Family history 2
The Quilon years
Venkatraman—he was Ramani to his family, as Sundaresan was Raja, Pattabhiraman was Pattabhi, Visalakshi was Thangamma and Parvati was Papa—was 26 years old when he married Rukmini. He was a BABL of Madras University, which meant that after his BA Hons. Degree, he acquired a bachelor’s degree in law as well from the Madras Law College. Ramani never attended court, but instead took up a bank job with Bharat Bank which was eventually merged with the Indian Overseas Bank (IOB) Limited. By 1951, he had been posted to Quilon, a coastal town in Kerala not far from Trivandrum, the capital city of that state, as the Agent of the bank’s branch there. (He would be called the branch manager today). Three of us were born then, I, my brother Nagarajan and sister Sarada. I was the eldest, born on 8 November 1947, Nagan on 19 December 1948 and Sarada on 6 February 1950. There we lived until about 1957, when my father was transferred back to Madras as Agent of the bank’s Mylapore branch.
Ramani and Rukmini were Appa (father) and Amma (mother) to us. As Agent of IOB, Appa was an important person in Quilon. We lived in quarters behind his office provided by the bank, with a connecting door between home and office, and a huge yard behind the house where we children could play and one in front of the office. Appa worked long hours at the bank, and I remember being allowed to sit in his room after office hours and watch him at work.
Quilon was an important trade centre, dealing in spices and dry fruit and nuts. Cashew was the biggest crop and Appa’s biggest clients were cashew exporters. Families I remember are the Rodrigueses and the Janardhanam Pillais. Janardhanam’s son Rajan was to become one of India’s high profile and sometimes controversial business barons in the 1990s, and die under mysterious circumstances. But back in the fifties, he was a little boy, younger than me. Those were innocent times and the world of business was nowhere near as complex as it would become later.
Krishnan was born while we were in Quilon, on 13 May 1953, and the four of us must have been the happiest, most contented siblings. Poor Amma must have been overworked, but she at least had more domestic help at Quilon than she enjoyed in the bigger cities where Appa later worked. The old maid who did the sweeping and swabbing was Tallai; it was a generic term for old woman, I learnt later, not her name as I first imagined. She was a wizened old woman who wore only a white sari with which he covered herself from top to bottom. Her earlobes had huge holes from which dangled heavy earrings. The bank ‘peons’ would also run minor errands for the family; they always kept a watchful eye on the family, acting as our unofficial security staff.
On days when Amma could not cook or Appa decided to give her a break, we ordered food from a nearby restaurant, popularly known as Hitler’s café, thanks to the Hitler moustache its owner sported. He was perhaps an admirer of the Nazis, more because they went to war against the British who colonized India, than for any anti-Semitic reasons. The food was just about edible, but it was a treat we looked forward to because it was a change from the routine.
The first school we went to was St. Joseph’s Convent School, not far from home. I have vague memories of the nuns who taught us there and also winning the first prize in a raffle, a gold sovereign!
Some time soon, we moved to a nice, large house by the seaside, close to the backwaters or kayal in Malayalam, the language spoken in Kerala. We also shifted to a new school, Mount Carmels. Again, memories of school are very blurred, except for one incident which remains etched in my mind. The school was very close to the sea, a compound wall separating it from a lonely beach. It must have been out of bounds, but I remember standing on the shore with an older schoolfriend, Jayantilal, who took off his shirt, removed the holy thread he as a Brahmin wore, and tossed it into the sea in a dramatic gesture.
Appa was an excellent cricketer, a medium pace bowler who had enjoyed considerable success in collegiate and league cricket in Madras before his transfer to Quilon. Here, he built a bank team from scratch. He and his players soon became an integral part of Quilon cricket. Nagan and I accompanied him to some of the matches at a nearby college ground and proudly watched him in action. He was tall and well built and had a nice easy run-up and action as a bowler. His batting was entertaining as he believed in hitting the ball hard and taking a few risks. The handsome bank colleague Monappa and burly Anglo-Indian Clifton—a railway guard—were both good cricketers and we kids enjoyed the company of these kindly adults who always had time for us, joking and playing with us.
