Suppuni thatha—
I heard that when you died of cancer in 1961, all you had in your possession was a small trunk containing a few clothes. What then of the 75 acres of land, houses in three towns, and three-lakh rupees in cash that you seem to have had inherited in your 16th year?
I know your dissipation has the romance of a Bimal Mitra-esque cliché. You were one among the rich landed gentry in the Tanjore district, loyal to the British Raj, who were caught unprepared in the maelstrom of a social revolution accompanying the nationalist movement.
But why did you abandon everybody in your life? Why did you live alone in Tanjore, while your widowed mother waited for you interminably at your ancestral village and your family at Pudukkottai?
What was that demonic hunger that made you whittle generations’ worth of wealth in 40 short years, leaving your children practically destitute and saddled with the loans you had taken? I hear that 10 generations ago, our ancestor Nana Iyer came riding through our village and was annoyed by a dog that led him to a treasure trove. Were you then some kind of divine reprisal visited upon our family to take away wealth that was not ours?
Who were you? What shaped you? Were you a good person or bad?
I heard your mother did many poojas including eating off the floor to have you. Why did you not take care of her? I heard she died waiting for you to visit her from Tanjore. Yet, you were the man who never ate sweets in memory of a kid sister who died in her childhood.
I heard you were quite a bookworm and used to take rides to nearby towns in trains, just to read books. I heard that your favourite authors were Wodehouse and Munshi Premchand. I’m told that you could play the veena excellently. There is a wall in a cousin’s house in Thiruvaiyaru, on which, behind many coats of white wash, there is a picture of Varalakshmi you drew for a pooja. They still talk about the beauty of it.
But your legacy to us seems to be only of pain and dysfunction.
Why didn’t you like my grandmother? Why were her aspirations, dreams, and despair so immaterial to you? If they were, then why did you advice my dad to be a good son to his mother, more than to you? Did you at least like the “other woman”? Were you nice to her?
Why did you let your family live with your brother-in-law as hangers-on and poor relations? Why was it so difficult to shoulder your own responsibilities?
How could you have been ok with the fact that my dad grew up feeling like an orphan? It breaks my heart now to seem him hang on to a few words of affection and endearment you chose to throw in his way occasionally. It enrages me to see him defend you, although I know that if he didn’t, he has nothing at all pleasant from his childhood to hang on to. Did you know that you have created such a big void in his psyche that even 45 years of happy married life and constant love has not been able to fill up?
Who were your friends? You seem to have been a connoisseur of art and patron of struggling artists. Would there be someone from the ranks of the people you hung out with or supported remember you with fondness and affection? Because I haven’t met anybody in the family who does.
My dad says I have inherited your traits—leaning towards art, spendthrift nature, and irresponsibility. He is worried sick that his grandsons have chosen art over engineering.
You seem to live on despite everybody’s best efforts. It does not bode well.
I heard that when you died of cancer in 1961, all you had in your possession was a small trunk containing a few clothes. What then of the 75 acres of land, houses in three towns, and three-lakh rupees in cash that you seem to have had inherited in your 16th year?
I know your dissipation has the romance of a Bimal Mitra-esque cliché. You were one among the rich landed gentry in the Tanjore district, loyal to the British Raj, who were caught unprepared in the maelstrom of a social revolution accompanying the nationalist movement.
But why did you abandon everybody in your life? Why did you live alone in Tanjore, while your widowed mother waited for you interminably at your ancestral village and your family at Pudukkottai?
What was that demonic hunger that made you whittle generations’ worth of wealth in 40 short years, leaving your children practically destitute and saddled with the loans you had taken? I hear that 10 generations ago, our ancestor Nana Iyer came riding through our village and was annoyed by a dog that led him to a treasure trove. Were you then some kind of divine reprisal visited upon our family to take away wealth that was not ours?
Who were you? What shaped you? Were you a good person or bad?
I heard your mother did many poojas including eating off the floor to have you. Why did you not take care of her? I heard she died waiting for you to visit her from Tanjore. Yet, you were the man who never ate sweets in memory of a kid sister who died in her childhood.
I heard you were quite a bookworm and used to take rides to nearby towns in trains, just to read books. I heard that your favourite authors were Wodehouse and Munshi Premchand. I’m told that you could play the veena excellently. There is a wall in a cousin’s house in Thiruvaiyaru, on which, behind many coats of white wash, there is a picture of Varalakshmi you drew for a pooja. They still talk about the beauty of it.
But your legacy to us seems to be only of pain and dysfunction.
Why didn’t you like my grandmother? Why were her aspirations, dreams, and despair so immaterial to you? If they were, then why did you advice my dad to be a good son to his mother, more than to you? Did you at least like the “other woman”? Were you nice to her?
Why did you let your family live with your brother-in-law as hangers-on and poor relations? Why was it so difficult to shoulder your own responsibilities?
How could you have been ok with the fact that my dad grew up feeling like an orphan? It breaks my heart now to seem him hang on to a few words of affection and endearment you chose to throw in his way occasionally. It enrages me to see him defend you, although I know that if he didn’t, he has nothing at all pleasant from his childhood to hang on to. Did you know that you have created such a big void in his psyche that even 45 years of happy married life and constant love has not been able to fill up?
Who were your friends? You seem to have been a connoisseur of art and patron of struggling artists. Would there be someone from the ranks of the people you hung out with or supported remember you with fondness and affection? Because I haven’t met anybody in the family who does.
My dad says I have inherited your traits—leaning towards art, spendthrift nature, and irresponsibility. He is worried sick that his grandsons have chosen art over engineering.
You seem to live on despite everybody’s best efforts. It does not bode well.
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