. I knew children including my own who used to do it for hours at a time, while walking, climbing up and down steps. Our friend’s daughter Latha was a marvel with this hoop. She could keep it circling on her while moving and twisting it all the time.

When television came, they got used to playing TV games, and watching children’s programmes. Television being a novelty, it became the centre of attraction for the child.

Any toy can last only for a certain amount of time, for children get fed up very soon, and look for new ones. Toys play a very great part in increasing children’s mental power to grasp and understand things.

Pictures of kunthumani(courtesy Devendra Pore ), marappachi, manjadi and pallanguzhi sourced from the internet

BACK TO PONDICHERRY

Babuji with Chief Commissioner L. R. S. Singh

This was how we came to Pondicherry, and a different kind of life.

When we arrived in the city the French culture was very much in evidence. It was soon after the de facto period. The de jure period was five years later, by which time Pondicherry came fully under the Indian Government. The transition was very slow, but steady, bringing the Indian influence by introducing Indian art and culture and tradition, and finally the election to the newly created Pondicherry Legislative assembly. And the politicians taking the reins in their hands. The first elected members were French oriented and gladly welcomed by the public. M. Goubert was elected the Chief Minister.

Babuji with M. Goubert (wearing cap) at a meeting.

He was a very favourite person, and was very friendly and understanding. Till the election the government was run by the Chief Commissioner, and the heads of the three departments – General Administration, Development and Finance. And once the politicians took over the government, the Chief Commissioner was chief only in name.

We were there during this transition period and were able to enjoy many music and dance performances. Concerts by great musicians like Madurai Mani Iyer, Alathur Brothers, Ariyakkudi Ramanujam Iyengar, Madurai Somasundaram and flute maestro T. R. Mahalingam, and dancers like Lalitha, Padmini, Ragini and Kamala Lakshman were too great for words. Above all we were lucky to watch the abhinayam of the great doyen of Bharata Natyam, Bala Saraswathi sitting on the stage. It was great and unbelievable that one can bring to life the pranks of Sri Krishna by just movements of the hands, eyes and facial expressions. It was an unforgettable experience.

With Babuji in the audience at a dance perfomance. Viji (in frock) is in front.

Recently a few months back, my son took me to a Bharata natyam performance by this great artiste’s grandson Aniruddh, at the India International Centre. I t was a very good show, which we enjoyed very much. I was also able to catch glimpses of the great Bala in the grandson. Maybe I am the only person in the family who has witnessed both the grandmother and the grandson on stage.

The music concerts were held on very informal platforms, with both the musicians and the audience, sitting on the floor on a school verandah, or a big classroom. It was more like the chamber music of today, with no mike or loudspeakers, and the audience numbering only forty or fifty in a very friendly atmosphere. I remember a couple of incidents.

Once Mali was playing an alapana in the raagam Thodi, in a very detailed manner. Suddenly a procession led by a nagaswaram playing very much out of tune passed by on the road. Mali stopped what he was playing, and started accompanying the off-key notes of the nagaswaram until the procession moved out of hearing. He then coolly continued with the Thodi raagam.

Another time, a member of our group had to attend a function in Annamalai University, Chidambaram, when there was a concert by the Alathur Brothers in Pondicherry. The senior brother noticed the absence of Mr. S. in our midst and asked about him. He was told he had gone to Chidambaram on work. While the concert was going on, Mr. S. came in and took his seat with us. Seeing him, the musicians’ next song was ‘Chidambaram Pogamal iruppeno?’
We all enjoyed this song as well as the humour that went along with it.

Mr. and Mrs. Datta

In the de facto - de jure period, Pondicherry had seen three Chief Commissioners. After Mr. Kripalani came Mr. L. R. S. Singh, another ICS officer, who was little less stuffy. His beautiful daughter, whenever she was in town, was very friendly with us. A few years later we attended her wedding in New Delhi. After L. R. S. Singh came Mr. Datta, who was really down to earth, and very friendly and sociable, and easy to move with. Mrs. Datta was a very fine person, and we had some good times together.

Once the election was over and the politicians took over the government of the state, Babuji started feeling that he would be called back to Delhi any day. He did not want Raji’s and Bala’s studies to be interrupted. So it was decided to send Raji to Trivandrum to my parents’ place to do her P. U. C., and Bala to stay with his uncles in Delhi for his high school studies. Though we were prepared to leave Pondicherry any time, it took nearly 18 to 20 months to get the signal from Delhi.

In the meantime there was an addition to the family, a most welcome one, our own bundle of happiness, our little baby Gowri. A very lucky one with not only her parents to shower love and affection on her, but also loving brothers and sisters, who simply adored her.

Our plan was to go to Trivandrum to my parents’ place to spend the four months leave period that was due to Pondicherry, and then proceed to Delhi. Babuji was to join duty at Delhi in February. So we left Pondicherry by road via Mysore, Bangalore and Ooty for a little sightseeing for four or five days, and proceeded to Trichur. In Trichur we had a surprise. A telegram to Babuji from the Home Ministry asking him to join duty in a fortnight.

So the Chinese aggression of 1962 was having an impact on our lives too. Babuji before his sojourn to the South was working in the Home Ministry, dealing with foreigners and internment camps. So when the Chinese attack came, he was ordered to come back at the earliest, as he was needed in the Home Ministry.

After settling us down in Trivandrum, Babuji left for Delhi, and stayed with Bala separately for about six to eight weeks. We joined them once Babuji was allotted a quarters in West Kidwai Nagar. There we continued to live for about 16 to 17 years, till Babuji retired.