Appa also went frequently to Trivandrum to play for the Sasthamangalam Cricket Club there, under the captaincy of the debonair Balan Pandit, who was already a star player, captaining Kerala in the national championship. The team also had some other state and university level cricketers in Ravi Achan, C K Vijayan and his younger brother C K Bhaskar—who went on to play for India as a new ball bowler. It was a strong outfit and played entertaining cricket. I remember being taken to Trivandrum along with Nagan to watch one of Appa’s matches.
The new house was at Thangaseri, in a quiet corner of Quilon and the only friends we had there were our next door neighbours. There were wide open spaces around our homes, and we spent as much time outdoors as our parents allowed us. The high point of our stay at Thangaseri was a visit by our cousins from Madras during the summer vacation. Kannan and Raman had just been initiated into brahmacharya, and were now the proud wearers of the holy thread. They had had half their hair shaved off and made to look like members of some fierce American Indian tribe. The hairstyle was called an appala kudumi.
Kannan was some five years older than I and Raman two. Both were great company, natural sportsmen who included us in all their games. Kannan was the more talented of the two and Raman the more enthusiastic, constantly experimenting and inventing new games. Besides outdoor games like cricket which was a common passion with all of us, Raman came up with some ingenious indoor games as well. One involved a caesarean delivery with Raman playing the gynaecologist performing the surgery and cousin Rama playing the mother, with my then youngest sister the newborn. To add authenticity to the proceedings, Raman managed to collect some rusty implements with which he pretended to cut open Rama to deliver Viji.
When the elders of the house found out what we were up to, we came close to receiving the thrashing of our lives, even though most of us were no more than admiring onlookers.
On another occasion, Raman took all the younger kids to the beach and after playing there for an hour or so, made me stay back with him and sent the rest of the gang home, with instructions that they deliver the message that Raman and I had been washed away by the waves. Imagine the chaos that reigned in the Venkatraman household that afternoon!
There was never a dull moment that summer. The most dramatic episode starred a snake, one of hundreds in the huge estate around the house, which decided to pay a visit to the Venkatramans. It made its way into the bedroom where we took shelter. All of us climbed on top of beds, tables and chairs and watched the slithering snake with fear. After several loud screams from all of us, the girls next door came running into our house and effortlessly chased the snake away into the garden and killed it, presumably because it was venomous.
Not long after that exciting summer vacation, Appa was transferred to the Mylapore branch of IOB in Madras, and all of us went back there, starting a new chapter in our lives.
Venkatraman—he was Ramani to his family, as Sundaresan was Raja, Pattabhiraman was Pattabhi, Visalakshi was Thangamma and Parvati was Papa—was 26 years old when he married Rukmini. He was a BABL of Madras University, which meant that after his BA Hons. Degree, he acquired a bachelor’s degree in law as well from the Madras Law College. Ramani never attended court, but instead took up a bank job with Bharat Bank which was eventually merged with the Indian Overseas Bank (IOB) Limited. By 1951, he had been posted to Quilon, a coastal town in Kerala not far from Trivandrum, the capital city of that state, as the Agent of the bank’s branch there. (He would be called the branch manager today). Three of us were born then, I, my brother Nagarajan and sister Sarada. I was the eldest, born on 8 November 1947, Nagan on 19 December 1948 and Sarada on 6 February 1950. There we lived until about 1957, when my father was transferred back to Madras as Agent of the bank’s Mylapore branch.
Ramani and Rukmini were Appa (father) and Amma (mother) to us. As Agent of IOB, Appa was an important person in Quilon. We lived in quarters behind his office provided by the bank, with a connecting door between home and office, and a huge yard behind the house where we children could play and one in front of the office. Appa worked long hours at the bank, and I remember being allowed to sit in his room after office hours and watch him at work.
