Rambalaings

Digital Inscriptions - People, Places, Pictures from our Family

[rambalaings]

R8 - Bradley Jackson

There's a famous show on Apple TV+ called "The Morning Show" starring Jennifer Aniston, Reese Witherspoon, and Steve Carrell. Some of you might be thinking I have just emerged from a cave to discover this show as you are waiting for season three. For everyone else, it is an exciting look into the lives of Morning TV News anchors and the production team. It is a perspective that I was not too familiar with, so this was one I continued watching through.

I can't say I strongly recommend the show, it is not for everyone. But if you have time, enjoy journalism or are a fan of one of the leads, watch the first episode and see if you feel it worthwhile investing more time in, it will likely not disappoint.

This post is not a review of the show, and one post cannot really do justice to the entire show. It is focused on Reese Witherspoon's character, Bradley Jackson. From the very beginning, it struck a chord.

The first incident where we get into Bradley's inside is when she extemporaneously unloads onto a fellow reporter who injures her cameraman, even if, accidentally. As a reporter, she is expected to behave "decently" but does not. It shows her passion, her imperfection, and her internal revolt. She comes from a dysfunctional family and has no one to share her frustrations with. This incident gives her the vent.

During that rant, she reveals the depth of her research on the piece of news she is about to cover and her intimate awareness of the situation at the coal mine. She puts herself in the shoes of the people she is reporting about. Another surprise! Isn't a reporter supposed to read from a script without deviation, tell the story and move on to another? Not Bradley Jackson!

Unknowingly, this whole episode is recorded by a citizen journalist on their phone and as the premier institution is looking for stories, a maverick scout finds Bradley and wants her to be interviewed for the Morning show. Long story short, that interview reveals Bradley's personality, and her naked ambition to get to the truth and tell it like it is. The host challenges her that she might have done all this just to get the attention of the Morning Show, but she comes out on top with the authenticity and sincerity of her responses.

A sequence of events and a complex intertwining of political, situational, people and circumstantial factors lead to Bradley becoming the co-host of the show! She becomes a fire-starter that catalyzes a bunch of changes to the culture, operational model and fate of the TV station.

So, what about this character makes her stand out? It is that there is a bit of Bradley in every single one of us. How the show put every one of those bits together in one character is mindblowing. What are these bits that we can relate to?

Fluke luck and a big break after years of normalcy

Perhaps it was her humble beginnings and rise to stardom. If I stopped there, this would be Disney's Cinderalla, except it isn't. Bradley did not get time to prepare for such a massive leap. She is a small-town reporter in a small station. She always got into trouble for not knowing how to be 'politically correct'. Have some of us felt this way when we enter the workforce or join a big company or work across teams? Sure!

Values are Non Negotiable

As a reporter, her personal brand, which she has cultivated over the years, is one of being fair and truthful. Those are not easy values to stand up for or reconcile with growing in one's career. The show has shown this nicely, where Bradley is pretty experienced and yet she has not made it on the newsroom rung beyond being a field reporter at a tier 3 station in a small state. Surely, someone of her talent, extempore, and capability should have made it much further? Not Bradley, as she has always found a way to get herself into trouble, possibly for upholding her values above growth or progression. Bradley isn't alone on this, in fact, she can be compared to any superhero in Marvel's comics or most recently Captain Pete Mitchell (call sign Maverick) who is exceptional but remained Captain for years. Don't we love all these heroes? That's why we love Bradley. It is incredibly frustrating to not be able to progress, but when it comes down to values, how can that be negotiable. This is why those who are not good in organizational politics do not hold fancy managerial titles.

Firestarter - if you see something, say something!

Bradley is like fire, she blows everything up. Sometimes the fires help catalyze a revolution, but other times, they bring everything down. This may not resonate with everyone, but no change is brought about without lighting fires. We see this in Bradley repeatedly. She is not worried about her job, her standing with management, coworkers or anyone.

She wants to do the right thing, whether it is in standing up for the truth, supporting the right cause, making people uncomfortable about sidestepping important issues, or just about anything. This hustle and whatever it takes mindset is rare, and can cause a lot of discomfort, but is a necessary ingredient for change.

Such sincerity from Bradley and her passion to change what is clearly wrong, affects the lead host, Alex Levy played by Jennifer Aniston, so much that she begins to feel defensive, subconsciously examining her own approach to journalism. Perhaps she saw a tinge of her ambition when she first started, but that was numbed over the years due to institutional politics or an intense will to get ahead.

Bradley is tapped into time and time again by her champion, the CEO of the network, Cory Ellison, who gave her some of her biggest breaks. She stays loyal to him as he does to her. This is a bit rare, but that's trust that builds between people that grow into their roles helping each other.

People and families are imperfect, *hit happens

Bradley does not kid herself by expecting anything to be perfect. She is perfectly comfortable with imperfection and does not crave the ideal. Yet, she has a few values that are uncompromisable. That in effect marks a conflict she has with herself. This has been shown very beautifully throughout the show and her character has ample opportunities to make tough decisions. She is almost a masochist in choosing the toughest path, situations that are most uncomfortable to tackle, and hardest to navigate. She faces this head-on, not hoping to solve anything, but more to attain some sort of closure that she can make peace with. So many of us, I would wager almost half of us can understand this sentiment.

The other half is portrayed by the lead character who shares the stage with Bradley, Alex Lewis, played by Jennifer Aniston, who has a completely opposite approach to life, she conceals her imperfections and wants to make herself appear as the perfect being. Totally opposite but that's something that the rest of us will relate to!

Bradley is conflicted between owning up to the issues that she has from her family, which is totally dysfunctional. But it is part of who she is and she has already cancelled half of it, what she has remaining, some part of her wants to hold on to, DEARLY. This is especially true of her brother, who is an addict but clings on to her to the point where he becomes a serious burden, a disgrace and a liability for her career. She is conflicted on advice she gets from her closest friends to leave her family behind to pursue her career. This is so reminiscent of the dilemma we have all faced in our lives.

Families are like a package deal or a bunch of grapes, you get the good with the bad all in the same package. You can't choose what you get, you just go along or branch off.

What makes Bradley relatable or memorable?

The botched-up Cinderella story, life is not all rainbows and unicorns that TV shows it to be. Some of us are just tired of the fiction of perfection shown in movies or series, which is good as an escape but does not exist in the real world. Even if you get the opportunity of your dreams, you are seldom prepared to handle it.

The unpredictability, or the sheer talent and pursuit of the truth. It may be that we don't get to play Bradley in our everyday lives. Or perhaps some of us aspire to, but can't or hold back.

