Blog 121 - Early Days of Childhood

Marine Musings 1 – Humble (Financially) but Happy Beginnings

Updated on 25th Aug 2023.

This narrative – or memoir – whatever you wish to call it – has been updated and modified several times, as memories keep filtering back, like water through a fine sieve. Dredging up my memories seems more like dredging a backyard well, the well gets rejuvenated and the spring starts to seep in once again.

To backtrack a bit, this piece was the first one that I wrote two years ago but never published it. My blog started off from around my 17th year and everything since was career oriented. Having dusted this piece off, I am taking a chance and publishing it, knowing full well that it will bore most and interest only a few.

How ever did I go out to sea, I really am unable to fathom. To my recollection, there had never been an incident or contact with a sailor that might have triggered my future career. At the end of it all, I think I was just a wisp of a leaf that the wind carried where it may, leaving no imprint on the viscera.

Chapter 1

AVADI

Clarity with memories – for me – comes from around the age of four. We were at Avadi, my Father was a civilian Gazetted Officer in the Military Engineering Service, my eldest brother used to take the local train to Villivakkam to attend classes in Singaram Pillai High School.

Early memories of watching cricket at the Corporation Stadium, Pankaj Roy and Polly Umrigar hitting centuries against England. Google tells me this was 1952.

Avadi, a quiet Defence sector base, had a brief flirtation with fame when it hosted the Congress party’s working committee meeting and session in 1955 and, later, became the manufacturing base for Armoured Tanks, produced by the Defence establishment.

Somewhere around the age of 5, the whole family went to stay at Vellore with my maternal uncle, possibly because of my Father being away on a project in the north. My uncle was not all that well-to-do, but my Uncle and Aunt – Maama and Manni – welcomed us with open arms and a lot of love and affection. We used to call my Aunt ‘Manni’, following the example of my Mother, to whom her elder brother’s wife was Manni.

On an auspicious day, my Uncle took me on his lap and, holding my fingers, traced the traditional first written letter in a tray of rice. Then, I was sent to Garden School, my eldest brother joined Voorhes High School. My two cousin sisters, aged 14 and 6 were also in Garden School. The street name was Nallennai Pillai Street. (Nallenai in Tamil means ‘Gingelly oil’). I do not have many memories of this school, except that there was a kind of small auditorium where the girls of the school were taught dance, music and the like. I still remember – and was fascinated by – the group of girls dance a routine known as ‘Pinnal kolaattam’ - a very small bit like the ‘dandiya dances’ of today. The ‘dandiya’ was the only common factor, the dancing totally different, where each ‘dandiya’ was tied to a rope. They had to dance in such a way – and weave in and out – that the ropes had to coil themselves like the plaiting of a girl’s hair or other designs and – when completed – had to dance and unwind the knots without getting stuck, all the while tapping the wooden sticks to her compatriot’s, all in time to the music being played. I don’t see much of this these days – with only the Dandiya of today coming anywhere close. Basically, it was a folk dance that found its way into the more purified air of the classical ‘Bharatanatyam’. One such video link is given below.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=snb6UnbHX5c

I still remember all of us watching movies at the ‘Dinakaran’ theatre close by. “Samsaaram” was one of them, with copious tears shed by the entire audience, wet towels, dripping saree pallus from wiping the tears. I never could understand – why go to a movie (which is for entertainment) to cry from beginning to end and sob when the song ‘Amma pasikudhe, Thaiyea pasikudhe’ comes on. I remember mimicking my cousin Vatsala’s sobbing, when at home, for which I was chased all over the house with a stick. Vatsala, 7 years elder to me, was my favourite cousin (sister).

My Manni would always be in the kitchen, cooking dishes, making tiffin – all with relish and a happiness that would fill our stomachs. My two cousin sisters – Vatsala and Girija - entered our lives, never to leave our thoughts and memories for the rest of our lives. My Maama and Manni, with their voluminous hearts, remain treasured in my mind. My two cousins were the closest I had / have, in spite of a large family on my Father’s and Mother’s side. My Manni passed away somewhere in the 1980s, when I was at sea. My Maama passed away one day after I visited him – the day he died was his 100th birthday. My elder cousin, Vathsala, passed away in 2014.

Chapter 2

WELLINGTON

This was the scene that we would see if we stepped out of the house, walk ten metres to the right and look left – it was about 2 kilometres from where we lived. The small rivulet would turn into a raging river and spread over 15 meters either side during the heavy rains. It used to flow just a foot below the bridge.

