Remembering Appa

When I read posts from friends on Facebook on Father's Day I am a little lost for words. I haven't made any attempt to recall my father especially for Father's Day but I am what I am today because of him. Some of it, he taught. Before he could teach me more, he passed on. So, the rest I learnt by hearing about him from relatives and family.
Yes, when I had done poorly in class X and despite my poor marks I wanted to pursue Science, he took me to meet the school principal and firmly insisted that I should be given a place in Science Stream in class XI. I feel ashamed every time when I think of how badly I fared in class XII. The only solace is that he died before my class XII results were out.
On the day I returned after finishing the Physics test, he asked how the paper went. I said, "I am going to fail." He said, "Okay, go wash your face and study for the rest of the exams."
The appa I remember is one who taught me to read English classics.
When I had turned eight, he introduced me to French Revolution through Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities. Every morning we would sit at the Himalayan teak dining table in the living room near the entrance to the apartment, along with a dictionary. I would read aloud and appa would explain in Tamil. Slowly, I began to master English. I distinctly remember the day we finished the book. I cried inconsolably when Sydney Carton was guillotined.
Then there was the time when he taught me to ride a bicycle. He would take us to the Sayaji Park and would rent a baby cycle for me and Revathi. We would ride for half an hour initially. It became an hour and soon he got me a second-hand cycle.
To help me rid of road fear, he bought a new bigger cycle as I approached class X. He would ride the new bike beside me along the road. Soon he let me ride the new, big ladies bike and he would ride the smaller bike. His intent was to make me confident enough to ride on my own. I did just that. I don't recall his happiness. But I know it must have been an awesome feeling for him when he saw me ride to school and back without fear. I used to ride the national highway to get to school.
He had immense confidence in me. So much so that he encouraged to find and make pen pals. He took me to the post office to get inland letters and never once supervised what I wrote.
Yet, when a boy, a pen friend, visited me home, he made sure nothing untoward happened.
Yes, I miss him, 33 years after he died. No one can replace him. I feel the ache even today. 

Arm twisting at best

IIT-Madras' struggle to maintain its position as a premier institution has been challenged by the very students who opted for the institution for its name and prestige. There are those who love the campus and want to stay put and those who dislike the campus so much that they want it removed from the city scape.

There is a strong undercurrent of dislike that borders on jealousy - even among those who are within the IIT system. I fail to understand why there is so much dislike. The beautiful campus is a work of many years of nurturing - and no one is paying heed to it.

The students are a complex mix from across the country, representing the dreams of the middle class families that wants to find its place in the world.

There are several things I have found hard to accept: the way the students have embraced the fast pace of life - especially their desire to make fast money and gain promotions faster in the workplace.

I am talking of the way placement went last academic year here. It came as a surprise to me that that students who had worked so hard to get into IIT were ready to give it all away as they wanted higher salaries that start ups offered.

Chemical, mechanical and aeronautical engineering students made a beeline for marketing and strategy development jobs in Google, housing.com, urban ladder etc.
Students wanted to make it quickly up the corporate ladder they told me. They wanted to be part of the upper echelons in their company.

I wonder if they realise that it will also bring with it huge responsibilities and then heartbreaks.

I would have loved to see these fresh graduates consider creating something new with their hands instead of donning the formal black suits and ties and remain in air-conditioned office with a look of utter boredom just a few years down the line.

The students are not interested in working with their hands. Instead they want to plan for someone.

The latest furore over the Ambedkar Periyar Study Circle has been going on for nearly a week. This kind of political involvement by the students is misplaced. Among the irate voices of political parties and the fringe elements sane views are being deliberately ignored even by the media.

The IIT officials are being branded as the uncouth upper Brahmin class that is suppress the other castes.

IIT-M also has made some mistakes in the past. Major among them is allowing Chennai Sangamam's inaugural function in its premises five years ago.

It is different from students hosting Saarang, their cultural festival. During the Sangamam, the State machinery was in full force in the campus and at that time no environmentalist attacked the IIT. Remember, the event brought into the campus an array of vehicles. No one thought much of the disturbance it would cause to the deer.

