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  My Father, the Superstar

  We love the idea of educating our children. We go to great lengths to ensure they get into the best schools. From registering at birth, queuing up at midnight to get applications, to calling up your third cousin’s wife’s brother’s colleague’s grandfather for a recommendation. Then we enrol them in every extracurricular activity or class in the vicinity. I am guilty of this too, though I feel I am doing it for the right reason: to give my children an opportunity to learn a variety of skills. And while running them from one thing to another, I keep in mind a valuable lesson I learned from my father.

  I was about five years old and playing by myself in the living room, where Appa sat immersed in some papers. There was a pedestal fan in one corner. Those of you with children know what happens when a toddler and a whirring set of blades meet. My fingers were in dangerous proximity to the fan blades when my father swooped in, much like the heroes he plays on screen, and whipped me away. And like most parents who have had a fright due to their child’s inattentiveness, proceeded to give me a scolding. I was not used to seeing an angry Appa, and ran away to cry and sulk in another room.

  A couple of hours later, as Appa was leaving for a shoot, I, with a normal five-year-old’s resilience, came running out to give him a tight hug and a big smile. I don’t remember any of this, but in later years Appa recalled the overwhelming sense of guilt and love he felt at that moment. He was struck by the innocence of a child who can forget a frightful scolding and love unconditionally. Most of us would not have recognized this life lesson, but Appa with his innate sense of empathy and humility made this simple episode a learning experience. Many of us would have given the child another lecture on staying out of trouble and spoilt the moment; I know I would have been tempted to. But not Appa. There is, I have always felt, a deep vein of innocence in Appa that helps him to recognize it in others.

  It did not stop there; one day Appa came to me and asked permission to use the scene in a movie that had scope for it in the storyline. Remember, this is a traditional Indian father, a movie actor and a very successful personality asking permission from his daughter, long before personal privacy, children’s individuality, etc., became buzzwords. Of course my reaction was a resounding Yes!

  I didn’t even have to think about it, because my Appa had.

  The scene with some modifications made it into a movie called Annamalai. I like to think that it’s the super father in him that translated on to the screen and made him such a beloved superstar.

  Sacred Ashes

  Appa’s spiritual temperament is well known. While most of it is directed inward, there is one thing that embodies his spirituality in his appearance. After his bath in the morning, he smears three lines of vibhuti on his forehead before leaving for work, and this is repeated after his evening bath too, irrespective of whether he is spending the night at home or going out. I don’t know if it was my wild childhood imagination or just the result of seeing my father fresh and ready to take on the day or night, mixed with the heavenly fragrance and the gravitas of an ancient ritual, but I thought his face radiated a sense of otherworldly calm every time he placed those three lines on his forehead. I would ape him blindly, placing a small line on my own forehead every morning and night. But I didn’t feel any different. So one day, I asked him why it was such an important part of his routine. I expected the answer to be something like, his elder brother had done it before him and he was just following his example—or something similar. But as always, the story turned out to be much more interesting.

  Appa had his primary education at Gavipuram Government School. Today, Gavipuram is a bustling Bengaluru suburb, but back then it was a small temple town with the spectacular Gavi Gangadeeswara temple as its focal point. Appa would get up in the morning, have a bath and rush to join his friend Thimmappa, to begin their walk to school. The families expected the boys to take care of each other on their way to and from school. The boys enjoyed each other’s company and Appa often helped Thimmappa with his homework.

  On their way back, they passed the Gavi Gangadeeswara temple while the first evening puja was in progress, and they would have the prasad before returning home. On weekends too, they would rush to the temple in the evening, just in time for the prasad, and eat it sitting outside. The architecture of that Shiva temple is an instance of ancient Indian engineering at its best. It is carved out of a single granite cave and mysterious stones, whose purpose is lost in time, adorn the entrance. Four monoliths loom above the temple while four pillars, with the sun, the moon, and two Nandis guard the cave. During Makar Shankranthi or the winter solstice, and during the summer solstice, the sun’s rays pass precisely between the horns of the Nandis and illuminate the Shiva Linga within the sanctum. As the name suggests, the Gangadeeswara temple is said to have strong ties with Rishikesh and wild theories of tunnels leading all the way north to the holy city from the hill behind the temple are told. I remember when I visited it in my early twenties, there was a stone arch with the Kannada words ‘Bagadho Bagilu’ (Gateway to Wealth) at the foot of the hill.

  To the two primary school boys, the hill was almost a mountain and sitting outside the temple, eating the prasad, the mysterious stones and strange tales were always at the back of their mind. Appa was very curious, but of course no one in the family would allow a ten-year-old to climb the steep, thickly foliated rock face. And so a whole year went by with Appa’s curiosity growing day by day. Apart from the elders’ warnings, Thimmappa would also not let Appa do anything foolhardy. So he would stare at the hill every morning and evening as he passed, wondering what was at the peak. Another village? Another marvellous temple?

