My Adopted Grandfather
When my baby sister graduated from toddling to walking, the first word she uttered was "Maymay" upon seeing the goat often summoned at mealtime when my mother handfed her dollops of mashed rice and lentils. The goat had a black face, white ears and red eyes. It would bleat happily munching on the banana peels I offered as part of the ritual. Soon we all started calling the goat Maymay. I was actually fond of that goat. Besides having droopy ears, it also had two wattles dangling from its neck which the girl next door told me were udders only to be proven wrong by the goat that gave me a head-butt when I tried to milk it.
In those days, having animals as house pets was an unfamiliar concept in South India. The few cats and dogs in the neighborhood were all strays. My grandmother would toss a broom at a stealthy cat foraging in the kitchen swearing at it in Sanskrit. I had no idea what those Sanskrit words meant although I had a feeling that if you cursed in a holy language you didn't have to wash your mouth afterwards. The only animals sacred in my grandmother's book were cows, monkeys and elephants, none of which would conveniently fit into a shoebox to be hidden under my cot, so Maymay was the closest I ever came to in having a pet.
My father was proud in having me named Bharath, a synonym for India, since I was born a few years after India's independence. What he failed to realize was that many other parents had equally been patriotic causing a cacophonic flock of my classmates to yell "Present, Sir!" whenever the teacher took attendance. "If you throw ten stones into the school yard, you are bound to hit at least six Bharaths," my namesakes would complain. What a calamity, I thought.
We lived in Madurai, a small town in the 1950’s. Our house was on the corner of Tank and Market streets, a single-story brick and mortar dwelling which had a narrow staircase on the outside that led up to an open terrace where wet clothes hung on wires, and chili peppers, turmeric roots and other condiments dried on the floor. From the terrace one could see the Plymouth dealership across the road, the police station adjacent, and the market square to the right with an assortment of shops and hotels. The terrace was also the place to fly kites on windy days and have family dinners on summer nights in the glow of a petromax lamp, thereafter fall asleep on flaxen mats gazing at the winking galaxy.
As our house was juxtaposed to Narasus Coffee Shop, visitors would often smell freshly ground coffee upon entry and politely ask for a frothy cup with milk and sugar, thus delving into the tight coffee budget my grandmother piously maintained. Past the front veranda, the interior stretched narrowly with two bedrooms on the side, a courtyard with skylight, a prayer room and a small kitchen on the far side. The backyard had a drinking well, a half-dead lemon tree, a jasmine creeper that had trouble creeping, a bathroom with a copper boiler, and a latrine. The parapet wall near the well functioned as the cornerstone for gossip that spread across many parapet walls along the entire neighborhood piloted by nosey grandmothers.
My household, lacking a grandfather, was governed by the matriarchy. My grandmother was the five-star General. My mother was somewhere between a Colonel and a Lieutenant, depending on the whimsical mood of my grandmother. My father was a foot soldier—with a horse he might have gained cavalry ranking. Any attempt by my father to challenge the power structure would send him retreating to the veranda with an invisible tail wedged between his legs. A grandfather was not at hand to overthrow the government. What a calamity, I thought.
Except for the time when my father went to work at the local bank, he was a permanent fixture on the canvas-backed easy chair on the veranda, flipping through newspapers. His friends would drop by to carry on lengthy conversations with him in English only to go inside and talk to my mother and grandmother in perfect Tamil. “Why would they talk to my father in English when they all knew Tamil?” I would ask. "Don't mind them. The British made them feel inadequate as an elite class unless they spoke in English. How convenient for the British!" my grandmother would screech between gritted teeth.
I didn’t know English nor was I familiar with the gibberish my baby sister spoke that sounded just as strange. I was not sure if she made up words as she went along or spoke the language God only knew. However, I felt sorry for her because when she was born the spot above her forehead was soft which meant she had damaged goods beneath. There were other telltale signs of abnormality. In the mornings she smelled like milk but, as the day wore on, she smelled like sour yogurt. I was convinced she was decaying inside. "Don't hurt my baby sister, Planet Saturn!" I would pray.
