Ramanujam Thatha – the incomplete chapter of my life?

My maternal grandfather was not supposed to die this way.  Or, at least it did not feel fair at all.  It was on Sunday, March 20, 1994.  He was 61 years old.  I was three months away from entering my teens.  He was a happy, contented man who played out his entire career since graduation at the Reserve Bank of India until he had retired in 1990.  He had this thing for longevity I thought – employed at one employer for over 35 years.  He met with his one best friend every day for nearly 50 years.  (They were best friends since middle school.)  He was married to a wonderful woman for nearly 40 years.  He absolutely adored his two daughters – was a mature, steadying influence for his older daughter (my Mom) and was a pampering, doting dad to my Chithi, his kadaikutty.  And alas, thanks to a freak car accident that occurred 22 years ago, I have been bereft ever since of not only the longevity of relationship that others enjoyed but also the kind of affection, sense of security, stability and just that feeling that he was there for you.  But given his sunny disposition and uncomplaining personality, I would not do justice to him with this tribute if I didn’t sound more positive.  So, let me try harder.

In my write up on Dr. Sheena Iyengar, I had captured the line that she wrote me when she signed a copy of her book for me – “Be choosy about choosing and you will choose well.”  It’s a lovely, succinct line that captures the benefit of focusing on just a small set of core values and the resultant choices that lend a certain sense of purpose and define a person’s character.  And this focus allows one to fully relish the joy of living which can be derived from everyday minutiae.  That is exactly how my Thatha lived his life.  He had a few core traits such as undemonstrative (yet undeniable) love towards his family, firm loyalty towards his best friend, unwavering honesty and financial prudence.  These were the things about which he was fiercely protective and inflexible in many ways.  But he developed a set of comforting routines that marked his laidback lifestyle.  And, he used these predictable rhythms to ensure that he had the space and time to enjoy the everyday minutiae that I wrote about.  For instance, he liked his job at RBI.  But to him, it was a way to bring food to the table.  He was more interested in having the actual food at the table with his family.  An image of his that I remember vividly is that of him helping himself to a small kinni (cup) of steaming hot potato curry off the stove before eating his dinner just to enjoy the spice of the curry by itself.  He equally enjoyed his idlis at Rayar’s café as he did a sambar vada at Savera.  I have had the pleasure of his company at both sorts of places and I can safely say that what mattered to him was having a place to enjoy good food and hearty laughs.  In fact, he brought in a people element to everything he did, be it movie nights, long car drives or walks at the Marina beach.  As they say, the biggest gift that you can give your loved ones is your time.  And, he ensured that all his loved ones were the recipients of his largesse. 

One of the defining relationships of his life was his lifelong friendship with Mr. A. Sivasailam (who passed away in 2011).  Sivasailam Mama was a wealthy industrialist.  But the gap in social status was an invisible element of their friendship.  Sivasailam Mama was an extremely simple man who had absolutely no airs or pretensions.  He exuded class in the truest, deepest sense of the word, treating my Thatha and all of us in the family with tremendous affection.  And, my Thatha was too contented a man to ever have any serious thoughts about differences in financial status.  As I mentioned earlier, they met up every day until my Thatha died.  It was a charmingly predictable routine- Mama would come home to pick up my Thatha and they would drive to the Marina for a walk there.   They would then go to his place for a light snack and he would drop my Thatha back home.  They were completely in sync with each other’s thoughts, never having any serious conflicts whatsoever.   Essentially, the story of their friendship was one of those too-good-to-be-true legends…except that it was true - every sentiment, every laugh and every tear.  (In fact the shattered expression on Mama’s face at the hospital when my Thatha passed away is an even more difficult sight for me to forget than my grandma’s own cries of anguish.  One had lost his best mate, the other her soul mate.)

22 years have passed by since that fateful Sunday morning.  Thatha went to the boat club for a walk.  He had popped in to the house of Mallika Aunty (Sivasailam Mama’s daughter) to say hello.  And, he decided to test drive their new car by himself.  Without realizing that one of the controls was already on, he pressed on the gas and rammed into the wall at considerable speed.  His spleen got ruptured and by the time we got to Kaliappa Hospital, he was fading away.  It was not my habit to hug him every time I left the house.  But that morning, I don’t know why but before leaving the house, I stepped out of the car, sprinted upstairs and went to his room (where he was putting his shoes on, ahead of his walk) to give him a hug.  That was the last time ever I saw him alive.  Someone that was so full of life was now lying on the hospital bed lifeless.  One of the liveliest chapters of my life felt like it was ended abruptly with the last page of the chapter being torn to shreds by a cruel quirk of fate.  Or, so I thought until I had to go back to the same hospital three years later.

In 1997, one of my dearest friends Harish was undergoing an operation at the same hospital.  When he mentioned the name of the hospital, a shiver ran down my spine.  I felt extremely queasy about going to that place again.  I was in a bit of a foul mood that day and sensing something was brewing in my mind, my Mom asked me about it.  I opened up to her about how I felt completely uncomfortable going back to that hospital.  She gave me a valuable piece of advice that really transformed my attitude towards my Thatha’s sudden passing away.  She told me that if I truly idolized my grandpa, the best tribute that I could pay him would be to try and live life the way he did, to be the kind of friend he was, to invest in meaningful relationships and to give people the gift of pure emotions, unsullied by negativity or rancor.  Following her advice, while I admit to taking gingerly steps into the hospital to visit my friend, just the sheer joy of talking to him ahead of the surgery, cracking jokes and wishing him well gave me a strangely soothing kind of closure.  To this day, Harish remains one of my very best friends. 

From that day on, I have continued to make sincere attempts at living life the way my Thatha did.  Of course, I am acutely aware of my flaws as a person and I know that I have a long, long way to go to emulate my Thatha.  I don’t know if I ever will be as great a friend or a husband or a father that he was.  But I am trying continually and I derive immense satisfaction from that.  Whenever I painstakingly make tea for anyone that visits my home, I think of how the taste and aroma of the tea might matter.  But what matters more is the courtesy and warmth with which I serve it.  Here, I think of the tea lover that my grandpa was but how much more he loved the friend that he shared his tea with.  When I drive my car, I know that the car’s speed, look and feel and comfort all matter.  But what matters even more is that I can enjoy a drive with my family while listening to Ilayaraja’s music.  Here, I think of the car enthusiast that my Thatha was but how much more enthusiastic he was when he took us all for a long ride in his new Maruti 1000. 