This character has been written consistently throughout the show. No matter the situation, the dilemma, or the hard decisions that the character needs to make, she stays true to her principles. A rare and respectable trait that is almost impractical but we see role models from time to time that uses their platform.

The artist, Reese Witherspoon has given Bradley so much life, that makes Bradley Jackson extremely lovable, and totally relatable. No matter where we come from, or how we have evolved, there is some part of us that is Bradley. That's the magic of this character.

We consume a lot of media these days, and such characters leave a mark.

[rambalaings]

R7 - Window to the world

I have always loved the window seat - for as long as I can remember. Is this a sign of introspection or an inherent curiosity? The window seat offers a view, but much more. It offers a connection.

My earliest memory of jockeying for the window seat is in the train rides from Bombay to Madras. We used to go down South once in a while, to visit relatives, or to visit our native village in Tirunelveli or some of the religious locations such as Tirupathi. I fought my grandma most often for this spot. Sometimes it was easy since we would typically get 2 windows being a party of over 4 and having senior citizens who needed the lower berth to sleep without climbing up the ladders.

Let’s come back to the window seat, whether it is the side facing the train station platforms, which meant, watching people, or the other side, facing other trains, or the cities at a distance, it was always fascinating to see the scenery roll by. It also gave me a chance to look outside the known, outside the comfort zone, outside the usual. Into a world that is new, dive into new experiences and new smells, sounds and I wish I could say sights, but I could barely see beyond a certain distance most of my childhood, so my other senses helped build that picture in my head, and those senses were strongest near the window.

Besides these factors that you experience during travel, perhaps it was the small spaces I grew up in, with a TON of people. I enjoyed looking into the horizon, a wider and broader view from the top or to a world beyond, whether that is beautiful, or not is beside the point. It's different and that window, always gave me an escape, into another world.

I wonder now, whether it is an introvert that did not want to talk and would rather get lost in the outer world or an explorer that liked the adventure of hearing, smelling, tasting something new. This love for the window extended to buses, cars, airplanes, seats at restaurants, or even homes where I would stare endlessly out the window or a balcony to look at life outside. In fact, sitting in the middle of facing the inside, being in rooms with no windows gave me a sense of claustrophobia, although fear is too intense of a suffix for the feeling.

Give me a window and I will soak in the world through it.

[rambalaings]

R6 - Vittal

After such a long series of posts, time to take a breather with a shorter one, but not any less important as any. This one is about Vittal, literally a member of our family.

Vittal came to us from the time I can remember, which means he was probably in our home from my early childhood or thereabouts. More accurately it was around the mid 1970s so even prior to my birth.

To call him a house help or a servant would not do us any justice to his memory. He is probably no more than 10 years elder than me, perhaps a much lesser difference, actually. Yet, he took the role of an elder brother, a help that was always there, someone who was in and out without much fuss.

In Bombay, well into the 90s, the concept of child labor was par for the course. All members of the family had to work to make ends meet. This is what made the city a special place where anyone willing to work hard could make a living and live right next to someone who may be of the same age and does not need to work for a day in their life.

Vittal was not that fortunate or unfortunate, depending on which side you are looking from. As a child, he had desires to have fun, skip a day or two of work, much to the frustration of my grandma. He would abscond from the day's work without notice and always have a good story to tell on the next day. One day it might be his bike wheel that got punctured, or rain that damaged his tattered roof, or his mom got sick. But no cell phones, Whatsapp or any way to inform us upfront, he would show up with a long face and a good story the next day. No one ever knew whether any of these tales were true but at times it got so frequent that you might be tempted to follow him to see what transpires or do other reconnaissance work. But in those days everyone was running and no one really had the time! Each day he did not show up, my mom and aunt would have to cover for the chores whilst my grandma went to chitchat with her friends after dinner. They would do this cursing Vittal for his absence!

As he aged with us and kept serving longer, Vittal became more responsible, more than a house help. He integrated into the family, ate lunch, dinner and snacks at our place. I remember he used to remove his shirt sporting a shorts and a banian (vest) while working so that the shirt remained fresh for his next job. He worked atleast 3 jobs as far as I am aware, possibly more. Sometimes seasonally during festivals, he would take up even more ambitious jobs such as running a sandwich stall selling triangle sandwiches. My family did everything to boost his sales and it actually tasted good, so in a way the product sold itself. No one ever looked down upon him as a servant or poor person, doubted the ingredients or in any way show any discrimination. They were eating out of his street-side stall as if it were a Michelin star rated place. Where were there Yelp or other reviews to check. Life was much simpler.

My father and grandfather would give him "special tasks" to get tobacco rolled up in betel leaves, called Paan. He always knew which ones to get for my father and grandfather. Each of them had customizations the liked to their orders. Never did you have to tell Vittal, it was memorized. In fact it was so robotic that Vittal only had to show up at the shop and the Paan-wala would know what to do!

In time Vittal got married to a girl named Vasanthi. She was a darling of the house, almost like a daughter in law that was actually treated better than the real daughter-in-law given that she was by default not complaining while doing work, would be in and out in a matter of hours. So she did kitchen clean-up work while Vittal took the room, and wall cleaning. They would both cutely dine on our balcony by the bedroom without appearing in front of anyone else. Vittal used to take breaks to take his wife to visit his family at a remote village outside of Bombay. The stories about their commute to the village were very fascinating to me as they involved a train, a bus, a bullock cart or cycle rickshaw, and some walking. I would keep asking questions, especially about the train, and was always curious why they did not take a car to visit. They would not once mention their financial situation. Such was their maturity.

Vittal would drop me to school as a backup, when the guy that was supposed to take me to school skipped work. He would take my dad's old bicycle which had a little seat for me in the front. I loved sitting on that seat and riding especially into the monsoon rain, water splattering through my duck back raincoat. Vittal would make up some story and drop me off. I would bid goodbye and disappear into the bustle of school as he took off to make up for the time lost on another job!

Experiences in life are shaped in some way or form by the people you interact with, especially in your childhood. From Vittal, I learned the value of hard work. Doing that work with a smile. Not forget to enjoy life and everything it throws at you. Doing the very best you can with things you can control. Loyalty. From my family and the way they treated Vittal, early on, the aspects of discrimination on any basis were fairly invisible to me. This in no small ways contributes to my actively embracing and seeking diversity. In other ways, it blinds me to the brutalities caused by some of this discrimination. In some ways, the backdrop provided by the Beautifully diverse city of Bombay is impossible to match anywhere else in the world. It was also a function of time, the 80s provided plenty of catalysts for everyone to aspire to achieve their dreams. People began seeking employment in Gulf countries, the US, and Singapore. Repatriation of funds was increasing GDP. Those with the means helped boost the economy by providing domestic or corporate employment to several. The Gujrati community strong in its business virtues brought plenty of wealth into Bombay. Amidst all this, Vittal grew in his small way, and moved from a tent he lived under to brick housing. An achievement he celebrated with us. He brought us sweets on that occasion specially made by his mom.

