Remembering Mrs.S, a Family Member – Celebrating Fete De La Musique – Life & Family
The 4th anniversary of  Mrs. Aruna Sunderlal's passing (1939-2016) is coming up and we will be celebrating music and her life because she passed away during world music week and just the day before that, 22nd June, Jaggi and I had visited her home and she never gave an inkling that she would faint away into eternal rest the next day. Because in that moment she was wearing a beautiful purple kurta and she asked for her lipstick.  She called her help “my ducks”,  Lipstick lao’ and then asked if we wanted tea and something to eat with it.  Said how she really wished to be taken to the Aruna Sunderlal Auditorium to see in person the purple curtain she had specially chosen for the auditorium.  She called both of us ‘lovebirds’ and sometimes called me begum and a lot like some of the ladies in my family who tell me in a very Victorian way about a wife’s duty.  Her sense of humour got me giggling and arguing with her the way I sometimes argued with my Mother and Aunt who were that generation where patriarchy continued and yet they managed to balance and survive some horrible chaps in Andhra University or some swooning swains in B.Ed. courses sending love notes to a married woman with children.  They balanced careers and family life and fun and frolic and greatly enjoyed their children growing up.  But I can safely say that my great grandmother seemed far more rebellious than all these ladies.  Her own daughter, my grandmother called her troublesome.  Because every little thing that came up she would question and confront and doggedly cross question patriarchy, motherhood, independence and firmly believed that husband and wife were to lead their own lives and yet be together.  Always one for her space and yet Mrs. Sunderlal’s generation also my Mother and Aunt’s balanced everything and broke the mould without challenging status quo in a lot of ways.  My Mother playing Shakespeare in a play called The Queen & Mr. Shakespeare in Andhra University.  My Aunt leading the singing in a lot of spaces dominated by men.  Mrs. Sunderlal was someone who would drive in spite of her ailments like a rally driver through Bangalore.  Someone who was so fond of watching children perform in concerts, had studied opera but given it up as she preferred administration.  For all her throwing caution to the wind ways it was her personality that built BSM.  If she wanted to do something, she wanted to do it.  Making Western Classical music inclusive because in India it is considered an exclusive music, inaccessible to the masses.  She was also fun, loved dressing up, loved eating and making merry.  Generous to a fault. She also reminded me of some of the men in my family especially my maternal grandfather. 
This man found a way to be a responsible family man, have great fun and do good work for people he believed in, musicians in particular.  He had completely broken away, like his father, from very orthodox Iyengar (Tamil Brahmin) roots. (His ancestor, Anangacharya composed the Suprabhatam and somewhere along the way earned the title of Pratiwadi Bhayankaram or Master Orator. The title was given to this man from the South of India, who made a mark among the pundits of Varanasi in a faceoff for pundits.  And the initials were attached to everyone from the family of Iyengars.  Some terribly orthodox and others brave enough to marry a girl from a caste lower to his in Kerala.  A Malayali Nair from North Malabar.  With her parents’ consent and his father’s consent.  A copy of Wuthering Heights now slightly destroyed by ‘silver fish’ is all I have with a love note, beautifully written from my grandpa to my grand mom.  It starts with ‘dearest Bai, (She was named Kamala Bai).  Of course the rest of the poetic words bring a tear to my eye and I’m privy in that moment of the private nature of many things I keep to remember the stories in my family.  Many of them were on the brink of Indian Independence and the sense of being from village, town, city, state, country trickled slowly.  (Gandhi at the helm).  Trickled down to even my great grandmother’s village in Kerala, a gathering, a peaceful protest, resistance.  And the village grew to town, to city, to state, to country.  And they even began cooking rajma, a hitherto unknown food group in Kerala (which my Velliammamma (My great grandmother) called ‘Rajamaadhaavu’ which translated means 'Queen Mother'.  Though she did resist this food group which my great grandpa insisted on being cooked at home.  My great grandpa from Calicut Kerala studied Hindi, after he perfected Malayalam and English to be able to comprehend India’s national language.  This move from internationalism and parochialism to nationalism in as sincere a manner as possible.  He chose to go with Gandhi’s independent democratic secular republic. (A coloniser is different I believe from a collaborator and Hindutva to me today is just like any coloniser.  If only it could collaborate with secular democratic processes and be mindful and respectful of the true nature and essence of Hinduism).  My great grandma listened to Gandhi in Kolluncode, did not understand a word but got a Malayalam translation later and what really inspired her she said was that he wanted women to join in in the revolution or the resistance.  Now, here was this young woman on the threshold of life with a sharp brain and wit, musical talent and a kind heart.  I’ve been to her village, even though they were landowners and farmers, frankly it was nothing less than Okie and hokie, I won’t say Muskogee because then I would have to start singing!  Back to my mother’s father, the wedding of Pratiwadi Bhayankaram Srinivasa Narasimhan to Unchakandi Vallushery Kamalabai was conducted in the office room of my maternal grandmother’s home.  The village objected,  both sets of parents consented.   My grandma’s brother and my grandpa were friends on the training ship The Dufferin.
