What Ho! Aniyanman

[Tribute to my uncle (KV Ramachandran aka Aniyanman) on his shashtipurti (60th birthday)]

Reminiscing about ones association with an uncle is a tough task at the best of times. And when the protagonist happens to be a dear ol’ bloke (pardon my French!) like Aniyanman, it’s rendered doubly so. You wouldn’t want to miss out gloating over the positive encounters, while treading the fine line, and overlooking his failings (I can hear the whispers questioning “does he really have any?”; hold on folks! More on that later!) But the shashtipurti of the gentleman in question, a milestone in any man’s life, is reason enough to warrant putting ones pen to paper (or the finger to the keyboard, in this instance) and letting loose that volley of remembrances that are stored in quaint niches of ones memory.

My earliest recollection of Aniyanman is actually not really early enough. Rather, it’s rather recent! I don’t seem to have encountered this epitome of self-assurance during my annual pilgrimage to Kerala as a kid. The fact that we used to be in perpetual motion (defying all laws of Physics!) between Trissur and Velur, transgressing infrequently to Painkulam, meant that Tripunithura (where Aniyanman presumably spent the better part of his vacation) was never on the itinerary. I recall only one occasion of visiting Tripunithura, and I have no qualms in stating with a reasonable amount of certainty that the gent in question wouldn’t have been infesting those precincts, since it’s downright unlikely that one would have missed his booming, good-natured presence.

Be that as it may, I first ran into Aniyanman in Pune at the wedding reception of Ajithettan and Indu (Jan 1993?). He accosted a clueless me and demanded to know whether I knew who he was. Completely at a loss, I sheepishly grinned and acknowledged self-defeat. At that, in his inimitable (and overwhelmingly informal) style, he introduced himself as (one of) my (myriad) karnawars. If I recall correctly, his words were “Nan thande oru karnawar aannu edo”. “Umm…” I murmured, at once apologetic and illuminated. From then on, our encounters were far more frequent, no doubt, assisted by my movement to Lonavla, a place in close proximity to Bombay, the residence of Aniyanman.

Marriage, they say, is a turning point in ones life. It definitely was in my case (but that’s another story!), and by a strange quirk of fate, Aniyanman had a finger in that pie (and a big one at that!). My prospective father-in-law, accompanied by his brother (another Aniyanman aka Belapur Valyachen) and the Late Rudranman had visited me at Lonavla to “check me out” as it were, to assess the potential for a possible matrimonial alignment. Having satisfied themselves, in the next stage of an elaborate ritual, achan and amma were invited to Bombay to check Manju (my eventual good lady!) out. After all that brouhaha, finally it was our turn (yours truly’s and Manju’s) to meet up and check each other out. On the appointed day, I landed up from Lonavla at Kamalavalyyama’s place at Govandi. We were contemplating our next move (Govandi to Goregaon (where Manju stayed) can be a long haul at the best of times), when Aniyanman offered to “do the dirty” and drive me and Rudranman to Goregaon. I had Gitammayi too, in tow. She insisted it was for company, but I have this strong suspicion that she was there to chaperone me, lest I try some old sailor’s stunt during my tête-à-tête with the prospective bride! The rest, as they say, is history! I was betrothed to (and besotted with) Manju, and used every excuse in the rule book (and out of it!) to travel to Bombay from Lonavla over weekends, weekdays and the days in between. During these jaunts, the BPCL Colony in Chembur would often be home to me, drawing me deeply into an association with Aniyanman that has bonded well over the years.

Shortly thereafter, I went through a great personal misfortune. On my way to Bhilai (to convalesce from that traumatic event), Aniyanman again played host to achan, amma and I. During that stay, there was a cultural event where Kavita and Kiran were participating, and all of us were planning to attend that. Since Manju had come over to Chembur, we (I and Manju) decided to give it a miss and catch up(!). We hadn’t walked around the sacred fire as yet (read, were as yet, unmarried), and sensing that leaving us all alone in the house would be a trifle awkward (lest we should get into a “situation”), Aniyanman, selflessly, volunteered to stay back (and, in the event, miss his kids’ performances) so that the rest of the gang could go out, attend the performance, and have a jolly good time, while we (Manju and I) had a jolly good time under the vigilant eye of the redoubtable karnawar.

On my return from Bhilai, post recuperation, there he was at it again, at the Dadar Railway Station to receive me and take me home. I don’t know what prompted me to request him to be there, despite so many others being there, but then, there are inexplicables, and then there are inexplicables! So let’s leave it at that.

Our association continued on the ascendant, as I moved into Ghatkopar from Lonavla later. That was the phase when Aniyanman, not quite sure of where his professional life was headed, decided to take the plunge, and move into entrepreneurial ventures. I remember having visited his office setup in Andheri and later in Chembur, where he used to describe to me in great detail, the vision he had, of the work that he was up to. He stayed bitten by that bug for quite some time to come.