My time with Vittal came to an end as I left for Kuwait. After then, I would enquire via phone once in a while on how he was doing but since our visits to India dropped to once a year, the depth of our connection also decreased. In a couple of years, Vittal took on gainful employment with a company and left doing work for our house - almost a dozen years after he first came in. It was sort of an end of an era as he was irreplaceable and the time was incomparable. My grandpa (yes, the one I wrote about), passed away, my father left for Kuwait, we followed him there. My aunts got married, had kids and moved on. So, it was really just my grandma and her sister who lived in our Bombay residence. Vittal would visit once in a while and my grandma made full use of his time, getting him to do some chores, and of course rewarding him with food, gifts, and other tchotchkes that he probably valued much lesser than he once did.

The time we shared with Vittal remains a beautiful memory.

[rambalaings]

High Five

5 posts!

[rambalaings]

R5 - A friend indeed

Remember that feeling when you walk into a classroom, join a training camp, board a bus or come late to a party? Your eyes scan furiously for that one known face, that connection with someone, or just friendly eye contact with the first retina. Just an acknowledgment, a minute gesture, perhaps that nod or those first words is all you seek. If you are an extrovert, you may be the one that initiates this, but if you are an introvert, this can be horribly uncomfortable. This post is written from the perspective of an introvert who folks seldom realize I am.

Introverts know other introverts and there is a magical alignment between us. Introversion without words, gestures or clues, somehow permeates and carries to the brain of others. So, in that scenario where you are entering a party but do not have the option to duck into a corner, atleast imminently, there can be a few moments, minutes or even hours of excruciating discomfort that feels harder than taking an ice bath in the Antarctic.

That was the feeling I had in elementary school, entering a new class at the Pune Vidya Bhavan in Ghatkopar, Bombay. The demographics were not too steady as people moved around in Bombay at the time and kids were not all continuing across the years. So the annual ice bath lasted days when I did not really make any good friends and did not exchange many words or gestures. Worse, I picked up fights and started on the wrong footing with some of the gangs!

I was by no means a quiet kid or someone who kept to myself, but making connections was especially hard. I have often wondered whether this is due to an inherent lack of trust, a defensiveness of sorts, or due to some powerful bonds within the family or friends’ circle that were irreplaceable by others who you met only for a few hours, albeit, every day. Anyways, a few students would come and talk in between “subjects” or at “recess”. But these were brief conversations and not much transpired or with any sort of consistency. The state of affairs did not change for a few weeks, maybe a month into the school year, until that first active gesture, in this case, a call for help came. Explicitly a call for help as I recall…..

In our math class, one late afternoon, many of the kids were distracted by the sounds of kids playing in the playground for the final period of the day. It was just this math class standing in the way of getting back home and having fun or a snack, whatever was fancied. The teachers in India had a great knack of getting students’ attention. They would begin calling out names and asking them to answer a question or read from their work, else come to the black board to solve a problem. Yes, this happened, even in Kindergarten (2 levels - Upper or lower KG, some had pre-KG as well!). If kids did not answer the question or make an earnest attempt, the homework would double, to ensure the learning experience continues and that the right behaviors were promoted. Was it medieval, yes, if you look at it today, but back in the day, it was par for the course, especially in India.

Those who were not paying attention would get a little freaked out by this change in direction as it would come without any warning and even as the questions were being asked, there would be a panic to get to the answer in the time it took the teacher to come up with the assignee that was to answer it.

Such was the situation when a whisper called out to me from across the aisle asking for the answer to a question posed by the teacher. I can't remember the problem but I remember how earnest the eyes making the request were. I was less than 50% confident on the answer. The teacher had called out 2 boys and one girl and all of them fumbled the answer. This girl, let's call her Gaby, did not want to be singled out as one who did not know the answer. I wrote out what I thought was the answer into a chit of paper and threw it across the aisle to her desk. She gave me a beaming smile and a nod. Somehow the connection was immediate - it was gratitude for my willingness to help.

No, this ain't a Bollywood movie, so neither of us was called and I do not even remember whether the answer was correct. I would go out of the way to take a few long walks back home through her flat so that we could be talking before we headed home. She helped me with a few homework assignments when I got sick and could not attend school for a long time. My mother became good friends with hers, so we met a few times outside of school and would play at her place most often as mine was fairly crowded and crummy at the time ;) But it did not last; that moment forged a friendship that lasted all year until it was time for me to leave school for Kuwait. No social networks, and expensive phone calls via ISD and perhaps, with distance, no common topics to keep in touch for. At that time you tend to think it is all over, but alas, years later, it is these moments and experiences that one remembers. I remember being fascinated by this friendship then and even now I occasionally search through social networks but have no clue what to find. I don't even know her last name or whereabouts or even if I did find her, what am I going to say? Hey... 40 years ago, I helped out with a Math problem, remember?? ;)

The reason scenes in movies like '96 or Forrest Gump work is that they are real. And they are evergreen and work at any age. Be it the first grade of the first year of college or any time after that.

[rambalaings]

R4 - Paternal Grandfather Remembered - Part IV

PAST PONDER

Background It has been almost 40 years since my Paternal Grandfather left for the heavens on August 13th 1983. I was still very young and this was the first personal tragedy that I have experienced in my life. Although it feels sad that I could not spend more time with this man, who I was named after, the silver lining on the clouds through which he must be watching me, is that I got to spend 6 years with him, during most of which, I was still a toddler. Lots of what I have described are rather blurred images from my brain and I will back it up with what I have heard from my family members over the years after his departure. 

This series of posts were written back in 2005, exercised my memory more than most others and are dedicated to my Thatha (Grandpa).

The Story So Far…

I had written about my thatha’s humble beginnings, his parents, his wedding and his troubles soon after leading up to the Golden Era and his journey to Bombay, where he would depart from this material world after leading a glorious life and doing everything he could to ensure that his family is taken care of. Please read the first two posts in the series, to recharge or load your memory with mine.

1. A Grandfather Remembered — I 2. A Grandfather Remembered — II 3. A Grandfather Remembered — III

I will conclude this series with this post...

Beginning of the end...