The quarters at West Kidwai Nagar was single storied at that time. The upstairs flats were built a year or two later.

Our stay in Pondicherry was the best part of our lives. We were exposed to different types of people, language, tradition and customs – different lifestyles, to put it shortly. And we became richer by this exposure. Our horizon, wider, our outlook brighter and our level of tolerance and powers of appreciation of various facts of lifestyle on the increase. I feel that the Pondicherry life opened up new vistas in the children’s minds also.

All said and done, this was the golden period of our life. - Babuji's 'ezharai sani' period.

Minister Venkatasubba Reddiar bidding us farewell.

BABUJI'S EZHARAI SANI – Part III

LIFE IN MADRAS 1956 to 1957

Viji, Raji and Bala, enjoying ice cream at the Egmore
station while waiting to receive visitors

Our next destination was Madras, today’s Chennai. After staying with a bachelor friend of Babuji, (S. Venkitaramanan, whom the children called Ramanan Mama) for four to six weeks, we moved into a brand new house in Sri Ram Nagar, off Mowbray’s Road, today’s TTK Saalai.

In those days in Delhi, it was a regular practice among friends to share one’s residence with those in need. We as a newly married couple stayed with friends for four to six weeks before we moved into our own government allotted quarters. And we in turn had shared our home with bachelors and newly married couples, and even couples with one or two children. We all lived as one family, sharing all household work and expenses. So I had no objection or awkwardness in staying with this friend. I felt sorry for him actually, for we were a family of eight members, three generations, plus one cook. He left the whole house at our disposal, but for one room upstairs, for his own use.

Madras in those days, that is, in the 1950s was a very laid back city, very quiet and peaceful. The roads were deserted most of the time. There were not even one-hundredths of the cars that fill the roads today. Even Mount Road, that is Anna Saalai of today, was peaceful to drive through. Motorcycles, scooters and auto rickshaws were unheard of. Babuji and I used to enjoy our drive from Gemini Circle (where today’s Anna flyover is) to the Beach Road, through Edward Elliotts Road, that is today’s Radhakrishna Saalai, a long stretch, without any hassle. Marina beach was very different from what it is today. It was a long stretch of sand up to the waves with no barricades or car parks or any man -made structures to ruin its natural beauty. There were a few sellers of eatables scattered over the place, and we really relaxed going there.

Another landmark which is no more is the Moore Market, the mother of all shopping malls of today, which was next to the Central Station. I remember my father getting me a celluloid doll when I was eight years old, and toys for my two younger brothers, when he went to Madras for a meeting, and visited Moore Market. My mother confiscated all these to display them only for the Navarathri kolu. I never played with that doll, and this is possibly the reason that whatever toys I got for my children were given to them to play with.

There were very few shops in our locality. Mowbrays Road was dotted with single bungalows in the middle of large compounds. The house we moved into was also single-storied with a big compound both at the front and at the back. The house belonged to well-known film star Ranjan. His brother Balu was the one who helped us to settle down in this house. Balu and Sujatha, a nice couple, were the only friends we made during these six months.

The few shops in our locality closed by 8 pm. One evening I found I had run out of salt. And to buy that packet of salt Babuji drove me all the way to Pondy Bazaar. Here too, we found only a single provision shop open, where we found our salt. What a difference to today’s life.

You won’t believe me if I told you that government offices in those days started working only at 11 am and ended by 4 pm. So office goers were able to eat their lunch leisurely and then leave for work.

Babuji was very much involved in the general election held that year. He was the returning officer in Kanchipuram. It was a very proud moment for him when he announced the victory of Mr. Annadurai. On the day of the election, after the voting was over, each ballot box was sealed and locked and kept in a room which was locked and sealed in the presence of all party members, to be opened only on the counting day, again in the presence of these members. Suddenly it was noticed that the fan in the room was still on. Someone had forgotten to switch it off. Babuji was in a quandary – an old fan going on for 24 hours for nearly a week could cause a short circuit because of coil-burning. Reopening the room was out of the question. Babuji hit upon the idea of switching off the main in the building, even though it meant that the other parts of the building had to do without electricity.

Even if it was only for six months, Bala joined St. Bede’s. He was not yet nine years old, but he used to travel by public bus; the roads were so safe. Viji was put in a nearby school within walking distance. But no school was willing to admit Raji in Class 7 just for 6 months. All said and done, both Raji and Bala lost one year of their studies – but no regrets.

A few words about Annaji and Ammaji, Babuji’s parents. Annaji was 63 years old and Ammaji was 56 years old. They were then considered as ‘old people’. They both took all the changes that happened in these two years in their stride without any complaint. Not only that, they were a great help in taking care of the children also. Ammaji took upon herself to bring up Raja from the very early days, and Raja also wanted only Ammaji for most things. And the bond between them was really strange. Every Friday Annaji and Ammaji attended the prayer meetings which were held in the Gandhi Mandapam without fail. Some days Rajaji used to attend the meetings, and on certain days M. S. Subbulakshmi used to sing bhajans. And they enjoyed this outing very much.

Another advantage of being in Madras was we came in contact with many of Babuji’s relatives from both sides. The main attraction for Babuji in Madras were Kuttiyappa and Kuttiammai, his aunt and uncle, who lived in Royapuram, and with whom he had spent part of his growing years.

We both welcomed visiting relatives with open arms. Ours was an open house, and there was food ready for anyone who needed it any time of the day – much appreciated by all.

When Babuji’s tenure in the south was to come to an end in June 1957, he applied to the centre for a posting in the south for a few more years, in consideration to his aged parents. The Centre obliged to this by sending Babuji to Pondicherry on deputation.