I may have never made a cup of tea for him or taken him for a ride in my car.  But as I try to capture the spirit of my Thatha in my own everyday minutiae, what felt like a full stop on March 20, 1994 feels more like ellipses now…

Maybe the ‘chapter’ ended abruptly that day but the themes of the book were firmly established there. 

Miss you a lot, Thatha.  I am sure you miss me too, wherever you are.  

So, that's what 'modern' is all about?

I never thought that my indiscipline with respect to uploading songs to my iPod would lead me to a thought that I would be unable to shake off for a few weeks.  I have this seemingly bad habit of creating playlists titled “Assorted #” and including all my recently downloaded songs in there.  And, a month ago, en route to work, I happened to listen to two songs that were not just from different eras but they sounded like they were from two different civilizations.

The first one is “Mouname Paarvaiyal,” that exquisite MSV composition from “Kodi Malar.”  I looked up wikipedia to see that it was released in 1966, that is a half a century ago.  It's a scintillating melody with some beautiful lyrics.  No surprises there – it was written by Kannadasan and composed by MSV for a Sridhar film.  But what struck me was the sheer respect shown towards the female character in the song.  The kind of terms - “alli kodiye” and “muthu charame” - that the lyricist uses to address the woman in the song (who I presume is mute, from the lyrics; I have not seen this film) are par for the course for a Tamil song from 50 years ago.  But what makes this song truly special even beyond the beauty of the thamizh is the kind of decency and genteel attitude that a male has towards a woman.  This was the kind of sensibility that an urbane director like Sridhar had at that time that enabled him to work with his music director and lyricist duo to create such a breathtaking expression of tender feelings towards a loved one.

Now, the song that I listened to right after this made me feel like I was not driving a car but a time machine.  That song was “Clubbula Mubbula” by Hip Hop Aadhi.  Trust me, I am not going to launch into a 'pazhaya paadala vs. pudhiya paadala' debate.  Of course, “Mouname...” sounds sweet and “Clubbula...” sounds crude and crass.  Of course, “Clubbula...” has an irresistibly catchy tune and is probably the kind of song that a teenager listens to on his way to college. (Hey, a 34-year old that you know listened to it en route to work!)  What I want to capture here is the germ of a thought and a question that these songs (when played back to back) planted in my mind.  And that is, what does it mean to be truly modern?  It is a question that has kept gnawing at me for some reason.

After much rumination, here's the thought that gave me closure to this nagging question.  What modern is not is an excuse to do something that doesn't look or sound better than the status quo of a previous generation.  For instance, go ahead and get sozzled to your heart's content.  Just don't tell your teetotaler Dad that he is 'old fashioned' and cite globalization and westernization as an excuse. Go ahead and sing songs like “Clubbula Mubbula,” making fun of girls.  Even back it up with arguments like, 'If girls have the freedom to drink in real life, we have the freedom to make fun of that on screen.'  Just stop dismissing old songs because the dance movements look stilted now.  That was the kind of grammar that existed in the 60s.  At the very least, the songs were by and large tasteful in thought and their use of thamizh.  Instead of using 'modern' as a throwaway term, let's really pressure test our notions of modern to see whether we are really a better evolved society, treating our fellow human beings with respect and dignity.

I recently witnessed a series of distasteful comments against women in an online forum.  I tried in vain to offer some unsolicited advice but was admonished by an anonymous commenter for not understanding that this is how the internet is.  Fair enough.  But what was like a blow to the head with a polo mallet* was a comment (in that forum) by a 76-year old who said that the comments brought her unpleasant memories of a train journey from several decades ago when she was trying to discreetly nurse her child and was subject to some nasty comments by perverted onlookers.  That's a real shame.  A disgrace.  When I read that comment, I was just ashamed at the ways in which we use things that are modern (like technology) to do something that makes a person go back four to five decades in time to tap into some dormant, unpleasant memories.

Of course, this is not to say that people in the 60s that listened to MSV's songs were saintly.  And that we in 2016 are disreputable villains.  After all, the train journey that the septuagenarian was talking about was from an earlier generation.  After all, it was in 2015 that people in Tamil Nadu used social media and other means to lend a helping hand to those in need when floods ravaged the state.  Now, that is taking something – technology – that was not available to this extent to a previous generation and using that to spread awareness and generosity of spirit.  These are the kind of things that could entitle this generation to say, 'This is the kind of stuff that we youngsters are all about.'  See the difference between these relief workers and those unsavory online comments that I referenced above?  Something truly modern requires someone working hard to shake the status quo.  Modern is a way of thinking and a way of acting that makes an earlier generation ask questions of themselves, about how they could have done certain things differently at that time.  It is not something that makes us hang our heads in shame in front of a 76-year old.

*****

PS: * - I finally get to use my favorite Woody Allen's patented term in a blog post!

Inspirations (19 of 25) - Javagal Srinath, former cricketer

“‘A cricketer and a gentleman’ – that’s what his autobiography must be called,” an acquaintance of mine mentioned when I asked him what he thought of Javagal Srinath.  As we chatted, we began to talk less about how much he achieved and more about how much more he could have achieved in a different setting with more nurturing.  In none of his post-retirement interviews (he retired from international cricket in 2003) have I seen Srinath express any serious regrets about his career.  And, I don't even think that he was an underachiever at all - how about 236 Test wickets and 315 ODI wickets?  This is more about how Srinath was the type of person who needed a perceptive mentor and a more supportive system.  What is truly praiseworthy and inspiring is that he worked within the limitations of the self as well as the system that he was in and yet, carved a niche for himself, donning the India cap as an express fast bowler and as a gentlemanly sportsman for 12 years.

