Posts in category: Memories

Pambatti is a village in the central part of Tamil Nadu. My maternal great grandfather was Abraham Reddiar, a landlord in this village in Virudhnagar District of Tamil Nadu today.

In 2022, a few months before his death, I used to ask my father about his days back in the village, his college days and also his early days in Delhi. He told me about his village Jagaveerapuram and the neighbouring village of Meenashipuram, the village temple, the water tank and Viaper River flowing a few miles away and so on. In my attempt to impress my father, I did a quick Google search of his village and showed him satellite imagery of that area. Yes, row houses in the village, the temple, the tank and the dry-bed of Viaper River were all there in the image. My father’s face lit up. He wondered how this was even possible. “That is the power of Internet and Google”, I exclaimed while trying to explain to him how the Internet worked and also how so much information could be gleaned in a jiffy. My father just shook his head still unable to fully comprehend and wonder about advances of technology.

A few days later, my father asked me to check for other details on the Internet – whether something on his friend “Shiv K. Gupta” who was a Professor of Operational Research at Wharton Business School in the 1970s was available. Yes, an article about him was there and when I showed it, my father was amazed. Then, he asked me to check regarding his bureaucrat friend “Sethuraman” from the Indian Audit and Accounts Service who had earlier lent him precious 300 rupees for his marriage in 1952 and retired in the 1980s. Interestingly, his name too appeared on the Internet. In this way, my father’s interest in finding more about the whereabouts of his other long-lost colleagues in St. Stephen’s College and elsewhere on the Internet continued. Meanwhile, his interest in locating various places associated with his youth increased manifold. He still could not fully appreciate how such decades-old information was still available for everyone to see.

One day he asked me to check about one “Kalugumalai Kamatchi Reddiar” from some “Vathalakarai” village. Incidentally, this gentleman was a prominent landlord and banker in the 1940s. Though the village could be located on the map, no trace of this gentleman was available despite several Google search attempts with different prompts. It was really difficult for me to explain the limitations of the Internet to my father. He felt I was making some mistake as the Internet could not be incorrect.

Now, cut to 2024. Recently, I tried to generate some content about the life of my father using AI. The AI-generated output (in slide form) is given in the end of this post. The overall result took me by surprise. While the AI tool correctly identified the role of my father as an Economics teacher and author, it randomly named the books that he had never written, and highlighted his achievements that he never received. I must thank God that my father did not live long enough to see such AI-generated content about himself. He would have been shocked to read this. I am sure that his interest about the Internet would have ended much sooner that I can imagine.

My father was a foodie. He liked to have an occasional meal in the restaurant. When I was about 12 years old, my father decided to take the entire family out for dinner. We all children, were excited as this was the first time we were going there. My mother was very happy too. My brother, Joseph who was studying medicine to become a doctor at a Delhi College near Daryaganj, suggested that we should try ‘Moti-Mahal’. He had heard about that famous restaurant as it was located close to his College. Apparently, it was frequented by a few richer hostlers who wanted to skip the tasteless meals being served at the College hostel.

While we were on our way, our father told us about the historical significance of Moti-Mahal where the delicious ‘butter chicken’ was originally born. Apparently, the recipe was ‘invented’ for the very first time by the cooks at Moti Mahal. Also, our first Prime Minister, Jawahar Lal Nehru used to frequent Moti Mahal around the time when India just got its freedom. Armed with such nuggets of wisdom, we looked forward to our first meal at Moti Mahal.

When we reached Moti-Mahal, we were all surprised at the grand ambience. It was full of all kinds of diners. On one side was a male singer on a small stage singing and playing the harmonium. He was accompanied by another musician playing the tabla. A few cash notes were strewn in front of them. A bearer welcomed us and directed my father to a place where two tables were hastily joined together to seat all eight of us. My father ordered tandoori chicken, butter chicken and naan. There was no concept of ‘starters’ then.