My grandparents married and soon moved to Vishakhapatnam (Vizhag) port.  My granddad being the winner of the Digby Best Gold Medal for excellence had a choice of ports and yet he chose Vizhag not wanting to be close to any of the other ports that had the dreaded interfering family members from both the families.  Vizhag, a new start, bride-in-tow, tin trunk (I still have the tin trunk from the 1930s).  Home was what he missed growing up.  His mother and step mother died and then it was the Dufferin as a young teen.  So he chose a shore job after getting married because just before that he was the youngest captain of a ship torpedoed at sea during WW2, marooned on a lifeboat  , he brought every man back to safety after being marooned at sea for 12 days.  He never went back to sea.  He grew roots in Vizhag, never venturing out of India, in spite of several offers.  He led a life of contentment.  He would also tell my very ambitious grandmother that he was content and she in turn grew relatively content.  His gift to me was music, jazz in particular.  From everywhere, playing on a Grundig which I still have and a gramophone player (with a broken needle) used as a prop on stage in the KE Auditorium of Christ Univ, dept. of Theatre studies where Jaggi and I are guest faculty  (music for theatre).
Our students to their credit guarded it with their life after I gave them the ‘gup’ behind the gramophone.  I learn constantly from students.  They are not what they seemed initially.  Initially I’m suspicious, expecting the worst, giving orientation speeches so they get the general idea of what to expect or what is expected of them and even a Grinch like me gets a warm fuzzy feeling when they display their imagination and fresh perspective in these jaded times we live in. My maternal grandfather is always in my memory.  In my library, in my ‘museum’ room, junk for everyone else, for me precious memories that climb out of books and tin trunks, Grundigs and gramophones, home movie projectors and albums.  Copper colanders and aluminium dabbas, Gandhi glasses, mortar and pestle.  A skillet pan from Mexico.  Magnets from yoga.  Earthen ware used to store Kodampulli and other things when there were no refrigerators.  Letters and letters from people.  Some still there and some I never met.  They passed on before I was born.  A Sabha in Vizhag founded by three friends including my grandpa and their wives to host great Indian artists (who came by train) never asked for 1st class or ‘business’; greats like M.S. Subbalakshmi, Bade Ghulam Ali Saab, Mandolin Srinivas, Bhimsen Joshi and so many others.  During my holidays I got to experience U.Srinivas and MS live.  Then on the Grundig it was Paul Robeson or Ella or Billie or Sara, Nina Simone, Count Basie, Duke Ellington, also Shirley Temple, Paul Mauriat, James Galway.  My Grandmother honestly said she only tolerated jazz and was not crazy for it like my grandfather (a wonderful harmonica player).  Dad’s dad was the same, excelled in his career, chose never to leave the country and yet travelled all over and died so young at 44.  He had accomplished what men do just before retirement.  I never met him but his photograph as the youngest and first Founding Chairman and MD of a public sector enterprise in Bangalore.  (My Aunt Shyamala told me he was a doer, a doer, a doer) An irreplaceable family man, an honest responsible ethical worker.  A fun person who loved music and singing, bridge and tennis.  Parties were singing sessions around pianos in the homes of both my parents.  Mum could have taken up piano but never did, much to the disappointment of her tutor Sister Joanna, or ballet or Indian dance which she excelled in in her youth.  In her retirement, she gave piano lessons to children for fun initially.  Then the demand began getting more than the supply!  She would request parents to give these children advanced lessons with someone else as she said it was beyond her purview.  Also age was catching up, illness and finally disability and much to our chagrin, parents still clung on.  