Wellington Station was hardly 100 metres away from my home. 2 trains up and 2 trains down every day

Courtesy thehindu.com

Shows the rack-and-pinion centre rail for climbing steep slopes

My Father was transferred from Avadi to Wellington in the Nilagiri Hills in early 1955 – and thus began an unforgettable 5 years. Chennai (Madras at that time) to Mettupalayam by the Blue Mountain express (name as then known) and the connecting train to Wellington. Engine at the back, a rack and pinion centre track to provide a braking effect if needed, brakemen at every compartment ready to apply brakes at any time. If memory serves me correctly, the first class compartment in which we travelled was built like a large cabin lounge, with reclining seats and plenty of glass windows and a bubble front? I am not sure. (A relic the British enjoyed?) The train moved slowly up the hill, giving us ample time to soak in and savour the beauty of the mountains and the valleys below.

Deep top left is the Wellington Railway Station. The sloped roof building to the right of the Temple Gopuram was the Post Office, which entrance was on the same level as the Main Road to Ooty.

One level below the Post Office was my house, named ‘Balram House’. Almost every morning, I would jog up the road to the station, pass it and continue jogging up the curves

Courtesy Alarmy Stock Photo

Dr. Nambiar’s Hospital – He was our family Doctor

Now a Government Hospital

MY SCHOOL

A shift – at a very young age – from a Tamil medium Government school to a private school, St. Joseph’s College Coonoor, brought me sobbing home with the first month’s report card - I was 2nd last in a class of 15, with an entreaty to my father to put me back in the government school, where I was more proficient in the local vernacular and was considered a bright student. Understanding my predicament, my father (uncharacteristically) sat with me for an hour a day for a month, to teach me English. After that month, he only saw my improving monthly report cards. The school was run by Catholic Irish Fathers.

From the Web Page of St. Joseph’s College

A lower middle class upbringing, a constant denial of what others take for granted today, schools that were more oriented towards games and sports than academics – neither of which I was proficient at, except for table tennis and a bit of hockey in my later school years – sprinkled with still memorable, and warm, highlights, with unenvious exam results at the end.

“The school was established in 1888 – more than 130 years ago – by the Brothers of St. Patrick from Ireland.” When I was there, there were only Irish ‘Brothers’, later changing to Indian priests.

The cool summers, the long, uphill climb to school, waiting for the single track downhill train to go past, in order to wave to the engine driver, crossing the track and climbing a path that many a feet have trod, with bushes of wildflowers to gladden your eye along the way, with gardens / orchards of peaches, pears and plums, an old world school building at the end. The orchards’ tempting produce meant quick, surreptitious forays into the gardens to fill the school and lunch bags with delicious fruits on the way back home.

One of the numerous birds I used to see when walking to school

Flowers galore in season

TRIPS AND TREKKING

The trips made alone to favourite spots a few miles from home, with a book and some eats in hand. A small sandy beach, mostly hidden by overgrown bushes, a small, cold, stream with pebbles beneath, a small mudbank to rest your head, read, go to sleep. A stone thrown into the nearby bushes unleashing a bevy of birds of many hues. Idyllic.

A few years later came a deep rooted understanding of, and kinship with, Wordsworth and Tennyson.

Trekking with friends on some weekends, deciding on a hill to climb and return before sunset, taking Father’s walking stick to tap the path, in order to avoid snakes. Other weekends spent walking a good distance to the Staff College library to read the wonders of the world in Life magazine, savouring ‘Humor in Uniform’, ‘Laughter is the best Medicine’ and the collection of wonderful articles from (later renowned) authors in the Readers’ Digest and trudging back home with old copies. (Later, I came to know that some of the more admired authors such as Irving Wallace and Arthur C Clarke started their careers by contributing articles to the Reader’s Digest).

HOCKEY

Playing and learning hockey with the local senior team as a special privilege, as my eldest brother was one of the senior team.

My elder brother, 3 years elder to me, had a lot of impediments due to his having fallen on his head when not even a month old. (My eldest brother, Ramamurthy, corrected me on this to say that my elder brother had suffered from very high fever and there were no medical facilities at this remote place, Vizag). Meningitis? His speech was affected, his limbs had no coordination to go with a dysfunctional brain. Neuro sciences were not advanced enough then, to localise the problem. As the years went by, Doctors suspected that a portion of his brain had atrophied and was likely to spread. But that did not prevent him from jumping around with us, in his own disjointed way. My age group of 10 boys used to go to the nearby open field to play games. I used to take him along, knowing fully well that he will not be able to play. But, such was the understanding and affection showed to him by my friends, that he used to be picked by the opposing team, so that he can gleefully run around. In later years, his eyesight failed, as his optic nerve had also atrophied. Operations were unsuccessful. To my everlasting sorrow, he wasted away and passed on when he was 40. In later years, when I was reading Isaac Asimov’s ‘Foundation’ series, I came across the character of the ‘Mule’, who Asimov had described as disjointed and uncoordinated in his physical movements and was a Mutant. This character reminded me of my brother.