When she began to teethe, she was gnawing on everything from the doormat to dirty sandals. It used to disgust me yet I ignored since she seemed certifiably retarded. However, when she sank her sharp new teeth on my arm while I was dozing off, I lost my cool and spanked her. The very next second she brought the entire house down with her screams. She pointed her little finger at me, then to the pink area on her posterior. I was immediately placed under house arrest, sentenced to spend my weekends indoors memorizing multiplication tables with which I was having difficulty. I hated my family for punishing me so harshly for a slap not even that hard on the bottom of a baby that had bitten me much harder the proof of which remained as a scab on my arm in the shape of a turtle. As you can imagine, a distance grew between me and everyone. My status in my own house was reduced from that of a confirmed citizen to a trespassing vagrant. What a calamity, I thought.
The public grammar school I attended was only two furlongs away. I had to cross two busy streets to reach school. A servant maid was sent as my escort. She was a wrinkly woman with protruding teeth who chewed on betel leaves, periodically spitting out the juice that resembled wet blood. Because she was never allowed to chew around my house, she looked forward to my school trips more than I. She would open a fold in her sari to produce shiny green leafage to which she would add a paste of calcium and some tobacco shavings. It never failed to amaze me how her mouth turned red when she set her molars in motion.
But the amazement suddenly vanished one day when she picked me up from school carrying a bulky burlap bag. She said it was an errand she was running for a neighbor. The bag had a tinge of red which I presumed was from her sloppy spittle. As we were crossing a busy street, a bus swerved by almost hitting us. She dropped the bag. Only then did I notice what fell and rolled out of her bag. It was the head of Maymay! I saw the black face, the white ears and the red eyes.
My days at the hospital were bad. I was traumatized by nightmares where Maymay cried helplessly, blood gushing out of its severed head, its red glassy eyes searching for the rest of the body by the bus stop, around the post office and all over the market. Several severed heads of cows, donkeys and dogs also made cameo appearances asking the local constabulary to find their missing bodies. Apparently I had been running a high fever at crisis levels causing my father to lose sleep and my mother to weep like the Ganges. The only bright spot in the whole episode was my father praising me for being brave and my mother nestling me snugly in her arms for the first time I could remember. I loved all the attention and felt that my citizenship rating was restored.
When I finally returned home after a couple of weeks, what caught my attention was the sight of an old man in loincloth sitting by the entrance, his naked torso showing a hollow ribcage against the morning sun. Once I was inside, I felt like a soldier returning from war in that everyone from my grandmother to my baby sister hugged and kissed me. While a part of me relished the welcome, a part of me wanted no part of all the fuss. I badly wanted my vagrancy status back.
As I went to wash my feet by the backyard well, the usual gossip was in full swing. My nosey grandmother was getting feedback over the fence from our neighbor—a century old lady missing most teeth and some hair—who knew the resume of the old man sitting outside. "He is a consummate runner!" was her remark which aroused my curiosity. It seemed logical to me that a man with a concave stomach and streamlined body must be quite a sprinter. My eavesdropping was interrupted by the noise of a strange woman thwacking wet clothes on a rock. Suds of soap flew in the air and birds took to the sky. Only then it dawned on me that she was a new recruit, and the leaf-chewing, blood-spitting woman was no longer on our payroll. It was a huge relief for I hadn't the stomach to see another Maymay head roll out of a gunny sack. As I looked back, the grandmothers were now talking in hushed tones giving me the cold eye. I knew the look and made a quick exit.
Inside the house I noticed a battle brewing between my mother and father in the bedroom. My mother was giving him the third degree for having given two dhotis, a blanket and a coir mat for the old prune sitting outside. Despite my father's appeals that the items were old and frayed, and that the elderly man was a scholarly sadhu from Palghat proficient in English, Sanskrit, Malayalam, Tamil, Kannada, Telugu and Hindi, my mother pounded her gavel of justice and asked for silence. Such battles were commonplace but they usually revolved around two topics—one was with money since my stingy grandmother had control over the purse strings; and the other had to do with cooking since my orthodox grandmother banned the use of onion, garlic and radish as smelly vegetables unworthy of human consumption. Now an old Tarzan in loincloth had entered the war zone. I was impressed.
