Vaddara Thimma of Jagalur

 

 

I first went to my "hometown" when I was twenty. It was, in fact, my father's hometown - Jagalur. My father used to tell us interesting stories about Jagalur and its denizens. (We called our father Anna – though it means an elder brother. This is a common practice in some communities. I will refer to him as Anna from now on.)  Naturally, I had formed an image of the place and the people in my mind. Also, the feeling of it being our place had grown. Now that I think about it, it appears funny. If you, who are reading this, find it ridiculous, I have no objections whatsoever.

When I went to Jagalur and saw Anna's house, the road on which the house stood, the lake, the Ramamandira, the "Seeneerbavi" (“sihi neer baavi” a sweet water well, in contrast to a well with brackish water), all completely new yet somehow. Some of the incidents during that visit are still fresh in my mind - even after almost fifty years. This is an attempt to share a few of them.

Anna's beloved uncle and teacher, "Raghkakka", was still alive and lived in Jagalur then. He was my grandfather's cousin. I had never met Raghkakka before, but I had developed a respect for him. He was a teacher at the school in Jagalur and had taught Anna. According to Anna,   Raghkakka was the reason why Anna had a good grasp of the English language. At a time when my grandfather had lost faith in Anna (with good reason) Raghkakka had stood by Anna, believed that he was intelligent and would prosper in the future. He had, and convinced my grandfather to let Anna continue his education and had thus safeguarded Anna’s future.

One evening, I went to the Ramamandira with Raghkakka. Like all Ramamandiras, it too was unpretentious. Raghkakka was one of those involved in its administration. One of the tube lights in the Ramamandira was not working. Someone who knew a little about such matters had said that its starter had gone bad, and that it might work if it was replaced. Someone had even bought a starter. But the elders there could not get on a high stool and install a new starter. And it was too small a job for the electricians in town. So, it had not been working for weeks.

Raghkakka asked me very hesitantly, "You are studying electrical engineering. Would you know how to replace a starter?"  I brought a stool, climbed up on it and replaced the starter. The lamp lit up. He and the priest of the Ramamandira were overjoyed. They showered their blessings and those of Rama on me. Even now, when I remember their helplessness and innocence, I feel sad.

I had been to Jagalur with my sister and we went to visit Sri Kasim Saheb, the father of Sri Fakir Saheb, who had been a close friend of Anna. Sri Fakir Saheb had died young. At that time of our visit, Sri Kasim Saheb was old and was bedridden. We talked to him for a while. The love and admiration he had for Anna were evident in his words. When we were ready to take leave of him, his daughter-in-law applied kunkuma on my sister's forehead, gave her betel leaves, areca nuts, and a coconut and bid us goodbye. (Even though this is not a practice among Muslims, many followed this custom when Hindu women visited them, which is very pleasant)

In Jagalur, we stayed with Jagalur Ramachandra, Anna's cousin. We called him Doddappa (An elder brother of one’s father). One evening, my sister and I returned to Jagalur after being away the whole day. It was around seven in the evening and it was quite dark. An old man was squatting in front of Doddappa’s house. As soon as we arrived, Doddappa said, "I have summoned Thimma." We had heard many stories about Thimma from Anna. So, we were very happy to be meeting him and it was totally unexpected.

Thimma was a servant who worked in the house of our grandfather Jagalur Raghavendra Rao. He was known as Vaddara Thimma or Oddara Thimma. (Vaddara or Oddara means, one who belongs to the class of Vaddas or Oddas**)  

My grandfather was one of the important figures of the village. It is said that he also had the unofficial (and exaggerated) title of "The uncrowned king of Jagalur". Although he was a Shyanubhog – a hereditary village accountant - of a nearby village, he had passed on the work to someone else had stayed in Jagalur. His place of work was the jagali (a raised platform adjoining the front wall of a building) of his house. He was a “foot lawyer” (a "barefoot lawyer," a term used to describe individuals who are self-taught or lack formal legal training and are not accredited to practice law, often serving rural communities) by profession. His work included drafting land sale deeds, loan deeds, agreements, and assisting in division of property among the heirs of someone who had died intestate, etc.

