Spoke to father's elder brother's wife, Kamala, who is eighty four, and her faculties are clearly in sound condition. She is a short and burly woman who spoke in a low voice. I wanted to know from her how father was in his childhood since she grew up as part of the family. As a child she played with father and his brothers and sisters, for she was after all related to grandmother, her maternal aunt. But my attempts at engaging her to talk about my father failed to elicit enough to get a clear picture of father in his younger days when he was under the care of his elder brother after grandmother's death from cholera, which occurred exactly ten years after grandfather's accidental death. She spoke of father very little and offered little to help construct a readable story of his early life. There was also the matter of a disagreement between the brothers over father's involvement in the political turmoil at that time, which prevented him from completing his school, and dashed his brother's hope of producing an engineer or a doctor under his care. She did not mention the disagreement, though; but stated her husband's disappointment in no uncertain terms.
Kamala aunt keeps a handbag full of medicines which she says keep her alive and kicking. She lives in a small house situated in a dirty unkempt locality with her younger son. She spoke a lot about the family problems, the property matters and the many relatives who lived at that time. Father's elder brother became the youngest breadwinner in the family after the sudden demise of grandfather. He was fourteen when the family burden fell on his shoulders. He wanted to pursue studies but there was no other source of income - women did not go out to work and father was only nine - and he was under pressure from grandmother to accept the job of his father. She mentioned that the rail company of which grandfather was a station master offered jobs to all his sons and agreed to hold the job until they completed their studies. Father due to his political activism could not complete his studies, nor was he interested in that job. Kamala aunt recalled this matter in a matter-of-fact manner and simply expressed her husband's displeasure and disappointment at father's unconventional interests.
She mentioned a diary kept by grandfather, which is now in the possession of her grand daughter. I must remember to collect it from her. The diary she says contained the exact dates on which his children were born. Grandfather had eleven children in all in his short life, which made grandma Kanaka Durga to run to her maternal home almost every year.
Aunt Kamala also gave some idea about life in her early years before her marriage to father's elder brother. My next account will be an attempt to describe that period as well as I can.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Father's book
A lot of new material surfaced with regard to father's friends and works. A booklet he wrote shortly before his demise comprised of two biographical sketches of two stalwarts of his time, who fought in the trenches against the might of the Nizam's police, undeterred by the terrifying atrocities of the razakars. the book entitled 'Torch bearers of the Freedom Movement' profiled the lives of Hayagreevacharya and Katam Lakshminarayana whose selfless and dedicated efforts added a significant chapter in the history of the Freedom Movement in Hyderabad, of which father too had taken part from very early in life.
Also gathered names of a couple of father's close associates during that dark period in the history of Hyderabad - men with whom father worked closely and who could throw light on his early life, from the home front to the political arena in which the youth of that period sacrificed their lives of safety and comfort of the home to the life-threatening situations of the freedom struggle and spent more time within the confines of a jail than in the comforts of their home.
The book to me represented a precious representation of his writing style, for all that he ever wrote is now buried in the numerous dailies of the time. The style of writing, owing no doubt to the subject, was strong and came to me with a force. He minced no words in expressing the feelings of his subjects and the facts of their time, which incidentally was his own as well. As a consummate journalist and freedom fighter, he chronicled not only the lives of two eminent personalities, but also sketched in strong bold strokes the picture of the political situation which was unique in itself - while the whole nation fought the British, the people of Telangana were waging both open and covert war against the declining sovereignty of the Nizam, amidst the horror unleashed by the MIM.
Also gathered names of a couple of father's close associates during that dark period in the history of Hyderabad - men with whom father worked closely and who could throw light on his early life, from the home front to the political arena in which the youth of that period sacrificed their lives of safety and comfort of the home to the life-threatening situations of the freedom struggle and spent more time within the confines of a jail than in the comforts of their home.
The book to me represented a precious representation of his writing style, for all that he ever wrote is now buried in the numerous dailies of the time. The style of writing, owing no doubt to the subject, was strong and came to me with a force. He minced no words in expressing the feelings of his subjects and the facts of their time, which incidentally was his own as well. As a consummate journalist and freedom fighter, he chronicled not only the lives of two eminent personalities, but also sketched in strong bold strokes the picture of the political situation which was unique in itself - while the whole nation fought the British, the people of Telangana were waging both open and covert war against the declining sovereignty of the Nizam, amidst the horror unleashed by the MIM.