The battle escalated to new heights when my grandmother walked in hurling Sanskrit curses. "That old man is crazy!" she repeated three times, taking deep breaths. Then it was all about his habit of fleeing from responsibility. She went on to give an elaborate description of a man who had a string of six daughters followed by a son, a man so distraught over the dowry system that he would run away for months at a stretch till some noble soul located and brought him back. All his daughters somehow got married, thank God for small mercies. It was no wonder his only son disowned him, ordering him never to show his sorry face again.
"He seems like a nice old pundit to me. He recited a beautiful Sanskrit stanza from the Ramayana!" It was my mother speaking now. What a turnaround! Just when I was excited to see my father being ambushed by two women in battle, my mother had switched sides much to my father's relief. I was too young to realize that my mother was adept at guerrilla warfare where a Colonel could make a General run for cover. But my grandmother, a remarkable chess player in her own right, could smell a checkmate a dozen moves ahead so her final words were: "Whatever you do, don't invite him in. And don't promise any food. We can't afford it." It was then I decided to get the facts from the proverbial horse’s mouth.
"Thatha", I called out to him. By now he was wearing a dhoti and was relaxing on the mat outside. "Excellent!" he said, clapping his hands and laughing with a cough. "I can't remember the last time a Chotu Babu called me a grandfather." From then on I became Chotu and he became Thatha. And, as fate would have it, I had adopted a grandfather. His story broke my heart. He was married at the age of eight to a girl who was only two. They donned a cross-thread on him by the holy fire giving him the sanctity of bachelorhood only to take it away two hours later, shoving him into matrimony. It was bad enough to have a two-year-old biting you here and there in the shape of a sister but to have such a tyrant as your permanent roommate was unimaginable. His running made sense to me. What a calamity, I thought.
For a man who was both old and broke, he was the picture of resilience. Had he started a survival camp, I'd have been the first one to sign up. He contacted all the temple priests and methodically made a list of the patrons who offered free lunches to the poor on auspicious days. He also mapped out the Brahmin houses in the area to make rounds at night with a bowl saying "bhiksham dehi" meaning "give me alms" in Sanskrit. Knowing the cheapskate my grandmother was, he never came asking at our place. Initially, he slept outside our house. Soon my father grew some vertebrae, put his foot down, and Thatha started sleeping on the terrace. Within a few weeks things began to change for the better.
Thatha posted a sign on the street corner—"Palmistry 2 Annas/ Horoscope 4 Annas!" It equated to an eighth and a fourth of a rupee but a rupee in those days went quite far. Within a week he had a booming business for good reason. Market Street was always packed with people. And people were always worried about their future and wanted to know if any bad karma presaged them. Thatha was a charmer conversant in several languages with a sound understanding of astrology and psychology. Consequently, cash began to gush forth like oil in Arabia. Despite that he maintained his free lunch schedule at the temples because of the appetizing food they offered. But at nights he stopped begging and dined at the local eateries.
Thatha also became my chaperon to school. The daily routine was to stop at the Chettiar shop where he would buy me a peanut brittle, then fill out RMDC lottery coupons at the counter and mail them. The promise of a big payout loomed in the horizon. When he told me he had been doing that for years never having won anything, I quipped that he ought to consult a real fortune teller about his prospects and he roared with laughter. As you can imagine, Thatha and I became fast friends. My grades also improved significantly in school, thanks to his daily tutoring and encouragement. When I showed him my report card, he proudly said, "Excellent, Chotu!" clapping his hands and laughing with a cough.
In our walks he sometimes made me feel sad. He told me how he had worked all his life to support his family doing odd jobs, never having the time to share his knowledge or creativity. He ran away just to have the seclusion to write in peace but people always found him. He alluded to the time when temples gave out free food to scholars so they could focus on artistic and creative pursuits. Even kings in the old days treated artists with great respect, rewarding them handsomely for enriching our cultural heritage. Temple festivals were the forum for classical music, dancing and literary discourses. He was sorry that those days were long gone.
Within my household, Thatha initially was treated like the pariah by my grandmother so he always used public latrines and bathed in Vaigai River. My baby sister continued to play the anarchist, eating my chalks and tearing up my schoolwork. My father continued his practice of reading newspapers and pledging obeisance to matriarchy.
