Dream

 Misantlerage.

So, a few days ago, I had stepped away from my computer for my post lunch nap. I must have slept? Dozed? for less than an hour. But I had dreamt.

I was in a room, like one of those meeting rooms from an old fashioned office. Solid wood furniture, none of the glass and plastic that plagues the offices of today. This was what you would expect to find in an old Tata office, or in one of the more prosperous and better managed public sector companies. The centerpiece was a heavy wooden conference table. shaped like a capsule. The chairs were heavy dark wood as well. The table could have seated 8 people, but there were only four of us. It was the end of the meeting. Maybe I had dreamed an entire meeting, but I could only remember the last few minutes. There was a short woman in a black shirt and jeans opposite me. We were both sitting on the right side of the table. I couldn't see, or remember the faces of the others, one of whom was seated at the head, the other next to her or him.

The Chinese woman said "This is important. The word is 'misantlerage'". She pronounced it "mis-antler-aazh". "Do you know what it means? It's important". Before I could reply, there was a voice from the other side of the table. It was the woman (I'm pretty sure it was a woman) chairing the meeting. "It is wondering about the role you would play in the performance of a symphony".  

The Chinese woman looked at me and said "Do you understand?"

I thought I did. I said "Its about wondering part you would play in a group endeavour. Does it have to be artistic? It can be anything, right? Even cleaning this room?"

I didn't hear the answer. I woke up. But I remembered the word. And the brief discussion that went into it. I made an effort to retain as much of the dream as I awoke. 

The first thing I did when I was fully awake was to look up "misantlerage". 

It didnt mean anything.

On Mrs Rangachary

Padma Rangachary always reminded me of a bird. An old bird of prey; one that may seem harmless at first glance, but could, in an instant, turn deadly. She joined as schoolteacher when we were in class 4, and she seemed, even then, older than most of the other women and the few men who tried to get us through examinations, and with luck, maybe even teach us something. And she was a teacher that you instinctively knew you did not want to mess with.

I went to her thadiaradhanai. People spoke about her. About her spirit, her kindness, her hospitality, her love for cats. Coworkers, cousins, nephews and nieces, in-laws of all kinds. 

But what was remarkable was her own story. 

Imagine, in a conservative family, not having a child for many years after getting married. Knowing South Indian brahmin families as I do, I imagine the negativity would have been tremendous - whispers, gossip, questions on her childbearing ability. The visits to places of pilgrimage, prayers to the various gods and goddesses of fertility, a whole series of rites and rituals - there would have been so much pressure on her, because, in these things, it's never the man's fault.

And when the child was finally born, it would have seemed a miracle, all those prayers finally answered. And Gopal did reference this in his eulogy - that managed to be both heartfelt and lighthearted - that everything his mother did centered on his happiness.

This wasn't obvious to us. Mrs Rangachary didn't terrorize us, but we had a healthy respect for her. We did fear her wrath, which could be withering. But not one of us believed that her beloved child got any special treatment. Quite the opposite.

Gopal was never what you would call neat. His uniform shirt would be missing a button within a few days of the new school year. Any pen that he put in his pocket - even ball points - would leak. Abstract expressionists could find inspiration from the blotches of blue in his notebook, and he was a regular contender for the worst handwriting award. And however affectionate Mrs Rangachary was home, she was brutal with Gopal at school. She would rage at him in a way that she never did with other students, however awful our behaviour. It was as if she wanted to make sure that her personal affection did not bleed over into the performance of her duties, to the extent that it was clear, even to us as children, that she held her son to a more demanding standard than the rest of us.

When Gopal and Mrs Rangachary joined PSBB, Mr Rangachari had already passed. You don't think of these things when you are a child, but in many ways, she was far ahead of her time. A working single mother, one who managed the household and finances and the child-rearing, a highly educated woman - an Indian woman who had taught English to English children - as well as Sanskrit and geography and English to us.

A lesser woman would have spoilt her son rotten. A lesser woman would have clung to him, and Gopal could have easily been persuaded to stay in Madras, enroll in Loyola while making another attempt at an IIT M seat. But she sent Gopal to BITS and then to IIM, and I cannot imagine how hard it must have been for her.

In her way, maybe naturally, or maybe because her time in England, she was as stiff upper lip as a stereotypical Englishwoman. As Gopal said, one of her credos was "No self pity". I can believe that. She did the job that needed to be done. She would never have complained about it - the thought would never even have occurred to her. And if life was hard and full of adversity, there were cricket matches and books and music and song to enjoy, cats to feed and relatives to talk to - or teach English to.

There was a photo of her as young woman at the function, and it made me wonder. She would have been a teenager in 1947. What did she remember of Independence day? What did she think it would mean for the country? Who were her heroes? Did she watch films as a girl? Did she watch plays? Did she have a crush on anyone? What books did she read as a child? What were her favourite songs? What was Padma like, before she became Mrs Rangachary? 

Personally, I was always a little afraid of her. I was not very brave (not that I am any braver now) I would often lie, tell tales. And I always felt that she could see right through me, and found me wanting. But she was also a teacher who encouraged me with my writing. In a school like PSBB, which was, atleast in the 70s and 80s, the equivalent of a Kota IIT mill, people were judged on their ability with maths and physics. Even chemistry and biology were looked down on. But her encouragement made me believe that I was good at something, however commercially unviable it may have been. 

A memory.

We were once asked to write an essay in class. The subject was "A Visit Abroad". I had never been further than Hyderabad, but I wrote about a visit to France, drawing extensively from a Biggles story that I had been binging on at the time. In the next class, she announced that only two people had written anything worth reading. I was one of them, I suspect the other was Narendran. She later came up to me and asked if I had really been to France. I said no, that it was all made up. She looked at me consideringly and said "Your essay was very good". 

I still think it's the highest praise I've ever received for anything I've written.