My Father was the one who induced me to go for a run in the mornings and away I went – uphill past the railway station and pretty steep inclines up the hill, 3 bends and back downhill. It was exhilarating after the first fortnight. Running long distances became a loved habit that I kept up till my late fifties.

OOTY’S DOG SHOW AND FLOWER SHOW, RUSSIAN CIRCUS

As long as we were in Wellington, we made it a point to enjoy ourselves in Ooty during the Flower Show and the Dog Show. Ooty became a regular port of call, as many relatives visited us and I was the guide-in-chief.

The Flower show was a riot of colour and, in retrospect, seems less organised compared to the landscaping and the floral arrangements of present days, flowers and flower beds being more aesthetically laid out to capture the eye. But the raw beauty has been lost.

Courtesy Travel2Ooty – Ooty Flower Show

The Dog Show was more a Brown Sahib affair, with a number of pipe smoking, pompous, strutting men in golfing caps and snobbish looks, some of them in knickerbockers. They were mostly owners of tea estates.

The Fruit and Vegetable show was annually held outside Sim’s Park in Coonoor. At the same time, an exhibition organised by The Union of Planters of South India (then known as UPASI) used to be one of the highlights of the trip, with fun and games in plenty.

Another highlight of our Wellington sojourn was the coming of the Russian Circus, who set up tents hardly a stone’s throw from home, exactly where we played football. The massive searchlight beam piercing the dark skies was a vivid memory. We were allowed one paid trip to watch the show. Of course, other unauthorised, unpaid and illegal entries were made by crawling under the hem of the canvas tents and watching the show.

Exciting trips by a winched trolley down German point in Pykara, now prohibited.

Absolutely enthralling, regular, visits to the Parade Ground at the Madras Regimental Centre (MRC) Barracks on numerous occasions – march pasts, ‘Tattoos’, mock fights, drills.

The MRC Cup during the hockey season where past and future victorious Olympians participated – Samuel, Manuel, Peter, Laxman, Francis – and covered themselves with the glory of the Indian tricolour. The heydays of Indian hockey.

The rainy season saw the small stream near the house turning into a raging torrent, the same stream that we dared each other to jump across – and failing - and coming home wet, to a scolding from Mother.

The two Jacaranda trees in front of our house, flowering mid year and putting up a carpet of blue in our yard and on the road. Perhaps the reason why my shirts, later in life, were mostly light blue.

Winter announcing itself with a morning mist, progressively deepening into a vapour-like exhalation as the days go by. The warmth of us huddled together, being shattered by my Father yanking the blanket away, as it was time to get up.

My mother complaining that the daal is taking such a long time to cook, as we were at an elevation of over 6000 feet. Of course, kerosene wick stoves, ‘choolas’ and firewood were in use. No gas stoves. Mother knitting sweaters for the eldest, as the others get the hand-me-downs.

The monthly downhill trek with my Mother to the Coonoor market, always walking beside the railway track, as it was the shortest distance, with plenty of empty bags for the monthly provisions. The return uphill climb along the track, laden with heavy bags, with one of the shopkeeper’s men carrying a filled basket on his head. The simplicity, the camaraderie and the honesty of the market folk. Mother getting coached in some kirthans of Carnatic music, one of them being ‘Aadiya padam kanden’, which song was, later on, found to have been written by my wife’s aunt.

My Father was the Manager of an MRC sports team once and the Army sports meet was held in Bangalore that year. So, all of us piled up into trucks and drove via Ooty downhill to Mysore. Many a stop along the way as wild elephants and other animals used to cross the road. Majestic.

Drinking my first cold coffee in a bar – Three Aces – in Bangalore, at the age of 9.

A never-to-be forgotten routine was my monthly hair cut. The only barber shop in the cantonment was about 10 minutes (walk) from home, on the main road leading to Ooty. Old fashioned, single room with bat swing doors at the entrance. My father walked past this every day on his 3 mile walk to work, shunning his officially allocated jeep, in the interest of exercise. When it was time for my haircut, he would send me to the barber shop about 15 minutes before he left home. On the way, he would push open the bat swing doors and would just say one word – ‘short’. The barber would quiver at that and cut my hair so short such as even the army recruits never had. As a result, later in life, my hair would grow straight and thick even when long (1.5”), earning me the sobriquet of ‘porcupine’ in my high school days.

Something other worldly happened when I was probably 10 years old. Till date, more than 60 years later, I am unable to come to terms with it. Was what I saw a figment of my own overactive imagination or did it really happen? It all started innocently enough when my Mother asked me to go and talk to the temple priest, the temple being located on the slope of the hill above our house. I went ….. but I will keep this for a separate section and ponder whether it be divulged or not.

Rangan