Thatha soon began to tutor students on the terrace at nights by the petromax lamp. This coincided with my grandmother leaving on a temple-trotting pilgrimage with her geriatric friends. In lieu of tuition fee, a student’s father provided a bamboo cot and built a thatched roof on the terrace. Another father decided to pay in the form of vegetables and condiments. Yet another did free garden work on the dying plants in the backyard. This led to some interesting developments.
My mother was a cooking aficionado always curious about international cuisine. Now came all these free vegetables and condiments from Thatha. Besides, he was giving her tips on recipes from Italy, China, Mexico and other places. Our menu had onion, garlic, radish, beet, carrot, chowchow and noolkol along with exotic items like vinegar, soy sauce, salsa, paprika and oregano. Suffice it to say that my mother was having a field day with her culinary experiments. All of us loved her concoctions. Even my fussy sister became Oliver Twist asking for more. Since Thatha kept receiving these goods instead of cash, the mothers down the street were also given free veggies and spices for their cooking extravaganza. In the absence of the geriatric brigade, a new revolution was in the offing.
Our own backyard was also looking different with the citrus tree bearing lemons and the creeper beaming with jasmines. My mother began circling the newly erected tulasi plant pedestal in the mornings after a bath chanting mantras. Soon gardeners were summoned to replicate it in other backyards and the entire gamut of mothers started circling holy pedestals to the point of giddiness.
Thatha also recommended the use of modern multi-functional stainless steel utensils in place of brass and copper vessels that were old fashioned and tedious to clean. My mother immediately traded the old kitchenware along with her torn silk saris to get new stainless steel utensils from merchants. Soon other neighbors followed suit with the result that the kitchens in the entire community were brimming with zesty meals in glittering containers.
Along came another change when the son of a medical shop owner passed his exams for the first time ever. Thatha received several cans of Ovaltine as a gift that he readily passed on to us and others. Children who had in the past refused to drink hot milk were now fond of this beverage. It became a rage even with the fathers who were asking for a creamy cup of Ovaltine upon returning home from work. No grandmother was around to veto such developments.
It was then a surprising event took place. Using his meager savings, Thatha arranged for an art festival at the Meenakshi temple. A throng of musicians played various instruments exhibiting their talent. Thatha himself gave a beautiful discourse comparing Valmiki, Tulsidas and Kamban in their poetic rendition of the Ramayana. I had no idea how eloquent and erudite he was until that day when I heard the applause from knowledgeable pundits. A feast followed that fed all the poor artists in the area. Thatha was appreciated by everyone for his generosity in organizing such an event. Afterwards when I imitated him by saying, “Excellent Thatha!” clapping my hands and laughing with a cough, he was so amused that he gave me a big, hearty hug. That was truly a memorable moment for me.
A postcard from my grandmother arrived stating that the gang was returning the following week and that she was planning to embark on another temple visit with the family to sacrifice my sister’s hair in Tirupati. I have seen baby pictures of me with a shaven head that were pathetic. It seemed atrocious to me that grandmothers took it upon themselves to pray heavily and create hair loss on defenseless children in the name of God. What a calamity, I thought.
As if reading my mind, Thatha played a key role. When my father casually mentioned of his dilemma in taking time off from work when the bank was undergoing audit, Thatha simply said, "What's the rush? Let the girl grow up a bit. You are the man of the house to call the shots!" In the past, no one had ever addressed him as the man of the house; nor did he have any inkling that he was indeed one. Suddenly his eyes took on a new sparkle. His body Tamil changed considerably. He seemed puffed up with confidence. And when my grandmother arrived with her clan of raisins, a coup d’état was at play.
My father bluntly refused to see his daughter's hair taken away. Despite my grandmother's protests, he shook his head firmly and said, "Amma, enough is enough. We already shaved her head once last year as part of the ear-piercing ceremony. Now she is beginning to walk, bumping into things. To shave her head now would be like taking away the God-given cushion. Besides, I am the breadwinner in the family, the Man Of The House. From now on what I say goes!" I was mesmerized by his speech. Even my mother ran into the kitchen to giggle privately. We had a new flag hoisted in the house, thanks to Thatha.
