Sunday, November 29, 2015

An Easy Chair that Rocked

The photographs – all of them in black and white – lie carelessly scattered on the bed.  I love the process of sorting them out, a careful, time-consuming and entirely thankless task, but for the chance to live out a memory or two that would bring a smile, an involuntary nod or a shrug of nostalgia.

My eye catches the rather ordinary photograph of an elderly man – thin, with a clean, plebeian face and an unsmiling expression - sitting in his trademark easy chair in the portico. 

I rarely saw Ammamma otherwise.  He was always sitting there, by the three steps that led to the little living area at the stately family home in Palakad, Vrindavanam, his Mathrubhumi newspaper beside him and a cup of tea, wearing his trademark white mundu and a vest.  And, in my early teens, watching him sit right there for hours reading the paper and looking out yonder and over the rim of the paper, I used to wonder “Just what is he thinking?”

At meal time, he could be found at the head of the table in the dining room – a small table in front of the larger one being his right as a ‘karnor’ or family head - sipping his ‘kanji’ with a spoon and until he had begun his meal, we wouldn’t quite begin ours (though kids were generally excused).  A quiet, serious, stern man who spoke in grunts and monosyllables, my grand-uncle had a reputation for gruff, no-nonsense disapproval and an expression of ire – the eyes narrowed and focused, the lips pursed, the sometimes-rapid, hoarse, gravelly smoky voice – that could freeze the bone marrow and make the guilty wet his starched mundu. 

It was rumoured by those who knew him well that his bark was much worse than the bite, but he nevertheless frightened the wits out of all those around most often, astonishingly, by doing very little – a crisp few words perhaps or a scowl.   Everyone, including the many visitors to Vrindavanam, walked by him in deferential silence with the obligatory word or two exchanged, head bowed or at an angle that suggested submission.  Occasionally, relatives of his age and a couple of chosen nephews (my father included) sat beside him and had conversations – if you could call a few verbal telegrams a conversation - on issues that men of the 1970s spoke about: politics, farming and the weather, marriages, finances perhaps and renovation to the family home.

Ammamma managed the family’s agricultural fields in his younger days – now, alas, all gone -  marshalling a couple of trusted hands to his cause and, I am told, when he worked, his sternness set standards anew.  My cousin Jayan, who had a cheeky sense of humour, outstanding timing and an ability to make stories come alive, mimicked Ammamma with abandon at a safe distance eliciting much chuckles and laughter from all of us.  Yet, when in front of the patriarch, this worthy could be found crawling on his ample belly, like all of us, for he took no chances.   I learnt from another cousin the priceless titbit that Ammamma never used the toilet, but had a hole dug for him every evening that he could use the next morning.  Knowledge of such facts, I admit, are of little value in, say, new drug discovery, but I have a head (and an unhealthy fascination) for useless information. 

He (Ammamma, not my cousin) stayed a bachelor all his life, though, he did have an interest in his younger days in a pretty girl who lived not far away.  Apparently, her brother was to marry his sister – my great aunt – while he married her, and this fairy-tale-ish ending never did happen, much to his regret.  My aunt seems to recall his sentient oath to bachelorhood as a consequence and, in my mind’s eye, I can imagine the thunderous promise of Bhishma, as the earth shook, the wind took its breath in and the flowers thought it was wise to close shutters for the day. 

He had his spartan little room by the living area, but retreated there only to sleep, for much of the day would be spent in the portico.  If he had one weakness, it was for cigarettes – the brand ‘Scissors’ was his favourite and on one trip I pleaded with my cousin sister to collect a trunk load of used Scissors packets for me that I could then cart across the country back to Assam. He was much amused by my interest in this useless stuff and he let me know this by a miniscule lift of his upper lip and a twitch of a cheek muscle; this was the equivalent of today’s much-abused term LOL.  Indeed, the only occasion on which I actually saw him smiling was when the news was conveyed to him that I had asked around why Ammamma never smiled.  The women in the household found it femininely funny and my puerile impertinence on that day caused much flutter around the home. 

The women – my great grandma (Ammamma’s mother), my grandmother and grand aunt - spent much of their time in the vicinity of the kitchen and communicated with him in rich monosyllables and there were few men folk of his age (and stature) he could spend time with, so it must have been a lonely life as he sat there out in the portico waiting for Godot….and thinking.  As he aged, the lure of a city’s medical facility had no draw, for he represented a generation that refused to leave its roots.  One day, about thirty years or more ago, as illness took its toll, he left that easy chair for good.

As I put the photographs away, I remember the last time I visited Vrindavanam a couple of years ago.  It was a warm, humid day and, crossing the lovely little ‘padipara’ – the gate with a little roof – I walked briskly upto the front door and paused by the portico.  The chair and its occupant of course were missing, yet the setting had not changed a bit, for at Vrindavanam, nothing really changes.  In the heat of that day, my mind's eye could see the man in the easy chair, the torso lost behind the day's newspaper opened out in front, the elbows at rest on the easy chair.   I was tempted to whisper a ‘good morning Ammamma’, the usual acknowledgement that would be met by a brief look in my direction and a responding grunt, even as I would hurry up the steps into the safety of the home.  
And I wished I had asked that question to him once.  “All those days you spent out here on the portico….what were you thinking Ammamma?” 

