One Grandfather, Two Anecdotes
FOR A SPEEDY RECOVERY
My mother had been admitted to the hospital following a neurological stroke, and so I had gone to Chennai for a week. Fortunately, she improved and was released and sent home the day I got there. In the next couple of days, relatives often dropped in to my parent's place in T.Nagar to wish her a speedy recovery.
One evening, Santhanam uncle, my aunt, my cousin Rahul came to visit and my grandfather (thatha) came along with them. As always ends up happening, the ladies were in the inner room where mother was, and the men sat in the living room.
In the three-seat sofa, three generations were lined up in order as I sat facing them. Thatha at the right, his son Santhanam uncle in the middle, and his son Rahul taking the leftmost seat.
Hospitals and health being the theme, the topic of conversation drifted over to thatha's stomachaches.
My father looked at his father and asked, "You've had stomach aches for a long time, haven't you, appa?"
"Aamaam, aamaam. Yes, yes. For over thirty years," thatha replied.
"Thirty illa pa. Over forty," said my uncle Santhanam, who is good at remembering these things. As corroborating evidence, he recalled the time in 1961 when thatha had to be admitted to the hospital for his stomach pains.
Then they discussed about how, on the day before my aunt Pushpa's wedding, he had to be taken to the hospital. That was in 1970.
"So wasn't thatha there when Pushpa Athai got married?" I asked.
"We got him back, just for the ceremony," uncle said.
"In a wheelchair," Thatha piped in, recollecting and smiling half with pride and half with embarrassment.
Then uncle delved further into his memory and recalled that thatha had actually experienced stomachaches even when he was posted as a P&T inspector in Guntur, AP. That had been in 1951.
My uncle gave a tentative, sympathetic laugh. Shaking his head, and turning to Rahul, who was sitting with his chin resting on his cupped hand, he said, "A half-century of stomachache. Tch."
Late that night, ensnared by the tentacles of jetlag, I was pacing the house alone long after everyone had slept.
I had known about Thatha's stomachaches, of course, and for a long time. But I had never given it much thought. It had been present for so long that it had become a part of who my paternal grandfather was.
I tried to imagine what it must be like - to live with a stomach that hurt for fifty years. For a South Indian to exchange all beloved spices for tins of ultra-bland Threptin biscuits.
But I, who popped in an Aspirin for the smallest of headaches and bemoaned my misfortune, would never understand.
(July 17, 2000)
As part of doing my rounds while I was in Madras, I went to Santhanam chitappa's place. To me, the chairs there always look like they might have been reserved for a minor courtier in some bygone palace. Thatha was occupying one of those chairs, sitting very close to the TV, so that he could hear it. Him and the TV, side by side. The doctors had absolutely forbidden any viewing of TV for him because he had recently undergone a cataract operation. He was wearing a white undershirt and a dhoti, and his half-inch thick eyeglasses made his eyes appear distorted.
At right angle to the TV was an empty chair, and I sat in it, hoping to make some small talk with thatha. But my grandpa is not much of a small talk kinda guy. He is more the yes-and-no kind.
As soon as I sat down, he asked me if my wife worked in the same office as me (Answer: Yes) and whether I was planning to buy a house (Answer: No).
"Well, you know best," he said.
We were already running out of material.
I felt that this was way too soon for the conversation to end. When circles of interest don't overlap thickly (or, in thatha's case, when there's barely a circle of interest at all) it is difficult to keep a conversation going for long. But that is not quite fair to him, for my father always advised me to talk to thatha about politics -- Indian or Tamil Nadu politics. That is one topic where I fail miserably. (What little interest I have is in policies, not in politics.)
"So how are you doing, Thatha?" I asked him, hoping that an open-ended question might do the trick.
"Well, I can't enjoy almost any of the food I eat because of my stomach problems," he said, pointing to his tummy.
I was just about to tut-tut as a way of expressing my sympathy when he pointed to his eyes and added, "Also, I can't see anything properly anymore."
Since mere tut-tutting wouldn't suffice in light of this revelation, I ransacked my brain for some concrete words to commiserate with.
"And my hearing has gone too," he said, pointing to his ear.
Now I was truly at a loss for words. What can be an appropriate response when someone is telling you that a majority of their five senses have failed them? I wondered if maybe this was what was meant by the expression that someone was losing their will and the desire to live.
But my grandfather proved me wrong.
"Chakrapani has some of the same troubles," he said, referring to Srinivasan Athimber's father. "And the poor man, he is 90 now. It is a lot worse for him."
Initially, I attributed this as an example illustrating the saying -- misery loves company. But that night, back in T.Nagar, back to meandering about the house in the throes of jetlag, I dimly recalled a Tamil movie I had seen two lifetimes ago, called Iru Kodugal (Two Lines). Boiled down, it's precept is a metaphorical way of saying that no matter how great your troubles are, there is always someone who's troubles are greater (the longer line of the two lines). I wondered if, even in his troubles, thatha was reminding me that there are always others whose troubles are greater still. But I could not be sure.
(July 20, 2000)
Ram Prasad
January 2002