Back in the day, Thimma's day started with sweeping the yard of the house and cleaning the jagali, spreading a carpet on it for grandfather and his clients, arranging pillows for grandfather to sit on and recline, setting up his desk, filling the inkwell, and so on and ended at night with cleaning all the lanterns and wick lamps at home, filling them with kerosene, and lighting them.

That poor old man had come from his village hours ago by bullock cart and had waited for us! He had to return to his village, some ten kilometers away, after meeting us. How cruel! That upset me. Doddappa asked Thimma in a loud voice, pointing to us – as Thimma was hard of hearing - "Do you know who they are?" Thimma shook his head to say he didn’t. "Raghanna's grandchildren, Achchanna's children", Doddappa said. Achchanna was the name by which Anna was known. His name was Lakshmana which had become Achchanna. We, who were already distressed by the cruel treatment meted out to the old man, were in for a bigger shock. Thimma, got up and hobbled towards us and right on the dusty road fell at our feet in obeisance.

I don't know if it was the respect he had for my grandfather that made him do that. Or was it the love he had for Anna? Or was the effect of a society that had instilled in him, down generations, this urge to bow down to those “superior” to him? Or was it a combination of all of them?

To our utter Shock and dismay, an old man of my grandfather's age had touched our feet!

Even now, when I remember it, I tear up with great pain,

 

 

 

* The online Kannada – English dictionary Alar, compiled by Sri V Krishna, gives this meaning to the word Vadda: a class of persons engaged in cutting stone, road-work, digging tanks etc., or a person belonging to that class.

 

 

A Scot in Mysore

 

 

It was early 1984. I was summoned by my CEO. He told me that I had been selected to undergo training in the US – on a digital electronic product (CNC) - for manufacturing in India. The company where I worked, Kirloskar Electric, was acquiring technical know-how from a company called Anilam – an addition of just an m to my own name! It was owned by a guy called Jack Malina and he had named his company by reversing his own name. Soon, the decision was changed and another colleague was sent instead. My jinx with the US had its second incident.

The first was when I attended a talk at my college, by a lady from the US consulate in the then Madras, on how to go to the US for higher studies. The next thing I remember is waking up the next day with my whole body in severe pain, especially my neck, a swollen left wrist, bruises on my forehead and a few other places on the body. That is a story for another day. However, I have never been to the US though I was all ready to go once in 2014 but the Visa came too late! And as far as I can see, I am unlikely to go there ever. No serious regrets though.

Then, in 1985, I was told that I, along with three colleagues of mine, had been selected to go to England for three months, to be trained on a Thyristor converter for driving DC motors. It was called the P-range of drives which was based on a novel phase locked loop technology. We were already manufacturing a range of drives based on analog electronics, called the K-range, with technical know-how from the same company – Thorn EMI Automation. The company had a tradition of naming products on its designer, similar to the Soviet tradition of naming aircraft designs after its designers. K-range of drives was named after Klinsman and P-range was named after Girish Patel. Patel was a Gujarati whose family had been expelled from Uganda by Idi Amin. He was employed for a while by Thorn EMI where he had developed this technology.

Before we travelled to England, one of the engineers from England came to our factory in Mysore so that we could have preliminary familiarity with the new range of drives before we went to England. The engineer who came was a genial Scot called Alan McLean. It so happened that we, especially two of my colleagues, asked him so many questions that we had reached the limits of his knowledge.  He admitted as much and when we still asked more questions, he would suggest who we should ask when were in England. Then on, we spread all the drawings and literature on the large table in the conference room behind the CEO’s chambers and studied them by ourselves at our own pace. Else we chatted among ourselves or with him. He would bring paperback novels and read them, interspersed with coffee and cigarettes. We all had a jolly good time overall.

