"So?"
"What are you doing?"
"So?"
"Are you going to talk?"
"Well something! Say something! You're putting me to sleep!"
"Well, I could tell you a story?"
"A story about what?"
"Ok..."
**************************************
The days of DD-1 and summer holidays. When an ice-cream was a rare celebration, and eating out meant "Mixed Noodles and Chilli Chicken" at Hotel Karthiyayini. For half an hour every night, the lights would go off. And the world sat down and everyone fanned themselves with a newspaper, in the light of a flickering candle, as mosquitoes buzzed just out of reach. The only generator in town belonged to Dr. Haridas, whose house carried on as usual as the rest of the world watched the long hand of the clock move slowly across half its face.
The elders would reminisce about the days when the world was still black and white. The British Sahibs still ruled India, but to a small community of Konkanis clustered around a small temple off 70 Feet Road, the politics and drama of their daily lives held much more interest than the happenings in a faraway land. And as these stories were relayed through each passing power cut, the men and women that featured in them attained mythical, heroic proportions in the mind of an imaginative young boy. I listened, to the nostalgic musings by the half light of a flickering candle as the long hand of the clock moved slowly across half its face.
The first one from the sheltered community to pass SSLC, my grandfather, Narasingha "Putholu" Bhat was immediately branded a "red" or a "communist", for choosing not to tread the path of his father, Hari Bhat, a priest at the small temple off 70 Feet Road. And no ordinary priest, Hari was the son of one of the three priests who carried out the prathishttha of the idol, a loyal and faithful servant of Lord Mahavishnu. And his boy? He wanted to study, and learn typewriting, and work! The nerve! Who did he think he was! Tongues wagged, as is wont to in the small community clustered around the temple off 70 Feet Road.
Putholu was no ordinary boy. He grew up in a crowded house, watching his father struggle to make ends meet with his meager income from his job as a priest at the temple. He saw the petty politics that maneuvered Hari Bhat out of it too. The same idol that Mannkku Bhat and his son had worshipped faithfully all these years sat serenely behind those high walls, as the Powers That Be cast a blind eye to His loyal priest. A good day, was when the family ate twice a day. Most days Putholu and the rest of the family went to sleep on empty stomachs. Putholu realized the only way out of this unfair little world around the temple was an education. Not able to afford a book, he would walk to far away Fort Kochi to his uncle's house, to study with the books they bought for their children, under the light of a street lamp. They would share dinner with him, a bowl of gruel and beans. He would sleep on their verandah at night and walk back home to the small house near the temple in the wee hours of the morning.
Now, having armed himself with an SSLC degree, and typewriting skills, he became one of the very few at the time qualified to be employed at a Sahib's company. Aspinwall & Co., a major exporter with its office in Wellington Island, was looking for an accountant, and through a family friend, Putholu applied for the post. Confirmation came a few days later. Putholu was now an official employee of a Sahib's company. Hari Bhat's head had never been held higher. His son was the accountant of a big Sahib's company. Tongues wagged furiously. Rumours spread like wildfire about how Hari Bhat was now a rich man, thanks to his son's salary. Sycophants lurked, but Hari made sure that none of them reached his son, cutting them off as soon as they reared their heads, once famously doing so in a court of law, but that's a story for another time.
Putholu rose through the ranks at Aspinwall & Co.. An accountant with a hawk's eye, he became the Sahib's right hand man for balancing his books. One fine morning, T.T. Krishnamachari and his cohort of vigilantes showed up at the office at Wellington Island and demanded to see the Sahib's financial statements and books of accounts.
The following sequence might have been a tiny bit exaggerated through years and years of retelling, but Krishnamachari was not impressed with the half-baked responses the clerks were giving. Surreptitiously, the Sahib sent the word out. "Get Bhat over here!". Minutes later, a gleaming black car rolled to a stop outside the small house that Mannkku Bhat built, near the small temple off 70 Feet Road. It was the sort of thing that brought everything else to a standstill. Every eye in the vicinity looked on unblinkingly, as an emissary of the Sahib escorted Putholu into the car and sped away, setting the tongues wagging even more furiously. A Sahib's car? For Putholu??
By the time Putholu reached Wellington Island, Krishnamachari had worked up a fine lather and had reached a point where he threatened to sue the Sahib and his company. Putholu arrived, and sat down with Krishnamachari and the Sahib. For half a day, they sat in the Sahib's office going through the statements. By the end of it all, Krishnamachari was smiling. The Sahib was smiling. Putholu had saved the day.
As he was leaving, Krishnamachari asked for the young man who had handled the accounts. "Join me as my PA", he told Putholu. Ever the dutiful son, Putholu replied that he would have to ask his father.
For Hari Bhat, now an old man, sick and bed-ridden, Krishnamachari's offer was something that threatened to take his son, whose job with the Sahib had elevated them from the life of "temple dwellers" , who would some day have to perform his last rites, to a faraway land of which he knew nothing. "I want you here with me", said Hari, and as far as Putholu was concerned this was the final word. He declined Krishnamachari's offer and continued in the Sahib's office at Wellington Island till the day he retired.
Later that year, the British set sail back home, leaving India in the capable hands of Pandit Nehru. A few years later, T. T. Krishnamachari became India's fifth Finance Minister.
Putholu earned the Sahib's unending gratitude for his services, and to this day, people talk about how the Sahib came to his house in the gleaming black car to inquire on Putholu's health, as he lay on his deathbed.
The lights come back on. The long hand of the clock has ticked thirty times. The world is in colour again, and everyone sits silently for a while. I look at my father, my great aunt, they all have this half smile on their face. Are they thinking "What if?". It's time for dinner, and everyone has their work to do for tomorrow.
************************
"Why didn't he say yes? Your lives would've been so different!"
"Yeah, and I probably wouldn't have met you..."
"Oh no, then it's probably a good thing he said no!"
"He he he, yeah now go to sleep, that was a long long story..."
"Are there more stories about your grandfather?"
"Oh yeah, but not now, go to sleep!"
"Oh, but I'm not sleepy anymore..."
"Well I am, and besides I've been talking for a long time..."
"Oh...ok then...goodnight."
Author's Note : "Putholu" and "Mannkku" are nicknames. Nobody is ever called by their real names in the small community clustered around the temple. Everyone has a nickname, or atleast a twisted version of their names. "Saraswati" becomes "Saraspati". There are nicknames like "Rumbhat" (Ram Bhat). Some of the more imaginative ones are "Thorappan" (Bandicoot) and "Kuvla Ambat" (Snake Gourd Curry). I really have no idea how people come up with these names, but they stick, to a point where no one really recognizes their real names.