Perhaps my grandfather must have seen the end coming when he decided that there needs to be some thinking outside the box to further the progress of his family. Yes, compared to earlier, we were much better off. With a stable home, and a decent job albeit paying only in the 100s of rupees per month in the early 1980s. There were two kids in this house already and their education needed to be better than what he could afford for his kids. My dad was repeatedly late on his fees due to difficulties, it even threatened his ability to take his exams.

One incident that comes to mind, that must have reminded my grandpa of this staunch reality was when my father was a victim of a pick-pocket theft on Bombay’s crowded Metro local trains. He came home on salary day empty handed and heavy hearted. He had just lost his purse full of his monthly earnings to a stranger in the train. My thatha was strong through the incident and warned everyone, particularly the ladies in the house to keep silent and not say a word to make things worse. This day might have triggered feelings that if either he or his son were to lose their jobs temporarily, they could not lead a peaceful life.

My mom, who thatha worked on a lot to bring her up to speed with accounting, maintaining balance sheets, expenses, etc. could tell that things were not as stable as comfortable middle class families would possess. So, thatha got a heads up that something needed to get done. He took a strong initiative by picking a cue from the ads in the papers that advertised requirement for good accountants in the Middle Eastern countries like Kuwait, UAE and Bahrain. My dad was a Bombay university rank holder in his M.Com and had completed CAIIB and LLB, additional qualifications that would make him a top candidate for those jobs in the Middle East.

Sure enough, my dad got accepted by a Bank, Burgan Bank SAK in Kuwait among another offer or two. But the blues hit my dad, who did not want to leave his family and his sick dad behind. He kept following my technique by saying passports were delayed, visa was not getting processed, etc. to delay or avoid his departure to the Middle East. My thatha’s heart may have weakened, but not his capability to decode the truth from a lie. He found out from the passport agency via my maternal uncle that the application was never turned in. He confronted my dad and had a difficult conversation that resulted in my dad applying and then getting visa in 1983. The moment of truth had come. He was all set to leave his dad, his wife and kids behind in search for a good opportunity which would ensure financial stability like never before for this family.

Goodbye to a Son!

Around Mid-May the gloom spread through the house. My thatha kept his spirits very high. After all he knew very well that this was a good move. He was a maverick. He had travelled through the country in search of opportunity, but this was a big step! He was sending his son abroad after the latter branched off from Godrej to rise through the ranks of Union Bank in his beloved city of Bombay. My dad could not think of leaving Bombay where he had so much fun in school, with friends, with co workers, commuting through local trains, the city where he found success, a wife, 2 kids, etc. But there was a job to be done and it was the right thing to do. His brain acknowledged, but “heart” did not.

It was a tough night at the Sahar International Airport for all of us. My sister was merely 1.5 years old and did not have the slightest idea of what was going on. She was very close to my dad in the months she’d been in the world and my mother did not really have a life thus far. It was very tough and little did we know that it would be more than 2 years for us to reunite with our dad. A tough moment in childhood, but it was remarkable to see the man, my grandpa, who stood rock solid in fighting back his tears while bidding goodbye to his son, who took a few steps back to get another glimpse of his father before boarding, I think an Air India flight bound for Kuwait. He did not leave until he saw the flight take off. Back in those days, we could see people board their flight through the steps and actually watch the flight take off. In the tough days that followed, my thatha continued to be a source of inspiration and encouragement for the rest of us who were not as strong.

Tears of GREAT joy!

So, what could break such a strong man? Turns out, that a small battery operated white police car! This was my dad’s first parcel back from Kuwait, which he sent for me. My thatha could not stop crying seeing that car dash one wall after another in the home that he got for the family. He had seen much tougher times. For him, this car was a personalization of growth. From roadside fish, to wooden buses, to plastic screaming demon cars to this sophisticated battery operated car, was his whole life in front of him. A scene he relished for ever and could not stop talking about. He touched, smelt and preserved the pistha green half shirt that my dad sent for him. He would wear it for the first time, also would be his last. He loved it so much, that he took it with him.

Heart Breaking

Those scenes in the preceding paragraph were the last true moments of joy in my grandpa’s life as far as I can remember. The man who visited his grandkids weekend after weekend, would now be visited almost every day by his grandson on the way to school, at Panscholi hospital. He would still act cheerful, describe the test tube babies that were being incubated in the hospital near his ward, take a walk or two inside the premises and drink kanji (oatmeal) from the flask that my mother carried.

I would notice that he had not shaven and even ask about it, to which he would say, he will come home and get clean again real soon. Come home, he will and cleaned he will get, but not in a way any of us would have wanted.

I would pick up an urgent call from Panscholi hospital that gravely said that “Mr. Ramakrishnan is very serious and we need someone from his home to come immediately”. At first my aunt thought I was blabbering when I repeated the message to my folks who were in the neighbor’s home. But no, it was true. My thatha would get shifted to Sion hospital, yes Sion, where he cheerfully greeted his grandchidren and held them up with pride.

My maternal uncles who were local in Sion, lended immense support. One of them used to spend the night outside the hospital ward with a bed-sheet spread out on the floor. They used to take shifts. My thatha would ask them for Idli-Sambar, which they obviously could not give him for medical reasons and this would frustrate him immensely! They bore the brunt of his abuses understandingly. A good degree of moral support came from my grandpa’s son-in-law as well, who had to take charge in the absence of my father in the home to make decisions, to consult on kids’ education, etc.

My dad was informed immediately and he rushed from Kuwait. My thatha’s health did improve considerably when my dad was in presence. I am not aware of how many attacks he had or how severe they were throughout this period. I was too young to be told and did not overhear any numbers. It must have been very tough for my dad, who just stepped into Kuwait and had to rush back. One day I remember my dad telling me that he felt really miserable for scolding my thatha to have eaten paan even in such a degraded state of his health to which my thatha cried loudly saying it was blood and not the stain of paan from his mouth. My dad had to leave again, only after ensuring that thatha was feeling much better and if he continued in this state, he would soon be discharged.

A Sudden Turnaround

Moments after my dad left, his flight might still have been at the gate, we got a call from Sion hospital that my thatha’s health had degraded significantly again. This time it seemed very ominous. Under heavy sedation, my thatha started having delusions that someone was trying to attack him, everyone around him was dying, etc. This was not a good sign. My aunt went to visit thatha with her son (also 1.5 years old) and he got frightened when my thatha tried to hold him in his arms. He began saying “daadi thaatha” (bearded grandpa) and getting away from my grandpa. It must have been too much to take for this tender hearted man battered with several attacks at this stage. It was a disgusting general ward and I get pained any day I think about it.