Alan landed in Mysore on a Sunday and he was put up at Lalithamahal Palace hotel in Mysore. On Monday morning we sent a car, an Ambassador, to bring him to the factory. It was driven by an Indian army veteran, who drove the factory car too along with his other duties. We welcomed Alan and took him to meet the CEO and settled down to our training. I asked him how his flight was and the drive from the hotel to the factory. The flight was fine. Then he paused and said, “I got into the car and looked out until we reached the first traffic junction. The driver passed a bullock cart and sneaked between it and a traffic island. Then I closed my eyes and opened it again only after we had reached the factory.” The traffic and the drive at breakneck speed had scared the living daylights out of him!

Mind you, in 1985 Mysore was still a sleepy little city with hardly any traffic on the roads at 9 in the morning. If he were to have that drive today I wonder if he would have blacked out!

Do you make cars in India?

Alan had this slow paternal way of talking. Here is the next conversation we had.

Alan: Anil, the car in which I came here in the morning?

I: Yes?

Al: There is the name Ambassador on it.

I: Yes, that is the brand name of the car.

Al: Why is it called Ambassador?

I: Why not? It is its brand name.

Al: But it is a Morris Oxford.

This was news to me. I guessed that Hindustan Motors had acquired the technology and designs from Morris and made them in India and had rechristened it Ambassador. I told him as much. With doubt writ large on his face he asked - “Do you make cars in India?

I: Yes we do. Why only cars, we make aircrafts at Hindustan Aeronautics Ltd in Bangalore.

He did not look convinced.

Do you eat cornflakes with hot milk?

The next day, Alan had a question.

Al: Anil, do you eat cornflakes with hot milk?

I: I don’t know. I have never eaten cornflakes. It is not a part of our diet.

Al: Oh! I had cornflakes for breakfast this morning at the hotel restaurant. The waiter poured hot milk into my bowl of cornflakes. It makes it so soggy.

I: Please ask him for cold milk tomorrow. Since we don’t eat it, he probably does not know that it is had with cold milk.

I don’t know what happened to this after this. Did he get cold milk? Did he stop eating cornflakes as long as he was with us? No idea.

It is OK, it is not what I think it is

One evening we took him to Brindavan gardens – a must visit to any visitor to Mysore. He was fascinated by the large dam and the extensive gardens with fountains and topiary and he was taking it all in with wondering eyes.

While we were walking around he said:

Al: Anil, I see many boys walking around holding hands.

I: No Alan, it is not what you think it is.

Al: (With a very surprised and unconvinced look) What do you think I think it is?

Me. You are thinking that they are gay, but they are not (I am not sure I used that particular word as it was not much in currency then in India. I perhaps said homosexuals). They are just good friends. It is quite common in India.

I distinctly remember where I had acquired this piece of cultural trivia – In The Illustrated Weekly of India of the Khushwant Singh era. He had taken over the “Illustrated Weekly” with a dwindling subscriber base and made its sales soar with very interesting – sensational according to some – cover features and other editorial choices. He was later replaced by M V Kamath who made the magazine more boring than in the pre-Khushwant Singh era and gave it an undignified burial.

Alan looked relieved. And he would say sardonically “It is OK. It is not what I think it is” when we came across another pair of boys holding hands.

Do you make beer in India?

After the visit to Brindavan Gardens we took him to the restaurant Kings Kourt and we were able to get a table in the garden. It was a pleasant summer evening and it was very nice sitting in the open.

I: Would you like to have some beer?

Al: What beers do you get here?

I: I am sure you would not know the names because all of them are Indian beers.

Next came the inevitable surprised question.

Al: Do you make beer in India?

I: Yes we do and I think they are pretty good.

Al: Do you recommend any?

I: I suggest you have UB Lager. It is a good beer. (It was before I became a fan of Kingfisher Premium. I would have recommended that, otherwise)

Al: OK, I will try that.