While we were waiting for our meal, my mother was keenly watching two gentlemen at the adjacent table having their dinner consisting of only butter chicken and naan. While they were eating, my mother spoke to my father in Tamil, about the food items these gentlemen had ordered and how they were happily enjoying their sumptuous meal as if they had not eaten for days. She also saw one of them take a slice of lemon from the salad and squeeze it to prepare some nimbu-pani (lemonade). Once again, my mother mentioned how the lemonade complemented their meal at no additional cost. All this while, my mother was talking in Tamil loud enough so that all eight of us could hear. She was fully confident that her native language would maintain a high degree of secrecy from the diners sitting on the adjacent table.

After their meal was over, the two gentlemen got up. While one of them just nodded his head, the other one wished my parents well and said in Tamil that the food in this restaurant was indeed very tasty. My mother was embarrassed as the two had been hearing and understanding her unflattering commentary all along.

I have very faint memories of my father’s village Jagaveerapuram.  I had gone there with my mother in the mid-seventies. The village  had a colourful ….

When we were children, our family used to go for a month-long vacation down south once every two years.   My parents used to meet all their relatives and friends during the summer vacations.  We, a set of six children, just tagged along wherever my parents went.   In many cases,  my parents would keep their luggage in a common place at Madras (now Chennai),   Madurai or Thootukudi (or Tuticorin) and make short one-day trips to nearby places to meet friends and relatives residing there.  Sometimes to optimise time and logistics, my father and mother go separately to visit their respective relatives and friends.  In such cases, we children remained with our mother.

Rani Esther, my cousin at Madurai narrated an episode about my mother that she still remembers.    It was the time when my mother visited them in Tiruchendur.   Rani’s mother, Grace Annapurnam was my mother’s elder sister.  My aunt and her husband Sundararaj were government high school teachers at that time and posted at Tiruchendur.  We referred to our aunt and uncle respectfully as ‘Petham’ (derived from Peddamma meaning ‘big mother’) and ‘Periappa’. While staying with them, one day my mother decided to take all the children to meet another relative staying a few hours away by train.  At that time, I was still an infant and generally consigned to the ‘thottil’ (a Tamil word which means cradle made by tying a cloth at two opposite endpoints and hung by a rope from the roof).    Early in the morning, while I was sleeping soundly on the thottil, my mother got the remaining children dressed and ready for the train journey.  She reached the Tiruchendur railway station with her children and luggage.  Then she suddenly realised that her last child was left behind.  The train was yet to reach the station.   My mother was still wondering how she could go back and fetch her baby in time.    Fortunately for her, Petham who was at home saw the child still sleeping after her sister had left and brought the child with her to the railway station.  Petham had reached just in time.  My mother was delighted to see her child but felt sad on having forgotten him in the first place.   My mother learnt a life lesson to count not just her luggage items but also her children each time she left home.

There is yet another “forgetful” episode that my father told me many years ago.  On one of our vacations down south,  my parents were staying in Thootukudi. It was a vacant house that belonged to some friend who was no longer staying there.   My father planned to meet his relatives while my mother decided to meet her childhood friend Devaki who stayed a few hours away from Thootukudi.  Both decided to come back after two days.   My mother took the luggage and left along with all the children.  My father thought that there was enough money in his pant pocket and did not bother to check it.    Later, when my father was about to leave the house, he realised that there was no money in his pant pocket.  He simply forgot to check it before my mother left the house. Moreover, there was no money in the house as his wallet was left in the luggage which my mother had taken along with her.   It was impossible to contact my mother immediately as there were no telephones then.   My father stayed hungry for two days till my mother came back home.   My father knew no one at Thootukudi from whom he could borrow some money.  Moreover, he probably could not muster enough courage to request someone for some financial help.  It was extremely difficult time for my father but not an unusual one.  He remembered the time he would sleep off hungry as a child.   This incident reminded him not to be overconfident and always check his wallet and also his house keys each time he left home.