Sunday, November 8, 2015

Why Vaz Was Wise

Among the many unanswered questions on the planet is one that deserves scrutiny by anyone studying the area of motivation.  The question – an inverse one as it might seem – is, why did Mrs. Vaz not go bonkers?

Now that I have your undivided attention, here’s a second question:  why are teachers told to teach subjects that students can comfortably study by themselves, often twenty two hours before their final exam on it?

But, I am getting ahead of myself.  Let’s go to the first.

Mrs. Vaz was the only lady who taught our class in Josephs – PUC and B.Com – for five years. She was of medium height, dressed  in a sari with her hair tied in a neat bun, a quiet, demure lady with an impassive freckled face and  an occasional slow, shy smile.  Every year she’d turn up in class at the beginning of the year, her face a picture of dismay, her posture defeated but with a pretence of defiance.  Every year she would be alloted the most boring subjects – let me emphasise this in case you missed it in a hurry to get to the end – the most boring, tedious, dull, dreary, mind-numbing, lifeless, lacklustre, unexciting, routine, plebian, pedestrian, wearisome subjects, because no one else wanted them and she was too sweet to argue with the the clever HoD who did the allocation, no fault of hers.  Subjects like Economic Geography or Essentials of Management.  …and books like ‘Contemporary Commerce’ or some such incoherent tripe written by a loser of a lecturer at Government Arts and Science College. 

My class tested her sorely.  Every year she would hesitantly step onto the wooden podium (that had once housed a stack of crackers under it).  And every year she would look down and see a class of about a hundred boys and girls, the vast majority of whom stared back at her with a vacant, ‘Oh no, not again,’ look on their otherwise emotive faces.  If she returned the compliment, she did not show it, for such was her bearing and sense of dignity.  Some of the girls – the quiet, half-sari and curd-rice for lunch type - at least attempted to smile in an effort at feminine bonding, but the boys just ignored her presence completely, focusing instead on their busy schedule – passing chits, information, gossip, carving on the desk or reading a forbidden book -  that engaged their wholehearted attention.  The odd fellow would shout out, ‘Welcome Ma’am’ in the falsest of notes, while she would nod her head passively knowing perfectly well that he meant no such thing.

She took most of this really well, having developed a certain detachment from pedogogical ideology.  If Dr. Seuss were watching, he would present her case:
“Let them ignore
Roar.
Snore.
Let them stare
Bare.
Dare.
I don’t care.
I will for sure
conduct the tour.”

So, much as Dr. Seuss’s immortal Horton the Elephant sat on an egg way past his bedtime (Horton Lays An Egg – don’t miss it), Mrs. Vaz laboured through every single class with commendable doggedness. She would sit and read out chapter after chapter with diligent attempts at explaining the explained to those who wanted to hear it, her voice a constant tone that triggered drowsiness on a warm afternoon .    There was a small group who’d make notes and listen.  But, there was a much larger contingent of back-benchers who should have been serving time in solitary confinement for their disservice to civil society.  To them, a Mrs. Vaz class was another hour of gossip, loud remonstrative yawning, day-dreaming and creative, artistic expression in a notebook. Many caught up on their sleep.  Others simply did nothing, they stared out of the window in meditative contemplation (two such worthys are now senior managers in organisations and I understand they do much the same thing). 

Occasionally, though, a loud giggle would break out at the back.  Or even some laughter.  Or someone would visibly display somnolent behaviour that was calculated to test the patience of a certified saint. Or there would be a question asked by an otherwise disinterested superstar (who had spent the last few minutes combing his rapidly thinning hair), followed by much tittering around him and words of encouragement that were as hilarious as they were provocative.  In these not-so-unusual situations, her voice would rise, the rapid flow of words followed by a gesture to the main protagonist to exit the room, something about three quarters of the class was desperately waiting for.  As the offender quickly stood up to leave, others would offer to accompany him or offer loud advice, or say sorry on his behalf or even suggest substitution.  Most of this inflamed her anger greatly; her gentle face would become a rather noticeable red and her demeanour change.  On one or two occasions, she stormed out of the room, but that was playing right into everyone’s hands.  After a few seconds spent in silence, the mass of prospective Chartered Accountants, MBAs and businessmen would evacuate the classroom to the comfort of the college canteen. While I generally kept quiet when there was mayhem, there were times when it was difficult to not be swayed by the peer group and I did join in the collective merriment – not at her expense, but clearly not at her instance!
It was honestly, a hopeless situation. 

My primary emotion, though, was one of compassion.  She was doing the best she could, for you can, after all, only play with the cards you are dealt and, when one did need help, she was always ready, her gentle nature acting as a balm.  I did well in my tests for that was then a matter of pride and she treasured that (years later, she told me that she ‘knew’ I would do well in my career, a unforgettable compliment but happily untrue for I exited the career race early).

The exact root of the word ‘retired’ is not something I know, but surely it is derived from ‘tired’.  Mrs. Vaz retired some years ago and is now probably savouring the company of her grand children, even as an ex-student thinks he should have probably said a quick ‘sorry’ for adding to the torment on occasion and a ‘thank you’ for those flashes of education when they did happen.   Not that she has a bone to pick.  She never did.