EVEN GRANDPARENTS HAVE WANDERLUST

Ammamma hates moving. Moving as in, traveling. I don’t mean the countless trips to kaigari kadai and back, blouse tailor and back, kaapi kottai kadai and back, Petthis market (to refill her toffee stock in old kissan jam jar) and back, paper kadai (to check if Thuklaq has hit the stands yet) and back, every single day. (Yes, even if she bought Thuklaq only the previous day, she would go to kadai to ask when the next issue was going to be out, although she already knows the answer to that. I think she hates the prospect of having to wait for a week for the next issue, and generally likes to live in denial.) Ammamma’s universe is restricted to block 93 of Sowbhagya Colony (although occasionally also blocks 94 and 95 but never beyond), and 1^st Street 1^st Sector where all the aforementioned essential kadais are located. Every two weeks, she goes to Aavin booth on parallel road, to grab the first two slabs of butter for herself and my mother. She also visits us – we live a kilometer away – at about the same frequency, taking an auto from the auto stand right outside her house.

She never used to take an auto, although she knew all the auto guys well enough. That’s because Thatha used to take her on his scooter. My Thatha is a stud. Really truly. He was a super sportsman in his heyday. Apart from playing every sport in the WORLD, he used to conduct judo classes outside his house. Thatha used to be this rowdy – a do-gooder rowdy like heroes of Tamil cinema. Any trouble in the neighbourhood, and Thatha would arrive (with only background music and slow mo missing) to warn the villains off and to intimidate them. Sheesh! Like a Brahmin rowdy, who went, bashed a few guys up, and came back home to do his sandhi and eat his thair sadam and maavudu. God. Thatha is my hero. After he retired, he devoted himself completely to his grandchildren, and so did Ammamma. Ammamma held fort at home, while Thatha was our caretaker – mine and Sheets’. He was our chauffeur, friend, guide, philosopher and hero. Thatha on his black Kinetic Honda, and later on his grey Dio was a cult figure in the neighbourhood. Everyone at school knew him. All our friends’ parents admired him. And we were so damn proud of him! Imagine a swashbuckling superhero named Iyerman (or even Iyervaal, for that matter). How exciting! 

Until, recently, kannu struck. No no, it can’t be anything but kannu that resulted in this. Thatha now has an extremely painful left leg and can barely move. As in, he can. But yeah, that would end up with him sitting up most of the night in pain. So now, Thatha sticks to his white plastic chair, and doesn’t get around too much. And his grey Dio is busy gathering dust in the shed. 

Sigh. Anyway, so Ammamma and Thatha have lived in their 93 B house for the last 30 odd years. No, it is no ancestral house that they refuse to move out of. It is but an incredibly modest MIG flat. But no, Ammamma hates to move. She hates living anywhere else. Forget living, even staying. For years, she refused to stay at her son’s or daughters’ even for a few days. But now, for the last few years, they do come and live with me and Sheets, when my parents are not in town, they do go to Mylapore (Ammamma cannot bring herself to say no to her most-beloved son anymore), and I know even though she doesn’t admit it – Ammamma and Thathu secretly love their annual trips to Hyderabad to visit Du and Nanda Chitapa. Mostly because Du is poor Du, and Ammamma can nicely bulldoze her around, and because Nanda Chitapa is the sweetest man in Hyderabad. 

Despite being so close to my grandparents, I had unfortunately thought of them as very one dimensional until recently. Ammamma and Thathu have been on many pilgrimage trips with us, all over Tamilnadu. Appa always took them around everywhere. But they have never had a HOLIDAY per se, until they went on a vacation to Munnar with Suri Mama and fly., and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. They went on to talk about the vacation for more than a year after it happened. But the revelation came when I went over to do namaskaaram before I left on a holiday to Singapore. Ammamma was sending me off at the door. Thatha had just finished belting out his slew of safety instructions, and then there was a moment of silence. Suddenly, Ammamma started to sing “Akkarai seemai azhaginile manam aada kandene…” and smiled. Then, she said: “Mochai kottai, ennayum kootindu po da…” And my heart broke. I blinked away instant tears quickly and said bye, and ran away. I couldn’t have taken her along for what I was going to do at Singapore, and anyway it was too late. I didn’t even realize that even Ammamma might want to come along, and travel the world like I did. Ammamma and Thathu have no son in the US (surprise surprise, for a Brahmin family of that generation): they would’ve made a trip there otherwise. They’ve never been abroad. They only know what they’ve seen in Priya – all those wondrous sights that Rajni describes in that song. So then I decided that they must go to Singapore someday. 