It was not a one-day event as the preparations went on for several days and the students did not protest then. Ideally they should have, as the noise pollution and the sudden increase of human presence would have made the deer restless.

I really feel sorry for the institution whose arm has been twisted by political desperadoes and the trend is only continuing. What a shame that our youth are being misled instead of getting ahead in life.

I only hope they don't live to regret their decisions.

In quest of medical seat sans quota!

It was blistering hot for June but then in Chennai it should not be surprising. The first phase of counselling for medical courses was underway. It was the second day of counselling and as I parked my scooter near the auditorium in Kilpauk Medical College, my eyes scanned the huge gathering of people.
I was trying to find that one person who would not only be approachable but would also talk easily. As a reporter it is one thing I have to constantly worry about. Would I be able to engage a person long enough for him or her to reveal some information, something I would be privy to?
And then I saw the middle aged man standing aloof from the crowd. He was probably waiting for his son or daughter to emerge from the counselling hall.
It is a long wait for these counselling sessions to end. Parents usually come early in the day and wait in the shamiana that the Directorate of Medical Education puts up outside the hall. The sprawling yard outside the hall has an ancient banyan tree that offers much shade. But then in this hot sun, the shamiana does help to stay cool.
The man was my target as he had not chosen to sit with the crowd. He stood alone and seemed tense. Then he walked to where I had parked my bike. I was deliberately slow in my movements. I removed the gloves slowly and then my scarf that helped to ward off sweat caused by the helmet.
I asked him, "So has the counselling session ended?" He nodded and said, "Yes, but getting a seat in government medical college is so difficult." 
"Why? Which college has your son got into?" I asked.
"My daughter, she has got admission in a private medical college. PSG." I was impressed. "Oh, that is great. Where are you from?" I asked.
"Ayanavaram," he said shaking in the general direction of West of where we stood. "I thought she would get into a government medical college. She had scored 198.75 marks and yet she got only PSG."
For a seat in medicine, a candidate must have scored high marks in physics, biology and chemistry. While the entire marks scored in biology is taken, the marks received in physics and chemistry are divided by 2 and then added to the marks scored in biology to arrive at a figure. This is called the cut off mark. So, even minor decimals count when it comes to seats as there are only around 2,500 seats in government medical colleges and another 4,000 in private medical colleges. Fees in private medical colleges is exorbitant. It is a little lower if you are taken in through counselling - even that comes to around Rs. 2.8 lakh. That is a huge sum for a middle class family.
"Where do you work," I asked the man.
He is employed in the Railways and judging by his demeanour and attire - he wore brown trousers and a white striped tericotton shirt. His hair had been greying and he had hennaed it, giving his springy hair a certain brown colour that comes only with henna application. There were silver grey hair along with brown ones.
"But it is the money that matters," he declared. "In government college it is only Rs. 12,500. She even sent her answer sheet for revaluation and she got only one mark. If only she had scored one more mark. she would have got it in a government medical college," he lamented.
I sympathised with him. Higher education is expensive but medical education in a private medical college is impossibly difficult, even if you are earning fairly well in a government institution.
"Oh, did you apply in the open category," I asked, hoping to keep him on the subject. "Yes, but I am a backward class person from Maharashtra."
My mind was swirling with information. "Did you not produce the nativity certificate?" I asked.
Anybody who has studied in a state can claim nativity if they have studied five years in that state or if tbeir parent can get a nativity certificate to prove they are son of the soil.
The man said, "I am from Maharashtra and I came down to Tamil Nadu 25 years ago. I decided to stay on here and that has caused all this problem," he said. 
The caste system in India works in various ways. You could be a high class brahmin and you would not get anywhere in society. Or you could get around the entire system and remain out of the most coveted jobs. You could belong to a backward class, which comprises a gamut of castes that have been often cheated of their rightful place by the upper classes. The government's affirmative action over the years has helped these oppressed sections to get educated and find jobs in government sector.  

