BABUJI

Life with Grandma
By V Ramnarayan

My late friend Mohan Ramalingam, then secretary of the Mylapore Club, brought me my fifteen minutes of fame as moderator of a Chess-Bridge conversation on stage between Viswanathan Anand and KR Venkataraman about a decade ago. Both the speakers were extremely articulate and passionate about their sport, with Anand frequently bringing the house down with his scintillating wit. Among other things, he gave us an elaborate description of the enormous amount of team work that goes on behind his major campaigns including the computer analysis of hundreds of games involving Anand as well as his opponents, and the intricate post mortem that follows his most recent contest. Anand could not suppress a smile when I reminded him of his earlier statement that chess was a lonely game. Women's chess was one of the topics of the evening, and while the question of why in a mindsport, no woman had so far been crowned world champion against all comers, men or women, came up, Anand expressed the hope that  such a prospect, though distant, was not to be ruled out with more and more girls taking to chess the world over.

Anand regaled us with some hilarious stories.  One of them involved a train journey during his childhood. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” asked an older co-passenger.””A chess player, “ was the instant reply from the boy. “I understand. You love chess, but it is a hobby, a sport. What do you want to do after you graduate? What do you even want to study, engineering, medicine?” “Play chess,”Anand, the junior national champion persisted. Finally the man gave up. “Do you think you are Viswanathan Anand?” he blurted out.

My mind went back to a train journey in the mid to late 1970s. My daughter Akhila,  all of four or five, was travelling with her mother Gowri from Hyderabad to Bombay. It was August 15 and one of the ‘uncles’ in the compartment asked Akhila, “Do you know why today is a special day?” “I know. It is Independence Day. My grandfather got us independence from the British,” my daughter informed her by now growing audience. The uncles were pleased no end. “Yes, Gandhiji was your grandfather, my grandfather, everybody’s grandfather,” one of them piped in.

Little did that group of patriotic Indians realize that Akhila was actually referring to her great grandfather Kalki Krishnamurthi, the famous author and freedom fighter.   Mrs Kalki, Rukmini Ammal, widowed in 1954, came to live with us in Hyderabad when Akhila was a baby, and took firm control of her education even before she started school. That is how little Akhila came to speak Tamil fluently and like a proper mami typical of Tamil households. “Appa, Amma, come out and watch iyarkai arpudam (nature’s miracle),” was par for the course every time Akhila wanted us to share in her excitement in watching a flower or a bird or a sunset.

And Babuji—as we called Gowri’s late grandma, and thereby hangs a tale, to be told later—completely brainwashed the child into believing that Kalki was the greatest hero of India’s freedom struggle, India’s finest writer, besides being the perfect family man with unsurpassed virtues. With such a hard act to follow, Gowri and I were constantly up against it as young parents.

Babuji was an extraordinary woman, idiosyncratic, dependable, compassionate, stubborn, prejudiced, loyal, generous to people she loved, rude to those she disliked, thrifty, extravagant.. an endless bundle of contradictions, lovable and annoying by turns. She enriched our lives, she infuriated us sometimes. Fiercely loyal to  Gowri,who had been Kalki’s pet and hardly three when he died, she embarrassed her no end growing up by spoiling her silly with other kids around. In Hyderabad, whenever we had guests and she thought one of them was trying to take advantage of Gowri’s hospitality, the guest got an earful, language barrier or no.  

We once had two American girls staying with us in our tiny three room apartment. Mornings were hectic with Gowri busy in the kitchen and multitasking, and me getting ready to go to work. The guests were sipping their tea daintily while the pop-up toaster failed to pop and the toast was burning and sending smoke and flames heavenwards. All the ladies needed to do to put out the fire was reach out and switch the toaster off. Instead, they sat there and gently called out “Go-owri! Go-o-owri!” while Gowri was battling with her kerosene stove in the kitchen.  Babuji chose that moment to make a dramatic entry. She gave the girls the angriest glare she could muster, stood there with her arms akimbo and declared in her deepest, grimmest voice:”Rotti pinishdu!”

 (More about our beloved Babuji to follow).