I recently read an illuminating interview of Srinath by Subash Jayaraman in cricinfo¹. When asked about the fact that it took a few years into his career for him to hone the art of pitching it up (rather than sticking to short of a length), Srinath replied, “Had there been that technology earlier in my career, it would have been a different story altogether. That is the way life is, I suppose. There were bowlers who were bowling without technology and they were getting wickets - that is a different issue. But everybody learns in a different way.” More than any of the tech details he mentions, what caught my eye was that last line about learning.  “Everybody learns in a different way.”  This line caught my attention because I have read stories about how the experienced, thoughtful Imran Khan molded raw but talented youngsters like Waqar Younis & Wasim Akram into great match winners.  Having grown up watching Srinath put in his heart and soul into his performances (with varied results over time, of course) and now looking back at the trajectory of his career, I sincerely believe that a perceptive mentor – a mentor, not just a bowling coach, a sports psychologist or any of those fancy terms that coaching personnel use - would have made a significant difference to his growth.

I don't know Srinath on a personal level. But something tells me that he would have been a delightful protégé to have for any willing mentor.  He would have worked hard in the nets, putting in his best efforts to incorporate his mentor's suggestions to tread a growth curve with a mix of genuine curiosity, hard work and innate humility.  

While Kapil Dev (who was India’s lead paceman when Srinath made his debut in 1991) was indeed one of India's great all-rounders, I don't think many would call him a selfless mentor.  That lack of passing on the baton hurt Srinath quite a bit.  Akram recounted a story of how Imran coached him on bowling yorkers after he saw Akram get smashed in a prior game.  And, we all knew what a devastating death-over bowler Akram turned into.²   The ardent Srinath fan in me felt a little wistful thinking of how Srinath never had one of those Imrans.  The situations that Akram and Srinath found themselves in in their early 20s were different.  By the late 80s, while Imran was more of a batsman (following his career-threatening injuries), Kapil was chasing his world record when Srinath came into the team.  As a result, Imran was the thinker to Akram's executer.  Whereas, Srinath was carrying drinks as a 12^th man for home tests since India could not afford to play three fast bowlers for the dust bowls that were prepared in the early 90s. (Kapil and Manoj were more the batting all-rounders in those bat-thwack-spin-win home Tests of the early 90s.)

Occasionally, Srinath’s critics mistook his impeccable on-field behavior for a lack of killer instinct. They sometimes wrote that he may have been more successful had he been more aggressive and looked more aggressive.  To me, it may be true but it’s only a miniscule part of the truth.  He didn't have to glare at batsmen and mouth expletives in order to get wickets.  He just needed better strategies and he was essentially left to himself to figure out those strategies.  That it took time was only natural, given the introverted nature that he was known for.

Having followed cricket actively throughout the duration of his career, it was rather touching to see Srinath, in the twilight of his career, mentor younger bowlers like Zaheer Khan and Ashish Nehra.  I am sure Srinath would not have wanted the talents of a Zaheer to go waste without proper direction.  I have heard numerous tales of Srinath's generosity and his thorough, organized manner of working with youngsters, bringing in his engineer's intellect and his utter lack of pretentiousness.  While Srinath may have never won a World Cup winner's medal, he played an important role in laying the foundations of the careers of Zaheer and other pace bowlers who eventually helped take India to victory in the 2011 World Cup.  As Randy Pausch once said of his legacy - “Like Moses, I get to see the Promised Land, but I don't get to step foot in it. That's OK.”

The way in which Srinath really inspires me is to realize the importance of being proactive and finding those people who can guide you gently when you find yourself lacking in direction.  Sometimes, I even think that every youngster, despite their field of work, should identify mentors like the Srinath of the early 2000s in order to not end up like the Srinath of the early 90s.  Because in every walk of life, there are only a select few that are considered a ‘natural’, be it sales or writing or sports.  The overwhelming majority (I consider myself in this category, for sure) have to work extra hard to achieve significant things and in order to do so, they have to introspect to identify the areas where they need guidance and then go get that guidance from more seasoned veterans.  For the ones that maybe retiring by nature (like Srinath was), it may be a step out of their comfort zone to reach out for help. But those small steps could be absolutely necessary to improve their career by leaps.  In that respect, I am grateful to all my gurus in academia and my professional life who have been generous with their time and their thoughts.

I don't know if Srinath will ever pen an autobiography as suggested by my acquaintance. But I see his cricketing career akin to a book whose foreword and prologue did no justice to the author's talent.  But by learning several important lessons through the colorful chapters of life, the author certainly knew how to script a meaningful epilogue.  So, in essence, his autobiography would really be the story of a mentor who was never a protégé in the first place.  And for that, I salute him.

***

References:
1. http://www.espncricinfo.com/magazine/content/story/936539.html

2. http://www.thecricketmonthly.com/story/816387/-fast-bowlers-are-not-thinking-for-themselves

Inspirations (18 of 25) – The late actress Srividya

At a recent Toastmasters Speaking Contest, I was asked by a fellow Toastmaster as to what inspires me the most.  I mentioned to him that it was people that demonstrated grace and dignity during times of adversity.  The people that I was thinking of in real life were the likes of Sheena Iyengar and the late Randy Pausch who battled health-related setbacks (loss of vision in Iyengar’s case and terminal cancer in Pausch’s case) to do some stellar, inspirational work in their own ways.  But outside of non-fiction, a huge source of motivation for me has been the movies.  I think that it takes a tremendous amount of skill for a creator to bring to life a story in a two-dimensional medium with three-dimensional characters that leap out of the screen directly into our consciousness.  If my earlier write-up on writer-director Vasanth was an example of a creator whose tales touched, moved and inspired me, my piece on Kamal Hassan was essentially a tribute to an artiste who could bring to life a character with amazing nuances and shades.  Actress Srividya, who unfortunately succumbed to cancer in 2006, falls in the latter camp as a performer who, with her eyes, voice and expressions, did more than full justice to the characters that she was entrusted with portraying on screen.  As trite as it may sound, she became those characters on a lot of occasions.

