My Father - A Short History of his Salad Days

My father will be turning 72 years old on March 6th 2015. This means he was born in 1943.

The truth is, he was born in 1942. It was common practice in pre-1960s India to register a child's birth a year late. Contrary to what we believe today about giving children an early start, old India seriously considered the advantages of being older among one's 'peers'.

I'm not sure how this could be explained if and when the child stuck up like a tall poppy in class. Perhaps he was hailed as a giant. Or perhaps being tall gave him some undefinable advantage (proven by studies post-2010) - both on the playground as well as in leadership.

Or did his peers rally around him because he was emotionally more mature? Or perhaps stunted emotionally because he was stuck with a younger crowd? Or it might very well have been that no difference was noted as almost everyone was a year late. I don't know. I'm just throwing out ideas here.

I don't know exactly where my father was born. It could have been Madras (now Chennai)...or it could have been some out of the way place within Tamil Nadu state (the most cosmopolitan, temperate, safe, southernmost state...to which I belong as well :)). My grandfather was a police officer in British India and in Independent India, and as was expected by the police force, he etched his career in the different towns and cities of Tamil Nadu.

I know, however, that by the time my youngest uncle - the youngest child - was born in 1950, my grandfather had settled for good in the Royapettah locality of Madras. Royapettah is a historic place, boasting old schools such as St.William's, the Little Flower Convent, Wesley, and Sacred Heart Church Park Presentation Convent (my dear school!).

Royapettah is rich in wonders such as the Nawab of Arcot's palaces, some of which serve as the Madras University buildings. One can spot the Indo-Saracenic buildings of Queen Mary's College, and the neo-classical gothic columns of the police headquarters. Additionally, there are a slew of >500 year old temples (from ancient India), mosques >300 years old (from the time of the Deccan Nawabs), and churches >150 years old (from British times).

But more than all of these architectural wonders is the hole in the wall Basha's Halwa House, the birthplace of the very distinctive Dum ka Roat - a sweet meat made from cream of wheat, eggs, milk, khoa, ghee, baked in 50 inch round sheet pans till it burns a brown crust, and sprinkled with toasted pumpkin seeds. Mmmmm! There is nothing to beat warmed up Dum ka Roat...plain or with vanilla ice cream...except the heart attack it will induce, of course.

Even after my parents moved into their Anna Nagar bungalow in 1980, my father would bring home 250 grams of this Dum ka Roat every Friday evening. If he couldn't, then we'd stop by on our way home from the beach every Sunday evening. Happy times.

But back to my father...He is the second of 4 brothers and a sister. He attended Madras Christian College School on Harrington Road, and MCTM Chidambaram Chettiar School in Purusawalkam. There were times when, after school, my father and his brothers would go to their dad's police station. There, crouching under the wooden tables and sheltering behind the chairs, my father and his brothers would more often than not watch hardened criminals being brought in handcuffed, beaten black and blue with laathis (wooden batons), and thrown behind bars. Did all this graphic violence affect my father somehow? I think so.

I believe my policeman grandfather had a strange hold on my father's psychological development and self-esteem. From what I hear from my own father, I have reason to believe that my paternal grandfather raised his sons on a regular diet of war stories, beatings, militaristic discipline, distant authoritative parenting, and more beatings. I believe that most fathers of the time were like this.

That generation which witnessed the ravages of the World Wars certainly parented a generation of crazy baby boomers! For some reason, men of my father's generation the world over, seem obsessed with the World Wars. My father, for instance, often described the terror experienced by Madras upon being bombed by the German sub 'Emden' in 1914...as if he had witnessed it first-hand. Of course, he was only re-enacting his own father's terror, eyes wide open. It was as if he were trying to seek a connection with his father by donning his role, or what he remembered of him.

Like all Muslim boys, Abba (which is how I address my father) went on to the New College (named after the New College of Oxford, a comedy of errors for sure). He studied Chemistry, bunked classes for the NCC (the National Cadet Corps), conjured up names ('pipette' and 'burette', for example) for the long suffering Profs, and enjoyed the perks of being naturally handsome. Psst! My younger son resembles him very much indeed.