We ordered and were served bottles of chilled beer. I did not know then that the English drink “warm” beer – at room temperature. Anyway, Alan takes a hesitant sip and then a more confident one and then a hearty swig and declares with wonder in his eyes.

Al: This is a good beer!

I beamed as if I had made the beer myself!

Sunburnt!

After entertaining Alan on a few weekends, Alan either felt that he was eating into our weekends or he wanted to be by himself. He insisted that he wanted a free Sunday. We let him have one. He did not realise that we did not mind having a great time travelling around at company expense.

When he came to the factory the Monday after, he looked the colour of a lobster! He was totally sunburnt! We were very concerned. We asked him what escapades he had had in the sun.

All he had done was this. He had spent the Sunday next to the pool, reading a book under a beach umbrella reading a book and drinking some beer. Once in a while he had dived into the pool and swam a length of the pool and returned to the safety of the shade under the umbrella. However, his pale Scottish skin, unaccustomed to any sun worth the name, had got severely sunburnt by just this much exposure and perhaps by the sunlight reflected by the white walls of Lalithamahal. Over the next two weeks he was with us he shed the burnt skin and moulted almost like a snake. Coming to India he had acquired a completely new skin.

How can it be so cold!

The weekend after that we took him to Ooty. We told him that it could be cold there and he should carry a jacket. He was sceptical but we insisted. He grudgingly picked up a blazer. As we approached Ooty he was completely mystified. The greenery, the cloud kissed treetops, the incessant drizzle, the cold – he was not prepared for this! He had imagined a hot dusty country when he was asked to go to India and what he was seeing did not fit that image.

Al. I can’t believe this! (Long pause)

Al: This is like Scotland.

He was reluctant to say that it was like Scotland, I would imagine, but he had to say it. Then, in a serious tone, he asked.

Al: Anil, tell me, how it can be so cold here.

I explained to him that almost the whole state of Karnataka was on a plateau called the Deccan Plateau and we were at a place where the plateau rose from sea level and we were at a high altitude. And hence it is cold.

Al: At what altitude are we now, then?

I: At about 6000 feet or about 2,000 meters above mean sea level.

Al: Ooops, that is taller than the tallest mountain in Scotland!

(Much later I learnt that it is Ben Nevis at 4,413 feet or 1,345 meters above mean sea level.

It must be the curry!

In Ooty, we went to the hotel Fernhill Imperial for lunch. He was taken aback by the colonial architecture of the building. We were chatting of various things and the talk turned to cultural differences. One of them was about belching or burping. He said that in the Arab world it is almost mandatory to belch loudly after dinner when you are a guest, as an acknowledgement of how good a cook the hostess was and how well you had eaten. And then, he said that he never belched.

Then we had a sumptuous meal of naan and chicken curry and so on. After that, he leaned back, took out his packet of Benson and Hedges, lit one, with a contented air on his face and . . .

he belched!

He went red in the face and declared: “It must be all this Indian curry”

No Ice!

When we dropped him back at his hotel after a long day and a long drive, he invited us into his room to have nightcap of Scotch whiskey. He declared that such a lovely day and meal should end with Scotch. He took out some glasses and poured us all small shots of whiskey. We toasted and I said, no ice or water? He declared in mock anger, “This is Scotch. No water, no ice!” We drank it with a bit of difficulty but enjoyed the liquid going down warming the gullet and warming us up.

I could not sleep well the first two nights

Alan had a huge room at the palatial hotel. It had a large bed with bed posts and a mosquito net. The room had a really high ceiling from which hung a fan by a long pipe. When the fan ran, the pipe oscillated ominously. Not being accustomed to sleeping inside a mosquito net, in a very large room with the fan swinging right above his bed, had kept him awake a couple nights.