With due respect to the people that actually wrote her characters and the directors that helped shape her performances, I always found Srividya to be an actor who could make any character of hers completely grounded and realistic.  Despite having worked with a wide range of directors with varied tastes and qualities, Srividya was an amazingly consistent and reliable performer.  The reason she goes from being just an actor that I liked to an actor that I found “inspiring” was the way she portrayed pain on screen.  My simple reasoning is that for one to be moved or motivated by something that is inherently unreal - as cinema is- the performer has to behave as though the events (on screen) were happening right next to us or make us think of a person or event from our real lives.  Because good cinema has the power to make us think about the finer aspects of relationships and the meaningful ineffables of life such as sacrifice and selflessness.  And the way Srividya played her roles such as a pampering grandmother, stern-but-well-meaning mother, a doting spouse or a loving sister, there was no way you could not think of the women in your life and be respectful of their feelings, be thankful for their love, be acknowledging of their sacrifices and be sensitive to their pain.

From her rich and varied oeuvre, if I were to pick a half-a-dozen of her roles that I found to be the most unforgettable, it has to be “Aboorva RaagangaL”, “Aboorva SahodharargaL”, “Keladi Kanmani”, “Nee Paathi Naan Paathi”, “Kaadhaluku Mariyaadhai” and Suhasini’s Penn (a telefilm where she played Revathi’s mom).  As I look back at these movies, her screen time varied from probably 10 minutes to 100 minutes.  But the onscreen time that she needed in order to make an impact was never a significant factor because her eyes sometimes needed just a matter of seconds to arrest you.  The aforementioned "Penn" is a fine example.  In the course of a 25-min telefilm (superbly written by Suhasini), Srividya brought to life a Mom from her 30s to her 50s and showed how a Mom's feelings towards her daughter could change as they both age.  Given the number of times that I have watched this, I have never failed to tear up in the climactic sequence.  But more importantly, I have always spared a moment to think of how, in an argument, one's near and dear might mean well but their deep love for us might actually prevent them from expressing things in a saccharine sweet fashion that might hold momentary appeal.  Watch this video to see why I hold her in such high regard:

Another reason why I wanted to salute Srividya was because she thrived in an environment that really didn’t carve a niche market for older actors the way Hollywood does.  The fact that a Robert De Niro (aged 72) or a Meryl Streep (66) are able to get plum roles and the fact that a Revathy or a Srividya rarely got meaty roles beyond a certain age is as stark a contrast as you will ever find.  There was absolutely nothing lacking in talent in either of these Indian actors.  It is just that filmmakers (with rare exceptions like Balu Mahendra’s “Sandhya Raagam”) or maybe even the audience could not care less about watching seasoned thespians in meaningful lead roles and would rather watch ditzy girls from Mumbai prance around in skimpy costumes.  It is a testament to Srividya’s talent that she made a lasting impression despite being the odds stacked against her favor. 

From what I have read about Srividya, I also gather that her personal life left her many a scar, both physical and emotional.  Maybe in the movies she found an outlet to portray all the pain that she experienced as a person.  In one of those tragic ironies of life, it was probably her anguish and suffering that metamorphosed to something, even if on celluloid, that could actually make somebody a little more sensitive towards the pain and sensitivities of others.

Inspirations (17 of 25) - Rahul Dravid

Of all the cricketers that have inspired me in various ways, Rahul Dravid has to be the one that serves as the perfect one, even more so than Sachin Tendulkar.  While Tendulkar lifted the spirits of an entire nation and an entire generation with his sheer brilliance, Dravid’s evolution is what makes him even more inspirational.  I say that because not every one of us may be as naturally gifted in our respective fields the way Tendulkar seemed right through his career (though this is certainly not meant to take anything away from Tendulkar’s famed work ethic and dedication to his cricket).  And a closer look at Dravid’s evolution as a cricketer should give several reasons to believe in one self and optimize one’s potential. 

By the time he called time on his glorious career, Dravid did not score one run less than what he could have.  Not one run.  In amassing almost 25,000 runs at the international level, he stretched himself well beyond what may have been his comfort zone at the start of his career.  In fact, he kept expanding his zone of comfort to the point that there seemed no room for further expansion that when it was time for him to call it quits, he could step back and marvel at the ‘wall’ (as he was called affectionately for the stability of his batting and the near impenetrability of his defense) of fame that he had created painstakingly. 

When Dravid began his career, his batting was one of the most pleasing sights in cricket but that was when you were watching him in Tests.  In one-dayers, barring a few glimpses like his valiant century in a losing cause against Pakistan in Chennai in ‘97 (a game that I had the misfortune [since India lost badly] of watching live!), he found the going tough because he just could not go beyond his classicism and correctness.  It made for painful watching all the more so because he was a sheer pleasure to watch in Tests.  But in the early 2000s, he worked on his game so seriously that in both formats he started to flourish and became the anchor for the batting side.  It was not just his well-developed technique but also his wonderful attitude that served him well.  Starting with his unforgettable 180 in the Kolkata Test of 2001, he went from strength to strength, continually crafting magical innings in the most testing of situations.

Having grown up watching cricket in the 90s where the Indian team lacked severely in temperament, it was a welcome change to watch Dravid, VVS Laxman, Sourav Ganguly and of course, Tendulkar all combine to form a batting line up that supplemented their ability with oodles of positive attitude and a never-say-die spirit.  It was extremely gratifying for loyal fans of the Indian cricket like me to watch players like Dravid and Laxman fight as true team players, excelling individually but never losing sight of the team’s goals.  And Dravid demonstrated his commitment to his team in myriad ways.  A case in point is him taking the initiative to keep wickets – again to the best of his abilities - despite the physical strain, just to create an extra batsman or bowler slot for the team.  It was also amazing how he would always create new personal goals that would benefit the team.  This was never more evident than in his efforts to improve his slip fielding.  The fact that he holds the record for maximum number of catches in Test cricket is not only a testament to his longevity (having played 164 Tests) but also his amazing consistency in the field despite the heavy workload he shouldered as a batsman. 

As a captain, Dravid had mixed success, enjoying hard-fought victories such as the Test series in England in 2007 but also experiencing tremendous pressure following India’s ignominious early exit from the 2007 World Cup.  Even though he had the benefit of a much stronger team than Tendulkar, he still chose to quit as a captain to focus on his batting and fielding.  In hindsight, it was not a bad decision since his successor Anil Kumble was a stronger leader even if it was for a brief period.  And, of course, MS Dhoni was able to take the team to stratospheric heights especially in one-dayers.   All the while, Dravid, despite combating age and dimming reflexes, could recover from slumps and contribute quite handsomely, as was evident in his three centuries - all in losing causes - in the 2011 series in England.