Rediscovering the kitchen!

I never considered myself a working woman or even an excellent home maker. Though I am a bit of both, I should admit. I have a full working life and run a full-fledged kitchen. I cook, clean and keep home. I also work eight to ten hours at my workplace.

It is surprising to not be able to see this right away but then that is how life has been and I was happy to go along with the flow. Until this morning.

Let me tell you about my efforts in the kitchen. Since my visit to my cousin's house early this month, some things have changed. I have become more experimental in the kitchen - trying out new kinds of breakfast. And so it was that I made puttu, thanks to my cousin, who presented me with a puttu maker.

Last week I casually googled puttu and lo! I learned that an idli plate was enough to make the dish. Then I read that coconut shells are good enough puttu holder. Now I seem to have realised the need to be a kitchen queen.

This morning a colleague invited me to taste a very special dish that his wife had made. Called the 'Saasui'. Made using raw bananas, it was quite unique in taste. Soon after my exposure to puttu I have been googling up foods and recipes and it has taught me to experiment with yam and raw bananas. I have yet to try out how to mix these vegetables, given my busy work life.

Saasui has now been added to my repertoire.

Indeed I am beginning to think may be one of these days I would have the confidence to try out these wonderful new dishes, one at a time.

Breaking misconceptions

Once in a while life gives you a chance to learn about your kins.
Last week on a trip to Bangalore, I stayed with a cousin. When she was trying to apprise me about her daughters' aspirations, the conversation meandered to my father's educational qualification. I was surprised that she mentioned my father. Surprised because in the last 32 years I had known her she had never spoken of him. She was born six years before his death.
My dad had been dead for 32 years and even mom doesn't bring him into a conversation unnecessarily.
But that morning, my cousin casually let it be known that my dad, who was her dad's older brother, was after all a failed candidate in chartered accountancy. Yes, he had flunked the intermediate exam but had then passed CA and had since done very well in his life.
I didn't have to think too long why the conversation came up. She went on to heap praise on a relative of her husband, who was the financial advisor to a wealthy businessman in her town. She told me the relative, a cousin of her husband, was based in the United Kingdom but had reposed much faith in her husband.
Maturity does a lot of things to a person. I wasn't angry with her assumption but a little out of sorts, wondering who in my father's extended family had given her such a wrong impression of a man who was respected by my mother's family.
My cousin then told me that she would impress upon her daughter to pursue her dream of becoming a CA.
Such conversations are not only amazing but also entertaining at another level. For, later that afternoon, when we went to pick up her kids from school, she returned to the morning's conversation and told her young 10-year-old daughter that her uncle, that is my father, was a CA and that she should pursue her dream. To this the little one piped up, "I don't want to be a CA as I don't like mathematics."
My cousin was now thoroughly embarrassed. "Oh that is because you don't like your math teacher," she said.
At the end of the day, I relived the entire episode. It was a revelation to me that my father had been undervalued by his own family. A couple of my mother's siblings respected him for his graciousness but at least one sibling hated his guts for showing them their place.

A tryst with domestic abuse

Sometimes things happen so quickly that you are left wondering what hit you.

A few weeks ago I hurt myself near the eye while trying to remove cobwebs stuck in the curtain pelmet in my living room. I had accidentally pushed the rod and the pelmet came off the hook, falling on my face.

The sharp edge of the wooden pelmet had missed my left eye but left a cut on the brow. The bleeding did not stop and I realised I might need a few sutures.

My husband and I opted for a reliable facility that has been around for 60 years in our locality. I left him to park the vehicle and rushed to the casualty ward. I told the nurse guarding the entrance that I needed to see the doctor asap and showed her the bleeding injury. While she was taking her time to decide, a younger nurse asked me to come in.

As I followed her, an intense discussion began among the nurses outside, the tenor of which was hard to miss. One of the women said, "She says she hurt herself while cleaning..." the sentence hung in the air. I had to tell the nurse who was cleaning my wound that I really had injured myself.