Quilon was an important trade centre, dealing in spices and dry fruit and nuts. Cashew was the biggest crop and Appa’s biggest clients were cashew exporters. Families I remember are the Rodrigueses and the Janardhanam Pillais. Janardhanam’s son Rajan was to become one of India’s high profile and sometimes controversial business barons in the 1990s, and die under mysterious circumstances. But back in the fifties, he was a little boy, younger than me. Those were innocent times and the world of business was nowhere near as complex as it would become later.
Krishnan was born while we were in Quilon, on 13 May 1953, and the four of us must have been the happiest, most contented siblings. Poor Amma must have been overworked, but she at least had more domestic help at Quilon than she enjoyed in the bigger cities where Appa later worked. The old maid who did the sweeping and swabbing was Tallai; it was a generic term for old woman, I learnt later, not her name as I first imagined. She was a wizened old woman who wore only a white sari with which he covered herself from top to bottom. Her earlobes had huge holes from which dangled heavy earrings. The bank ‘peons’ would also run minor errands for the family; they always kept a watchful eye on the family, acting as our unofficial security staff.
On days when Amma could not cook or Appa decided to give her a break, we ordered food from a nearby restaurant, popularly known as Hitler’s café, thanks to the Hitler moustache its owner sported. He was perhaps an admirer of the Nazis, more because they went to war against the British who colonized India, than for any anti-Semitic reasons. The food was just about edible, but it was a treat we looked forward to because it was a change from the routine.
The first school we went to was St. Joseph’s Convent School, not far from home. I have vague memories of the nuns who taught us there and also winning the first prize in a raffle, a gold sovereign!
Some time soon, we moved to a nice, large house by the seaside, close to the backwaters or kayal in Malayalam, the language spoken in Kerala. We also shifted to a new school, Mount Carmels. Again, memories of school are very blurred, except for one incident which remains etched in my mind. The school was very close to the sea, a compound wall separating it from a lonely beach. It must have been out of bounds, but I remember standing on the shore with an older schoolfriend, Jayantilal, who took off his shirt, removed the holy thread he as a Brahmin wore, and tossed it into the sea in a dramatic gesture.
Appa was an excellent cricketer, a medium pace bowler who had enjoyed considerable success in collegiate and league cricket in Madras before his transfer to Quilon. Here, he built a bank team from scratch. He and his players soon became an integral part of Quilon cricket. Nagan and I accompanied him to some of the matches at a nearby college ground and proudly watched him in action. He was tall and well built and had a nice easy run-up and action as a bowler. His batting was entertaining as he believed in hitting the ball hard and taking a few risks. The handsome bank colleague Monappa and burly Anglo-Indian Clifton—a railway guard—were both good cricketers and we kids enjoyed the company of these kindly adults who always had time for us, joking and playing with us.
Appa also went frequently to Trivandrum to play for the Sasthamangalam Cricket Club there, under the captaincy of the debonair Balan Pandit, who was already a star player, captaining Kerala in the national championship. The team also had some other state and university level cricketers in Ravi Achan, C K Vijayan and his younger brother C K Bhaskar—who went on to play for India as a new ball bowler. It was a strong outfit and played entertaining cricket. I remember being taken to Trivandrum along with Nagan to watch one of Appa’s matches.
The new house was at Thangaseri, in a quiet corner of Quilon and the only friends we had there were our next door neighbours. There were wide open spaces around our homes, and we spent as much time outdoors as our parents allowed us. The high point of our stay at Thangaseri was a visit by our cousins from Madras during the summer vacation. Kannan and Raman had just been initiated into brahmacharya, and were now the proud wearers of the holy thread. They had had half their hair shaved off and made to look like members of some fierce American Indian tribe. The hairstyle was called an appala kudumi.