It began raining on the evening of Aug 12 1983 as we rode a taxi slowly to Sion. I did not know that it would be the last glimpse of my dear grandfather still alive. I saw him through a small glass window outside the ward that revealed all the patients lying in their beds. My thatha’s was second or third from the last. Even with a weak eye, I did see him move, although he might not have known that I was watching.

We stayed over at my maternal grandparents’ home in Sion that night. The following day, we had attended some bhajan in Chembur before returning to Ghatkopar, where I uttered this phrase as a 5-yr old kid, “I think I may be the only Ramakrishnan in this house.. alive”. I was severely reprimanded by my mother for that, but when we reached Ghatkopar, we heard that it was indeed true.

My grandfather was no more. His end came on the same bed that I last saw him lie on. I can’t remember the last thing he told me, or the last happy moment I had with him. But he was put on life support, a defibrillator was brought on to the bed, it was too late. His heart had given way. His younger son-in-law was at his death bed at that time and lives as a witness to the end. I think my grandpa clutched his arm as if to tell him “take care of them”, referring to his family. He had done everything to ensure that things were taken care of.

Blurry but definite images of my grandpa being brought home to Ghatkopar on an evening when it was raining cats and dogs. My grandma collapsed for a long time, was brought home carried upstairs. My maternal grandpa was there, RCK was there, Sewri thatha (my grandpa’s childhood friend and relative) was there, we were all there, but my dad could not be. Sewri thatha conveyed the grave news to my dad and convinced him that he would take care of everything. My sister and other kids were crying loudly even though they did not understand anything. For my sister, just seeing thatha lie there was heart breaking. My moment of truth came, when thatha was brought upstairs to the 57/20 Vrandavan flat that had brought so much joy, so much pride. Here he was, taken to the bathroom, given a shower, clothed in the same Pistha Green shirt that his son gifted him with and taken to the empty garage in the building for the vedic rituals. I looked on, from 57/4, Mathew mama’s house which offered a vantage view into the proceedings. After all rituals were completed, I held a flame torch near the gates, watching my grandpa being taken away to the cremation grounds.

My dad arrived 2 days later, my paati woke up from her trance, life would never be the same again, but my grandpa would be there to grace each occassion, to celebrate each success, to cherish each moment of happiness there is. He graces the family albeit from his picture that ornates the walls of many of our family’s homes, or just from up there, he smiles and approves noddlingly whenever I deal with challenging situations bravely with nothing but the truth.

— This concludes the series of posts related to my Grandfather —-

[rambalaings]

R3 - Paternal Grandfather Remembered - Part III

PAST PONDER

Background It has been almost 40 years since my Paternal Grandfather left for the heavens on August 13th 1983. I was still very young and this was the first personal tragedy that I have experienced in my life. Although it feels sad that I could not spend more time with this man, who I was named after, the silver lining on the clouds through which he must be watching me, is that I got to spend 6 years with him, during most of which, I was still a toddler. Lots of what I have described are rather blurred images from my brain and I will back it up with what I have heard from my family members over the years after his departure. 

This series of posts was written back in 2005, exercised my memory more than most others, and are dedicated to my Thatha (Grandpa). I have reprinted it here from my posts on Blogger with minimal/no edits to preserve the purity of the memories from back then.

The Story So Far…

I had written about my thatha’s humble beginnings, his parents, his wedding and his troubles soon after leading up to the Golden Era and his journey to Bombay, where he would depart from this material world after leading a glorious life and doing everything he could to ensure that his family is taken care of. Please read the first two posts in the series, to recharge or load your memory with mine.

1. A Grandfather Remembered — I 2. A Grandfather Remembered — II

Heart-Warning… The first heart attack that my grandpa endured successfully must have come as an early jolt to him and those around this strong man. However, knowing him for as little as I did, there was certainly no stopping him at all. He was back up on his feet soon and began working full steam at Godrej as if things were normal. They were, but were they? My mom recollects this phase very often even today as the newly wed bride in the house. Coming from a strict disciplinarian family, just like my wife, she had not seen too much of the outside world. On the other hand, my dad and his siblings had been all around the country and picked up several things along the way. So, they used to have fun, of course in a very light hearted, well intentioned and humorous way. For instance, my thatha and my dad used to do mimicry of each other's voice to my paati and mom for fun.

One incident that I remember my mom telling me, was the celebratory party that my uncle and aunt threw for my cousin brother’s birth. They kidded with her that she needed to practice her dance steps and that the food would arrive in a conveyer belt and if she did not pick them up in time, she lost her chance. She literally practiced this thinking it was true and when she did not get it, she cried loudly. My thatha and athimber took charge of the situation taking side of the in-law. A minor incident, but well remembered and influential nonetheless.

Usher in the Sondha Peran!

Gandhi Jayanthi day, October 2nd 1977 was an anxious time for our family. My mother was expecting me and everyone was praying for a safe arrival. After all, for my thatha this would be the continuation of his blood-line, his lineage, which he had fought so hard to save. His son’s progeny was not the first in that generation, but I am told, something eagerly expected.

My thatha rushed to the nursing home to see me. It was a lucky day, Mr. RCK got an official car, an Ambassdor, sanctioned on the same day at Godrej. Since my grandpa also worked in the same place, RCK drove my grandpa from Vikhroli to Sion as soon as he could. In the weeks that followed, when I would stay with my maternal grandparents before I shifted to my paternal home in Ghatkopar, my grandpa would visit me atleast once every week.

@57/20 Vrandavan in Ghatkopar

A few weeks later, I was back at Ghatkopar as a tiny still immobile toddler. A few months later, there was another milestone for our family. We got our first televison! It was a Bharath Black and White TV! Everyone was happy, not just for the TV, but for the progress that it personified. I don’t recall my thatha being a major TV buff, but I do recall his profound taste for music. He used to have a huge Grundig system that played these mega-discs! We still have a few of these huge discs at home. He loved Carnatic Music and perhaps that played into his daughter in law selection (my mom was professionally trained in advanced Classical Carnatic Music). His favorites were undoubtedly M.S. Subbalakshmi and Dr. Bala Murali Krishna. I am not sure if anyone else from my paternal side shared that passion. I remember my paati, father and his siblings used to make a characterstic hand blade action behind him to indicate (aruvai) their boredom when he used to watch concerts on TV.

