My grandpa’s younger brother did
not have any grandchildren of his own.
While in her late 20s, his daughter – his only child - had made the decision
to stay unmarried. She chose to lead a
life that was completely dedicated to social activism and writing. Conversations about her marriage were
minimal. After a while, they ceased to
exist. As far as typical father-daughter
interactions in middle class India were concerned, this was as far from the
norm as Chennai (my hometown, in India) is from Chicago. After all, this is the land of arranged
marriages. But CT never cared much about societal norms. CT – that was short for Chinna Thatha which, in my native language, refers to a
grandfather’s younger brother. CT is the
kind of nickname that a kid will coin right before filing for creative bankruptcy. I was that kid. But somehow, miraculously, he found it cute
and so, the name stuck.
CT was a short man. In small part due to genetics and in no small
part due to his lovely wife’s delectable cooking, he was a tad overweight. A lightly starched cotton shirt and a neatly
ironed dhoti (a traditional Indian garment) comprised his preferred
attire. He applied coconut oil to bring
some discipline to the thick shocks of hair that he was blessed with. His ranch house in Chennai was built in the
1960s. I especially loved the pillars
near the threshold. It was not an
ostentatious home and was beautiful precisely for that reason. The warmth and glow of the home came not just
from the large open windows. There was
an inexplicable coziness in the off-white, worn-out sofa. CT and his home were not dissimilar to one
another. Both derived their richness
from their simplicity. Both gave you the
feeling that you were a welcome addition to their existence just by virtue of
being in their vicinity. Both belonged
to an earlier era, yet had aged gracefully, exuding a sense of stability and unfussy
perfection.
CT was 44 years older than
me. It is a fact – not an opinion, mind
you – that I was his favorite among the kids in our extended family! Cricket - the sport, not the insect – was the
durable glue that cemented our bond.
Both of us loved the game. He got
me to be not only passionate about the sport but also think about it deeply. He would occasionally give me some nuggets of
wisdom around leadership and teamwork based on his vast knowledge of the
game. But since I adored the sport and
its players, it never came across as didactic.
Plus he was a fabulous raconteur, telling stories with the right mix of
facts and spice. One of his favorite
stories was that of an Indian cricket team captain who refused to kowtow to the
authorities and fought for his team over the miniscule salaries that were paid
to the players. The captain paid the price for
his recalcitrance and lost his place in the team while the other players got a discernible
hike in pay. CT would say that the
panjandrums who felt victorious destroying the captain’s career had actually
lost a bigger battle. It was years later
that I could understand why this story resonated with him. CT had quit his fledgling career as a lawyer
because he could not stand the corruption and dishonesty that ran rampant in
his practice. He decided that the fight
was not worth it because the system would not accommodate the values that he
stood for. He later had a fulfilling
career as a marketer for an alloy manufacturer.
Acceptance. As I think of the
one word that I would associate most with CT, it is ‘acceptance’ that scrolls
across my mind in font size 72, especially as it relates to his attitude
towards his daughter. His unshakable
belief was that freedom was not something that he had to give my Aunt. Rather, within
the bounds of conscientiousness, he believed that she owned her freedom of
thought, choice and expression and he saw it as his duty to not impinge on
that. My Aunt’s choices, be it the
decision to stay single, have communist leanings or espouse atheism were all
unconventional for the mores of the society around her. But CT respected every one of her choices
wholeheartedly. He was a deeply pious
Brahmin (a subsect of Hindus) but he proudly announced to me one day that my
Aunt’s latest book was her best work yet.
The book’s title – Towards a Non-Brahmin
Millennium. This, coming from a
person that spent 45 minutes every morning in his prayer room, was
remarkable. The acceptance of the space
that he believed was his daughter’s stemmed from a quiet assurance about his
own space. That, I believe, was empowerment
of a special kind. If I grow up to be
half as thoughtful a parent to my son, then I am sure that CT will be happy with
my parenting abilities.
On Saturday, January 22, 2005, he
stepped out of his house and suddenly collapsed, never to get up. He had had a fatal cardiac arrest. He was 67.
Just about the only comforting thought that I have about CT’s rather
sudden death is the fact that he did
not undergo any suffering. It was an abrupt
end to a meaningful chapter in my life. But
as we all know, the themes of a book often get established in important
chapters.