Every puja season, some parents would come with their children to take her blessing.  She would be mighty embarrassed, because these parents insisted the children touch her feet which is a mark of respect in India shown to parents and teachers or gurus.  My Mother and a group of Senior Citizens volunteered in their retirement in hospices and government schools.  Till the very end, Mother took her last piano lesson.  A cute little boy named Divyan, cooked her last Khichdi for us and a soup for my grandmother with my help.  A few days later, she was in hospital for the next two months, bedridden and yet surrounded by people closest to her and finally a little after Jaggi and my brother left, just me.  It will always be the greatest honour and privilege of my life to have been there to see my Mother off on a journey.  Someone who had seen me in when I began mine.  My Mother’s aunt and uncle suggested naming her ‘India’ as she was born on the eve of Independence.  Instead my grandparents chose Usha (dawn) as she was born on the dawn of Indian Independence.  Usha is a popular Indian name, the Goddess of dawn is Ushus.  But her name was given to her to signify an Independent India, a few years before 1947 which is when India got independence. 
Two of my maternal grandad’s friends, one who married my grandmother’s sister were men I used to barge in on as they chatted with my granddad. Eshwer Sagar of The Hindu, their correspondent from Washington who reported and covered revolutionary events like Martin Luther King Jr.’s ‘I have a Dream’ speech and JFK’s assassination.  The other, C.G.K. Reddy was a staunch Ram Manohar Lohia supporter.  In their sunset years, these old men were amused at a teenager’s interest in their stories of a past where people had the courage of their convictions to spark off or support or standby a necessary revolution or resistance or movement.  No one wants anarchy, but if oppression continues, be empathetic, what if it was your own mother or brother, son or daughter, wife or husband, being suppressed, oppressed, repressed or what if it was your own garden or tree or pet that was maimed, marauded, maligned, neglected.  I can only speak for myself and even if I’m completely against a last resort anarchy, I often wonder if I may choose anarchy as an option if I was oppressed beyond repair. Empathy is a strange thing.  Every time my grandmother Radha told me about her sorrow of losing her husband, my grandfather, when she was just 39.  It once hit home the hardest.  She once looked at me and said, ‘I was just about your age and every dream of mine had died.’  When I watched Mrs.Sunderlal bash on regardless in spite of so many people having disappointed her.  With her never-say-die attitude, never refusing a person in need.  Even if people just rough shod over her organisation.  In spite of all that she would giggle and say “stop being a bleeko, let’s eat a Kaati roll, let’s go and get some jewellery together” . And then she was so disappointed that I never wore any of the family heirlooms, jewellery and sarees that are still preserved in pristine condition.  From Tanchois to Kanjeevarams, from Kasauti work on cotton, to Benaras works of art.  All these people have one thing in common.  They led the best possible life and became the best possible human beings they could possibly be.  Right till the very end, made themselves useful to their families and society and kept a lot of us staying afloat even when times were hard, finding joy, singing and dancing, working very hard.  They really finished the race, fought a good fight and kept the faith.  In this time of Corona lockdown, it’s a time to open our minds, staying at home and social distancing, it’s a great time for psychological coming together to rebuild lives, rebuild love, rebuild peace, and rebuild hope and harmony.  So for this Fete De La Musique, remembering BSM’s founder, Aruna Sunderlal, musicians and artists can with weapons of mass construction, peacefully grow and nurture a revolution.  As Africa’s Angelique Kidjo puts it so intensely “Music is the ultimate weapon of peace.
