When I was a kid, I would spend weekends with my cousins. (Back in the 70s and 80s, we didn't do sleepovers at friends'.) My aunt - my mother's elder sister - lived in West Mambalam, in Umapathy street. Her family had originally lived with her in-laws, in a small house where her husband shared space with multiple sisters.
My aunt's father-in-law was a miserly prick who saw my aunt as little more than unpaid labour, and his grandchildren as encumbrances. My uncle was abusive - he used to beat my aunt constantly. He would cover the windows of their room, screaming that she was a "loose woman" who would look at the men passing by on the road.
My aunt had four children. They were all much older than I. Ravi was 14 years older. Narasimhan 12, Balaji 10 and Narayanan was 8. They each had one good set of clothes, which they wore whenever they went out. My mother remembers my sister asking Balaji why he wore the same clothes whenever he visited us. "He would laugh and say, oh it's just coincidence. It just happened that way," she told me. My aunt's father-in-law lavished money on his daughters. He took away all my aunt's wedding jewelry. He decreed that she feed her sons only so much rice. When my mother visited her and asked her if she'd eaten, my aunt would tell her that she was fasting that day. Every time my mother visited her, my aunt was on a fast. She'd give up her share for the kids.
At that time, while my aunt lived with her in-laws, Umapathy Street wasn't exactly my favourite place to visit.
Then something happened.
Ravi, my oldest cousin, was smart. Really smart. He topped his school in class 12, with 100% in maths and physics. He always wanted to be an engineer, but his father wasn't interested in a son who would be in college for four years. A BSc degree would be adequate, he said, and Ravi would be in the job market in three.
Ravi still carries that grievance - that he was unable to study engineering. But he did do his science degree and got himself a job at a power plant. His grandfather demanded that Ravi turn over his salary to him.
Ravi told him that there was no fucking chance of that.
His grandfather said that he would throw Ravi out of the house.
Ravi said, "Don't worry. I'm leaving anyway."
He rented a the first floor of a house right opposite his grandfather's place. It was some five rooms. The only furniture there was two chairs and two ancient wooden cots. There was a small black and white TV. The hall, the largest room, doubled as living and bedroom. Coir mats were rolled out each night, and every got one threadbare and worn pillow.
Oh, and Ravi also had a word with his father. "If you lay a finger on my mother again, I will take her and my brothers away with me. I don't care what you do after that." After that conversation, my uncle was the quietest, least violent person in the family.
That was about the time I found that my aunt's place was the best place to spend my weekends.
Umapathy street was a quiet, middle class street. It was about a mile from the nearest big bus stop, and far away from the busy roads. During most of the day, it existed in somnolence. Sometimes, Ravi would take me to the Doraiswamy Road underpass (we called it a subway then). We would climb up the stairs and stand by the railway track leading into Mambalam station, waiting for the Vaigai Express, then the fastest train in South India. "It'll be gone in a blink of an eye," Ravi said, and I was disappointed when I blinked my eyes and the train was still going past.
But it was still a thrill, finally catching a glimpse of that engine, a blue smudge in the heat haze of Madras' midday, and then watch it gain focus, until it became this massive thing of power and momentum, thundering past us. And then, we would walk back to Umapathy street, to nap or read until the evening.
The evenings were different.
Almost every house on the street had a couple of young men living in it. There were around 20 boys - in their late teens or early twenties, and my aunt's place was the social centre of the street.
They'd start trickling in, after coffee and tiffin, at around five. They all wore a kind of uniform. Half sleeved shirts, stitched by the local tailor. Veshtis or lungis, with the latter more common, and the batik-printed lungis were preferred to the checked ones. "Sangu mark" was the preferred brand.
Every season had it's sport.
Spring was for kite-flying. Since my aunt lived on the first floor of one of the few two-storeyed buildings on Umapathy street, and it had a roof terrace, it was the preferred location for epic kite flying contests.