The other facet of Dravid that I really admired was his dignified behavior on and off the field.  He was always a picture of class, dignity and centeredness (with very few exceptions) despite having gone through innumerable highs and lows as an individual and as a team.  My friend once told me about how in the early 2000s, one of his friends had created a website for Dravid.  And Dravid, after having seen the website and been impressed by the content, invited this person to dinner as a token of appreciation.  It was just an example of how grounded and humble he was a person.

As we look back at the two greats Dravid and Tendulkar, the latter’s career was akin to an emerging skyscraper gifted to him by God with a solid foundation and a dozen floors on top of which Tendulkar kept adding floors at amazing speed and with grace and stability.  By the time Tendulkar finished work on his skyscraper, he had exceeded the heights that were far beyond anyone’s imagination and the skyscraper was so tall that he had to sprain his neck to look down at the next tallest skyscraper.  But Dravid, on the other hand, was the man entrusted with building a protective fort, with God having given him just a factory full of bricks and the gift of patience and perseverance.  He quickly cemented his reputation by closing every crack through the most disciplined of methods and by the time he completed his fort, there was not one visible crack.  He just had to stop further work because he had exhausted every muscle in his body.  If we take a leaf out of his book (should I say, a brick out of his wall?!) we working professionals must work hard, smart and push ourselves towards self-created goals that by the time we retire, we can have a satisfied sigh.  Being a huge fan and admirer of Dravid, even if I can’t create a fort, I will certainly go beyond building castles in the air!

"Amma, I understand you" - A short story by Ram Murali

The staff room for high-school teachers at the prestigious SB Secondary School in Chennai had a long, wide wooden table in the center of the room and assigned slots and chairs for every teacher.   Typically the space given to each teacher was insignificant so, they tended to be cluttered with mark sheets, text books, ink pens with red stains left on the table and tea cups that were yet to be picked by the attendant.  But there was one slot that was always clean, dusted and organized.  In that slot lay a pen stand, a couple of text books and three photo frames – one photo was that of the teacher’s deceased parents; the second was that of the teacher with her mentor Mr. Rajan, who had offered solace and guidance in her younger days following the untimely death of her parents in a train accident when she was only 12.  In fact, Mr. Rajan continued to be an important presence in her life.  And, the third photo frame contained a photo of her family - her husband Sundar and her two kids, the 25-year old Banu and the 21-year old Sanjay.  That part of the table belonged to Lakshmi, the Math teacher for 9^th and 11^th grade.  A neat parting in the middle and a single plait defined her unfussy hairstyle and her starched cotton saris were always in simple, earthy colors.

It was 3:00 pm on a muggy Friday afternoon in July.  The ceiling fans in the staff room were running in full blast but were scarcely sufficient for an irate parent of a 9^th grade student named Siva.  Siva and his mother entered the staff room asking to see Lakshmi.  Siva had scored 14/25 in a bi-weekly test.  SB School gave certificates of merit to students who scored 60% or above in all tests and exams during the year and Siva, at the beginning of the school year, by scoring less than 60%, had lost his chance to get the certificate for the current academic year.  Siva’s mother was pointed to Lakshmi, who was picking up her belongings and getting ready to leave for the day.   

Siva’s mother asked, “Mrs. Lakshmi Sundar?”

“Yes, good afternoon.”

“I am Siva’s mother.  Could I talk to you for a few minutes?”

Putting down her bag, Lakshmi said, “Yes, can we go next door to the class room?”

Upon entering the empty classroom (since classes ended at 2:45 pm), Lakshmi requested Siva’s mother to sit down and she sat in the bench facing Siva and his mother.

Lakshmi asked, “Yes Ma’am, what would you like to talk about?”

“You gave Siva only 14/25 on his test.  He was telling me that the test was very tough and that for a few questions, you did not give him enough marks for getting some of the steps correct.  As a result, he won’t be able to get his merit card this year.  Could you please consider looking at his test again?”

“Ma’am, let me please clarify two things: One is that I gave the same test to everyone and I have the same rules for how I score the questions for everyone.  So, the level of difficulty and the criteria for getting points on the test are the same for everyone.  There are students who did quite well on the test too.  Secondly, at the beginning of the school year in June, I told all students that in the weeks when we don’t have the tests, I will give optional homework problems and if students score at least 90% in those homework exercises that I would give them one bonus point for the assignment the following week.  Siva did not even submit the homework last week.  Do you still feel I need to do something?”

Siva’s mother, putting her right hand on her forehead said, “You are very rigid, Mrs. Lakshmi.  I don’t know what to say.”  Looking at Siva, his mother continued, “Siva, I don’t know what to do.”

In a completely unruffled tone, Lakshmi put her arm over Siva’s shoulder and said to his mother, “Ma’am, he is a good kid.  He just has to have a better work ethic.  Merit cards are not as important as learning the material properly.  I sincerely feel that doing the homeworks consistently will help him maximize his potential.  And, Siva, you know that, correct?  You don’t need me to tell you!”

Siva, looking down at the floor to avoid eye contact, replied, “But Ma’am, I am very upset.”

Lakshmi continued, “Don’t be.  Just work harder.  And, you are more than welcome to attend my Sunday afternoon classes in my house. “

Siva’s mother, with the slight hint of a smirk, replied, “You want me to pay more fees?”

Before Lakshmi could respond, Siva clarified, “Amma, Lakshmi Ma’am doesn’t charge anything for these extra classes. It is just for our class’ students who want extra time and attention.”

Siva’s mother responded, “Mrs. Lakshmi, I will talk to my husband about it.  I still feel you are being very inflexible.”

Lakshmi smiled and said, “To be equitable to everyone is more important to me, Ma’am.  Siva, do this week’s homework without fail, okay?”

He nodded and excused himself along with his mother.  Lakshmi walked back to her desk, picked up her bag, her stainless steel lunchbox and turned her cell phone on.  (She would typically turn it off the moment she entered the school’s premises in the morning.) 

As Lakshmi was waiting at the bus stop, she received a call from Mr. Rajan.