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Friday, July 9, 2010
From Raj - 1 (Early Life)
Now all I know is according to what came out of dad's own mouth: he always loved school and loved learning new things and enjoyed reading all the good and great books of his times. Loved poetry and literature and praised many great writers and poets and recited famous works often. Loved reading and whenever found new
words, jotted them down in a list. This he did in all the languages he was learning at the time. Then he would learn their meanings and use those 10 words and write something that would fit those. That's how he improved his vocabulary.
I thought he was learning telugu on his own coz it was not part of the school. Yet I thought if iam not mistaken he talked about his telugu teacher who was extremely insulting and sarcastic to the children about their writng or performance in the class in general. Once when they had to write an essay which was very long on a topic i do not remember, he did tell me though, daddy wrote it as usual with a lot of interest and enjoyed every bit of that experience but had no guts or hated to face his criticism and gave his notebook to his friend and got it delivered to class and stayed back home. To his surprise the teacher loved his essay and showed it to the class and made some boy read it aloud and shouted at the others to learn to write like that and called it the best writing ever and missed him badly in class that day for not being able to congratulate him personally. This he repeated often whenever anybody spoke about how he got into journalism.
He was already actively writing for newspappers and magazines about current affairs and was seriously getting involved in the political developments and attending meetings and gatherings and getting to know big names personally in the field. To his advantage he was a tall boy and very knowledgeable, mature for his years and respectful and looked older than his age so could pass for an adult easily. All his teachers loved his shy and respectful nature and his enthusiasm for learning. His fellow students also respected him and looked up to
him a lot. He was absent often for a lot of reasons. The home front too was tough with his brother incharge of their finances so dad kept himself out of the house most of the time and went home only when it was inevitable. His mother was worried about his health coz he was so shy, picky with food and so lean that she didnt know how he would survive outside so much, but cooked for him with care as long as she could.
words, jotted them down in a list. This he did in all the languages he was learning at the time. Then he would learn their meanings and use those 10 words and write something that would fit those. That's how he improved his vocabulary.
I thought he was learning telugu on his own coz it was not part of the school. Yet I thought if iam not mistaken he talked about his telugu teacher who was extremely insulting and sarcastic to the children about their writng or performance in the class in general. Once when they had to write an essay which was very long on a topic i do not remember, he did tell me though, daddy wrote it as usual with a lot of interest and enjoyed every bit of that experience but had no guts or hated to face his criticism and gave his notebook to his friend and got it delivered to class and stayed back home. To his surprise the teacher loved his essay and showed it to the class and made some boy read it aloud and shouted at the others to learn to write like that and called it the best writing ever and missed him badly in class that day for not being able to congratulate him personally. This he repeated often whenever anybody spoke about how he got into journalism.
He was already actively writing for newspappers and magazines about current affairs and was seriously getting involved in the political developments and attending meetings and gatherings and getting to know big names personally in the field. To his advantage he was a tall boy and very knowledgeable, mature for his years and respectful and looked older than his age so could pass for an adult easily. All his teachers loved his shy and respectful nature and his enthusiasm for learning. His fellow students also respected him and looked up to
him a lot. He was absent often for a lot of reasons. The home front too was tough with his brother incharge of their finances so dad kept himself out of the house most of the time and went home only when it was inevitable. His mother was worried about his health coz he was so shy, picky with food and so lean that she didnt know how he would survive outside so much, but cooked for him with care as long as she could.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Father's Anecdotes - 1
1. The reporter who was sent to cover a public meeting returned, but did not file a report. When asked by his boss, he replied simply, 'The meeting did not happen.' It did not occur to the reporter that that was news too.
2. A couple had a long argument in their bedroom without a hope for a compromise. Unable to bear each other's presence they walk angrily towards the door, but reach it at precisely the same time. The irate husband says tartly, 'I don't step aside for fools.' The wife steps aside and retorts, 'I do.'
3. The expression in Telugu to ask a guest at home to eat without feeling shy involves using the word 'siggu', literally meaning 'shame'. So the host in his newly acquired English asks his shy guest to 'eat shamelessly'.
2. A couple had a long argument in their bedroom without a hope for a compromise. Unable to bear each other's presence they walk angrily towards the door, but reach it at precisely the same time. The irate husband says tartly, 'I don't step aside for fools.' The wife steps aside and retorts, 'I do.'
3. The expression in Telugu to ask a guest at home to eat without feeling shy involves using the word 'siggu', literally meaning 'shame'. So the host in his newly acquired English asks his shy guest to 'eat shamelessly'.