Soon after that, I moved into Delhi, and our interaction reduced to that over telephone and the occasional meeting in Kerala/ Bombay. But I dare say that he is one of our kin who has always remained in touch. In fact, that is one quality that I have always admired about Aniyanman; his innate urge to communicate and share the news about the loved ones. Seldom does a month pass before you hear his reassuring voice, booming over the phone. Hats off to you Aniyanman, for being so persistent during these times, when it’s so easy to lose touch, despite so many avenues to be in touch! And I must say that Kavita and Kiran have imbibed that habit rather well.

Aniyanman, as you celebrate this landmark event in your life, I am sure there’s not a soul around who would dispute the fact that you have lived life on your own terms! You are blessed with a heart of gold, and the good Thirivanjikuzhi Lord, I am sure, will keep it ticking for years to come, so that several generations after ours, are able to partake of that suffusing love. All I can wish for is that you continue to do what you are great at – spreading your charm, love and grace.

Meantime, have a blast on your special day. Here’s looking forward to toast you on your shatabhishekam, centennial celebrations and well beyond!

PS. Recall that I alluded to certain failings of the B’day boy earlier on. Recall also, that I promised you more on that later. Ladies and gentlemen, please relax, let go of your (collective) bated breaths and hardened jaws, for without permission, I accord myself poetic license, and save that juicy bit for my account during the shatabhishekam of the man in question. Rest assured, my kith and kin, I shall expound on them in graphic details. That, is a soldier’s promise!

Waka Waka

(This piece was written to wish CVS Raman (my good friend from school, through college, into the Navy, and thence!) a happy birthday in Jun 2010. But in the euphonous cacophony of the World Cup football, it got lost. It's being resurrected so that it gains its rightful place in the blog!)

The World Cup Soccer took its toll in terms of delayed b'day wishes. What with the mind-numbing overkill of the World Cup Soccer (and the ear-numbing din of tens of thousands of Afrikan vuvuzelas), one had no time to wish ones near and dear ones. But I am sure all concerned will pardon the deadly sin as it would have been blasphemous for any self-respecting football fan to be seen anywhere yesterday (11 Jun 2010), but in front of the idiot-box (The only other place that one can think of, where one would have been forgiven for being seen, is of course, Johannesburg!)

Now, to cut the brouhaha, let me let you all on to a truth. Frankly, I was mesmerised by the cadence and rhythm of the "Waka Waka, Zaminamina" as it matched the swaying hips, in perfect harmony, of the diva who performed it at the opening ceremony - you see; Shakira's hips don't lie!

And now, to set the record straight, here's one torpedo, fired straight from the heart. I am sure it will hit your submarine and blow it to smithereens!

WAKA WAKA CV

As your hair (and beard) turn a deeper shade of salt and a lighter shade of pepper;
As you slow down physically to rack up mentally;
As you gain in wisdom what you lose in memory;
As you contemplate quitting binges to avoid the cringes (thereafter);
As you mull the reasonableness of metamorphing from "spirited" to "spiritual";
As your definition of late nights shift dramatically from 0200 hrs to 2000 hrs;
Remember, that the 40s are the new 20s.

So go ahead, and have a blast! And while you are at it, don't forget to catch the action, of Drogba or Rooney chasing the ball (or better still, each other), between sips of chilled "Heineken"

Regards,
Anand.

PS. BTW, Waka Waka in Swahili means blaze, burn brightly, burn well, shine etc. Hence the heading.

The Young Man and the Ambalakulam

(A piece to celebrate the 80th birthday of my dear Dad)

(NOTE: Several terms that may seem unfamiliar to the uninitiated have been amplified in the glossary at the end of this narrative)

Most of us would perhaps be familiar with the classic “The Old Man and the Sea”, that poignant rendition by Earnest Hemingway, that recounts in stark details the pangs of a man who finds his loved ones and friends deserting him as he ages. At the risk of sounding pompous, I intend to exploit poetic licence and paraphrase that work of art, to describe a person that I have known since I was born. Well, maybe not for that entire duration (since my recollection of the first three or four years of my existence is really a blur), but I can safely vouch for at least the last 45 years or so.

So, while you gather your wits and try to guess my age from that teaser, let me move on, and try to unravel the mystery of that rather esoteric title of my work “The Young Man and the Ambalakulam”.

As a common phrase, “old man’’ is rather a demeaning form of addressing anyone. That’s the reason the title of this piece has been paraphrased. Unfortunately, or fortunately, the phrase is used to refer only to men (“old man”, talk about gender sensitivity!), for women are not expected to grow old, rather, they age gracefully. But, we will reserve that discussion for another day!

All of you who had known this bon vivant gentleman, my father, Achutha Warrier, from Padinjare Warriam, Velur, am sure would agree to the fact that here’s a bloke who believes in living his life to the fullest. Not for him the repentance and self-pitying mode of existence that many a person resorts to, at the first hints of trouble in ones life. He would rather take life by the scruff of the neck, give it a few whacks and shakes, and force it to fall in line with his scheme of things. More often than not, this philosophy of his has paid rich dividends.

