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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