The kites were massive (I realize that there are bigger kites, but for 9 year old me, they were the biggest I'd ever seen) baana kathadis. The guys would chip in money - a couple of rupees each - and buy spindles of manja (glass-coated twine, illegal now). And when the terrace was packed with Rajas and Bachas and Muthus and Nagus and Raghus, one person would stand at the outer-left corner of the terrace, kite held aloft, while the flyer would stand at another corner. They would wait for that moment, for that perfect gust, and the kite would be launched into the sky.
At this time, there would be other groups, also flying kites. The idea was to sever the threads of the other kites, while not losing your own. It was thrilling stuff, watching them manoeuvre that flimsy paper and bamboo craft - sometimes with two or three people holding the string, while the main flyer worked the angles and cut the other kites loose. All the while, there would be mocking and laughter and jokes.
Summer evenings were badminton evenings. Here, the street would gather in a house on the opposite side of the road, a small building with a large backyard and a badminton net set up. Shoes? Bare feet were the best sports shoes. No one wore shorts either. Lungis and veshtis were folded up and retied, giving the players leg room. The house was owned by an old man, a pensioner, who lived there with his two sons. He would sit on the back porch, chewing betel leaves and snarking endlessly, about his sons' capabilities as players, about politics, about the neighbours. His sons weren't intimidated by him though, and they would snark right back.
And later, as the sun set we would go back to my aunt's house - to watch TV or just talk - and then it would be bed time.
If it was a Sunday night, there would be a Tamil movie on TV, and the hall would be packed, because TV watching was a community experience. The movie would begin at 7:00, and there was a news broadcast at around 8:00 pm. Then the boys would disperse, go home for dinner, and be back at around the time the broadcast ended.
If it was summer, we'd sleep on the terrace. One of our neighbours - one of the older boys - was Murali, who strutted around Umapathy Street in a vest and veshti. He'd sit there, propped against the terrace wall, smoking endless Wills Filters, and talking with my cousins.
When it wasn't kite flying or badminton, it would be carrom or chess. Carrom was played in one of the smaller rooms, with the board taking up almost the entire floor space. It used to be standing room only. Matches were closely fought, because everyone was so damn good. And this was where Narasimhan, my second-oldest cousin shone. They called him achari - or teacher (and indeed, he went on to to become a respected professor of economics). Teams of two competed against each other, and the winning team would face the next set of comers. Games would go on till the sun set and well after. While they waited, there would be a game of chess going on on the decrepit wooden cot.
Ravi loved books too. He saw me reading the Hardy Boys and the Three Investigators and pushed me to Alistair Maclean and Desmond Bagley. When he found that I had no idea of who James Bond was, he said, ok, we need to do something about it. We took a bus to Mount Road, to Sathyam theatres, and he smuggled me in to The Spy Who Loved Me (ADULTS ONLY! I was 8 or 9 ). When that Union Jack parachute burst open with the triumphant Bond theme in the background, I was in love.
When I was 14, Ravi got a job in the Gulf - he was in one of the earliest waves of Indians working there. And when he came back, after a year, the whole street gathered to watch him open his huge blue Delsey suitcase.
It was a treasure chest. I got a Dunlop table tennis racquet and a Walkman. A Nintendo Donkey Kong Game and Watch. Ravi bought with him about a hundred cassette tapes. Abba and Boney-M. Blondie. The Police. Frankie Goes To Hollywood. Every one got something or the other. And best of all, was a brand new ZX Spectrum computer.
Money wasn't a problem for my aunt anymore.
-----
Last week, I was in West Mambalam again. Shades of Rebecca, I know. The street seemed so much more cluttered. Most of the single storey houses were gone. Some that remained were painted garish orange and yellow. The place looked ugly. I went on, looking for the two-storeyed building where I'd been so happy. To my shock, it was still there. Uncared for, empty, with broken windows and weeds instead of a garden.
My aunt is dead now. My cousins have split, and I hardly see them anymore - the last time I saw them was when my aunt died. I spoke to Ravi, and he said, "Hey, man, I want to talk about the times we had - when my mother would make idlis - and we would race to see who could eat more, and faster."
