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Hmm!
So, our Babu is taught in Mussoorie, 'how many mangoes he could accept out of a basket that a favour-seeker proffered'.
I come from a lower middle class Telugu Brahmin family where wastage of food was frowned upon: Annam Para Brahma Swarupam...Food is the form of God.
Taittiriya Upanishad (3.8.1. Bhrigu Valli) says:
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...I had a close relative in the I.C.S. who could not be seen or spoken to even by members of his family living under the same roof, except by appointment. He had organised his life in a perfect colonial pattern, with a turbaned butler knocking on his door with tea in the morning; black tie and dinner jacket while dining with other I.C.S. men, even if the table were laid in a desert; dropping of visiting cards in "Not at Home" boxes brought by servants when they formally called on each other. At home, when he joined the family gathering, he occupied a chair like a president, laughed and joked in a measured way; the utmost familiarity he could display was to correct other people's English pronunciation in an effort to promote Oxford style.
The I.C.S. manual was his Bible that warned him against being too familiar with anyone. He was advised how many mangoes he could accept out of a basket that a favour-seeker proffered; how far away he should hold himself when a garland was brought to be slipped over his neck. It was a matter of propriety for an average visitor to leave his vehicle at the gate and walk down the drive; only men of certain status could come in their cars and alight at the portico.
The I.C.S. was made up of well-paid men, above corruption, efficient and proud to maintain the traditions of the service, but it dehumanised the men, especially during the national struggle for independence. These men proved ruthless in dealing with agitators, and may well have out-Heroded Herod. Under such circumstances, they were viewed as a monstrous creation of the British. An elder statesman once defined the I.C.S. as being neither Indian nor civil nor service. When Nehru became the Prime Minister, he weeded out many of them.
...RKN
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Hmm!
So, our Babu is taught in Mussoorie, 'how many mangoes he could accept out of a basket that a favour-seeker proffered'.
I come from a lower middle class Telugu Brahmin family where wastage of food was frowned upon: Annam Para Brahma Swarupam...Food is the form of God.
Taittiriya Upanishad (3.8.1. Bhrigu Valli) says:
Annam na parichakshita...do not reject food...
Now for a small digression on this class structure in our Hyderabad.
For the 40 years of my so-called working life, I was living in the classless state of Marxist West Bengal. And in our campus the only symbol of class was the type of Qrs we lived in: A, B1, B, C1, C, BF, H1, H, G and EFR...that's all I guess. But there were anomalies. Some lazy senior professors didn't bother to change from their lowly BF to the high-class A. And so, quite a few juniors outclassed them.
And after retirement I tried settling down in Hyderabad...it is almost a decade now I have been trying, but I haven't quite succeeded in settling down, like fine mud in our water drum.
On January 29, 2007, my son's 26th birthday, I thought it was time to get him married to a suitable girl...he of course thought it was high time....too high in fact.
I asked him what his preferences were...and, coached by his mom, he said any Telugu Brahmin girl would do...any girl for that matter in his heart of hearts...like father, like son.
Since I lost all touch with Telugu Brahmin families long long ago, I tried posting our resume' on a highly recommended local marriage portal. It came to nothing though, after 120 inquiries in one month...not their fault.
During my posting effort I came to the item like 'economic status'. And there was this drop-down menu with just 3 entries: Affluent, Upper Middle Class, Middle Class.
There was no Lower Middle Class. Nor Middle Middle Class or Side Lower or Side Upper like the sleeper compartments I used to travel in.
After a lot of research I came to understand the Hyderabadi Matrimonial Middle Class structure.
If you are living in Banjara Hills or Jubilee Hills or posh areas like that, you are eligible for consideration without elaborate proofs of your income.
If you are living in a rented flat, you are marginally middle class even if you pay a monthly rent of Rs 30,000.
If you are living in your own flat, you are middle class for sure, unless it is in a gated towering community like Lodha Bellezza where folks like film stars live in huge flats with in-house spas and swimming pools and tennis courts, in which case you qualify as Affluent...for the nonce, till your business shuts down and you land up in jail.
To qualify for the glorious status of Upper Middle Class you should be living in a villa you own...a cute thing with a garden (kitchen and front), a double car park, a penthouse and...most importantly a dog on leash...not a pi-dog you picked up from the street for nothing (posing as an animal lover) but an Alsatian or a German Shepherd or such, to guard you and your villa...bark as well as bite.
...End of digression...
As I was saying, in the village of Muthukur where I did my schooling, there was no fruit-vendor shop. The culture was unknown. We did get baskets of mangoes in summer carried to our doorsteps by village belles on their padded heads for a couple of months. And some green oranges and bananas.
