CHAMPION OF THE UNDERDOG

My Teenage Hero

By V Ramnarayan

He is perhaps one of the last defenders of communism outside party manifestos, for rarely has such a staunch champion of the underprivileged been seen for over five decades, much more so perhaps than some of the leading lights in left wing politics. He is a beacon of searing intensity for the rest of us to follow at a time when worldwide events with their ugliness and depravity tend to remind us of the ideals that once burned bright within us before we decided to grow up.  

Raised in a distinctly upper middle class family if not exactly in the lap of luxury, and a product of the elite Scindia School of Gwalior, my cousin Paddu turned his back on a life of comfort in his twenties, if not earlier, though I have never asked him about his moment of epiphany if any. Was it around the time he discontinued studying for his MBBS at the Christian Medical College, Vellore? He entered the world of journalism a few years hence, meanwhile acquiring a bachelor’s degree in journalism by correspondence.

Starting his career at Indian Express, Bombay, Paddu set the benchmark very high for himself in the rigour of his research and his quest for honesty and accuracy. His innate concern for the underdog and compassion for minorities grew even as he worked at perfecting his craft, at achieving the mot juste in his despatches.

“If you’re not a communist at the age of 20, you haven’t got a heart. If you’re still a communist at the age of 30, you haven’t got a brain,” went a famous misquote of the 20^th century. In today’s topsy-turvy global scenario, it may be time to coin a new aphorism which will say, “If you were not a communist at 20, at least redeem yourself by embracing the ideals of equality and social justice before you are seventy.” Paddu is 78 now, and his heart beats stronger than ever for the weak and dispossessed. He retired long ago as a career journalist, but judging by his social media posts, still has enough fire and the power of words in him to make a difference should he choose to write seriously again. 

 I must digress slightly here to speak of my cousins at large. I had 42 first cousins at last count—in the 1960s; I haven’t kept track since then! Quite a few of them are part of the strong support system I have been blessed with, in addition to my parents, siblings, aunts and uncles, and if I ever write my autobiography, I will have to devote pages to each of them, but Paddu is the one living cousin I choose to write on now because he came into my life at a critical moment and exerted a huge influence on me, himself probably oblivious to the effect he had on my choices. Of one thing I am sure: Paddu must take the major blame for the way I have turned out, though it was two other cousins Babu and Balu who persuaded me to try my hand at writing.

My parents and their six children were living at Abhiramapuram close to the TUCS outlet on Moubrays (now TTK) Road from 1964 t0 ’67. Paddu came to live with us sometime in ’65, I think, and stayed on for about a year.  I was the oldest at 18 then, in my second year at Presidency College, and the youngest my sister Papu, all of seven years old. Nagan had just joined IIT Madras, Sarada SIET College, Krishnan went to Vidya Mandir, Viji to Adarsh Vidyalaya and Papu to nearby Bon Secours Convent School.

It must have been a challenging time in Paddu’s life following his momentous career decision, but he was quite the hero of the young brood at home, while Appa and Amma showered their affection on him. Appa was some twenty years older than Paddu, but the two got on like a house on fire, constantly pulling each other’s leg.  Paddu was a fitness freak, with rippling muscles to show for it. He was at various stages a follower of different schools of training, from Muller’s My System through Bullworker to yoga learnt from a booklet brought out by Ramtirth Yogashram of Brahmi Oil fame. I was already playing collegiate cricket, and did not need much persuasion to try out these systems. I found yoga in particular very useful.

A prominent feature of Paddu’s daily routine was the length of time each activity occupied. The nine residents had to share one bathroom and one toilet, and Paddu’s shower lasted at least as long as one elaborate raga alapana—Hindustani or Carnatic—and a few songs. He had a strong voice which has in recent years been weakened somewhat by health issues, but back then could crack an oyster at sixty paces, besides adhering perfectly to sruti. You can gauge the impact of that voice from a recent experience of mine. An old schoolmate I was meeting after fifty years, recalled listening to Paddu’s rendition of  the Mukesh number Matwali naar thumak thumak chali jaye, while visiting us in 1965. He does not know Paddu personally, but his voice he still remembers!

The song sessions and Paddu’s yoga practice were not without amusing sidelights, though my father was sometimes not so amused. My cousin lay sprawled on the floor of the master bedroom in glorious savasana after his exertions, eyes closed in oblivion to the external world, with my father skirting around him gingerly to avoid tripping, at the same time desperately searching for shirt, trousers, tie, socks and briefcase, all the while making entirely futile clicking noises that failed to alert Paddu to Appa’s morning emergencies. Sometimes, the routine changed slightly with Appa waiting impatiently for Madhuban mein Radhika nachere to be completed so that he could go in to shower.   But these irritations were confined to the morning when Appa was getting ready to go to work. In the evening, he was back to his normal genial self, and uncle and nephew had a gala time teasing each other.

Paddu was preparing for his BA exams, or ostensibly so anyway, and yet unemployed, used to receive a monthly money order from his parents. The immediate aftermath of the event was a visit to the street corner cigarette shop to settle his monthly account. All the ‘jobless’ boys including sundry cousins and neighbours would go trooping out with him on this important mission followed by a minitreat of snacks and tea or soft drinks. The major treat would be a movie or two at Safire or Anand, leaving Paddu close to broke again within a week. We probably watched My Fair Lady and The Sound of Music during this period, but it was Lawrence of Arabia that tested the genuineness of my hero worship of Paddu the most. I formed much of my reading habit based on Paddu’s preferences, and that included the complete plays and prefaces of George Bernard Shaw and other authors like W Somerset Maugham, Terence Rattigan and AJ Cronin, to name a few. I enjoyed all these brilliant authors, but reading Seven Pillars of Wisdom by TE Lawrence, the hero of Lawrence of Arabia, was the limit. It was after John Ruskin’s Sesame and Lilies, a prescribed college text, the most punishing tome I had come across, and I gamely tried to plough through it for the simple reason that my cousin was in the throes of a Lawrence obsession. Our excursions to cinema theatres and the British Council library were undoubtedly the highlights of that Indian summer of our lives.

Key to names: Paddu: R Padmanabhan; Balu: G Balachandran; Babu: S Subramaniam; Appa: PN Venkatraman; Amma: Rukmini Venkatraman; Nagan: Nagan Raman; Sarada: Sarada Nataraj; Krishnan: V Sivaramakrishnan; Viji: Vijayalakshmi Prabhakar; Papu: Dr Sarojini Parameswaran.                                                                                                 (To be continued)