I said yes, we should.
We didn't have that conversation.
My aunt's father-in-law was a miserly prick who saw my aunt as little more than unpaid labour, and his grandchildren as encumbrances. My uncle was abusive - he used to beat my aunt constantly. He would cover the windows of their room, screaming that she was a "loose woman" who would look at the men passing by on the road.
My aunt had four children. They were all much older than I. Ravi was 14 years older. Narasimhan 12, Balaji 10 and Narayanan was 8. They each had one good set of clothes, which they wore whenever they went out. My mother remembers my sister asking Balaji why he wore the same clothes whenever he visited us. "He would laugh and say, oh it's just coincidence. It just happened that way," she told me. My aunt's father-in-law lavished money on his daughters. He took away all my aunt's wedding jewelry. He decreed that she feed her sons only so much rice. When my mother visited her and asked her if she'd eaten, my aunt would tell her that she was fasting that day. Every time my mother visited her, my aunt was on a fast. She'd give up her share for the kids.
At that time, while my aunt lived with her in-laws, Umapathy Street wasn't exactly my favourite place to visit.
Then something happened.
Ravi, my oldest cousin, was smart. Really smart. He topped his school in class 12, with 100% in maths and physics. He always wanted to be an engineer, but his father wasn't interested in a son who would be in college for four years. A BSc degree would be adequate, he said, and Ravi would be in the job market in three.
Ravi still carries that grievance - that he was unable to study engineering. But he did do his science degree and got himself a job at a power plant. His grandfather demanded that Ravi turn over his salary to him.
Ravi told him that there was no fucking chance of that.
His grandfather said that he would throw Ravi out of the house.
Ravi said, "Don't worry. I'm leaving anyway."
He rented a the first floor of a house right opposite his grandfather's place. It was some five rooms. The only furniture there was two chairs and two ancient wooden cots. There was a small black and white TV. The hall, the largest room, doubled as living and bedroom. Coir mats were rolled out each night, and every got one threadbare and worn pillow.
Oh, and Ravi also had a word with his father. "If you lay a finger on my mother again, I will take her and my brothers away with me. I don't care what you do after that." After that conversation, my uncle was the quietest, least violent person in the family.
That was about the time I found that my aunt's place was the best place to spend my weekends.
Umapathy street was a quiet, middle class street. It was about a mile from the nearest big bus stop, and far away from the busy roads. During most of the day, it existed in somnolence. Sometimes, Ravi would take me to the Doraiswamy Road underpass (we called it a subway then). We would climb up the stairs and stand by the railway track leading into Mambalam station, waiting for the Vaigai Express, then the fastest train in South India. "It'll be gone in a blink of an eye," Ravi said, and I was disappointed when I blinked my eyes and the train was still going past.
But it was still a thrill, finally catching a glimpse of that engine, a blue smudge in the heat haze of Madras' midday, and then watch it gain focus, until it became this massive thing of power and momentum, thundering past us. And then, we would walk back to Umapathy street, to nap or read until the evening.
The evenings were different.
Almost every house on the street had a couple of young men living in it. There were around 20 boys - in their late teens or early twenties, and my aunt's place was the social centre of the street.
They'd start trickling in, after coffee and tiffin, at around five. They all wore a kind of uniform. Half sleeved shirts, stitched by the local tailor. Veshtis or lungis, with the latter more common, and the batik-printed lungis were preferred to the checked ones. "Sangu mark" was the preferred brand.
Every season had it's sport.
Spring was for kite-flying. Since my aunt lived on the first floor of one of the few two-storeyed buildings on Umapathy street, and it had a roof terrace, it was the preferred location for epic kite flying contests.