“Good evening, Lakshmi.”

“Good evening, Uncle.  I wanted to call you myself.  As I mentioned on Monday, I will come to your house with Sanjay by 5:30 pm so that he can get your blessings before leaving.”  Sanjay had gotten admission to pursue his graduate studies in Computer Science at UC Berkeley in California and was flying out that night to San Francisco via Malaysia.

“Yes, yes…I am eagerly awaiting the two of you.  I am at the sweet stall here.  Please remind me – what does Sanjay like more - Basundhi or Rasamalai?”

“Uncle, why do you impose all this on yourself?”

Mr. Rajan, in a playful tone, continued, “Lakshmi, what did I ask you?  Answer my question, teacher.”

“Okay, okay.  Rasamalai is his favorite.  We will see you at 5:30.”

***

As Lakshmi entered her house, she saw Sanjay, wearing a casual t-shirt and jeans, pacing the hallway, talking to his friend on the phone.  Wearing a yellow kurthi, sporting long hair put in place by a barrette, Banu was in her room (that she shared with Sanjay), taking an official call.  On Banu’s table was the “Rising Star” award that she had received at her workplace.  Banu worked in Mumbai as a financial analyst.  She had started working in Chennai after her graduation but her quick rise in the ranks was accompanied by an offer to move to Mumbai earlier in the year.  Lakshmi was the one that had insisted that Banu take up this opportunity even though Sundar had vehemently opposed to this.  Banu was visiting them in Chennai this weekend since Sanjay was leaving to the US.

As he was ready to hang up the phone, Sanjay said to his friend, “Dey sure da, I will be there at Bessie (Besant Nagar Beach) in an hour.  We have to see Raman Sir.”

Sporting a quizzical look, Lakshmi asked Sanjay, “Sanjay, what’s going on?”

“Amma, Bala just called.  He said that our 12^th standard compski (Computer Science) teacher, Raman Sir, who had moved to Coimbatore, is in town this weekend.  He had heard that a bunch of us are flying out tonight so he offered to meet up at the coffee shop near Bessie.  I will be back by 7:30 pm, Ma. You remember Raman Sir, he…”

Gesturing to Sanjay to stop talking, Lakshmi said- politely but firmly- “Sanjay, remember what you told me last week when I mentioned to you that we must go see Rajan Uncle before you leave.  We need to see him at 5:30 as promised.”

Rolling his eyes, Sanjay groaned, “Amma, he is your teacher…your mentor.   Why do you keep insisting that I come see him before I leave?  I mean, I respect the man.  But, why can’t I just talk to him on the phone and get his blessings?”

Sitting down on the sofa and asking Sanjay to sit next to her, Lakshmi continued, “Sanjay, listen kanna.  Your final semester ended in May.  For the past two months, I have been asking you to come with me to visit Rajan Uncle.  Forget about what he means to me.  He has been so nice to you ever since you were little.  Just calling him on the phone doesn’t have the same thoughtfulness of gesture that visiting him in person does.  I mean, even today, he called me from a sweet shop to ask what your favorite sweet was.   He’s 75 and he went out in the sweltering heat to get you something that you like.  Plus, last week, you committed to me that you will come with me.  You assured me that 5:30 pm today is pucca.  And now for you to say all this is not fair.”

                                                                      

Raising his voice several levels, Sanjay retorted, “Amma, just like how he guided you, Raman Sir was who got me really interested in CS (Computer Science).  Remember I got 99 in the 12^th standard board exam.  It was really because of how much I liked his teaching…I really have to go visit him.”

“Only at the time that you gave me?  That’s not fair at all.” 

“What is so unfair??  He’s just here for this weekend and I am leaving tonight.  This was a last minute thingie.  Why can’t you relax your rules, I don’t understand?”  (At this time Banu walked into the living room after hearing Sanjay’s booming voice in her room. She had a 5-minute break in her call.)

Lakshmi, getting a tad agitated, asked, “Rules?  You look at honoring a commitment as a rule?  That’s fine, Sanjay.  You don’t have to understand me.  Go ahead, meet your Raman Sir.”

Putting on his sneakers (without socks) in a hurry, he barked, “You treat me like I am 12.  I am 21 for heaven’s sake.”

Banu, ever the soft spoken girl, calmly said, “Amma, it’s okay.  Why don’t you let him see his teacher and friends?  He is leaving tonight, after all. Rajan Thatha will understand if Sanjay just calls him.”

A miffed Lakshmi said, “Banu, you have always been Daddy’s girl and so, you won’t support me here.  Sanjay, I tell you, you won’t understand me.  That’s totally fine.  I will go visit the person who, as you rightfully said, is my mentor and my teacher.  I told him that I will visit his house at 5:30 and I will be there at 5:30.  I will see the two of you later in the evening.”

Banu had to resume her call.  So, she went back to her room.  An angry Sanjay zoomed away on his Pulsar bike while an upset Lakshmi took the bus to Mr. Rajan’s place. 

***

Sundar worked in the marketing department of an automobile firm and owing to his work, traveled on an average 10 days in a month and even when in town, worked long hours and compromised on his sleep as a result.   An aggressive, focused go-getter, Sundar was a very affectionate family man but who spent less time with the family than he or the family desired. 

That night that Sanjay was due to fly out, Sundar, for once, returned from work early…only to hear Banu tell him about the big argument and that neither mother nor son was home! 

A lot of awkward silences and pauses dominated the conversations after Lakshmi and Sanjay returned home to get ready for the airport.  Sanjay did have a brief conversation with Mr. Rajan over the phone as the latter duly blessed him and gently ribbed him for over “having to search for a leak-proof box to pack the rasamalais!” 

At the airport, Banu and Sanjay were having a private conversation over a cup of tea as Sundar took Lakshmi aside to check on her.

Sundar asked, “Laks, are you feeling alright?”

Lakshmi responded, “Yes, I am fine.  I just feel bad that the day he is leaving, Sanjay and I had this kind of a conversation.  Paavam (poor fellow), he must be feeling so upset with me.  Sundar, do you think he will ever understand me?”