Anyway, my wonderful time at Singapore quickly made sure I forgot all about it, and thereafter life sort of took over. Until I was painfully reminded again, when a slightly high Thatha, sipping his whiskey, looked at me and said “Enna ya, oru passport kuda ille… eppo nanga idellam pakardu?”, pointing to the tv. There. I could hear the familiar sound of my heart shattering into pieces again. I marched up to Amma and Appa (yes, in tears AGAIN) and said, “Look. Please take them to Singapore. They have actually opened their mouth and asked.” Amma and Appa agreed, but were disgusted with my unabashed maudlin display of emotion. Amma in turn said to me: “Stop crying like a fool. Why don’t you take responsibility for a change?” That’s when I decided: I am going to get their passport forms. I will fill them out, and take them to Thatha and watch his face. Amma said she’ll do the waiting at the passport office and blah. And then, my parents will take them to Singapore. Or if I have enough saved by then, I will take them to Singapore. Ammamma wants to come with us to Kodaikanal this summer. But space in the car is a problem. Thatha is also protesting a little, because he’s too proud to openly have trouble walking. Amma is fighting with him, by citing examples such as Pads and Meenamma who trot all over the country, even though they too battle old age problems such as knee pain and this and that. And Ammamma wants to go no matter what. So I have decided: even if it means that Sheets and I have to run beside the car all the way to Kodi, Ammamma and Thatha will go to Kodi. And then to Singapore. Ha! 

[ God. This post is so emo. Zzz.
And God. My titles suck. The title of this post beats the title of my blog hollow. Congratulations to me! Zzz. ]

WHERE BRAHMIN?

When the megaserial storm started to blow, my household was somehow, perhaps the only one whose roof didn’t get blown away. We were quite unaffected by the revolution in the living room. As Amma liked to say to people with that smug smile on her face, “We don’t watch TV at all. Aduvum enakkum adukum sambandame ille…” I do try and tell her that I remember her crying buckets over some episode of Premi; to which she says “Po di. Adu edo oru episode! Nan enna daily Premi paathundena?” Which is true, I think. Amma has, she herself admits, tried to watch some K Balachander serials because of some sort of misplaced loyalty towards him. But it never did last more than a few weeks, which means Amma watched about 1 percent of the entire megaserial. The only reason why are abreast with whatever is happening in every megaserial worth knowing about, is because Meenamma and Pads watch it when they come home.

 

The day it all changed is the day Ammamma spotted this little promo on Jaya TV – a little animated sketch of (gasp!) Cho and the word “Viraivil”. It sent Ammamma flying to the phone, and tell Amma “Cho vara poranan di, Jaya TV le! Edo viraivil viraivil nu podran! Ennava irukum?” Amma promised to watch Jaya TV as often as possible to find out what exactly Cho was going to do on Jaya TV.

 

Some background information at this point: any reference to Cho Ramaswamy in my house, will have people reacting quite dramatically. A good thing about him and the entire household will join you in singing his paeans and I suspect Ammamma will cry. Any criticism about Cho, and there’s no way you can leave my house alive. Because to them, Cho represents the quintessential Tamil Brahmin. The infallible intellectual who makes acute observations. The brave journalist who does not mince words. THE multi-faceted Cho. Cho is to my family, what Che is to a true blue Marxist.

 

An integral part of my childhood memories constitutes of my innumerable trips to the nearby potti kadai to grab the first copy of Thuklaq just as it hit the stands. And, much as she was tempted to grab it from my hands, Ammamma’s priceless expression as she made me place it in her hands, ever so gently, cherishing it as though afraid to wound it. Ammamma’s tattered copy of the Kamba Ramayanam in the pooja room and Thuklaq were unfailingly treated with the same reverence. One also noticed a certain servility while handling both these books. Even today, I am made to make a million trips from my house to Ammamma’s more than a kilometer away, to hand over/collect ancient/brand new copies of Thuklaq. And countless hours have been spent by Ammamma on the phone, discussing everything that figured in the latest issue of Thuklaq, with anyone who was willing to listen – Amma, Du, Manni, me, whoever. I am also urged very often, to start reading Tamil more seriously, and mark my foray into Tamil literature with Thuklaq. 