The most important component of communication is about listening.  Listening with your ears, your eyes, your taste buds, even your nose, your heart, your soul, your body, your brain.  Our choir conductor in Jyotinivas College, Ms. Wendy Dickson taught us this beautiful song ‘Love in Any Language’.  And today, one of my favourite lines in this song is so relevant that it gives me goose bumps. “Though the rhetoric of government may keep us far apart, there is no misinterpreting the language of the heart.”  The home and the world is where the heart is if we care to listen.
Molecules of L&H
It was the anniversary of my father’s death a few days ago.  As I wondered what was the quality in him that made me hero worship him beyond reason even if our personalities clashed in so many ways, this was the biggest reason why.  In the light of the heinous, brutal cop crime of hate for humanity, closer home the cops in India (not all of them) some of them do genuinely protect but a significant portion of the men in uniform are a really horrible violent lot.  On a daily basis, they bully, maim rape and sometimes even kill the poor, the marginalised, anyone who’s defenceless (peaceful protestors).  But one or two incidents at home led to a profound impact on my psyche with how my father and my great grandfather chose to handle them.  As a baby, with all the women in the household present, my mother, grandmother, and great grandmother – a young woman and her sister were employed to help with yours truly.  The reason I believe we call them help is because when people in the household can’t manage all the work, they get someone to help.  It means we work alongside them and they assist us in the workload.  Children, at least in Kerala where I come from, are given gifts of gold from family members as soon as they are born.  Waist chains, bangles, etc.   And even sometimes anklets.  Now one day suddenly, my mother found the gold missing on my baby person and of course one of the young women,  (babysitter who kept an eye on the baby when the women of the household went about tasks like eating or bathing or other chores) this babysitter had just slipped off all the gold and taken it.  When everyone was deciding what to do, my father said, the final protocol was ‘telling the cops’ and as the women and men in the household powwowed my father came to a final decision and said, “its only gold, let her keep it, otherwise the cops will beat her to pulp.” The girl was sent back to her home and that was the closure this incident had.  Her sister however continued to work as they were a huge family of girls (previously thought of as a liability in India and even today (that is another issue).  Now this sister was put in the family way by our household’s man Friday Parameshwaran and in her fear that she would be found out, she tried to abort the fetus herself.  Parameshwaran came to my great grandfather in great distress confessing everything ( he loved the woman, Caroline) saying she had fever, bleeding because her crude attempts and self mutilation had caused infection.  The women in the household were horrified and just didn’t know what to do.  Parameshwaran begged my great grandfather to intervene.  Dadaji as we called him (was a practising homeopath and had a great hands-on knowledge of basic medical procedure).
Dadaji’s actions may be deemed illegal in a court of law and my father’s decision may seem like aiding and abetting the act of stealing, but what I believe they were actually doing were addressing the grey areas of issues.  The alternative for these sisters would have been complete social ostracism, a police case, religious and moral implications, and so many other things.  If Caroline had not mutilated herself in fear, Dadaji would have suggested she  have the baby and marry a Hindu, Parameshwaran.  Because Parameshwaran subsequently married Caroline anyway and did live happily ever after keeping in touch with our household.  We never found out what Josephine did with the gold.  Dadaji carried out the medical procedure himself because time was short, Caroline had already begun raving and ranting as the infection raged.  Dadaji’s innate skill as a healer worked like it had with so many people.  But this was the most dangerous procedure (at least to my knowledge) handled along with Parameshwaran.  The consequences eluded him, only compassion and the need of the hour mattered.  To save a life.  My great grandparents had Christ on the cross in their puja room.  They were also devotees of Ramakrishnaparamahamsa and Sharada Devi.  Our neighbours, the Sharieffs, lived in harmony next door.  Except once when my cousins and I played new records, my Uncle had got from the UK so loud that they complained it was a Friday and it was disturbing their peace.  My grandmother  was so upset with us and we piped down on every day of the week after that and quit playing Karma Chameleon and Su-Su-Sudio that loud ever again.  My father and his business consultancy worked alongside our family’s version of Amar Akbar & Antony.  Ali, Vijayan and Wellington.  These men adored my father.  Ali kept in touch not just till the day dad passed away but till Ali himself passed away.  His restaurant in K.R.Puram in Bangalore is run by his son.  His daughter’s wedding was well attended by Jaggi and my father’s brother.  We never really saw ourselves as Hindu, Muslim or Christian or anything other than human beings. 