President - APUWJ
As a working journalist, father had been quite active in the matters of the journalists' union. The union of working journalists was started in Andhra Pradesh in the late fifties and continues to the present day as the Andhra Pradesh Union of Working Journalists (APUWJ). Father presided over its activities seven times; at one time he had been both the president as well as its general secretary. The only person who had been president for so many times in the history of APUWJ, sometimes consecutively -
1964-65, 1965-66,
1970-71, 1971-72, 1972-73, 1974-76, [longest running president - 7 years]
1983-85
The union years had been taxing to him to say the least, especially when a schism threatened to undermine the long years of effort to bring it to a state of a recognized and respectable body in representing the working journalists. The then press club of Hyderabad located its offices in the new building called Desodharaka Bhavan adjoining the Lal Bahadur Stadium. In the first year of its operations in the new building in 1970, father was the president of the union. Unfortunately, his unstinted effort in heralding a new chapter in the Union's activities largely went unnoticed in the annals of the state press, owing in part to the split that occurred after father served it as president for the last time before his death six years later.
1964-65, 1965-66,
1970-71, 1971-72, 1972-73, 1974-76, [longest running president - 7 years]
1983-85
The union years had been taxing to him to say the least, especially when a schism threatened to undermine the long years of effort to bring it to a state of a recognized and respectable body in representing the working journalists. The then press club of Hyderabad located its offices in the new building called Desodharaka Bhavan adjoining the Lal Bahadur Stadium. In the first year of its operations in the new building in 1970, father was the president of the union. Unfortunately, his unstinted effort in heralding a new chapter in the Union's activities largely went unnoticed in the annals of the state press, owing in part to the split that occurred after father served it as president for the last time before his death six years later.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Thirty years in three paragraphs
To talk about a filial relationship in terms of time may appear odd. However, it is important to keep the time in perspective because it played a significant role in the relationship between me and father.
Our life together on earth spanned a mere three decades. I was about thirty one when he passed away. In the first decade he was at the peak of his journalistic career. He was a prominent journalist of his time, a thorough professional with great regard for the work he did and with a keen sense of responsibility towards his profession. In matters of sartorial taste and correctness for the occasion, he was impeccable. He was punctual in his appointments. He did his home work before he went to meetings. His work was considered outstanding; the number of drafts that preceded every time he wrote a story for the newspaper attested to his diligence and professionalism. He was also at this time immured in the work related to the journalists' union, which he steered adroitly giving direction and momentum to its activities. This period of ten years of my boyhood had been to him a chapter of high significance to him not just professionally. In his personal life also, he was equally busy arranging matters of importance such as taking in the children of his dead sister and raise them on par with his own. He was also a mentor to the children of two other sisters, who sought his help in providing avuncular guidance and support to them. Uncle Sarma was also sharing home with his family of a wife and two kids. I came at a time in his life which clamoured for his attention in myriad ways, and so I grew up largely in an atmosphere of a herd. Father had little time for me alone, for obvious reasons, which drove me closer to mother and into myself. This decade did not help bring father and son close to each other.
The second decade saw me in a big school and I found myself, a small fry from a small school, thrown into a sea of foreign faces and teachers in long white gowns who wielded authority with a cane. Father and I never spoke about school or discussed my subjects and the fact that I felt lost in an alien world did little to alter the filial relationship. On the contrary, it became worse and alienated me further. The gap between father and son grew gradually. Although I passed out of primary school with distinction from the small school closer home, the new big school did not acknowledge my genius and kept me below par. Naturally, it infuriated father, who had to deal with it as only a busy and beleaguered man would do: he threw the report card in my face accompanied by acerbic remarks. I trembled to go near him. When he spoke I never looked at his face, leave alone into his eyes. My miserable performance at school drove him to despair and the gulf between father and son widened. I finished school and entered the University. I spent time with books, friends and studies. This decade too went without a meaningful or memorable relationship between father and son.