 

In my opinion, if Ammamma knew how to articulate her feelings for Cho and not find it blasphemous, she would describe it as a ‘crush’. A long standing crush, because her admiration is not just for today’s sharp political analyst, but also for yesteryear’s bumbling comedian. She would say to me, giggling like a little girl, “Anda padathule Cho romba vedikkaya pesuvan.” Anything the Cho-with-hair said is vedikkai, and anything the Cho-sans-hair says is “avlo correct di.”

 

To Amma, Cho represents the ideal Brahmin. “Irunda avare madri irukanum,” she says. What else is there to say?

 

Thatha is not far behind. The man, who used to watch all sports on TV, and only sports on TV, because he understands them all better than anyone else in the WORLD, now watches Enge Brahmanan too. I know how proud Thatha used to be, about his TV watching habits, because he deserved to be. He could not just understand every sport, he could play most of them competently. Thatha, whose TV always had to play what Sheetal wanted it to play (Sheetal is a sports freak too, so it really suited his convenience) despite the choice of anyone else in the house, even a guest, today plays Enge Brahmanan, often against even (gasp!) Sheetal’s wishes! Thatha himself, today asks his once-beloved Sheetal to shut up when Cho is talking. Sigh. How the mighty have fallen.

 

It really cannot be articulated suitably enough, how the family watches Enge Brahmanan every night – with a mixture of awe and devotion and reverence, and what else; and those expressions of delight and glee and sudden comprehension and realization… But I think I know why they watch Enge Brahmanan. Ammamma, because of the references to all the Hindu scriptures, and their glorification, and because of Cho. Thatha, because he himself is a big Cho admirer, and not grudgingly so. (Poor Thathu is no jealous man. The only ground on which he and Ammamma concur, is perhaps in their opinion of Cho.) Amma, because of the depiction of the poor Brahmin and the rich Brahmin in the serial. The rich Brahmin represents for my capitalist mother, the ideal Brahmin in the ideal situation he must be in, in today’s material world. The poor priestly Brahmin eases her conscience by staying true to what the scriptures dictated as to what the Brahmin should be – poor and priestly. Overall, my family watches Enge Brahmanan, because it appeals to their closet RSS sentiments (even if poor Cho did not himself intend it to do so), and reinforces the superiority of the Brahmin above all else. Or so they like to think. GASP! Did I mention Cho as one of the reasons why they watch it?? 

 

Today, Amma still says, “I don’t watch TV at all.” But also remembers to add, “Enge Brahmanan paapom ana naangellam. Chellama aduku Where Brahmin nu vera per vechirkom. (giggle) Pinna Cho vandal, pakka maatoma?” What can I say? Every night at 8, its veda gosham all the way.

 

 

A MEMORABLE RITUAL

 

As soon as school got over, I would rush out to meet Thatha. My bag placed in the front beneath his legs, we would set out on his green TVS 50, not towards K K Nagar where we lived, but in the opposite direction, towards Hot and Sweet Chat Shop in Pondy Bazaar.

 

There was no need for any consultation. Walking straight to the counter, Thatha would buy me 300 ml of Fountain Pepsi and a cutlet. I would gobble the cutlet and gulp down my Pepsi quickly, so we could rush back home, lest Ammamma noticed something amiss. Thatha would watch indulgently as I enjoyed myself, knowing only too well that it was not doing his granddaughter any good.

 

Five kilometers would be covered in five minutes flat. After allowing me about three minutes to relax, Ammamma would force a tall glass of hot milk and a plate of curd rice down my throat, refusing to listen to any excuses. She would watch my face carefully as I struggled through it all. As soon as she disappeared into the kitchen, I would run to the bathroom and retch my insides out.

 

Still, we did it everyday – the only little act of rebellion I was capable of, with my best friend as accomplice.