Kannan was some five years older than I and Raman two. Both were great company, natural sportsmen who included us in all their games. Kannan was the more talented of the two and Raman the more enthusiastic, constantly experimenting and inventing new games. Besides outdoor games like cricket which was a common passion with all of us, Raman came up with some ingenious indoor games as well. One involved a caesarean delivery with Raman playing the gynaecologist performing the surgery and cousin Rama playing the mother, with my then youngest sister the newborn. To add authenticity to the proceedings, Raman managed to collect some rusty implements with which he pretended to cut open Rama to deliver Viji.
When the elders of the house found out what we were up to, we came close to receiving the thrashing of our lives, even though most of us were no more than admiring onlookers.
On another occasion, Raman took all the younger kids to the beach and after playing there for an hour or so, made me stay back with him and sent the rest of the gang home, with instructions that they deliver the message that Raman and I had been washed away by the waves. Imagine the chaos that reigned in the Venkatraman household that afternoon!
There was never a dull moment that summer. The most dramatic episode starred a snake, one of hundreds in the huge estate around the house, which decided to pay a visit to the Venkatramans. It made its way into the bedroom where we took shelter. All of us climbed on top of beds, tables and chairs and watched the slithering snake with fear. After several loud screams from all of us, the girls next door came running into our house and effortlessly chased the snake away into the garden and killed it, presumably because it was venomous.
Not long after that exciting summer vacation, Appa was transferred to the Mylapore branch of IOB in Madras, and all of us went back there, starting a new chapter in our lives.
posted by Ramnarayan at 8:48 PM
3 Comments:
Ram - I nearly split my sides laughing over Raman's beachside antic! Whatever gave him that absurd idea - sending word to the elders that you two had been washed away???? I mean, as a young father now, I might be ready to give such a child a tough talking to - but as an unaffected reader, I found it really hilarious!! :-)
he was absolutely crazy! he is credited with feeding me rasiklal supari when i was an infant! and also dipped me in a tank (thotti) of cold water when i had high fever, because he was so fond of me, his 'little brother'! e was a brilliant cricketer too, but very short tempered and impulsive. when i went to sydney with the mcc (madras cc) tea, he offered to play for us and was eager to show off his brilliant form there. (he had been in such great form that a clubmate called steve waugh actually wrote about him in a local newspaper). we played this game at a historic venue called camden park some 50 miles from sydney and raman opened the innings for us, only to be run out first ball! i nearly cried, even though it was so funny, because the last time we had played together was for alwarpet cc in 69-70 and he had made some 4 or 5 successive ducks or single digit scores and his leg spin bowling had deserted him. and i loved and admired him, and desperately wanted him to do well.
the day after teh camden park fiasco, we ha dto drive another 50 miles in a different direction to another historic ground (i forget the name, but many international cricketers had played friendlies and charity matches there). the match was to start after lunch around 1.00 pm but raman lost his way driving four of us, despite a superb map he had. we arrived half an hour late to a match that started late after rain and the hosts very sportingly batted first on an uncovered wicket. i remember bowling very well on a drying wicket that made life miserable for batsmen, but a masterly knock by former test batsman ross edwards helped the home team recover from a poor start. i think we won with balls to spare, thanks to some generous sportsmanship by the rivals, very unusual in an australian side!
the saddest part of this story, and i am making a habit of it, is that raman died of lung cancer a couple of years later, but not before watching TN win the ranji trophy from the chepauk terrace, braving extreme discomfort, knowing he had only months to live. i wrote this story on the net and reading that meant so much to his son arjun who had been a kid when raman left us. it brought us closer than spoken words could ever have. sorry if i have depressed you.
Ram - when you do Yoga, breath control is important. And that is exactly what you deprived me of this morning with the Rasiklal Supari anecdote. I just could not stop myself from laughing. Every time I tried to hold my breath for these exercises, I had to let it out sharply, thinking of your post!
No - you did not depress me. It certainly is sad that people one loves or admires the most are called away. But as one of Raj Kapoor's songs goes, "...ke mar ke bhi kisi ko yaad aayenge, kisi ke aansoon-on mein muskharaayenge..." then that person certainly has lived a life of meaning.
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