Six months ago when Maraa, a media and arts organisation, and Goethe Institute resident Carlos Ricci wanted to collaborate, we requested a dalit poet-singer-activist to work with us.  (Even today many of them are night soil workers or people chosen to work in caves of human excreta ( a by product of body and soul is what I call it in my narratives).  Caste is the scourge of India.  Like a man on the news last night said that slavery is America’s  ‘original sin’, I believe caste is India’s original sin.  Dalit women raped, dalit youth burnt alive, dalit children killed for nothing, dalit men treated as subhuman.  I am a musician, certainly not a firebrand activist.  Honestly I’m a nervous human being, fundamentally an introvert.  But the voices in my family keep pushing me to be someone’s voice.  Even if they are feeble attempts at bringing about a drop of change, what I do try to do in our daily lives is show empathy and respond human to human.  In the littest ways possible and then working a little beyond.  Funny I never recognised Christ on the cross in my great-grandparents puja room.  Probably because it was covered with a large garland of flowers that might have looked prettier on the plants.  I found out much later from my mother who was a great admirer of Dadaji’s ( her husband’s grandfather) that my great grand parents considered Christ a healer, mystic and sage.  The pioneer and founder of a spiritual way of life.  Ramakrishna Paramahamsa and Sharadadevi were spiritual, not religious pioneers.  They held a prominent spot in the puja room, eclipsing even the Ravivarma Prints of Gods and Goddesses who are the basis of storytelling and music.  Mother Teresa of Kolkata was my great grandmother’s hero.  (When my great grandmother moved from Calicut to Bangalore, she gave away every bit of her huge portion of gold ornaments to the house help in Calicut) .  She said she was inspired in a very tiny way by someone like Mother Teresa whose work was vast and all encompassing.  It was only much later that I realised that Mother Teresa was a real person again strangely as a child, this living Saint took on mythical proportions in my imagination.  With all the scepticism surrounding saints, when a serendipitous moment presented itself, we were led to Amritapuri where I experienced a feeling that no being can consider themselves separate from another being.  And I say NO being.  This includes all of nature.  What prompts a murderer to put explosives in a pineapple and kill an elephant and her baby in utero.  The same molecules that can so easily knee the life out of a man, so easily rape a child. So easily beat a woman to death.  Pope Francis who I admire greatly called it the sin of racism.  I would just call it the molecules of hate.  Coming back to my father and Dadaji, I will continue worshipping them alongside the women in my family (People say don’t breathe life into the past, its dead for a reason)  that being said, every choice I make today is because someone, a parent, a family member, a teacher, a spouse has guided me with their actions.  I’ve learnt by example.  And I hope in the future I can be one miniscule molecule of positive change.  Music and books is what I’ve chosen career wise.  Sometimes I feel helpless compared to doctors, nurses, social workers and so many others.  I begin thinking my career choice pales in comparison and yet somewhere I feel it adds up to create and love not destroy and hate, not to desecrate and defile what our Maker created.  Einstein said one can see everything as a miracle or nothing as a miracle.  The scientist in him saw the nature of spirituality and science and how they were really not strange bedfellows.  Every being deserves respect and dignity.  The crimes that come to light come as a warning from crimes committed before that never saw the light of day.  People are also protesting in the present for what has happened so many times before in the past.  That at least in the future (whatever that means) choices will be made not to opt for evil, to opt to be molecules of love and respect, not molecules of hate and inhumanity.