These were expensive for a non-profit HM with 9 wide mouths to feed. And Father never 'could accept any out of a basket that a favour-seeker proffered'...out of fear.
So instead of pining for forbidden fruits we just didn't acquire a taste for them.
Not just me but all my half-a-dozen Telugu Brahmin classmates at our university who were all in similar boats.
There is this nice friend of mine whom I lost for the 40 years I was at IIT KGP and rediscovered after switching back to Hyderabad, Dr. Krishna Mohan Rao. It turned out he married an Upper Middle Class city lady and retired as the Head of the Electronics Division of the Central Road Research Institute in New Delhi.
On our first visit to their home in Hyderabad, his wife was narrating how she was astonished when she first asked him after marriage what he would like for lunch and got the reply: Rice and Pickle. And for dinner, more of the same...my own wife had a similar experience.
And when Mrs KM Rao asked him what fruit dish he wanted, he replied, it seems:
"Why fruit? Who is unwell in this house?"
To this day I don't like fruits and avoid all of them whenever convenient.
In June 1977, when I was still a bachelor, I was invited by an IAS (couple) with whom I was friends at Vizagh. The hubby was then posted as the supreme Collector (District Magistrate) of Dharmapuri, Tamilnadu. And I was feasted and feted for two days. On the third day, when I was returning home via Bangalore, they offered to drive me down till Krishnagiri (the last post in Tamilnadu on way to Bangalore) on a business-cum-pleasure overnight trip. Krishnagiri is a scenic place with a dam and a fruit-and-flower garden by its side.
After we were graciously settled in the sumptuous R & B Guest House there, my friend took me along with him for a routine inspection of the dam and the gardens and their upkeep, problems and possible solutions, all by way of business...a report had to be filed.
And we were led into a dining hall by a properly attired Tahsildar bowing and bending to his knees...otherwise he would be a tyrant for his minions.
And we were seated in two chairs in front of a table on which two plates of freshly cut papaya fruit from the gardens were laid out for us.
And I hated papaya all my life...in Bengal it is a fruit for those sick. Here is the official alphabetical list of ailments it can miraculously cure:
...abortion, acne, allergies, arthritis, asthma, bleeding, bloating, blood clots, blood cleansing, blood pressure, blood sugar, bronchitis, burns, cancer, constipation...a hundred other things till...warts, worms and wounds...except housemaid's knee...
...just Google for 'papaya fruit in Bengal'.
Unfortunately I had none of these but for occasional constipation due to hostel food.
Still, I thought that food offered should not be wasted, particularly cut-fruits which are prone to house quick airborne bacteria.
Also I thought that etiquette demanded that I don't reject food that was gracefully offered, lest it hurt the Tahsildar:
Annam na parichakshita...do not reject food
And started munching a few papaya slices with a brave heart.
And then I discovered that my Collector friend was still busy with his inquiries and inquisitions, and after a few minutes of this holy chitchat, he got up to go, and I followed him like Mary' little lamb.
He didn't touch even a wee piece of papaya, and I felt as big an ass I had ever felt in my life...
After we were graciously settled in the sumptuous R & B Guest House there, my friend took me along with him for a routine inspection of the dam and the gardens and their upkeep, problems and possible solutions, all by way of business...a report had to be filed.
And we were led into a dining hall by a properly attired Tahsildar bowing and bending to his knees...otherwise he would be a tyrant for his minions.
And we were seated in two chairs in front of a table on which two plates of freshly cut papaya fruit from the gardens were laid out for us.
And I hated papaya all my life...in Bengal it is a fruit for those sick. Here is the official alphabetical list of ailments it can miraculously cure:
...abortion, acne, allergies, arthritis, asthma, bleeding, bloating, blood clots, blood cleansing, blood pressure, blood sugar, bronchitis, burns, cancer, constipation...a hundred other things till...warts, worms and wounds...except housemaid's knee...
...just Google for 'papaya fruit in Bengal'.
Still, I thought that food offered should not be wasted, particularly cut-fruits which are prone to house quick airborne bacteria.
Also I thought that etiquette demanded that I don't reject food that was gracefully offered, lest it hurt the Tahsildar:
Annam na parichakshita...do not reject food
And started munching a few papaya slices with a brave heart.
And then I discovered that my Collector friend was still busy with his inquiries and inquisitions, and after a few minutes of this holy chitchat, he got up to go, and I followed him like Mary' little lamb.
He didn't touch even a wee piece of papaya, and I felt as big an ass I had ever felt in my life...
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