Peranamallur Sadhasiva Kalyani, or PS Kalyani, or as I called her ‘paati’, was born on 28th May 1938. I would often ask a barrage of questions on her childhood experiences and glimpses of India’s nascent years. She lived in a remote village of Cheyyar in Tamil Nadu and insulated from India’s independence struggle and post-partition bloodshed.
But the stories that she did tell me hardly seemed nostalgic. Although she came from upper-caste family, resources were scarce in the village, opportunities were limited and close to no accessibility to the world. Memories of immense struggle and lack of resources during her childhood years had coloured her recollections. Once I naively asked her, “Would you like to relive your childhood?” She responded with a curt no. Nostalgia is not a by-product of struggling times.
Later, as old age started creeping, she would quote the two worst things to happen to a human are, “illamaiyil varumai, muthumaiyil thanimai. Kodithu! Kodithu!” (Poverty in youth, loneliness in old age. Horrible! Horrible!). From hearing her childhood stories, she had somewhat experienced the former.
Despite this, there was one aspect of her childhood that would bring a smile to her face: time with her father, Sadhasiva Iyer. It was not just a daughter's love for her father. Rather, it was her admiration for him. Paati would often regale me with his stories which would leave my mouth gaping wide open. Sadhasiva Iyer, as Paati described, was a broad-chested, six-foot principal, who commanded respect with his work ethic and principled lifestyle (and unverified sources mention he had a halo around him). He would spin a charkha while having a conversation. He justified this by saying, “Why should I waste time when I am simply sitting and talking.”
She would often credit him for all her educational achievements and how he helped her pass through deep waters (figuratively and literally). During the floods in 2015 in Chennai, she told me about a flood that occurred in her childhood. There were torrential rains overnight that flooded many surrounding villages. The next day, Sadhasiva Iyer accompanied her to school. However, on the way, they saw a route flooded with water. Sadhasiva Iyer enquired with locals on the depth of the water but nobody knew. So, Sadhasiva Iyer put Paati on his shoulder and started crossing the river. The water started rising and rising until it reached neck-deep. One foot deeper and they would drown. Fortunately, that was the deepest and they safely crossed the river to attend the school.
Sadhasiva Iyer believed education is the only vehicle to prosperity and ensured all his children received a decent education, especially his daughters. He would say, “A boy can do manual labour but a girl can’t do the same. She needs education.” His intentions were noble but his methods were intense. During the summer holidays, he would make his children wake up early and practice around 30 new thirukurrals every day. Paati, being a diligent student, learnt more than a thousand thirukurrals and later, quote it back to me during our arguments to justify her point (while I blankly stare in response). He also taught her how to read and write Hindi which later played a pivotal role in getting a job. Indeed, education became Paati's vehicle to a prosperous life. But getting it required more than crossing a river. She had to leave the village and travel a hundred kilometres north to Chennai.
She first came to Chennai to complete her one-year teacher training program. She had to share her hall with 20 other girls for that year. The only lasting memory from that time was her picture (Photograph 1) with two other girls in a distinct pose. This is one of her earlier pictures. My cousins and I would often make fun of her distinct pose. Paati would blush before saying that she was naive then and posed as she was asked.
She moved around a few places for education and work. In 1962, she married Mandakolathur Ragavaiyer Radhakrishnan and made Chennai her home for the rest of her life. Radhakrishnan or as I called him, thatha worked at the Post Office. He was the eldest in his family and therefore, had several obligations to fulfil (marriage of his sisters, education for his younger brothers). Thus, he insisted on marrying a working girl, a rarity during the time, to ensure that financial constraints become manageable.
I remember talking to paati on the day of her marriage anniversary. Since thatha had passed away in 1993, I had only fleeting memories of him. I enquired about thatha and her life with him. She patiently started talking about him. After a while, she turned to me, looked at me pensively and said, “I was married to him for 31 years. I have lived for almost the same amount of time without him.” I waited to hear further but she didn't say anything else. I looked at her and saw a person feeling the pain of leading a life without a companion during their last years. It also demonstrated the role thatha played in her life.
After marriage, she moved to Chennai and started looking for job opportunities in government schools. Due to reservation, there would be intense competition for teaching positions in government schools in the general category. However, she told me that reservations were not applicable in minority schools. She applied and got teaching position in a Gujrati school as she was proficient in Hindi. Over time, she learnt to speak and write Gujrati, made friends with the Gujrati community, enjoyed Dhokla, and played Holi with them.
She gave birth to three sons, each two years apart from 1964 to 1968. Appa (my father), who was her eldest son, told me later that she almost didn't survive during his birth. The midwife in Cheyyar (where appa was born) told everyone that it was unlikely that both mother and the child would survive. Fortunately, both of them survived. Yamraj sent an invitation but she declined. Later, she would often complain, “I don’t know why god is not calling me.” Maybe Yamraj didn’t take the rejection very well.