“He’s a kid, Laks.  Of course, he will understand you.  It is important for you to feel good about yourself.  He will be fine.  Let’s go there (pointing in the direction of Banu and Sanjay).  We don’t want him to be late.”

As they walked over, they heard Banu say to Sanjay, “Do call, okay?”

Sanjay shrugged his shoulders, smiled and said, “Problem is you guys will never wait for me to call!” 

It was time for Sanjay to check in.  Sanjay wanted to bid his goodbye to the family before getting together with two of his friends who were traveling with him.

Banu hugged him and said, “Sanjay, jokes apart, do call!”

Sundar put his arm on Sanjay’ shoulder and said, “Work hard but do get some proper sleep, unlike me!”

And finally, Lakshmi kissed Sanjay on his forehead and said, “Best of luck, kanna. “

Sanjay winked and said, “By the way, Raman Sir conveys his sincere thanks to you for your flexibility!”

Sundar patted Sanjay on his back and said, “Odha paduve rascal! (I am going to kick you!”)

The three of them bid goodbye to Sanjay and headed back home, feeling heavy for different reasons.

***

The feeling of vacuum left by someone who has just left town typically hits the most the moment you notice something that is so associated with them.  It hit Lakshmi the hardest when she noticed Sanjay’s favorite sneakers on the floor next to the sofa.  He had a habit of removing them and leaving them in the living room and was always admonished promptly by Lakshmi for not leaving them in the shoe rack.  

With her voice breaking a little, Lakshmi said to Sundar and Banu that she was going to get some sleep.  Banu went to her room while Sundar told them that he had some work to finish and headed upstairs to his office room.

Lakshmi was fidgeting around in bed for a while, unable to sleep, unable to register what was on the book (titled “The Power of Habit”) that she was reading and checking her phone every five minutes to see if Sanjay would call. 

She then got a text message – “Amma, are you still awake?  Can we talk?”

***

She immediately walked over to Banu’s room.         

It was Banu who had sent her the text message. 

Banu had changed into her nightwear and was in bed, wearing her black rimmed glasses and reading, Frontline.  Lakshmi knocked on her door and asked, “Banu, can I come in?”

“Yes, Ma.  Come in.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I am totally fine.  Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”

“Sure,” replied Lakshmi, sitting in the chair next to Banu’s bed.

Banu got up, leaned on her pillow and said to Lakshmi, “Come sit next to me.”

As Lakshmi smiled and sat next to Banu, the latter held Lakshmi’s hand and said, “Amma, I know you must be missing Sanjay.  And, more importantly, you are feeling bad about what happened in the evening.  Before that, there’s something that I have been wanting to share with you ever since I moved to Mumbai.”

Looking a little concerned, Lakshmi asked, “Is everything okay, Banu?”

“As okay as it has ever been.  I will tell you something.  And, I think you must know this especially since you called me ‘Daddy’s girl’ today.”

“Oh, I just said that in a fit of pique, Banu.  Don’t read too much into it.”

“No, Ma.  It’s not like I was upset that you said that.  Clearly I have not made you feel like I support you.  Amma, up until this January, when I was working here in Chennai, I must admit that there have been times when I felt like how Sanjay did today.  That you were sometimes being too set in your ways and having us do things that you had firm convictions about.  It’s just that unlike Sanjay, I wouldn’t argue with you about them.  My being a ‘daddy’s girl’ when I was here is not entirely inaccurate.  I mean, I am still very attached to Appa.  In the days before I left to Mumbai in January, I just found it enormously touching that Appa didn’t want me to go there.  I just thought it was so sweet and protective of him to say that.  And you kept saying that I must not have any fear of living in another city and that I must boldly take up challenges and opportunities that come my way.  So I do admit, I used to find Appa to be so much more…what do I say…endearing, may be.  But after I moved there, I realized two or three things, Ma.” 

Lakshmi smiled and said, “I am all ears.  Tell me, Banu.”

“The first weekend that I was there…and, keep this to yourself, okay?  I had really bad stomach pain.  I mean, my roommates were very friendly and supportive.  But that night that I was in bed all alone writhing in pain, I thought of you, Ma.  You know why?  More than the feeling that I didn’t have you there, it was the realization that you had grown up without having your Mother’s shoulders to cry on when you were in pain.  I mean, not once have you talked in a self-pitying tone to me or Sanjay about the fact that you lost your parents when you were young.  Not once.  We just knew the facts but not what you went through.  The moment I realized that, despite my own pain that night, I wanted to come and hug you.  Now that I am here…”

She hugged Lakshmi and said, “I really missed you, Ma.” 

As Lakshmi struggled to not tear up, Banu continued, “Amma, the other thing that I realized was that so much of what you have inculcated in Sanjay and me was helping me so much at work.  I hate to sound pompous but the truth is that I am well-liked at work.  People like my work ethic and commitment and I realized when I was up there that I really owe that to you.  There were things at work that I was doing subconsciously…things like never missing deadlines and quality checking my reports thoroughly…things  which people at work make out to be a big deal.  But the discipline that stemmed out of the routines that you created for us when we were growing up, were what made me do all that.”

“That’s so sweet of you, Banu.  I really don’t know what to say.  If you don’t mind my asking, are these things that you have shared with Appa or Sanjay?”

Banu grinned and said, “I have not.  I wanted to tell you all this before I said anything to Appa.  And, Amma, Sanjay is at an age where his world is getting bigger and he’s stepping into new territory.  He’s so smart, so driven and so intent on living life king size that he is not going to comprehend all this now.  I mean, I tried talking to him about how once he moves to the US that if he is feeling vulnerable thinking about any of us, that he must accept that and be open about it.”

“And, what did he say?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yes, tell me!”

“He said, ‘I just got done with 4 years of boring lectures in college and have several more to go.  Can you give me a break?!’”

They laughed together as Lakshmi said, “So typical of that little brat!”

“Amma, jokes apart, please realize that that little brat will always be your little brat, only a little different, as he makes new friends over there and discovers himself fully.”