How to light a match

Alan had brought a supply of cigarettes and matches to last his whole stay here. However, he ran out of matches. He had bought some Indian ones. He used to light a match by striking the match towards him and not away from him. The English matches were very thick and sturdy and withstood his way of striking. When he started striking the Indian matches, which looked flimsy in comparison, the same way I warned him that it may break. He did not heed my warning and once the match head was lit, it broke away from the stick and flew right at his face. He had to learn to strike matches all over again.

Do you always drink soup from a glass?

One evening, I invited him home for dinner. My mother was an excellent hostess. It was she who had suggested that I invite him home for dinner so that he could get an idea of how Indians live. Not that there is any such standard thing across India but it is definitely better than going back not having been inside an Indian home.

My father was a very interesting raconteur and conversationist and we all put him at ease and were chatting. Mom brought glasses of soup and we all had soup while we chatted and then moved to the dining table for dinner. It was so different from the so called Indian food he was accustomed to in so called Indian restaurants in England (many of them run by Bangladeshis, I later learned when I went to England) that he was surprised. He was also unaware there was a completely different cuisine in South India.

The next day at the factory he had a question.

Al: Anil do you always drink soup from glasses in India?

I: Soup is not a part of our cuisine at all. So, we don’t have suitable bowls and spoons. However, we have picked it up as a novelty and prepare it on rare occasions and we have it from a glass.

Have you ever had Irish coffee?

I think it was the last day of Alan’s stay. We were wrapping things up and our mid-morning cups of coffee was served by the ever dependable Naranappa. He was a middle aged gentleman in an impeccably white dhoti and a white shirt who worked at the CEO’s office. Whereas we normally got our tea or coffee in steel tumblers, because we had a guest, coffee was served in fine porcelain cups and saucers! Alan asked us if we had ever had Irish coffee. None of us had. He said, “then this is the time” and took out his last bottle of Johnny Walker with some left over whiskey in it and started to pour some into each cup of coffee. We protested that the CEO’s chamber was right next to where we were sitting and he could walk in any time through the connecting door. He said, “The old man will never know once this is in your cups” and poured a fair bit of whiskey into each cup of coffee.

So, we all had Irish coffee right behind the boss’ back! I wonder what would have happened if he had found out!

A companion post to this post, called a Mysorean in Rugeley, will follow, hopefully soon.

 

The Greek Alphabet

 

It was 1980. I had just joined Systronics, a company of the Sarabhai group of Industries, as a rookie sales and service engineer in their Bombay (It was still called so then) offices. The company now seems to have only analytical instruments in its product range. In those days it had a Test and Measuring (T&M) instruments division (multimeters, function generators, pulse generators, frequency counters timers, oscilloscopes) too. Apart from these it had an agency division selling high end centrifuges, chromatographs, and so on and also Sony professional and semi-professional video equipment. Before joining Systronics, I had had one and half years of experience which was totally worthless. At Systronics I learned a lot about T&M instruments, became adept at their use and also fell in love with oscilloscopes – the queen of analog instruments, which has now gone completely digital!

I told you all this only to tell you that I was unsure of everything having gone from the small city of Mysore to Ranchi for my first job and then had jumped into this mega city. At the office I had talked only to a few colleagues from the T&M – Abhyankar, Sakhalkar are two names I remember. I was also very shy and since I had to learn a lot I read all the manuals and worked with the instruments in the lab to get to know them.

One day, one of the typists in the office went around giving invitations to her wedding to all the colleagues. I had never talked to her and did not know her name either. I did not expect her to invite me but to my surprise, she came to my desk. I stood up. She handed over a cover and invited me too. Without even looking at the card I said, “I am sorry, I don’t even know your name”. She smiled a friendly smile and said “I am Alpha Gamma”.

I thought that this big city girl was pulling my leg having found a small town simpleton to have some fun at his expense. I guess I blushed. To call her bluff, I took out the invitation card from the cover and took a peek at it.

Her name was Alpha Gama