The kites were massive (I realize that there are bigger kites, but for 9 year old me, they were the biggest I'd ever seen) baana kathadis. The guys would chip in money - a couple of rupees each - and buy spindles of manja (glass-coated twine, illegal now). And when the terrace was packed with Rajas and Bachas and Muthus and Nagus and Raghus, one person would stand at the outer-left corner of the terrace, kite held aloft, while the flyer would stand at another corner. They would wait for that moment, for that perfect gust, and the kite would be launched into the sky.
At this time, there would be other groups, also flying kites. The idea was to sever the threads of the other kites, while not losing your own. It was thrilling stuff, watching them manoeuvre that flimsy paper and bamboo craft - sometimes with two or three people holding the string, while the main flyer worked the angles and cut the other kites loose. All the while, there would be mocking and laughter and jokes.
Summer evenings were badminton evenings. Here, the street would gather in a house on the opposite side of the road, a small building with a large backyard and a badminton net set up. Shoes? Bare feet were the best sports shoes. No one wore shorts either. Lungis and veshtis were folded up and retied, giving the players leg room. The house was owned by an old man, a pensioner, who lived there with his two sons. He would sit on the back porch, chewing betel leaves and snarking endlessly, about his sons' capabilities as players, about politics, about the neighbours. His sons weren't intimidated by him though, and they would snark right back.
And later, as the sun set we would go back to my aunt's house - to watch TV or just talk - and then it would be bed time.
If it was a Sunday night, there would be a Tamil movie on TV, and the hall would be packed, because TV watching was a community experience. The movie would begin at 7:00, and there was a news broadcast at around 8:00 pm. Then the boys would disperse, go home for dinner, and be back at around the time the broadcast ended.
If it was summer, we'd sleep on the terrace. One of our neighbours - one of the older boys - was Murali, who strutted around Umapathy Street in a vest and veshti. He'd sit there, propped against the terrace wall, smoking endless Wills Filters, and talking with my cousins.
When it wasn't kite flying or badminton, it would be carrom or chess. Carrom was played in one of the smaller rooms, with the board taking up almost the entire floor space. It used to be standing room only. Matches were closely fought, because everyone was so damn good. And this was where Narasimhan, my second-oldest cousin shone. They called him achari - or teacher (and indeed, he went on to to become a respected professor of economics). Teams of two competed against each other, and the winning team would face the next set of comers. Games would go on till the sun set and well after. While they waited, there would be a game of chess going on on the decrepit wooden cot.
Ravi loved books too. He saw me reading the Hardy Boys and the Three Investigators and pushed me to Alistair Maclean and Desmond Bagley. When he found that I had no idea of who James Bond was, he said, ok, we need to do something about it. We took a bus to Mount Road, to Sathyam theatres, and he smuggled me in to The Spy Who Loved Me (ADULTS ONLY! I was 8 or 9 ). When that Union Jack parachute burst open with the triumphant Bond theme in the background, I was in love.
When I was 14, Ravi got a job in the Gulf - he was in one of the earliest waves of Indians working there. And when he came back, after a year, the whole street gathered to watch him open his huge blue Delsey suitcase.
It was a treasure chest. I got a Dunlop table tennis racquet and a Walkman. A Nintendo Donkey Kong Game and Watch. Ravi bought with him about a hundred cassette tapes. Abba and Boney-M. Blondie. The Police. Frankie Goes To Hollywood. Every one got something or the other. And best of all, was a brand new ZX Spectrum computer.
Money wasn't a problem for my aunt anymore.
-----
Last week, I was in West Mambalam again. Shades of Rebecca, I know. The street seemed so much more cluttered. Most of the single storey houses were gone. Some that remained were painted garish orange and yellow. The place looked ugly. I went on, looking for the two-storeyed building where I'd been so happy. To my shock, it was still there. Uncared for, empty, with broken windows and weeds instead of a garden.
My aunt is dead now. My cousins have split, and I hardly see them anymore - the last time I saw them was when my aunt died. I spoke to Ravi, and he said, "Hey, man, I want to talk about the times we had - when my mother would make idlis - and we would race to see who could eat more, and faster."
I said yes, we should.
We didn't have that conversation.