Marriage and kids didn’t reduce her hunger to study further. She wanted to get a Bachelor in Education (B.Ed) degree. A day in her life, however, was relentless. She would wake up early, prepare meals, send children to school, go to school to teach, come back and take tuitions, prepare dinner... and then, somehow squeezed the time to study for the B.Ed exams. Back then, one needed to pass all five papers in one attempt to get the degree. In her first attempt, she failed one of the papers. So, she prepared again, and this time she passed all five papers. She regarded this as one of her proudest achievements. After I completed my masters, I sent her a picture of the graduation ceremony. When I told her that I reluctantly got my pictures in the graduation gown, she was surprised. She said that after getting the B.Ed degree, she was desperate to get a picture clicked. But back then there were no elaborate ceremonies. So she asked thatha to take her to a photo studio to get a picture. Wearing the graduation gown, she stood proudly with a scroll in her hand (Photograph 2) and got the picture clicked. This time though, nobody needed to tell her how to pose.
Paati and thatha complimented each other very well. Paati was strict and strong-willed while thatha was gentle and accommodating. Yet there was one important trait they both shared. They were generous in helping others. As mentioned earlier, thatha married a working girl to help out with the family expenses. Similarly, paati throughout her life provided monetary support to her family (near and distant). Paati would send the money she earned from taking tuition to her father when he needed help. She also gave some money every month to her younger brother during his college days. On the day when her body was burnt, the son of a distant relative came to meet her children and told them that paati had been paying his tuition fees for the previous semesters.
Paati always credited thatha for his support. Since she had predominantly studied in the village, she has limited knowledge of English. Thatha taught her English grammar using the book, Wren and Martin. (Later, she would try teaching me using the same book). He encouraged her to study, made accommodations at home and later, even changed the location of the house to live near the school to reduce paati’s commute time. One day, I asked her why she does not read the newspaper since she was a voracious reader. She said she never got into the habit of reading newsapaper. She had a packed schedule in the morning as she prepared breakfast for everyone as well as getting ready for school. Instead, thatha would stand next to her and read the key headlines from the newspaper aloud. He would say that a school teacher should be aware of current affairs as she had to interact with students.
After her B.Ed, she started teaching History and Geography in high school. Unsurprisingly, she was a strict teacher. She would proudly tell me that during those years, all historical events, their year of occurrence and location of countries were at her fingertips. There would be ‘pin drop’ silence when she would teach. In 1993, after thatha’s health started deteriorating, paati took voluntary retirement from the school to take care of him. It brought down the curtain on paati’s almost thirty-year career as a school teacher. After she retired, many students would return to meet her and thank her profusely for all the work she did for them. While she was known as Kalyani Teacher among her students, I always knew her as paati.
Funnily, when I was small, I called her aunty instead. She always had beautiful black hair with some traces of greyness. Since I considered grey hair a prerequisite for becoming paati, she remained aunty during my childhood years. Afterwards, I changed my pre-condition since paati’s hair remained predominantly black even during her last years (and more black hair than her three sons combined).
I would often ask her the secret behind her black hair and good health. Instead of entertaining the question, she would lament that God has still not called her yet. Our family often theorized that her elixir was keerai (spinach). Every day, she would make a different variety of keerai (Siru Keerai, parappu Keerai, Arai Keerai). Each dish had its flavours but was delivered with the same love. Paati and Popeye ended up becoming the biggest influencers of keeria for me. Her cooking was not isolated to just keerai dishes. She made amazing sambhar using kadalai maavu (chickpea flour) that accompanied idlis; spicy finger-licking good thakkali thokku (tomato chutney); bombay chutney for chapatis. But my favourite paati dish was something else altogether.
It was a strong, distinct smelling poondu oorgai (garlic pickle). To give context, amma (my mother) always hated the smell of the garlic. This meant that I had limited access to garlic dishes although poondu rasam (garlic rasam) made occasional appearances. However, paati made incredible poondu oorgai. (I am salivating as I type this). Every summer vacation, we would travel to Chennai and live with paati in the Tambaram house. When I would arrive, she would keep poondu oorgai readily prepared for me. Thayir sadam with poondu oorgai (curd rice with garlic pickle) worked in perfect harmony to create an explosion of sensation in my mouth and an eruption of happiness on my face. If I had the felicity to write poems, I would have written one titled, “Ode to poondu oorgai.” But my talents are confined to creating only memes (Photograph 3).
In circa 1989, thatha and paati moved permanently to their home in Selaiyur, Tambaram. (They lived in a rented house close to paati’s school earlier.) Tambaram house, as I liked calling it, was a spacious one-storey house with a verandah and back garden. It was more than a house though. It was the house where my extended family would gather for important events, ceremonies and celebrations. Thatha and paati’s aruvatham kalyanam(marriage anniversary when either bride or the groom turns 60; Photograph 4) was celebrated in the same house. Later, when Tambaram house had a deserted look, paati would often reminisce the days when the house was hustling and bustling with people for weeks. If a house had memories, Tambaram house would have filled a 500-page diary with it in its heydays. Yet, the jewel crown of the Tambaram house was simple, wooden, sometimes rickety but always reliable jhula (swing).