 

MEETING AMMAMMA

No matter at what time of the day I go over, I always hear pots and pans clanging in the kitchen at the back of the house. I tiptoe to the kitchen, and peep in, half my face hidden. I see her stooped form, either washing vessels in her little sink, or cooking. Anything Ammamma does generates noise enough to compete with a garbage collecting truck. Obviously, she can’t hear me when I call out to her, in the din. And when she finally does, her face lights up in delight on seeing her favourite grandchild. She hastily finishes what she is doing and arranges all the vessels on the floor. (Ammamma has some sort of affinity to the ground level; all her essentials are always arranged on the floor, or on little stools just a few inches high. The reachable shelves and the upper shelves are always suspiciously empty. Sometimes I think that is why she stoops so badly these days and appears so much shorter.) She wipes her calloused hands on an old towel and drags me out of the dark kitchen, into the dining hall. She puts on the light, puts on her glasses and peers into my face, like an elf examining a giant shoe. Then, she smiles, and says, “Ayyo! Moni evlo osaram ayiduthu!” (Moni has become so tall!), five years after I have reached this height. She holds my hand and drags me to the interior room, saying “Come. We have to talk”, in her thick Tamil accent, in one of her frequent endearing attempts to speak English.

 

We sit across each other in two shabby, extremely comfortable chairs. This is how we always sit, when she decides to dispense her pearls of wisdom. She enquires about my life, college, my working hours, teachers and my future plans, from which she shrewdly picks a point she wants to harp on. “Naanum co-education le dhan padichen. Ana boys separate, girls separate. Sendu padingo. Ana edukku oruthar oruthar madi le poi okkandukanum?” (I also studied in a co-education school, but the boys and girls always sat separately. You study together, but where is the need to sit on each other’s laps?); or, something on the lines of “Cinema kaaraloda vechukadhey. Avale namba mudiyadu” (Don’t mix with people connected to the film industry. They are not reliable people.) or “Journalism lam vendam. Anavasya danger. Kandavaal oda lam pesanum. Nee pesama lawyer aidu, civil lawyer.” (Don’t do journalism. It is dangerous, and you would have to talk to the nastiest people. You become a lawyer, a civil lawyer). And when I either defiantly shake my head and argue, or laugh bemusedly, she smiles and says “Apdiye unga amma madri – rakshasi!” (You are just like your mother – a rakshasi).

 

I see her picking at the sleeve of her blouse as she talks, the colour of her blouse not ‘matching’ the colour of her sari in any imaginable stretch of the word. She shakes her legs back and forth, the dead nails on her dry feet making rhythmic scraping sounds against the floor. I think she is deliberately unkempt, so that people don’t think she is one of those immature oldies who try looking younger than they really are.

 

Suddenly, she remembers something, and disappears into the kitchen. Five minutes later, she reappears with a plate of mixture, a lacto king from her old kissan jam jar filled with toffees and two pieces of delicious homemade thenga burfi. As I feast on the goodies, she carefully peruses the day’s English newspaper while eating a toffee herself, her tongue clicking as she does, arrives at a page, and says “Ah! Moni, kekanum nu nenachen, ‘waiver’ na enna?” (Moni, I meant to ask. What does ‘waiver’ mean?), having read the paper thoroughly despite her limited knowledge of English. I try to explain in my limited knowledge of pure Tamil, arriving at the right explanation after five minutes. She then pinches my cheeks and says “Moni smart”, because I know the meaning of the word ‘waiver’. And then she proceeds to get to the core of current political issues, putting me to shame, but also helping me learn, if only her highly biased opinions on everything.

 

Then she goes on to tell me that I should wear my hair long, not wear tight clothes, and resume paattu class. She then zones out, staring into space, her eyes bright, as she recalls her younger days, vague lessons from her school textbooks, the Kaveri and the Kumbakonam temples. She starts to hum in her very sweet, trained voice, a song her father used to sing for her. Silence follows.

 

After a while, I tell her I have to leave. We walk out of the room, she, to the key rack, and I, to the fridge, to eat ice off the roof of the freezer. I hear an “Ey!” and turn around to see her brandishing a cane, threatening to whack my bum. Laughing I run to the gate; she turns on her ancient transistor as she follows me, and tells me to call as soon as I reach home, knowing very well I won’t.

 

She stands there in the balcony of her immensely modest house, waiting to watch me until my bike is out of sight. I turn around, and the bright red kumkumam at the crown of her white-gold head catches the sunlight. I vow to visit her more often.