Standing on an Apple Box Read online

  The Lord of the Seven Hills has continued to grace my mother’s devotion. Every devotee of his must have a story that demonstrates his love—problems averted, miraculous darshans and much more. My mother also has one. Eighteen years after the wedding, when she was on a pilgrimage to Tirupati, she reached the temple very late in the evening. She was travelling alone and back then, there were no late-night darshans, so she was feeling pretty disheartened. She walked in anyway, hoping to have a glimpse of the Lord before they shut, but the person guarding the queue complex told her to turn back.

  She stood there alone, knowing that she had an urgent appointment the next day and would have to return the same night. The disappointment was immense. To come all this way and return without seeing Lord Balaji was almost a physical blow. She stood there praying, ‘I have come to see you, I know I am late, but if you wish, please make it happen.’

  The head priest was rushing for the closing of the sanctum. He saw Amma standing there alone in the empty temple courtyard, praying. ‘What are you doing here so late, Amma? Come, let’s go in and catch a glimpse before they close the doors,’ he said. He led her to the temple. She was awestruck by her luck. The priest had not recognized her. He was just being solicitous to a desperate devotee. The Lord stood there glowing in the dark, as if waiting for her. Those who have seen the splendour of the eight-foot deity can imagine the scene. She fell at his feet, all else forgotten. Spellbound, not even remembering the prayers she had to say or the problems she wanted to leave at his feet. Then, remembering her surroundings, she got up to leave so that she would not delay the closing procedures. That was when the chief priest came by again.

  ‘Amma, I have a request. We count the hundial collections at night and need a witness to sign the ledger at the end of the day. The person who usually does it has not been able to make it. Would it be possible to wait for a while and witness the total for us?’

  Amma was dumbstruck at her luck. The priest was asking her to bask in her Lord’s glow for some more time. She nodded and continued to stand there, gazing at the deity’s visage, overwhelmed and filled with wonder. When the counting was done, Amma signed and crosschecked the locks and the amount. In her ecstasy, she did not realize she had made history. There were no other women witnesses in that temple ledger.

  A Matter of a Thousand

  Imagine a crisp thousand-rupee note, pink and fresh. A few years ago, it could buy a whole lot of things. Today—not so much. You may even have a couple of them in your wallet right now.

  And don’t bother denying it, that’s what almost all of us want a lot more of. From the factory worker who wishes for a few thousand more to buy a bike, to a bank manager who wants a few more lakhs so he can afford to move to a better house, to the hot entrepreneur looking for a few million more to be invested in his company.

  But what is the real value of a thousand rupees? To those with a background in economics or banking or commerce, who have figures and formulae running through their heads: Stop! That’s not where I am headed.

  My father was eleven years old when it happened. My eldest uncle was engaged to a girl from Somarhalli, which is a couple of hours by road from Bangalore. The engagement was conducted in the traditional way. The two families met, exchanged sweets and clothes, and agreed on a date. The year was 1961.

  The wedding was to be held at the girl’s place and two days before the date, the entire family was packed and ready. My grandfather’s contribution to the wedding was to be a thousand rupees, to be given on the day of the wedding. He had mortgaged his 1200 sq. ft house to get the money, which was to be delivered to the house at 9 a.m., on the day they were supposed to leave. The scary part of this was that my grandfather did not have any supporting documents or a receipt for the mortgage. It was done entirely on trust.

  Nobody came at 9 a.m. There was still no sign of the money at 2 p.m. Panic mounted, yet there was nothing to be done. There was no other way to get that kind of money, and no way to contact the moneylender. Remember, this was long before the era of telephonic communication. Appa recalls the tension building inside that small home. Ten family members waited, praying and hoping. Finally, every other activity came to a standstill and they all sat, every eye turned to the open door. No one said a word. My grandfather’s face reflected their anxiety and the potential embarrassment, the shame the groom’s family would face if they did not come up with the promised money.

  Appa remembers being hungry but too scared to ask for food, and watching the female members of his family weep silent tears as the men sat around, staring at the door. The day passed and the night brought a thunderstorm with it. The door was shut, but every eye was still turned to it. The heavy silence was broken only by the sound of the rain and the thunder. Nobody ate, nobody spoke. Anxiety had turned to fear. My grandfather’s face had turned to stone, but his eyes still watched the door, his lips moving silently in prayer. The storm was getting worse, the wind wailed outside and rainwater leaked through the roof. Nobody slept.