Whilst at Vrandavan, our Bombay flat, I recall a nightly routine of my dad, my thatha and Mr. RCK meeting every night to have a panel discussion on various topics ranging from sports, business to family, not unlike people in a village agrahaaram (small street with houses on either side occupied by people with similar religion, tastes, descent, etc.). These discussions were a way for these men, who were tobacco freaks to gel over a few paans (betel leaves stuffed with tobacco). Most of the time it was Calcutta 420, Choona Tej. On occassion, even I have committed the crime of running down to Suresh or Hanuman Paan shop just outside our building to buy these gentlemen, this killer in tobacco. To this day, I have not succeded in stopping this deadly habbit in my dad. How these men managed all these years is beyond me, but one contributor could have been sending the women upstairs to walk on the expansive terrace, while they talk important stuff.

Growing up with Grandpa

I did not have the fortune of growing up too much with my grandpa, but I have had the distinction of maximum attention and time with him among all his grand-kids. I am grateful to god for that for sure. When I began to crawl, every night, like today, I would out-do my parents with sleep times. Then, I used to take the vaal-patram (utensil) for the milkman to fill milk on the following day, roll it along the floor on to my thatha-paati’s room. My parents would not notice, but thatha and paati would get up, play with me, and then put me to sleep.

My thatha used to enjoy my antics in demanding tea in a feeding bottle instead of milk. He used to encourage my paati on his way to the office to fill my brand new bottle. Brand new because, the mischievous me, used to throw away the glass bottle as soon as I emptied it. Before the advent of the plastic feeding bottle, my dad used to have a daily routine of stopping at the medical store to get me a new bottle.

A Second Jolt

A second blow was dealt with by our family in the form of the 2nd heart attack that my thatha suffered. This one that struck in 1979-80 was even more severe and struck him when he was at work. Mr. RCK rushed him to Bombay hospital in Victoria Terminus (VT). I remember everyone got tense at home and I visited my thatha a couple of times with my mother and stayed for a few hours. My father’s workplace was in nearby Masjid and this was good since he used to check in on my thatha every so often. This attack left my thatha really weak, but certainly he had the strength to keep going. He was under bed rest for a long time after coming back home. I was a little freaked out and noticed the changes, the number of medicines my mom used to give my thatha on a routine, etc.

Special Attention

In early-mid 1981, my mom was expecting her second kid and as per tradition, she shifted to her mother’s place in Sion, which was atleast 15 miles away from Vrandavan in Ghatkopar. This left me separated from my mother for atleast 6 months at a tender age. So, my thatha did everything he could to keep me at ease. He used to take me to Sion every Saturday morning enroute to his part time work at Shetty’s as a tax auditor on RCK’s car. Along the way, he used to tell me a lot of stories, jokes, etc. I would return teary eyed on Sunday evening when my dad would pick me up. My mom would take me to a medical store to get me yummy Vocasil (like Strepsils).

On weekdays, mostly due to location, a weak heart and the comfort of Mr. RCK’s car, my thatha would arrive earlier than my dad from work and keep me busy. He would take me downstairs, watch me climb the gates, step by step, take me to the terrace flying kites or just walk me to the nearby Lion’s club park, while we were waiting for my dad to come back from work. He would crib that I would forget all his efforts by jumping into my dad’s arms once he arrived. This routine would repeat each day.

Arrival of the Triplets!

No, not literally triplets, but 3 kids in the family within 3 months of each other from Nov 1981 starting with my sister on to two cousins. I went to see my sister for the first time with my thatha in a taxi. She looked like a foreign baby, fair and plump, staring at the onlookers with suspicion but offering a cute smile.

Liar Liar

My thatha continued to take me every weekend, to see my sister with whom I would spend the weekend with before returning to school. Getting me to school used to be a BIG ordeal. Various different baits would get offered to trick me into going to school. It seems I really hated school and would go to any extent to avoid it. For instance, a group of my friends and I would plan and lie at home that it was a holiday for Indira Gandhi’s birthday (we would have just learned about the date that afternoon and could not believe our luck that it actually occurred the following day!). The plan was foiled when my aunt caught a glimpse of students emerging from school through the balcony! My thatha was really upset and gave me a lecture on why lies hurt and why we should not resist the truth.

But, that would not stop me. Another incident would upset my thatha much worse, so much worse that his reaction could have lead to a 911 call in the US. My uncle had gifted me a pencil box which was blue in color. I was lured by my friend’s, it was a similar box that was red. We negotiated an exchange. He liked the blue, but since his was old, he would give me his box loaded with a pencil and an eraser for my empty box. The trade had occurred just before a 21 day vacation, I guess my idea was that if someone caught me in the act, I could atleast own my favorite box for 21 days! Even today, I remember the name and face of friend who I traded it with, Omar!

My thatha caught me doing homework with the red box. Sure enough, my thatha noticed the red color and asked me gently about it. I told him at his face that in our coloring class, I painted my box red. He asked me again and I repeated the same line. His patience ran out and he kicked me out of the bed he was lying on, I was sitting on the edge of the bed. He cried and beat me a couple of time after that, much to everyone’s shock. He said something along the lines of, “It is lies that has brought me down in life, now this little calf in our family has inherited this wrong trait. It was too much for his weak heart to bear. Although my aunt and paati came to my defense, I knew that I was mistaken. It was the wrong thing to do. If I remember this all so powerful lesson even today, I will do well to remember it for the rest of my life.

…… I thought I could end this story in this post.. but there’s still lots to be said… I will use up another post to conclude…..

Coming up…. A Grandfather Remembered – IV — Closing Act…

[rambalaings]

R2 - Paternal Grandfather Remembered - Part II

This is a post I wrote on my old Blogger site more than 15 years ago, I have reprinted the text faithfully only making minor edits to preserve the purity of the memory from back then.

PAST PONDER

Background It has been almost 40 years since my Paternal Grandfather left for the heavens on August 13th, 1983. I was still very young and this was the first personal tragedy that I have experienced in my life. Although it feels sad that I could not spend more time with this man, who I was named after, the silver lining on the clouds through which he must be watching me, is that I got to spend 6 years with him, during most of which, I was still a toddler. Lots of what I have described are rather blurred images from my brain and I will back it up with what I have heard from my family members over the years after his departure. This post will exercise my memory more than most others and is dedicated to my Thatha (Grandpa).

The Story So Far…

I had written about my thatha’s humble beginnings, his parents, his wedding, and his troubles soon after. Please read the first post in the series, to recharge or load your memory with mine. Here, grab this pensieve, but I am no witch and this is no magic, just memories!