He and his bunch of friends also bunked classes to watch matinees - Bollywood, Hollywood, Kollywood...They joked about the actors' names - "Henry Fonda, yeddu da bonda!" (Fonda, pick up that fried doughball!), "Giri-giri Peck" (for Gregory Peck), and "Kiriku Douglas" (Kirk Douglas). The all-time favorites were Jerry Lewis, Raj Kapoor, Dilip Kumar, MGR, Nagesh, Mehmood, Mukri, Johnny Walker, Clint Eastwood, Cary Grant, and Gregory Peck, in no particular order. Alfred Hitchcock and Woody Allen films were highly sought after. James Bond, Dracula and Sherlock Holmes were iconic figures.

Actresses were only to be ogled, not admired. Simi Garewal, for instance, was referred to as "a slab of chocolate, with 2 raisins" (I typed those words with my eyes rolling up). If actresses were not ogled, then they were worshipped. Yes, the objectification of women as saints or as sinners was alive and kicking in 1960s India! My father, for instance, spoke of (strangely!) Marilyn Monroe, Nargis, Greta Garbo, and Vivien Leigh in a very respectful tone. I don't think my father and his friends ever really understood women, to be honest, from my observation of my parents' marriage, over the span of 39 years. Four decades later, when he read in TIME magazine about Marilyn's possible murder by a forced intake of barbiturates, my father was most pained that anyone would want to harm this beautiful, innocent woman. He was quite disgusted with Robert Kennedy, for sure.

Soon after my father graduated, my policeman grandfather passed on. Since the first and the third sons were both in medical school, someone had to pay the bills...Enter my father, the second son. My gung-ho father eagerly tried to join the Indian army and was rejected. With his natural optimism and general good charm, he jumped into - voila, pharmaceutical sales! In the early 1960s, Sarabhai Pharmaceuticals was producing generic drugs at affordable prices, and its genial salesmen (such as my father) were increasing its market reach well into the rural areas of all the Indian states.  

During my childhood, my father often recounted this story of a foray into rural Tamil Nadu. One night, after making his calls to doctors' clinics and on his way home, my father rammed his Royal Enfield Bullet motorcycle into a cow standing in the middle of the road. It was a dirt road with rice fields sloping away on either side, it was dark, and my father was dead beat.

The cow gave a pathetic low and fell dead. My father sat stunned. A farmer shouted and rounded up his farm hands to attack my dad. Even at this moment, my father kept his wits about him. He knew he wouldn't be able to fight a gang of angry men who wouldn't listen to reason. So he wheeled his bike over the cow's tail and sped off as fast as he could.

My father didn't relate this story to crow about how quickly he got away. I think he felt guilty for having left the farmer in the lurch. Hence the repeated storytelling, akin to a confession. My father knew all too well what hunger pangs felt like, as he had often gone to bed without dinner after his father's passing.

In 1960s India, when 'famine' was a well-known word, and patriotism was on fire with the incursions from China and Pakistan, I believe Indians truly winced at another's pain. I believe that my generous father truly meant to repay the farmer for his loss, but never really worked up the courage to face that gang of hardy men.

Fast-forward to 1975, when my parents had an arranged marriage, and moved into a 2 bedroom cozy flat in Lloyd's colony, Royapettah. I popped out 9 months later, in October 1975, a Libran, born a daughter but in reality, my father's son.  

The Quality of Mercy

This week, I was voted the 'Best Speaker' at my local Toastmasters meeting. I attempted an organized speech, with an introduction, a body (with 3 main points), and a conclusion, from chapter 2 of the Competent Communication manual.
 

 

I believe my audience was listening as some were taking notes. From the little chits that were passed over to me, when I had concluded, I felt very much appreciated and encouraged. Thank you, fellow Toastmasters, for your guidance, mentorship, for listening, and for your affirmation! Without further ado, here is my speech:
 

 

The Quality of Mercy
 

You all have heard of Shakespeare, the Bard of Avon, who lived 500 years ago and who has enriched our lives with his plays and poems. He wrote a play called ‘The Merchant of Venice’ in 1598. This play contains one of the most well-known of Shakespeare’s persuasive speeches – ‘The Quality of Mercy’, made by the leading lady Portia.
 