  One evening, as Appa was returning from school, he spotted something saffron amidst the green foliage. He ran up to the foot of the hill to get a better look. Two large saffron-coloured sheets were fluttering in the wind, tethered to a line. Appa was excited. There was someone on the hill and he wanted to investigate immediately, but as always Thimmappa dissuaded him and it was getting dark too. He spent the night in agony, thinking about what he had seen. The next day he ran to the foot of the hill on his way to school, but there was nothing to be seen. Tears of disappointment led to an impulsive decision and he started climbing the hill, ignoring Thimmappa’s pleas to stop. The slope was slippery and the climb was tough, and he had barely gone a few paces up when one of their schoolmasters spotted the boys. As was the custom in those days, they were given a good spanking and sent to class with a warning to never try climbing the hill again.

  Appa couldn’t concentrate in class. An entire year of curiosity, followed by the appearance of those mysterious saffron sheets, lit up his now eleven-year-old imagination and sense of adventure. Who had hung them there? What were they doing up there? Were they still up there or had they gone? After school, when he glanced up, there was no flutter of saffron on the hill. His curiosity had also dampened due to Thimmappa’s reluctance, the spanking and the elders’ warnings and he walked back home feeling miserable.

  The next morning, as he was getting ready to leave for school, Thimmappa’s mother came over to say that he was ill and wouldn’t be accompanying him to school that day. My elder uncle decided that Appa was now old enough to walk to school alone, at least this one time, and so Appa set out, still miserable and missing Thimmappa’s companionship. The sky was overcast and there was a strong wind blowing. As he reached the gates of the school, big fat drops of rain started falling. Everybody ran to the classrooms, but Appa couldn’t help it. He looked up at the hill. There was one saffron cloth, slowly getting drenched in the rain. The first bell had rung, and everyone else had disappeared inside. Without thinking twice, he tossed his schoolbag aside and ran up the slippery slope, the climb made even more precarious because of the rain. The footholds were sharp but something kept him moving. It wasn’t an easy climb for an eleven-year-old and it was sheer grit that made him reach the top.

  Five trees stood at the summit. Under one of the trees, the
ground had been cleared and swept. An old man sat in the clearing and on either side of him stood two young men. All three wore only a saffron cloth wrapped around the waist. To Appa, it appeared as though they were waiting for him. The old man’s face radiated serenity and their bodies seemed to be shining through the rain.

  Appa narrated the story to us as if it had all happened a few hours earlier, not decades ago. He stood there, as if trying to absorb the energy coming from those three figures. The old man beckoned him forward and he went up to them without hesitation. In his words, it was like an iron nail being pulled by a magnet. The old man smiled and said, ‘I was waiting for you, you took some time to reach here.’ There was nothing he could say in response, it felt so surreal. The old man reached into a terracotta cup next to him and took out some vibhuti. He then proceeded to smear it all over the little boy’s forehead. Appa says he felt something pass through him. A strange sort of vibration, even though the earth and the sky were still. The man gestured for him to leave and without looking back, Appa walked down the hill. His bag lay where he had dropped it. He picked it up and headed to the temple where he sat the entire day. He still doesn’t remember how he reached the foot of the hill in that rain. As evening approached, he heard his classmates walk past the temple and decided to head home himself. Nobody had noticed him climb up or come down. The only difference was a forehead smeared with ash.

  From the next day onwards, on his way to school, Appa would stop at the temple and ask the priest for some vibhuti and apply it on his forehead. He never saw those saffron-clad men again.

  I listened to Appa’s story with a sense of awe. At eleven, someone had awakened the latent spiritualism in my father. I couldn’t see it any other way. In time, I came to accept it as I did some of the other inexplicable facets of Appa’s life. I now see the fact of Appa starting his day by adorning his forehead with vibhuti as not just a ritual, but an extension of that first act of initiation.

  Meditation

  Want to get something out of me? Forget the torture and the treats. A simple dark room and a ghost story will do. I am reduced to a shivering mass of fear when it comes to the dark and the supernatural that is associated with it. I have never seen a ghost or experienced anything paranormal but that doesn’t deter my overactive imagination from conjuring up spirits that follow me in the dark or ghosts at the foot of my bed waiting for me to open my eyes. So, even after three decades of life on earth and raising kids of my own, I sleep with the night lamp on. I also cannot bear to listen to ghost stories, discuss the supernatural or watch a horror movie. In fact, I have watched every genre of film except horror.

  Appa obviously has no such fears. In fact, he enjoys the dark. From as long back as I can remember, he would come back from work, have a bath and spend some time in a dimly lit room. Not only was the room kept dark, there were mirrors on four sides, reflecting the play of shadows, making the room seem extremely frightening to my young eyes. Later I realized he was meditating in that room and once I was old enough, I asked him why the room was so dimly lit and why it had those mirrors and why he spent so much time there. Did it not get boring? Didn’t dark and macabre thoughts intrude during the meditation? The other places of worship I had seen were loud and bright, filled with gold and brass.

  Appa smiled. Looking back, I understand that smile, especially since both my boys have started asking me questions about my habits and beliefs. His answer still echoes in my heart.