“But Banu, do you think that he will resent me?  The reason I ask this is because I feel that at school, I know that I mean well and do what I think is best for my students.  Many of my students like me, others don’t.  But every year in June, at the start of the school year, it’s like a reset button.  I get a new set of students, new challenges and what not.  So, honestly, while I carry over the fond memories of the students that leave me, I never carry forward any of the negativity that some students or their parents may have harbored.  But with the two of you, you are my life, Banu.  I feel almost selfish in hoping that you will not resent me for my so called rules and yet you will love me.  You know the reason why I have never spoken to you about my parents much.  It’s because in Appa and the two of you, I feel complete and feel blessed with the perfect family that I didn’t have between the time my parents passed away and the time you and Sanjay were born.  I mean, my grandparents took very good care of me and Rajan Uncle was a tremendous source of strength…but you know.”

“I understand, Ma.  But, as I told you, this is not something that you can tell Sanjay now and have him understand all this fully.  His epiphany has to come from within.  Just like the epiphany of a girl who, before this conversation, used to be rather uncharitably dubbed as Daddy’s girl!” 

Lakshmi sheepishly grinned and said, “Okay, okay.  It’s getting late.  You go to sleep.  I have to go to school a half-day tomorrow.  Let’s go eat lunch at Eden if you are okay, just the two of us.”

“Sure, I’d love to.”

Lakshmi said, “Thank you so much, Banu” and gently patted her on her cheek.

As Lakshmi got up, Banu held her arm again and asked her to lean forward.  She looked her in the eye and said to Lakshmi, “Amma, I understand you…Sanjay will, over time.  Trust me.  Go sleep well.”  And, she kissed Lakshmi on her forehead.

************

The equation of his life: A tribute to Dr. James E Jamison, Professor at The University of Memphis

“I am sure that the path that lies before you will have moments of joy and this pain will slowly be pushed away by time.” 

The above words were from an e-mail that my mentor Dr. Jamison had sent me in response to my sharing with him the details of a tough phase that I was going through.  At that time – as with any crisis that I have gone through in the past 16 years that I have known him – he was there for me, assuring me that this too shall pass.  Every time I felt pain of any sort – physical or emotional - he was there to help me push it away with balmy words, thoughtful gestures and above all, his presence.  That reassuring presence.  The way he would lend his broad shoulders to me whenever I needed a shoulder to lean on was as solid as any rock was.  What was even more remarkable was that he did all this despite going through a tremendous amount of physical suffering on and off in the past 14 years ever since he was first diagnosed with cancer in 2000.  He went through a lot of physical hardships but his gracefulness was the constant in the equation of his life that was, in his last years, filled with variables of unpredictability.  The unpredictability caused by cancer may have made his life difficult but he continued to infuse the lives of others with warmth, love and compassion.  His sheer love for math, his infinite passion for teaching and the courage with which he faced life…no scratch that, lived his life to the fullest were all things that he, my favorite Professor, taught me by example. 
  
With his passing away (on Friday, Nov 28), I have lost not only a mentor but also the most steadying influence in my life.  But let me first go on a small trip down memory lane.

I had lived in India till I completed my high-school at which time I migrated to the US with my parents.  In my first semester as an undergraduate student at The University of Memphis, I took Dr. Jamison’s Calculus-I.  (In one of the happiest accidents of my life, I was supposed to be in another section but I was so green that I couldn’t even figure out the error until I received a letter late in the semester stating that I had not attended class all semester.  Of course, I hadn’t…in the section that I was supposed to sit in!  I was in Dr. Jamison’s class!)  A professor in his 50s (at that time), he at first seemed to be a little distant, but unmindful of that, I kept asking questions in the middle of his lectures with a standard opening line, “Dr. Jamison, could I ask you a question?”  But I quickly realized that despite his seemingly gruff exterior, here was a person who truly enjoyed Math and wanted his students to enjoy it as well.  And over the years, he has always ribbed me about my inquisitiveness joking, “I should have never answered your question!  Now you don’t stop!”

He realized that I enjoyed Math but he also quickly found out that a lot of what I had done in India was learning by rote, with little application.  So, he advised me to join the Educational Support Program (ESP) as a Math Tutor to do the best form of in-depth learning - teaching.  He was right because I consider my stint at the ESP as a rich, educational experience.  Even after that semester, I kept in touch with him, always getting solid advice and encouragement in matters of academia and career.  (I even took an Advanced Calculus class with him and was welcomed to class by a smile that probably meant, “There you go!  The Question Master is here!”)  Over time, I started sharing pretty much everything under the sun and far beyond the confines of mere career advice.  As I started sharing the highs and lows of my life, I began to see the highs and lows of his and how he dealt with them with a sunny disposition and a steely resolve. 

A case in point is a phone call that I received from him in 2007.  It was around 10:15 at night, and I picked up the phone and said excitedly, “Dr. Jamison!  What a surprise!  How are you doing?”  He replied, “I am in the hospital.”  My heart sank for a second.  So had his the previous day.  He said, “I was in the gym working out when my heart stopped.   But luckily they used a defribilator to resuscitate me.”  He continued in an almost flippant tone, “Oh, there was no pain!  The heart just stopped.  Anyway, I am going in for a bypass surgery tomorrow.  I am not scared.  I am just thinking good thoughts and I am sure you’ll do the same.”  I was extremely shaken and speechless.  But after I wished him luck for the surgery, I spent the next day praying fervently that everything would go well.  And, luckily, I got good news the following day when I spoke to his wife who said that the surgery had went well.  My mother had visited him in the hospital the next day and told me that he was his usual cheerful self.  Years later, even during his brutal cancer treatments, he remained thankful for all that he had gotten in life and spoke lovingly of how blessed he was to have his family and friends.  As I mentioned earlier, the equation of his life indeed had the unwavering constant of grace. 


In a similar vein, over the past 16 years, the equation of my life had a constant amidst several variables.  That constant was Dr. Jamison’s presence.  Now that that constant has left me, the equation of my life has morphed into an unsolvable inequation.  An inequation invented by a cruel act of nature that has taken away a great man who lived life to the fullest and exhibited grace every step of the way, including the arduous steps out of this world.  To steal his words, the path ahead may have “moments of joy and this pain will slowly be pushed away by time.”  But I won’t have him gently putting his arm over my shoulders to help me push away this pain.  May your soul rest in peace, Dr. Jamison.  I have one last question for you – “Why did you have to leave us so early?”