The nurse ignored this and said, "There is an earlier injury here." I said, "Yes, I hurt myself when I was a child." She was not convinced. She told me the doctor would see me.

When the doctor checked me, I told him the same story. He avoided eye contact and said, "You need three sutures. Nurse prepare for the procedure," he said, and turned to focus on another patient.      

The nurse turned to me and said, "You said your husband accompanied you? You must get a patient card before we can proceed." She obviously didn't believe me. I said, "Yes, he must be waiting outside as he doesn't know where I am."

When I walked out I did not see him. I could see several pairs of eyes watching me as I made my way to the cash counter to get the health card. As I waited, my husband walked in.

He hadn't shaved for several days. His stubbles made him appear older than he was. The atmosphere in the hospital lounge lightened considerably after he took over from me. A nurse told me to sit down while the card was prepared.

After the doctor finished suturing, he asked for the details. In his report he wrote: "allegedly injured while cleaning between 7 am and 7.30 am..." I watched in horror. He obviously didn't believe me.

I wondered if he opted to go with the theory of domestic abuse. My husband was the prime suspect. The earlier scar didn't help matters.

If I traded place with doctor or the nurses, I wouldn't have behaved differently. As a reporter I have heard doctors and hospital staff tell me how often they see battered women. After assault, women would say the injury was an accident.

There are so many scenarios about how crime against women are perpetrated at home - It is the Deepavali month and I could have been beaten up for making 'unjust demands'. It could be that my husband grabbed me by my hair and rammed me into the wall, causing injury. It could be that I decided to inflict injury on myself as my demands were not met. Or it could be a case of dowy harassment. 

  

            A mug shot of the incriminating hospital record of my injury.

Contentment I see

It is amazing that a Brahmin can survive in the business of selling food. More so, in North Chennai for 83 years. Once a premium locality, something like today's Anna Salai, two Brahmin brothers from Palakkad in Kerala came to make a living in Chennai. After several moves, the brothers set up shop a few doors away from the famous Kalikambal Temple.

Maratha king Chatrapati Shivaji is believed to have sought Goddess Kali's blessings here. Incidentally I got married here. More about that in another blog. 

I have interviewed the owners of Sri Rama Bhavan twice. The first time I spoke to the youngest entrepreneur in the family,  a few weeks before his wedding. Balaji, an upper middle class Brahmin youth, was articulate.
  

At a time when restaurant chains are minting fortunes, 70-year-old R.G. Ananthanarayanan, a qualified chartered accountant, is not worried about his competitors. He has managed to run the hotel for a dedicated middle class. The hotel sets store by its rasam and filter coffee. 

He told me that he opted to enter the hotel business at the age of 25 after a loyal client, a violinist who was travelling with his troupe on a train to Thanjavur, told him that he respected his hotelier father. "The violinist's narrative changed my opinion of my family business," he said.   

The other person I interviewed, mostly over telephone, was Venkataramani, one of the two owners of Venkatramana Boli Stall in West Mambalam, a roadside kiosk around 15 to 20 km from the Thambu Chetti Street. This gentleman is a complete contrast to Ananathanarayanan. Venkataramani did not want to speak to me initially.

He changed his mind later in the day and over the phone told me about his family, which he said traced its background to the humble rural Kumbakonam. His mother made poli - pan cakes made using refined flour and stuffed with coconut and jaggery.

Poli is a delicacy made during Hindu festivals and is a wholesome dish in itself. Venkataramani said his mother was very good at making poli and his father decided to launch the delicacy as food for the poor.

It was an instant hit and remains so among food connoisseurs. When an upstart launched his business with a sound-alike name just across the road he wasn't perturbed. There is place for everyone in the business, he thought. He hadn't contended with the ruthlessness of the upstart, whose owner paid money (Rs. 30,000, he said) to get reviews in a women's monthly magazine called Mangaiar Malar.

Bitter, this sweet maker has since refused interviews. My persuasion helped, but only a little. The pleasure was that he displayed the news story on the walls of his shop the next day. A recognition that every writer longs for.