  ‘All my life, I dreamt of achieving something big. I struggled, worked hard and with dedication and finally I achieved what I wanted. Fortune, fame and more. But as I climbed the ladder, I noticed something. The higher I got, the lonelier I became. There were very few around me who genuinely liked me. Many were jealous, which is a common human trait, but they turned that jealousy into an irrational hatred. My friends couldn’t relate with me any more as my goals had changed and become more complex, as had the subjects that interested me, the problems that troubled me. Some people see loneliness at the top as security, but the reluctance of most people to have even a decent conversation with me troubled me. Most kept their distance due to respect, or a perceived difference in status. Alone in a constant crowd of people, I did not have time for anybody, not friends, not family, not even my own children. They were away at school when I left for work and fast asleep when I returned. Above all, I did not have time for myself.

  ‘So every day, I carve out a bit of quiet time in that room. I am an actor who is constantly in the spotlight, literally and figuratively. The shooting lights are so bright that sometimes they hurt the eyes. [Remember, this was the late eighties.] So I keep the room dim to give my eyes some rest and I also feel hidden from the spotlight and at ease with myself. There’s nobody to judge me, evaluate my actions or watch my every move. I can see myself in the mirror dimly, reflecting not just me but what has happened to me in the course of the day. The rights and wrongs I have done, or could have done, and in turn, what people have done to me. Have I used the day that god has given me well? Did I deserve it? What have I learned from it? I reflect on all this and absorb the lessons that are revealed in return.

  ‘Each of the four mirrors gives me an illusion of being outside myself and hence outside the issue I am thinking about. It gives me a different perspective, sometimes four different perspectives. I have always been of the opinion that everything should be analysed and thought through from different angles before any conclusions are arrived at, or decisions made, and the mirrors are a physical manifestation of those different perspectives. The room is my homework. It helps me deal with my isolation and the loss of perspective that it brings. It comforts me and it is my alone time. I need it to analyse whether I am growing or stagnating, because at the top, nobody tells you that. Everybody should have this “me” time to sit back, outside your everyday life, and see how you have weathered the precious twenty-four hours that god has given you. I am a clean slate again when I step out of the room. I am ready to sleep well and face the next day. It has now become a duty that I owe to my own well-being. I grow there and I learn there.’

  Mirrors have never been the same for me again. I now try to see not just my outer reflection, but also my inner self and try and find the strength to always remain true to myself. Because whatever happens, I cannot hide from the reflection in the mirror. From myself.

  I was fascinated by my father’s philosophy and for the most part, I have tried and tested it in my own life. As for my fear of the unknown, Appa always says, if there is good in the world, there has to be bad for balance to be maintained. Think dark thoughts and fear will surround you. Think good thoughts and good will come to you. Which is easier said than done, so my night lamp still stays on.

  The Lord

  A whole generation of Indian women consider their husbands to be their lord and master. Not my mother. For her, Tirupati Lord Venkateswara is the be-all and end-all, though Appa comes a very close second and is almost on the same pedestal. So here is the one story that I never tire of hearing and I can watch any number of repeat shows of my mother narrating it.

  Once upon a time there was a middle-class, college-going girl in Chennai, studying English literature at Ethiraj College for Women. She was not like other girls of her age. She wanted to dedicate her life to social causes. Her other great love was music. So, at an early age, she decided marriage was not for her. Her parents worried about this, but she was happy with her life. Destiny, though, had other plans for her.

  One day, the girl’s sister convinced her to go along and watch a movie at the local theatre. A man appeared on the screen and her steadfast young mind was disturbed for the first time. She felt a strange connection to this tall, dark hero, who was unlike any other actor. It burned at the back of her mind. Fate too had seen the connection. Not long after, she was asked to interview an actor for the college magazine. Her elder sister’s husband was part of the movie industry. He got her an interview with none other than that charismatic hero, the one who had
disturbed the quiet of her mind. In the span of one interview, a soulmate was discovered. Like in the script of a blockbuster, the superhero fell for the simple college girl with high ideals. And in true Tamil movie style, he told her (not asked her) at their first meeting, ‘I will marry you’ and the girl surrendered, like a devotee might before a favourite deity.

  That was not the end of the fairy tale. The families agreed and a wedding date was fixed. The hero was one of the trustees of the Tirumala Tirupathi Devasthanam while Sri N.T. Rama Rao was the chief minister. (He stepped down after his term was over.) Hence they were allowed to worship at the sanctum sanctorum. In his humility, the hero never misused his position. He considered himself to be just another ardent devotee and was surprised to discover that his fiancée shared the same devotion.

  At the sanctum sanctorum of the Lord’s abode, the hero took out the sacred tali and tied it around Amma’s neck and they were joined as one. No pomp, no splendour, no time spent in long rituals and no stopping the stream of other eagerly waiting devotees. As far as I know, it is the only wedding to have been solemnized so close to the Lord. It was the perfect spiritual union.

  I still get goosebumps imagining the scene. Appa’s intensity and my mother’s joy. Of course, according to me, the best part of the story comes later, when they were blessed with two bundles of joy, one after the other.

  The newly-weds had a grand reception when they got back to Chennai, where the great NTR was a guest. Appa went up to him and thanked him for the privilege of having got married in front of Lord Balaji. NTR, with his characteristic grace, replied, ‘I did not choose to do it, Lord Venkateswara did.’