Jhula was the mainstay of the Tambaram house. Whenever I went to the Tambaram house, I would immediately go to the balcony and sit on the jhula. It was the place where one could forget all their worries and just swing around. I am not sure why it was called jhula and not, say, oonjal or swing. Perhaps we felt jhula was like a member of the family. No conversation could occur without the presence of the jhula. Apparently, as a little kid, I would run and sit on the jhula just when she was about to. Paati would say, “Ashwin, I am tired. Please give me jhula.” I would reply innocently, “Even I am very tired, paati.” But the moment paati would turn her back and walk away, I would lose interest in jhula and do something else. Paati would often tell this story to me sitting on the jhula and have a hearty laugh about it.
After thatha died in 1993, the number of people in the Tambaram house slowly started to dwindle. She would often visit her children and stay with them for some time. But like a bird that finds comfort in its nest, paati would come back to the Tambaram house. She felt at home in the Tambaram house. By now, she was living by herself in the house. She would sit on the jhula and read her books. Later, she started learning different languages through books. At one point, she learnt to read and write ten languages including Kannada, Malayalam, Telugu, Marathi, Punjabi, Bengali apart from Tamil, Hindi, English and Gujrati. She said, "I always wanted to read Tagore's poems. So, I decided to learn Bengali."
Of all the qualities, a quality that stood out the most was perseverance. I once asked her, “Where would you like to be reborn?” She said, “If possible, I want to be reborn in a poor family. I want to study hard, become an IAS officer, and ensure my parents lead a comfortable life." I have doubts about reincarnation. But if paati is reborn, I have no doubt she would end up achieving her goal.
There are many lessons I learnt from paati. One that is closest to my heart happened when I wanted to learn music. I told paati that I wish I had learnt Carnatic music as a kid. Since I am 23 years old, it was too late to learn. Paati looked at me and said, “I also wanted to learn Carnatic music. In fact, a mami offered to teach it. But I was sixty years old then. I said I am too old and refused the offer. Now, I am seventy-seven years old. I keep thinking I was so young back when I was sixty. I wish I had taken up on the offer to learn music.” This statement held profound wisdom. As the Chinese proverb goes, “The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago. The second best time is today.” This incident is a constant reminder to me that today is the youngest I'll ever be. As for the music class, I joined it the next day.
As time passed, the pile of books kept on increasing. But passing time became increasingly onerous. The daily drudgery of reading, eating and watching television alone in the house must have been difficult. It must have been even more difficult for someone like paati who didn't have a moment’s rest when she was working. In one of her notes (Photograph 9), she mentions that she has decided to live with her son because “it is really boring and killing to live alone.” Unfortunately, she experienced muthumaiyil thanimai (loneliness in old age) as well.
Paati prided herself in being financially independent, which also allowed her to help others. However, she refused to take money or favours from anyone else. In one of her notes (Photograph 8), she writes, “he [Raghu, her second son] is spending a lot for me sometimes. It hurts me sometimes [that] I am not doing anything special for me.” While none of her sons ever asked anything in return, it pained her that she couldn’t return the favour in one way or another.
I would call her once in a while to check on her health. The call would invariably end with her saying, “Thank you for calling, Ashwin.” I never liked this statement. She felt that by calling her, I was doing a favour to her. But I wasn't. I called her because I loved talking to her. It enabled me to relive my childhood through her stories, reconstruct history from her memories, absorb the ocean of knowledge she possessed, admire the struggles that provided my privileges, and most importantly, bask in the love and warmth she showered unconditionally. I was grateful that she existed in my life.
On 18th July 2021, paati had a cardiac failure. She was immediately admitted to the hospital. When she regained consciousness, one of the first things she asked was to ensure all the hospital bills are paid from her savings. Even in her last days, she wanted no favours. But the side effects from the medication started taking a toll on her. She was in severe pain. She started becoming delirious. We all knew her days were numbered.
Ten days later, we decided to remove her from life support and bring her back to the Tambaram house. On the last day, she was able to recognize everyone, nod her head and quietly smiled at jokes. The last couple of hours must have filled her heart with joy as the Tambaram house was hustling and bustling like the good old days.
Late night on 28th July 2021, the flame in the Tambaram house stopped burning. Paati passed away peacefully.
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| P11: Familiar sight of paati sitting in the balcony of the Tambaram house & reading a book. |
Paati was born in a poor family, worked hard to earn the B.Ed degree, proudly raised three kids to enviable positions, never took money from anyone but generously gave it away, persevered through life that was filled with obstacles, learnt 10 languages, independently navigated challenges, and passed away in her home surrounded by people she loved. She was respected by many but a lot more were eternally indebted to her. I am one of them.
The letter that I began writing in 2014 was never sent. It was partly because I was embarrassed at employing an archaic medium of a hand-written letter and partly because of my limited vocabulary to express my sentiments. Relationships are like unfinished letters -- there is always more to be written. I wish I could talk to her about her childhood and college days. I wish I could eat the food she prepared with love. I wish I could hear her call out my name. Let the letter represent the memories I was fortunate to share with her while the unwritten words make me long for her warm embrace. I still don’t have words to express my gratitude towards her. You did a great favour by calling me. All I can say is, “Dear paati, thank you for calling.”
Your loving pairan
Ashwin ‘Achu’ Mb
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