The last decade sent me packing from home. My first job, which I got through father's help (for I was fearful of people and never felt at ease in interviews), took me places across India, far from home. Father to me as a background image, and so was I to him. We had nothing to talk to - there was nothing that I could share with him and likewise he did not relate with me socially. We were poles apart. I never had to oppose him, or defy him in any way. We just never crossed paths - our worlds orbited independently of each other. When he fell ill from a heart attack and was hospitalized, I came down 700 KM to visit him. He had asked me to pray, but I could not. No words of prayer came to my mind. After a silent struggle within myself to recall a prayer, I gave up. I don't know how he felt about it, but he never asked me again. I saw him during my flying visits home. His health deteriorated, he became frail and bony, the charm in his face was gone and the cheer which once brought laughter in his company disappeared completely. He was going away, far away where we could not reach him. The gulf became a continental divide, an unassailable chasm which nothing could bridge at this late hour. He became weaker by the day and for a man of intense outer activity he must have found it extremely difficult to stay at home and do nothing. One day when I was travelling cross-country from east to west, the train halted at the Secunderabad railway station. Mother and father came to see me off. He had come to see me, ignoring mother's protests on account of his feeble health. He sat close to me on that railway platform, giving his entire attention to me. I sensed his presence acutely, there was no mistaking it. He was there for me, to be with me, to listen to me as I spoke to mother, for I felt uncomfortable in his presence and exchanged only customary talk. After I left him and mother and continued on my journey, I saw an old man, quite aged compared to father, a fellow passenger. He appeared to be in good health as he began to eat from a food packet. All of a sudden I felt a stab of pain for my ailing father, I think I envied the old man before me his sound constitution and tears welled up in my eyes and suffered for father who I left behind on that bleak platform frail and beyond help, beyond all possible reach and comfort, and aid and succour. There was no way we could come together again. The relationship ended. The divide increased to planetary proportion. He died within days of that encounter on a January afternoon when I headed west and the Sun had set on his life.
Our life together on earth spanned a mere three decades. I was about thirty one when he passed away. In the first decade he was at the peak of his journalistic career. He was a prominent journalist of his time, a thorough professional with great regard for the work he did and with a keen sense of responsibility towards his profession. In matters of sartorial taste and correctness for the occasion, he was impeccable. He was punctual in his appointments. He did his home work before he went to meetings. His work was considered outstanding; the number of drafts that preceded every time he wrote a story for the newspaper attested to his diligence and professionalism. He was also at this time immured in the work related to the journalists' union, which he steered adroitly giving direction and momentum to its activities. This period of ten years of my boyhood had been to him a chapter of high significance to him not just professionally. In his personal life also, he was equally busy arranging matters of importance such as taking in the children of his dead sister and raise them on par with his own. He was also a mentor to the children of two other sisters, who sought his help in providing avuncular guidance and support to them. Uncle Sarma was also sharing home with his family of a wife and two kids. I came at a time in his life which clamoured for his attention in myriad ways, and so I grew up largely in an atmosphere of a herd. Father had little time for me alone, for obvious reasons, which drove me closer to mother and into myself. This decade did not help bring father and son close to each other.
The second decade saw me in a big school and I found myself, a small fry from a small school, thrown into a sea of foreign faces and teachers in long white gowns who wielded authority with a cane. Father and I never spoke about school or discussed my subjects and the fact that I felt lost in an alien world did little to alter the filial relationship. On the contrary, it became worse and alienated me further. The gap between father and son grew gradually. Although I passed out of primary school with distinction from the small school closer home, the new big school did not acknowledge my genius and kept me below par. Naturally, it infuriated father, who had to deal with it as only a busy and beleaguered man would do: he threw the report card in my face accompanied by acerbic remarks. I trembled to go near him. When he spoke I never looked at his face, leave alone into his eyes. My miserable performance at school drove him to despair and the gulf between father and son widened. I finished school and entered the University. I spent time with books, friends and studies. This decade too went without a meaningful or memorable relationship between father and son.
The last decade sent me packing from home. My first job, which I got through father's help (for I was fearful of people and never felt at ease in interviews), took me places across India, far from home. Father to me as a background image, and so was I to him. We had nothing to talk to - there was nothing that I could share with him and likewise he did not relate with me socially. We were poles apart. I never had to oppose him, or defy him in any way. We just never crossed paths - our worlds orbited independently of each other. When he fell ill from a heart attack and was hospitalized, I came down 700 KM to visit him. He had asked me to pray, but I could not. No words of prayer came to my mind. After a silent struggle within myself to recall a prayer, I gave up. I don't know how he felt about it, but he never asked me again. I saw him during my flying visits home. His health deteriorated, he became frail and bony, the charm in his face was gone and the cheer which once brought laughter in his company disappeared completely. He was going away, far away where we could not reach him. The gulf became a continental divide, an unassailable chasm which nothing could bridge at this late hour. He became weaker by the day and for a man of intense outer activity he must have found it extremely difficult to stay at home and do nothing. One day when I was travelling cross-country from east to west, the train halted at the Secunderabad railway station. Mother and father came to see me off. He had come to see me, ignoring mother's protests on account of his feeble health. He sat close to me on that railway platform, giving his entire attention to me. I sensed his presence acutely, there was no mistaking it. He was there for me, to be with me, to listen to me as I spoke to mother, for I felt uncomfortable in his presence and exchanged only customary talk. After I left him and mother and continued on my journey, I saw an old man, quite aged compared to father, a fellow passenger. He appeared to be in good health as he began to eat from a food packet. All of a sudden I felt a stab of pain for my ailing father, I think I envied the old man before me his sound constitution and tears welled up in my eyes and suffered for father who I left behind on that bleak platform frail and beyond help, beyond all possible reach and comfort, and aid and succour. There was no way we could come together again. The relationship ended. The divide increased to planetary proportion. He died within days of that encounter on a January afternoon when I headed west and the Sun had set on his life.
