That's What Its All About

A house that is being emptied takes one through tears and fears of yester-years, now alchemised into nostalgic smiles. Is life always amusing on hindsight? Sometimes trivial caricatures of the past brightens the eye. Rooms built of bricks that hold lives cemented by understanding have to be quit when the time comes. Cupboards and folders hold memory-movies on yellowing inland letters of correspondences that communicate and yet do not bind, of aspirations, hardships, perceptions, relationships that help rediscover the yielding bamboo-like strength of the mind,of words and meanings beyond, of distances travelled, of life itself. I pride myself as the disinterested cynical observer. Why then am I not surprised at the slow birth of the smile that grows into a grin, the shaking the head as the mind tries to imagine scenes and untold stories unfolding on paper?

We sit here, in a curiously formed circle, Periamma, Chitra and me surrounded by half packed cardboard cartons, tapes, scissors, books and newspapers. We are packing. We are moving on, to a brand new apartment, where wood is being polished and walls are being painted, getting ready for us. I have not lived in this house for long. My days here have been a ceaseless routine revolving around work, late dinners and sleep. There is no reason for me to feel nostalgic or wistful. And yet, I have words! And what words! I need to weave these words that I have suddenly found, file them away for posterity.

The folder is brown. It has 'Godrej Soaps' written across in white bold font. A small card announces 'VC Sekhar' - written in an illegible hurried scroll. On opening, a bunch of papers, inland letters and report cards greet me. The black ink looks so comfortable and glossy that I can almost feel the smoothness of the nib that wrote them. Testimonials, remarks, anecdotes - words and more words. Letters between brothers dated in the 1950's. Some of them in english, most in tamil. One letter written by a friend to another in 1944 explaining why he could not make it to the wedding.

I run my hands over Thatha's handwriting. He writes tamil with the flourish of the english alphabet. This brings a fond smile to my face. Against the "From Address" I see "East Car Street, Chidambaram." I wonder what East Car Street looked like then! I can almost see him sitting in the front porch of his modest home, in a white dhoti and khadi shirt, inland letter supported by a book, and writing this letter. I can see Paati (grandmother), clad in her nine yards saree, holding out a tumbler of freshly brewed Kaapi to her husband. My eyes almost catch the glare of her nose-stud. Was there a bunch of jasmine tucked in her hair?

"Dear Venkuttu," one letter runs, "I was wondering if we could perform the Poonal (sacred thread) ceremony of Ramji,Sayee and Jelli together. That way it would be more economical."

"Dear Venkuttu", another dated sometime in 1959 runs, "All are fine here. Kumar goes to school without giving any trouble. Ramji has passed his exams." My father (Kumar), five years old, would have walked to school,hair neatly combed, clad in half trousers and new striped shirt, with his satchel and chalk. The letters colour the dull lifeless routine of everyday life, accentuates small joys and emphasises on detachment and the "bigger scheme" of life during hardships. They are optimistic and full of love for life. One letter written by the father to his son in 1981, professes great satisfaction at a pair of newly bought spectacles. I am amazed at the impeccable english, written so engagingly, that it can hold light against any established writer's works.

Report cards dated between 1929 and 1933, speak of the progress of Venkatraman Thatha, my Thatha's younger brother. The third 'form' report says "Poor in Maths. Needs to improve." I am surprised. "But wasn't Venkatraman Thatha the most intelligent of the lot?" I ask Chitra. We are both tickled by this remark by the teacher. There are letters of recommendations, some certificates, bank passbooks and receipts.

Periamma tells us that the brothers were very close. "There used to be atleast four letters per month back and forth between the brothers. That was their only form of communication.They stayed miles apart and yet were very close. You know what I mean? My father-in-law (Venkatraman Thatha) was the younger brother, he used to call your thatha by name. But he used to call your Paati 'Manni'. (The traditional respectful way of greeting one's elder brother's wife) I used to find that amusing. Do you know your Thatha was a very patient and even tempered man?"

Bank passbooks dated in the late 70's and early 80's,show bank balances in the order of a few rupees,the highest being twenty rupees. "That's the balance with which your Periappa and I started our household here in Bombay," says Periamma with a curious smile.

I remember the day, when I was still enjoying the unsullied innocence of childhood, Thatha sat outside on his easy chair enjoying a quiet evening. I do not remember the conversation or context. I suppose I must have asked him one of my insistent incessant questions. "It is true," he said, with twinkling eyes,"that I have not built mansions or made a lot of money. But I think I have built lives instead." He patted my head fondly with an indulgence that only people who love unconditionally can afford.

Each paper in the folder stands testimony to countless selfless sacrifices for children to produce a generation of engineers and MBA's that spawned a further generation of green card holders and Phd's. Hours spent pondering over financial problems, small savings, thoughts of purchases abandoned to save some more, simple meals, occasional 'payasam', modest homes, felicitations over small progresses, pride over children's academic achievements, carnatic concerts in temples, hours spent discussing the intricacies of music in the front porch, movies in open theatres under starlit skies costing a few annas (their only source of entertainment) - discrete moments that built lives. Ours.

When our eyes meet, amidst the fond laughter, we "the living", the grandchildren, pause for a moment. A single thought of quiet pride and gratitude, of hope that in some corner lurking within us, is the same strength and goodness.