Dehu Road to Delhi… My paati and her children were stuck in Dehu Road indefinitely since there was no communication from thatha. Thatha’s sister and brother-in-law, albeit in a good position, were not necessarily the most hospitable hosts. They were quite unkind to these three and I am told that my paati, still a young girl, who was loved by an auditor, while she was quite happily spending her teenage with her family, found herself in very difficult circumstances. She had to walk several miles to get ration arisi (rationed rice), wash clothes, clean the house, etc. She would have to undergo that torture for 4-5 months before they would hear from thatha. This in my opinion, was the lowest point for my grandpa. His young family had to endure the consequences of a mistake that he had committed and they certainly did not deserve this.

Finally, it seemed as if their testing times were over! My grandpa called his family to Delhi, where he had taken up a decent job. But since he was still new to the job, he could not get time off to go in person to escort them to their new home in Rajghat, yes, near the Gandhi samadhi. The young lady and her two kids set off to Delhi in a train from Dehu Road, perhaps to the relief of their not-so-dear relatives. Hearing about these things still makes me wonder how my Paati is still in talking terms with these people to this day! Perhaps that is the magic of wisdom, that I might still lack.

They arrived in Delhi Station, some 24 hours later, and flagged a cabbie and innocently showed him the address of where they wanted to go to. The sardar taxi driver was nothing like the smiling and sincere ones we see in New York city these days. He was intent on making his bucks, so he took them on an unsolicited tour of Delhi city for what seemed to be ages! My paati took to some brave heroine-ic steps to get them out of there. I do not want to steal the thunder of this post from my grandpa by going into those “steps”. I will post those in a separate post at Past Ponder. Delhi se gaye to Bambai… phir bhi na gaya prachanai…

Reportedly, happiness did not come without a bout of gloom for them in those days. My thatha and paati had another girl, my younger aunt. The elder kids were going to a modest school in Saraswathi Vidyalaya in Chembur, near the present day Chembur bridge. Soon, two of my thatha’s sisters came to stay with them, since they had no one else to turn to. My thatha’s brother was also staying with them. It was a large family under one roof. But thatha stood strong like a rock and supported everyone, with some good assistance from his brother. But soon, his brother got married and moved on to Madras. They underwent a lot of financial difficulties, sometimes to the extent of not being able to pay my dad’s fees, unable to afford good clothes or school uniform, like you see in many movies.

Entering Vrindavan… Bombay soon became the city that thatha and paati began loving. They also got some of their best friends here. They remain in touch until today. R.C.K and his wife Sushila were really notable and so were Ramamurthi Mama & Mami. Sometimes, it is tough to imagine what life would have been, but for these people. Ramamurthi Mama, who was in Income Tax, was a very influencial person. He managed to secure a loan for thatha to be able to buy a decent apartment in Tilak Road, the place I would first call home when I set foot into this world! I owe it to an extent to Ramamurthi Mama!

In 1961, the construction on the three floor apartment building, Vrindavan in Ghatkopar would be completed and ours was the watch tower flat on the third floor. Sure enough, R.C.K also bought an apartment on the same building and same floor, though in a different wing, connected by the terrace upstairs. I am sure it must have been the biggest moment of their lives in those times. Here is where several important events in our history would take place and our family would live in that flat for exactly 30 years!

The Golden Era… My thatha began to grow steadily in a respectable position at Godrej. He and his colleague friend, R.C.K, would also have a lot of fun at Vrindavan with their families and descendants. Their social lives would bloom and the kids would always have dear friends to play with. They shared a lot in common, including their interests, hobbies, etc. The least of things I would like to mention as a common thing between them is their appetite for tobacco. My thatha used to consume a lot of thambakoo paan; this unfortunately carried on to my dad, of course not genetically, but just coincidentally. My dad has far surpassed his father on tobacco consumption and this is something I am really disgusted with. Appa, you reading???

Life started getting better, the number on the Class column on kids’ notebooks would keep increasing. Thatha could now afford to send the youngest offspring to a famed school, Fathima, which until today remains one of the best schools in Greater Bombay. He must have been very proud of his growth and achievement, while feeling a tinge of disappointment that he could not do the same for his elder kids. However, I am very sure that the elder kids are not complaining. He did all that he could to get them great education at the college level. My dad went on to do an M.Com and LLb, while my aunt was content with her B.A, after which she vowed that she was done studying. The younger aunt went on to do a B.Com as well.

Soon, my dad started work at Godrej as a junior typist. It was a position that my thatha was heavily influential in starting him with. But understandably, he wished that my dad could get better things. This did not take too long and my father joined as a junior clerk in the Union Bank of India, at Muhammed Ali Road, Masjid Bunder. This was in the hub of Bombay and the buzz of activity. My dad would keep taunting thatha playfully, that he worked in the New York of Bombay, whereas thatha went to a remote town in Iowa, to Godrej at Vikhroli. Soon, my aunt also started at Godrej, after completing her B.A.

One after another, there were reasons to celebrate in the family. Whether it was the day when Bharath television arrived, or it was the time when the Godrej refrigerator came in. But to my thatha, the biggest pleasure must have been when the large Grundig gramaphone arrived. He was a great connoisseur of music, which was not necessarily appreciated by my paati. He loved music from Balamuralikrishna, T.M.S, M.S.Subbalakshmi and devotional songs like Alai Payudhey (old one), Kurai Onrum Illai, etc. To this day, my paati will get tears in her eyes if you sing one of those songs. He also used to be a good singer of these songs. This is surely something that has not been genetically carried over to me; I am a disaster when it comes to singing! Kids no longer… Bring on the Wedding Bells!

In 1975, when my thatha was 48, he decided that it was time to get his elder daughter married to relieve some of his responsibilities. My dad, who had wanted to go on to do his Chartered accountancy, had to go to work since although, the family was doing better than before, it could do with more help. So, my dad took on an assist role to add a few hundred rupees per month into the home pool. Thatha also began doing some part time work over the weekends with a private auditor, Shetty. This was a crucial step for me and one of the main reasons I got to spend even more time with my thatha, as I was to find out much later!

My aunt got married to a Science graduate, who hailed from Kandhivili, working for Goodlass Nerolac Paints. His family was an endearing one, especially his mom, Dadi as I remember her was very sociable and personable. More about her in another post. In 1976, a year after my elder aunt’s wedding, thatha thought it was appropriate to get his son settled down in life, since his other daughter was way off in terms of age, she was just entering college and surely she had aspirations of working for a while independently.

Thatha and Paati with assistance from my elder aunt, filtered through the eligible alliances and then they landed up at my mom’s place in Sion. My maternal grandfather, also one of my most revered persons, had made sure to do all the necessary background checks about this family and he was convinced about the authenticity. A battalion of more than 10 people landed up at my mother’s residence in Sion for the “ponnu paakara” ceremony. My mom would still keep complaining that, if there were so many people (men) that came, how would she ever know who the groom was?? My dad at that time was still a young and puny lad of 25. So, there was no easy way to find out who the groom was. My mother initially thought that my athimber (aunt’s hubby) was the groom! After all the singing and talking, my father was still undecided although he did like the girl. The groom side did not respond for days together and the pulse was speeding up on the bride side.