Remembering father
Father had been a figure who inspired awe in me - a strange mixture of respect and fear. Like a live electric wire. You don't go near it. You don't get too close because it may hurt you. It commands respect because you cannot ignore it, nor handle it sloppily. Father meant quite as much to me and more. He was very knowledgeable - the range of books that lined the shelf in his study attested to it. He was never seen to be doing nothing, never spent any time in idle chatter or indulged in any kind of indolence. If he was not hammering away on his typewriter, he was reading a book. Rarely was he at home, except for dinner and sleep. He ate out in the day and preferred a quick light meal and got on with his work.
The lack of closeness, the absence of intimacy, between father and me is rather remarkable, since the experience of my sisters is quite the contrary. So to say father was aloof and reserved would be quite off the mark, though I must certainly say that he was a man of few words. This is true, which seems quite paradoxical if you consider the fact that he spent his whole life among words doing nothing but writing.
He was a voracious reader of books. He kept a notebook in which he copied passages from the books he read which interested him a great deal. There were in it several quotations from authors as varied as the books themselves. He read history, biography, politics, novels, classics and even comics in lighter moods.
I kept myself out of his sight and got closer to mother and used her often to mediate with father. When it was time to get his signature on the report cards, I literally pushed mother to place it on his table and wait at the door for the inevitable reprimand, sharp and biting, followed by the signed report which would come flying at me, having been hurled by father in anger at my poor performance.
I don' remember having a jolly time with him until I became an adult, even then it was to me not an easy encounter with him. At the dining table, when sometimes we all ate together, father would relate interesting stories from his news beat. He was a good raconteur of short and funny anecdotes, which he loved to relate to family members.
Mother told me that once when I refused to go to school (I think I was in class 2 then), father was so upset and angry that he hit me. I hurt badly and ran a temperature probably out of fear. He later took me to a clinic and faced a reprimand from the family physician. Father never hit me again; he did not hit any one ever again. That was the first and the last time he got physical with his children. I would like to think, though I couldn't be sure, that my fear of people stemmed from this experience, and hurt my self-esteem. His reticence perhaps prevented him from coming close to an introvert like me, who preferred his own company.
The lack of closeness, the absence of intimacy, between father and me is rather remarkable, since the experience of my sisters is quite the contrary. So to say father was aloof and reserved would be quite off the mark, though I must certainly say that he was a man of few words. This is true, which seems quite paradoxical if you consider the fact that he spent his whole life among words doing nothing but writing.
He was a voracious reader of books. He kept a notebook in which he copied passages from the books he read which interested him a great deal. There were in it several quotations from authors as varied as the books themselves. He read history, biography, politics, novels, classics and even comics in lighter moods.
I kept myself out of his sight and got closer to mother and used her often to mediate with father. When it was time to get his signature on the report cards, I literally pushed mother to place it on his table and wait at the door for the inevitable reprimand, sharp and biting, followed by the signed report which would come flying at me, having been hurled by father in anger at my poor performance.
I don' remember having a jolly time with him until I became an adult, even then it was to me not an easy encounter with him. At the dining table, when sometimes we all ate together, father would relate interesting stories from his news beat. He was a good raconteur of short and funny anecdotes, which he loved to relate to family members.
Mother told me that once when I refused to go to school (I think I was in class 2 then), father was so upset and angry that he hit me. I hurt badly and ran a temperature probably out of fear. He later took me to a clinic and faced a reprimand from the family physician. Father never hit me again; he did not hit any one ever again. That was the first and the last time he got physical with his children. I would like to think, though I couldn't be sure, that my fear of people stemmed from this experience, and hurt my self-esteem. His reticence perhaps prevented him from coming close to an introvert like me, who preferred his own company.
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