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When I was in Class VII in our Village School at Muthukur, my HM Father used to travel every other Sunday to our District HQs, Nellore, an hour away by bus on some or other official work. And I used to watch out and tag myself along and jump into the front seat beside him. He would leave me at one of our half-a-dozen relatives there, go ahead with his work, and pick me up on his way back.
And before tailing him, I would open my box of toys to pick one from my treasury. It had a couple of tennis balls with bald patches here and there, half a dozen glass marbles weather-beaten with pock marks, and a few spinning tops with lunar craters here and there, but each with its own jolly (the unique pull-thread that fits into its grooves as tightly as a hangman's noose). And would tarry deciding which one to pocket for the day; and feel rich.
Indeed, the feeling of riches is all about choice. The lady who owns a single necklace of diamonds set in platinum is much less rich than the woman who has half a dozen rolled-gold chains and a handful of malas (with crystal and ethnic beads). Likewise, the noaeveu-riche upstart who buys a fabulous apartment in Eaton Square is poor compared to the Pauper-Lord who has a modest flat in Covent Gardens and a moss-covered country home in Shrewsbury, both of whose upkeep he can barely afford.
Anyway, one of those Sundays I pocketed one of my bald tennis balls since I decided to spend the day in my maternal granpa's home. There were no kids of my age in their house but it had a huge plain bluff outer wall. Give a kid a ball and a wall and those days he could spend hours playing a sort of squash with his palms as makeshift tennis rackets.
By then my granpa retired as a Revenue Official in British India. His huge self-portrait hanging on their hall-wall displayed his robust bust clad in a black coat with shiny studs and a white turban tied around his proud no-nonsense head. But after retirement he was mostly in his dhuti and a bare upper garment and one could see what his mighty turban held...a tonsured head with a choti. And after his ablutions and puja and tiffin, he would lie sprawling on his easy-chair with Gandhi specs running down to his nose and a Gandhi watch tucked in his dhoti. And read The Hindu of the day A to Z taking catnaps every half hour.
That day while I was busy with my make-believe squash I heard him call me and went in with an inquiring eye. His Hindu was open and a lad of about 18 was standing by his side. I recognized him as my eldest maternal cousin, Natarajan, and he had a quiet smile on his face.
My granpa pointed him to me and in a wee scolding tone said:
"Look at Natarjan! He made everyone of us proud today...he passed is B.A. in Maths in First Class..and you are all the time playing golies instead of studying"
I looked from one to the other and retreated to my ball-wall game.
But somehow it was no longer the same. I didn't know what a B.A. was nor what a First Class is. And in a few minutes I saw Natarajan, a frail, short, quiet figure walk away slowly with perhaps a sense of triumph in his glad heart.
Then and there the first and last goal in my life was set for me...I too wanted desperately to do a B.A. and pass in First Class...which I sort of did...and when the results of my own B.Sc (Hons) came out in The Hindu, I recalled Natarajan's beaming face so many years back.
The other day, on the occasion of my late wife's 10th day rituals, I was so glad to see Natarjan walk slowly to his plastic chair in front of the room we booked in BSS. And I narrated to him and the handful of listeners how much I owed him...he was the first inspirer in my life, such as it is.
And he was thoroughly embarrassed and said he hardly remembered our Nellore encounter a good sixty years ago.
No matter....that is how some people inspire others by their silent presence...Do-Gooders, Class 1...
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When I was in Class VII in our Village School at Muthukur, my HM Father used to travel every other Sunday to our District HQs, Nellore, an hour away by bus on some or other official work. And I used to watch out and tag myself along and jump into the front seat beside him. He would leave me at one of our half-a-dozen relatives there, go ahead with his work, and pick me up on his way back.
And before tailing him, I would open my box of toys to pick one from my treasury. It had a couple of tennis balls with bald patches here and there, half a dozen glass marbles weather-beaten with pock marks, and a few spinning tops with lunar craters here and there, but each with its own jolly (the unique pull-thread that fits into its grooves as tightly as a hangman's noose). And would tarry deciding which one to pocket for the day; and feel rich.
Indeed, the feeling of riches is all about choice. The lady who owns a single necklace of diamonds set in platinum is much less rich than the woman who has half a dozen rolled-gold chains and a handful of malas (with crystal and ethnic beads). Likewise, the noaeveu-riche upstart who buys a fabulous apartment in Eaton Square is poor compared to the Pauper-Lord who has a modest flat in Covent Gardens and a moss-covered country home in Shrewsbury, both of whose upkeep he can barely afford.
Anyway, one of those Sundays I pocketed one of my bald tennis balls since I decided to spend the day in my maternal granpa's home. There were no kids of my age in their house but it had a huge plain bluff outer wall. Give a kid a ball and a wall and those days he could spend hours playing a sort of squash with his palms as makeshift tennis rackets.
By then my granpa retired as a Revenue Official in British India. His huge self-portrait hanging on their hall-wall displayed his robust bust clad in a black coat with shiny studs and a white turban tied around his proud no-nonsense head. But after retirement he was mostly in his dhuti and a bare upper garment and one could see what his mighty turban held...a tonsured head with a choti. And after his ablutions and puja and tiffin, he would lie sprawling on his easy-chair with Gandhi specs running down to his nose and a Gandhi watch tucked in his dhoti. And read The Hindu of the day A to Z taking catnaps every half hour.
That day while I was busy with my make-believe squash I heard him call me and went in with an inquiring eye. His Hindu was open and a lad of about 18 was standing by his side. I recognized him as my eldest maternal cousin, Natarajan, and he had a quiet smile on his face.
My granpa pointed him to me and in a wee scolding tone said:
"Look at Natarjan! He made everyone of us proud today...he passed is B.A. in Maths in First Class..and you are all the time playing golies instead of studying"
I looked from one to the other and retreated to my ball-wall game.
But somehow it was no longer the same. I didn't know what a B.A. was nor what a First Class is. And in a few minutes I saw Natarajan, a frail, short, quiet figure walk away slowly with perhaps a sense of triumph in his glad heart.
Then and there the first and last goal in my life was set for me...I too wanted desperately to do a B.A. and pass in First Class...which I sort of did...and when the results of my own B.Sc (Hons) came out in The Hindu, I recalled Natarajan's beaming face so many years back.
The other day, on the occasion of my late wife's 10th day rituals, I was so glad to see Natarjan walk slowly to his plastic chair in front of the room we booked in BSS. And I narrated to him and the handful of listeners how much I owed him...he was the first inspirer in my life, such as it is.
And he was thoroughly embarrassed and said he hardly remembered our Nellore encounter a good sixty years ago.
No matter....that is how some people inspire others by their silent presence...Do-Gooders, Class 1...
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