This speech is addressed by Portia to the court in general, and to Shylock, the villainous usurer, in particular. It is an appeal to the moral conscience of Shylock, to spare Antonio’s life. Antonio has stood guarantee for a defaulted loan and now risks losing, literally, a pound of flesh as punishment for the same. As we know, losing a pound of flesh would lead to certain death by bleeding. Hence, Portia’s appeal to Shylock’s compassion.
 

What is this ‘The Quality of Mercy’? I quote a few lines to capture its essential meaning:

“The quality of mercy…

…droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

…it is twice blest;

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:…

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself;

…When mercy seasons justice.”
 

Throughout his plays, Shakespeare presented the qualities of mercy, compassion, and forgiveness as the highest possible values that could be upheld by the powerful and the rich…be it the power of a Governor over his subjects, the power of a professor over his students, the power of a parent over his or her child, or even the power of a husband or wife over his/ her spouse. The most obvious reason why is because the wealthy and the strong could crush those beneath them with a few words and deeds. Therefore, it is imperative that they practice compassion and forgiveness, that they season their justice with mercy.
 

For instance, a parent who repeatedly harshly disciplines his child in public will produce an adult who is afraid to stand up for himself. A parent who over-reacts harshly to his child’s inappropriate behavior will produce an adult who lies often and does not confide in the parent. A parent who keeps lecturing and crushing his child’s spirit will produce an adult who has poor self-esteem. Forgiveness makes us human. As long as there are relationships, there will be a need for forgiveness.
 

But here’s a thought – those who are materially prosperous and those in positions of control are not the only ones who are wealthy and powerful. Shakespeare points out that those who absorb and develop these qualities of mercy, compassion and forgiveness gain power through the exercise of these qualities. Such people are rich in moral wealth. They are evolved human beings whose wealth cannot be measured in terms of dollar value. They may be materially poor or they may not occupy any high social position, but they are wealthy in terms of their moral compass and dignity. They are values-driven leaders who understand that any rule is to be applied in spirit and not in the letter.
 

To explain, a kind and forgiving person may be laughed at for having been taken in time and again. However, one can see it this way – a kind and forgiving person is not a fool. He is just lucky to be blessed with a beautiful heart that not many have. Zen, yoga, motivational teachers, and psychologists have for years encouraged us to shed the baggage of anger and hurt. If one were to carry a glass of water for 1 minute, it would be easy. Try carrying that same 8 oz. glass of water for 1 hour and watch how your arm would hurt! By carrying around our zealousness, self-righteousness, and grudges for years, we are hurting only ourselves. Sometimes, these negative feelings have resulted in diseases of the mind and body – such as schizophrenia or cancer. Forgiveness is a great release. Forgiveness sets you free.
 

Lastly, I wish to point out another angle to this cycle of forgiveness – namely, the roles of the giver and the receiver. In other words, the person who shows mercy and forgiveness and also the person who receives it. It could very well be that although a person is ready to forgive, the receiver may not be prepared to accept this mercy. For instance, in a divorce, an abusive spouse may not be willing to be forgiven, seeing this act of forgiveness as an accusation instead. A perpetrator of violence may scoff at the forgiveness offered by his victim, seeing it as an insult or as an affront that challenges his rightful aggression.
 

“The Quality of Mercy” speech describes how one prays for divine mercy and also how one dispenses it. The act of mercy, therefore, demands that both the giver and the receiver evolve and be humble enough to give and to receive the same. What does one do when the receiver does not acknowledge one’s forgiveness – perhaps to cover up his or her wrongdoing through denial? Does it mean that the act of forgiveness cannot be complete? In that case, one must forgive oneself for holding on to the hurt for so long, and for having been vulnerable. Then, one must move on. They don’t call it ‘water under the bridge’ for nothing. Forgive (don’t forget), and make a fresh start. For yourself.
 

In conclusion, one might say that the qualities of mercy and forgiveness are indicative of an enlightened and cultured society. Note, I did not say a ‘materially rich’ or ‘technologically advanced’ society. I also didn’t refer to an instant and forced forgiveness. I meant – a society that thinks before it acts and that values integrity.
 

To forgive is to be human. The act of forgiveness and compassion is a great equalizer. It reminds us of our shared humanity – that we all are not perfect, that we all are capable of slipping up – both the giver and the receiver...for one day, the roles might be interchanged.
 

History is not destiny. We always have the choice to embrace a positive and constructive future. Choose the quality of mercy.