resakal

My Mother’s first job was as a teacher to little children in Caltex company school in Vizhag. She was guided by a family friend, Anna Murthy or Annapoorna Murthy, granddaughter of Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, former President of India on whose birthday we celebrate Teacher’s Day. My mother was a teacher by passion and by profession, a topper in her academic life (her mother, my grandmother, was disappointed in her choice of profession because she felt that my Mother could have entered any maybe a more illustrious profession, as ambitious as my grandmother is) as for my Mother, she could not look beyond teaching. From teaching little children phonetics to guiding senior management in companies with their spoken skills to teaching English to Japanese company professionals in Vizhag, phonetics, linguistics and stylistics in Jyoti Nivas College Bangalore (Stylistics was my favourite subject as it combines language and literature) linguistics was hers. Noam Chomsky, was one of her heroes, but how lucky and loved we felt when she said her favourite thing was being a teacher mother to us (She told us every sort of story, even grown up ones which she turned into children’s stories telling them beautifully, correctly, dramatically with the right pacing and pausing, rhythm and meter, dynamics and intonation; crispness and clarity; (from the Sword of Tipu Sultan to Roman and Greek Legends; to a lovely memory I have of her reading Water Babies in the middle as my brother and I peered on either side into the book in our comfortable beds. This was at a guest house in Shahabad where we were accompanying my dad on one of his business trips. He took us for a lot of them, even though we sometimes missed school because my father thought that these experiences as family were more important than school, something that clashed with my love of routine. My parents also believed that Common sense and Imagination was paramount in solving problems or just going about life. So in a way I was forced to enjoy these trips as my parents left me no choice. I actually loved school. My Mother told me that I ran into nursery school in Good Shepherd Convent Bangalore without a backward glance while all the other parents had a terrible time separating the wailing little ones from themselves. My brother also wailed not wanting to walk into St.Antony’s Boys Primary School in Bangalore. A kind Sister Monica helped my Mother and brother to disengage). Another wonderful way we spent time together was while my brother and I took art classes for children conducted by Balan Nambiar in Bangalore those days, my Mother simultaneously took painting lessons from the nuns in Good Shepherd and we learnt that hobbies were very important for character building and enjoyment. My Mother and my brother could have become professional artists but yours truly would have never made the cut. Except in the eyes of one very partial Art Master, Mr. Rammurthy.

Precious memories are of of my aunt Shyamala teaching me as well as so many students to sing in Malayalam, Marathi, Bengali, Hindi, Tamil, Kannada, Telugu and my Mother and Aunt singing “Those were the days my friend’ (They were like sisters and friends) my uncle reminiscing about watching and listening to Mary Hopkins sing this song live on a revolving stage in Japan. My aunt could have been a professional singer with her flawless sense of tune and a lovely singing voice. My paternal grandmother’s embroidery that looked like painted works of art. My great grandmother’s gorgeously crocheted petticoats with red and white roses, worn underneath my school uniform. Our school colours were red and white and the drill uniform was what can I say (Uniformy!). But that elaborately crocheted chemise made me feel loved and it felt like a little bit of home when I was at school. Also, I learnt to never underestimate the most basic experience, nursery rhymes for instance. Mozart arranged the tune already composed called Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. On sports field, as tiny tots, we used to play a game using a rhyme we were taught which we droned and chanted usually. A tisket, a tasket I lost my yellow basket. A little later that summer I heard Ella Fitzgerald (we were holidaying in my maternal grandparents’ sprawling home) on my grandpa’s Grundig. She sang and rhythmically rhymed and chimed ‘A tisket, a tasket…’ Nursery rhymes are fabulous for jazz improv as I learnt later. As a child my first brush with the esoteric was watching my great grandfather meditate in our home for hours at a stretch and I wondered Whaat? A little child playing finds great grandfather meditating, tries to distract him in every possible trollish mischievous way. Great grandfather sits completely still, undistracted, eyes closed, not moving in deep, deep prayer. Extremely naughty child gives up. And ever since I have held on to this image for focus. Our folks gave us a realistic sense of ourselves, never making much of us even when teachers and others did. Rewarding us only for kindness or courage or perseverance and other things- never achievement. We also learnt that equality should be the basis of all interaction. A lot of our house help were people ostracised from wealthy families. Balances could tilt any day and we were to keep our own equilibrium no matter what. Circumstances could change anytime, any day. Today Cinderalla was a maid but at some point in time she could have maids in waiting. We were told never to be out of touch with work by which I mean drudgery and other things like cooking, cleaning, carrying your own bags, etc. and the list goes on. That learning was always useful to keep brains sharp, to remember that the human heart was most important in dealings, and much greater than the brain. With all the science in the world, there was a higher power and that the matter we once were, left a space called the Soul. Our house help included Ravichari (our driver) Tellicherry’s circus daredevil, now reject, previously riding the motorcycle in the well of fire, speaking English, spouting Kafka, quoting Shakespeare, now driving us slightly crazy, (what was dad thinking, then seriously WHAAAT?) But he was a good driver and fabulously educated and entertaining. He was from a Madras based business family, Lakshmi Balaji, a film equipment company in Chennai. Then there was Prema Kamat (housekeeper) speaking, reading and writing in English, Kannada and Hindi. She had a growth hormone deficiency, looked like a gnome but her behaviour suggested that she came from wealth and privilege. She was from the Kamat food family. There was Pothi (our caretaker) a Namboodri with regal bearing and spouting Sanskrit, who left his high class and caste in Nilambur, to settle in Bangalore, as he had fallen in love with (as they so awfully still call them in Kerala) Poleyetthi or one from the untouchable class). I could go on with Johnny an ex-priest, Kunjumma an ex nun, Lakshmikuttyamma also from Nilambur who had committed a mistake trusting the wrong man not even being married to him. She would have had to wear ‘Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter’ if she had stayed on in Kerala, and not been part of our household as the exquisite cook that she was, chef really. The catch phrase in our home turned from ‘just like mother makes’ to ‘just like Lakshmikuttyamma makes’! Yes, we lived and loved, taught and learnt, fought, sulked, made up, apologised, laughed, cried and everything else AT HOME! It was our world!