This incident also had a domino effect. The entire street now had fathers flipping through newspapers and running households. An air of dominance of the male species finally surfaced. New dishes were being prepared and purse strings were let loose. The old government was overthrown completely. The backyard gossip which skipped over parapet walls was now reduced to moans and groans by grandmothers much like in a POW camp, except that there were no barbed wire fences and no escape attempts ever made.
Then came the news of Thatha having won the biggest prize in RMDC history—one lakh! The newspapers carried the story and he became the talk of the town. He had a tough time turning down offers of free lunches and dinners. As a celebrity, my grandmother wanted him to sleep in one of our bedrooms with an electric fan, and use our bathroom. Overnight he had become her favorite. “One hundred thousand rupees!” she would exclaim repeatedly. Thatha was no slouch; he took advantage of our hospitality and slept in our bedroom. When the neighbors came to visit him bearing fruits and flowers asking what he planned to do with all the money, he simply drummed his fingers and said, "I'm still thinking!" Soon a rumor floated that he was flying to America to live a grand life.
Thatha still maintained his routine of taking me back and forth to school. However, he stopped getting RMDC coupons after buying me a peanut brittle. He also closed down his fortune-telling business so he could devote more time to writing. But he continued to tutor students at nights on the terrace.
One day while walking to school I asked him, "Thatha, what are you writing everyday?" He laughed and said, "Chotu, I am not writing my life story or anything. I used to have great passion for creative writing but never found the time. Now I am content translating some Sanskrit literature.” Then he looked earnestly at me and said, “Chotu, you are very special to me. I hope my love for literature has inspired you to read a lot, hone your skills and become a creative writer one day. Would you promise to be one?" My eyes became moist thinking how much he believed in me. I promised him.
When the news came one early morning that Thatha had collapsed while walking by the river and died, a part of me died with him. He had been my best friend for a whole year. I sobbed uncontrollably when I saw his body go up in flames during cremation. First it was Maymay and now Thatha. "God, why are you so cruel?" I cried all night long into my pillow. But then I remembered all his wonderful words of advice. I decided not to be sad because that would be the last thing he would want from me. Thereafter I walked to school alone and refused to have anyone take Thatha’s place.
And then came another bit of news that turned our house upside down. Thatha had left his winnings to me! He had bequeathed it in his will, notarized by the district judge, along with a note to me that simply said—"Chotu: Never forget to write. I will always be with you!" I wept feeling the warmth of his affection. My parents had no clue as to the emotional roller coaster ride I was going through. My grandmother kept saying, "I told you he was crazy!" My mother wanted to move into a new house with the money. My father had other plans such as quitting his job and becoming a consultant. All sorts of people on the street started congratulating me. Even school girls to whom I had hitherto been non existent brought in gifts. What a calamity, I thought.
When Thatha's son came into the picture, everything became ugly. He accused my father of having robbed the money out of a senile old man. The fortune belonged to him and not to an unrelated boy like me. My grandmother was livid. She cursed him for kicking his own father out of the house like a rabid dog, now pretending to be a loving son. She used such slurs in Sanskrit that would have made our forefathers cringe in heaven. But he insisted on being the heir apparent. The heated exchanges became the latest gossip that tore through the entire neighborhood like a hurricane.
All was finally resolved. My father was kind enough to ask me what I wanted to do with the money since it was in my name. Thinking of Thatha, I told him what came from my heart. It was a great thrill to see my father go according to my wishes.
All the money was placed in a trust with only the interest being used to help needy artists. A cultural center was established at the temple, its members being destitute writers, painters, musicians and dancers. Funding was made available to feed them and promote their work.
At the inaugural function, attended by about thirty poor musicians, artists and scholars, we all stood in a circle holding hands, as mantras were chanted, accompanied by music—the air festive and vibrant—in honor of Thatha. After a classical dance performance, a special recital was done by a group of young poets. The event concluded with a feast, the menu consisting of items Thatha often raved about during his days in poverty. I looked around and felt privileged to be a part of such a noble endeavor. For a moment I thought I heard Thatha say, "Excellent, Chotu!" clapping his hands and laughing with a cough.
The End