I was told that my paati was looking at other candidates without my thatha’s knowledge under the pretext of “thinking for a while”. Thatha got furious at this and picked up the phone, without asking anyone and told my maternal grandfather that he had really picked his daughter-in-law in his daugther. Thus my parents were united on March 3rd 1976 in a marital bond.

Thatha becomes a Grand Parent but suffers a stroke!! Pretty soon after that, my thatha who would have already been overjoyed by two weddings in the family, would have another great reason to rejoice. His first grandchild was born on April 11th 1976, which was my elder cousin. He was overjoyed and held aloft the newest member of his progeny, a mottai yet extremely fair kid. Thatha, who through his middle ages had become somewhat proficient in reading horoscopes, predicted great things for this guy. He said his grandson would be brilliant and would have a lot of opportunities to grow in life. If he took the right decisions, he would become world famous. He was definitely right to a large extent, looking back.

I think the turn of events were too swift and too much for my thatha’s heart to take. It decided to take a moment to go offbeat, but this impacted my thatha in the form of a heart attack in early 1977. This was his first sign of a weak heart as the cardiogram revealed and although there would be much to rejoice in the years to come, his heart would never be the same…..

I have to pause here….

To be concluded……

[rambalaings]

R1 - Paternal Grandfather remembered - Part 1

This is a post that I wrote years ago, back in 2005!.. I am bringing it into this blog to keep everything in one place. Some of the content has been edited but the writing integrity preserved

PAST PONDER

Background It has been almost 40 years since my Paternal Grandfather left for the heavens on August 13th 1983. I was still very young and this was the first personal tragedy that I have experienced in my life. Although it feels sad that I could not spend more time with this man, who I was named after, the silver lining on the clouds through which he must be watching me, is that I got to spend 6 years with him, during most of which, I was still a toddler. Lots of what I have described are rather blurred images from my brain and I will back it up with what I have heard from my family members over the years after his departure. 

This post will exercise my memory more than most others and is dedicated to my Thatha (Grandpa).

What I know of the Man My thatha was born and raised in a small village in Tirunelveli, called Ravanasamudram, which happens to be our native place. He was a bright man and extremely sharp (of course my paati will blush whenever she says this, to date!). He was born into a large family, as was typical in his times. He was the third of seven children, 5 of them girls!

His father, my great grandfather, Parasuraman Iyer was a famous man himself in this village, but his wife, Meenamba was a legend! I experienced this first hand, when I went to my native place, where people identified me as the great grandson of Meenamba! I was told that, among other things, right after hearing the sound of an arriving train, she would match it by the whistles of her cooker in the kitchen and cook for a whole village. She would feed the rich and the poor, irrespective of their caste or creed. In short, she was a really generous and secular person, who would go out of her way to help people out without any expectations. She died at pretty young age peacefully. Looks like the Gods themselves could not wait to have her company and to taste her delicious food. I do not know much about my great grandfather, but from what I have heard, he was a strict disciplinarian, having been born in a Vadhyaar family (his father was Kittu Vadhyaar). He was shorter than my great grandmom, he outlived her, but not by too much. He was staying with my thatha and paati for a while before his demise as a middle aged man.

Surely in the days to come, my thatha would prove that it was in his genes to help. His mother has obviously imparted so much wisdom on spirituality and charity, that he would follow suit. He was fondly known as Periya Ambi, it was common in those days for the eldest of the sons. He completed high school and went to college in Palayamkottai during the pre-Independence days and was one of the bright stars among his siblings. No, there is no freedom fighter history to report, he was a normal person who wished for Indian independence and cherished it when it came.

He climbed up very well in his career and became an auditor in Dindigul district. That is where he met my Paati, when he was having lunch at a hotel owned by the latter’s family. She tells me that it was love at first sight! The cupid struck while she was serving the sambar. It is very funny the way she narrates it and still thinks that she, with a short hairdo, “the Bagavathar cut” , was way too much for my thatha, who she describes was not the most handsome of men around, especially since he still had a lot of scars from the small pox that he survived a few years ago. But surely, he was one of the most successful, yet my paati was a little reluctant about the whole thing. Anyways, this is no suspense Bollywood movie, since I am watching a flashback, and I already know that they were united together in a wedlock very soon!

In the years to come, their marriage was a total mixed bag, it had its high points and of course several lows. They had two kids almost back to back, a guy, my dad, and a girl, my aunt. My great grandfather lived with them for a while before he met his end and my paati’s sister was assisting her take care of the kids. My thatha really took good care of all of them whilst they were all in Dindigul. My thatha was keen on expanding his career and hence took up a job with the Standard Chartered Bank, where he was in charge of the accounts. Her is where he took his philantrophic nature a bit too far. He took some money out of the bank treasury to help out a good friend, who promised to return the money before anyone who cared for it, missed it. My thatha having seen only good people in his life, starting from his mom, trusted him with the money. Now, it may seem like a Bollywood movie or a Gokulam magazine story, but this guy cheated my thatha.

This led to severe and serious circumstances. He lost his job in the bank and the police were on the lookout for him. He found no alternative but to flee, since if he was caught, there is no way his family would survive! He took his family, which comprised of two small kids and a young wife and left them at his elder sister’s place at Dehu Road, near Pune and without waiting for too long, he rushed off into hiding. The little kids and the wife had no alternative but to pray and hope that their chief will return soon to take them back home. Well… I am beginning to realize that perhaps this post can go on for a while.. so I am going to take a break to scratch my head a little bit more before I continue writing…

[rambalaings]

R0 - La Familia

Cavemen created inscriptions on the walls to record history. Historians wrote on pages forever to record our evolution. We all learn from texts from the past.

It just struck me that we need a similar digital inscription to record our past. This blog is such an effort to get together a list of posts that will collectively record people, places and times that make up our family history.

No one person can write an entire account of history by themselves. This is going to take collaborative memory of all those living and what they recall, supplemented by any artifacts, diaries and such.

Let me see if we can get to the first 10 posts then 100 and beyond. This is not any one side of the family, like a tree it will branch out in time and hopefully we can explore each of the leaves, stems, and nodes.

This is an intro post, so this is day zero - an inspiration that began on my birthday this year. Same time this year, let us see how many we get to! Bets?