My Thatha

By Sundaram R M

2B West road, West CIT Nagar, T Nagar, Madras – 35. This was a famous address especially in the erstwhile Madras. Some knew it as a house which housed about 3 families permanently and a number of families that lived in depending on the time of the year. The house always smelled of filter coffee.

There was a large gate at the entrance of the house. There was a badly mowed lawn with a tiny clearing that led to the front door of the house. There was a huge mango tree at the side of the house. In the shade of that tree, resting on the wall of the house, you would always find a black Hero cycle. The front door of the house was almost always open. It provided great ventilation against the sultry heat of Madras. We didn’t have air conditioning back in the day. The open doors signified something else. It was a welcome to all the people who wanted to come in. We would almost always have guests who were sitting in the front room. When there were guests it meant one thing, more filter coffee.

The front room of the house was kind of typical. It didn’t boast of fancy furniture but was functional. There was a table and chair at the corner with a table lamp on top. It was always cluttered with papers. A couple of chairs were strewn across the room. More chairs from the dining table always found their way into front room because we invariably needed them. The most striking thing about the house was a long bench. It was made of solid teak and more than 6 feet in length. It was quite the “simhasanam” for my thatha. He was that eternal host to the steady stream of guests.

If someone drew a picture of my thatha or saw a photograph of him today, he would look like an unassuming man. He always wore white. He had this long collared kurta and a dhoti to go with it. He would have an “angavastram”. This had to match with his dhoti. But if I remember right he never paid a lot of attention to that. My grandmother did. His only insistence was the angavastram should have a thin non flashy border. His insistence pretty much reflected his personality. A man of simple living and high thinking. He had a shock of white hair, which was always thinning due to his age, but sort of complimented his clothes. What went very well with his clothes was a smile on his face that was an ever present thing. Age had given him a stoop and a shaky right hand. None of these things deterred the man fondly called SVS by all and sundry. In his white he looked like a beacon of light that walked amongst us.

My parents, my brother and I lived with our grandparents till I was about 10. So my memories are from a time very long ago. I am also envious of the fact that I wasn’t older or more matured to have more time to spend with my thatha. There is a reason to this. I have many a story to tell about my thatha. There is a lot that, especially, I got thanks to the proximity I enjoyed with him. In many ways it shaped me or rather gave me the ability to find the tools to shape me. But my envy lies in the stories that I have heard from others as to what my thatha meant to them. There were people who used to worship the ground he walked. I only had a chance to lie next to him during the warm Madras afternoons as he told me stories and more stories.

My thatha was one of those rare intellectuals who had his feet firmly on the ground. Let’s not misunderstand this to be a person with no ounce of pride. He had his pride and when he decided to put his foot down there was absolutely nothing stopping him from going through with it. But he had a heart that was the size of the earth. Pretty much everyone had a place in it. He strongly believed in causes. He was extremely principled. His knowledge was extensive and his desire to share it was unparalleled.

He had many associations. Notable amongst them were Kalki and the Authors Guild of India. After he came to pass I heard a couple of stories of his associations with them. During the time I lived with him I neither understood the significance of his role nor the relevance. They were just associations from which my thatha met people or something the notepad on his desk said. I never fully grasped the intellectual ocean in him. He was one of those passionate literati. He was known for his translations, his books and the sheer knowledge he had on all of these things. He was very passionate about Tamil literature. During my schooling days I didn’t have an opportunity to study Tamil. This is one of those aspects which takes me back to those other envious people who could actually pick his brains on something related to Tamil literature.

My memories take me back to many a sultry afternoon in the Madras heat. I would finish school and rush back home. I always had a supply of books or comics thanks to my dad’s job in Higginbothams Ltd. I would grab one of them and would rush to my thatha. We would then squeeze in that bench and he would tell me the story. The books were usually mythological comics. Ramayana and Mahabharatha or parts of it. It wouldn’t take long for them to get over. It never mattered to me. I would go back with the same Amar Chitra katha digest to my favorite storyteller again and again. My thatha never refused. He would patiently tell me those stories again and again and again. When I would replay parts of it, just the way he said it, back to him, he would give me one of his hearty laughs and ask as to why do I keep coming back with the same story when I knew it by heart. I don’t think 5 year me had an intelligent retort to that. He never expected it either. I would go back to him on another sultry Madras afternoon with the same Amar Chitra Katha and he never said “No”.

He would help me with my Hindi homework and that’s also one of my favorite memories. I would often be required to write an essay and he would dictate it to me and I would write it down. The next day the look on my teacher’s eyes would be priceless. She would gape at me and ask who taught me some of the words I had used. I would proudly tell her “my thatha”. I don’t think that drew any surprise on her face. After all everybody in the household had a title by which we were more popularly known as. My grandma was ‘SVS mami’. My dad was SVS’ son. My brother and I were, as you would have presumed by now, SVS’s grandsons. That title pretty much worked as our visiting card. It was also a lot of pressure. We were always expected to be smarter than everyone. After all we were SVS’s grandsons. But that was for the outside world. My thatha never once asked for my marksheet from school. I would show it to him on the day we got our progress report. I always saw pride on his face. I could have been 3rd in class or 13th. He was still proud. I never understood his pride when I came 13th. I kind of get it now.

Some families are blessed. Our family definitely was. When I say our family it included a large set of people who lived with him at some point in time. It includes close relatives, distant ones, friends, the needy and the neglected. There wasn’t even a question that my thatha and grandma will turn them away if they showed up at our doorstep. The ones that would show up walked away not just tummy full but wiser than ever. That was our family’s blessing. There was this man who stood by every word he said. He had large arms in which he wanted encompass as many people as possible and a larger heart which fit thousands and had enough space for more.

I remember his “shatabhishekam” (80th birthday) where the stream of guests were endless. A frail looking man and his wife were on stage going through a long string of ceremonies. My brother, cousins and I were running frantically because we had run out of chairs for the guests at the venue. The venue we booked was a pretty large marriage hall but the crowd that turned out was huge and the caterer literally had to bring out a magic wand to feed one and half times the number of people we had placed an order for. People came in throngs. That was the love and respect he literally commanded.

I fondly remember my thatha for what he was. He was different from every other member in the family. He was never upset with me. He never felt I was being too mischievous. I never warranted an admonishing from him. He put great trust in my understanding and explained things rationally, logically and mythologically. He just knew that the 5 year me or 8 year me understood him. His patience was infinite and his love was vast. I still picture him watching something on TV or stooping over the table reading the newspaper. He just looked himself. He always insisted that my brother and I read the newspaper. We didn’t pay heed to him then. We both do now and see a lot of sense in what he said. My grandmother always worried after her grandchildren as to what would happen of us. She was a very pragmatic and worldly woman. My thatha had an unshakeable faith that we would both turn out well. She would often pick a bone with him on his blindfolded optimism. She was always under the impression that we had to carefully construct our future with meticulous planning, foresight and frugality. Today somewhere in the heavens both are smiling.

I cherish my time spent with him and attribute every word I read and write to him. He taught me something powerful. He taught me how to imagine. I carry that with me every day. If I had a time machine I would slip back to that sultry afternoon after lunch. My thatha is getting ready to sleep but I am already sitting on the bench with a comic in my hand. He just sees me and smiles.

By Sundaram R M