Here’s a man who takes care of his demeanour, his poise (despite his once in a while outbursts), his looks, his sartorial ensemble, his perception of what is right and wrong, in short, anything and everything that has a vague connection to his persona. For instance, I won’t be exaggerating in my claim that he doesn’t look a day over forty; OK, make that 45, if you are so fastidious. In fact in the looks department, this youngish looking dad can give many a man, half his age (yours truly included), a run for their money. Look at his jet black mane, his trim waist, and his vivacious outlook to life. I would give my right arm, and some, to be able to emulate that at his age. But, then, he has always been like that!

His passion for life has to be seen to be believed. Despite several early setbacks in his life (like not having a full-time father, and losing his mother to illness early on in his married life), he has been a pillar of strength to several of his peers and siblings.

My Achan left the secure confines of his home at the rather tender age of fifteen, to pursue a diploma in electrical engineering at Thrissur. This was followed by a job in Kottayam (those days considered the back-of-the-beyond). That couldn’t satisfy the ambitious Achu’s quest for better things in life. Thus, as a youngish twenty something, this lad from the heart of Kerala, landed up in Bhilai, to work at its famous steel plant. The rest, as they say, is history.

He lend his heart and soul to his job at the steel plant. Whatever spare time he had in hand, was devoted to enhance the social, cultural, and ethnic bonding of the malayalees in Bhilai. Observing him, I have had the privilege of learning that you must give it all you have to the task at hand. At the same time, he also taught me to work hard, play harder and live by a set of stringent ethical moorings.

His ear for the musical arts is something that I would like to believe that all of us (Aju (my younger brother), Mol (my younger sister, the youngest among the siblings), and I) have inherited. In fact, it seems to have seeped into the subsequent generation as well. And he’s pretty unbiased in his choice of genres; he would listen to the plaintive rendition of a Kamukara Purushottaman, with the same deference that he would pay to a Mohhamad Rafi number.

It would take rather long, if I start recounting here, every aspect of my Achan’s, that has touched my life. That will possibly have to be spread over the celebrations of his shatabhishekam, the navathi, and the event to mark his century on earth. But, here’s my humble hypothesis of why he is wired the way that he is. And, it’s here that I take recourse to the metaphor of the ambalakulam, that mass of water near Padinjare Wariam at Velur, that doubles up as the holy tank for the Velur Bhagavati.

The moment he enters the precincts of that ambalakulam, my Achan is a transformed entity. The vibrancy, vivacity and the sheer exuberance with which he launches into the pool is unexplainable in mere words and phrases. It’s as if he’s a man possessed. To this day, when he sets foot at the ambalakulam, he would rather challenge the pool with a somersault, and take on the denizens of the pool on a competitive race to the finish, than acquiesce and do a graceful lap of its length. The ambalakulam releases a certain rush of adrenalin in him, the kind that a Chris Gayle feels when confronted with a half-volley or a flighted, short-of-length delivery. It has to be dispensed with, with the utmost disdain. No mercies there; none given, and none taken. Period!

I am sure that attitude is a result of dogged perseverance during the initial years, when the going would have been tough, and the odds of coming up trumps rather low. But thanks to sheer tenacity, survival instincts and the will to succeed, here’s a striking example of a completely self-made man, who, despite the success in life, never for a moment lost the roots, or the love of his brethren. That quality of his, I am sure you would all agree, is what endears him to all of us.

I am thankful to you, dear Achan, for those fabulous genes that you have passed on to me. That DNA of yours not only helps me look and feel good, but more importantly, it bestows a rare combination of skills, tact, diplomacy, and the will to live it up, come what may. For that, I would remain beholden to you for life. Here’s wishing the 80 year old young man, several years of healthy, happy and contented life. Ladies and gentleman, please join me in raising a toast to one of the most vivacious, daring, unassuming yet devil-may-care human being that I have had the pleasure of being associated with, my father, my janani and my constant sounding board, Velur Achutha Warrier.

Glossary
Ambalakulam - literally the temple pond; it is sacred (considering that it belongs to the temple). It is the place where the dwellers near the temple perform their ablutions.
Padinjare Wariam - My Dad's ancestral home. Warriam is the abode of Warriers. My father is a Warrier, and you guessed it, I am one, too.
Velur - The village where my Dad was born and brought up. (Malayalees, traditionally, prefix the name of their village/town etc. to their names).
Achu - Dad's pet name.
Shatabhishekam - 84th birthday; specially relevant, since one would have lived through 1000 full moons.
Navati - 90th birthday.
Velur Bhagawati - The reigning deity at the famous temple at Velur, right next to my Dad's ancestral home.
Achan - endearing term for Dad (in Malayalam)