  At 3 a.m., there was a knock on the door. At first Appa couldn’t believe it. But the knock sounded again.

  The entire household surged towards the door. There stood a man, barely holding on to a battered umbrella that was being thrashed around by the storm. Appa remembers thinking that at that moment, the man was like a god who had answered all their prayers.

  The man stepped inside, dripping water, and pulled out a stack of old notes, which he handed over to my grandfather, while apologizing for the delay. Appa recalls the relief and the happiness on his father’s face. And the thousand rupees that were responsible for this.

  The family immediately left for the bride’s place where the wedding was conducted simply but beautifully, and my aunt was brought home.

  Invariably, every time I see a thousand-rupee note, I am reminded of this incident. Specifically, the deep emotion with which my father narrated it. It brought home to me the blessings I had, and I hope to pass this on to my sons. Their superstar grandfather learned the value of money the hard way, and his example will help them learn it with as little heartache as possible.

  Fathers and Daughters

  It was a few days before my eighteenth birthday. The magical day when the portals of adulthood would open and I would be free. (Don’t fall off your chairs laughing; I was a pretty naïve seventeen-year-old.) There was some additional history to my birthday obsession. I was born on the first of January, which meant my special day was squeezed between roaring parties (which I was never ever allowed to attend), hangovers, making resolutions, temple visits, meditation and whatever else people do on New Year’s day. I am not exaggerating. Unless you share my birthday, you cannot know the frustration of sharing your day with a global celebration, in which one half of the population is out celebrating and the other half is looking inward and praying.

  ‘Happy New Year! Happy New Year! Oh, and by the way, happy birthday.’

  So I had grand plans and high hopes for my eighteenth, the day I could legally drive, vote, drink and marry, but like all teenagers, I found something much more important to desire—I wanted to go to a club. An exciting new one had opened in orthodox Madras, and its wonders had reached even my sheltered ears. I just wanted to see what it was like inside one; drinking or dancing with strangers did not even cross my mind. A club symbolized every kind of freedom that being an adult would bring, but I had to overcome a huge hurdle. My Appa. Amma was protective, but then, mothers know when their daughters have grown up. As every woman knows, fathers have a peculiar idea about what their girls should do, or not do, irrespective of how old they are. My father was no different. I was, and will always be, his little girl. He himself had a rather conservative upbringing, and there was a strict line my sister and I could not cross. At the same time, he often surprised us with his adaptability to change when it came to our wishes, and keeping that in mind, I decided to ask him.

  Now the smart ones reading this may ask a simple question. Why didn’t I sneak out? With
a strict family, in an orthodox city with friends and relatives around, it is difficult. But with a superstar as your father, in a city that worships him, under the watchful gaze of a pretty nosy society, it is impossible. To put it into perspective—I managed to have exactly one sleepover in the entire time I lived with my parents.

  Since sneaking out was not an option, I came up with a brilliant plan. I would do the opposite and be entirely truthful about my birthday wishes. Appa has always appreciated honesty; besides, I was going to hit the big eighteen! So the day before the big one, I gathered up all my courage and asked him, ‘Can I go to the new discotheque with my friends?’ Appa froze for a minute before speaking. And his response stunned me.

  ‘Of course, Kanna, good you brought it up. I will take you myself tomorrow!’

  It was my turn to freeze. This was somehow worse than an outright no. But beggars can’t be choosers. If it was my fate to go to my first club hangout with my father, so be it. Nothing could dampen the excitement of getting my way. I called up every one of my friends. I was going to party!

  New Year’s Eve, and all my wishes were coming true. A few relatives and friends gathered at home and the mood was festive. I kept waiting for Appa to give the signal to leave. Nothing happened. I could not gather the courage to remind him. Every bit of it had gone into asking him for permission in the first place. Finally, at 11.30 p.m., when I had almost given up hope, my cousin came running up to me. ‘Guess what! We are going to the club with your father.’

  I almost burst with happiness.

  My poor sister was bundled off to an aunt because she was underage and after gathering the rest of the family and friends, we left for the hotel in eight cars. Yes, eight cars. I know of couples who went on their honeymoon by bus, with their entire extended family, so this was tame in comparison. I sat next to Appa, grinning all the way.

  The hotel was not prepared for the invasion of the Rajinikanth family. News spread and people started fighting to get into the place. Twenty bouncers were arranged. The police had to be called. It was turning into a pretty memorable birthday eve. The disco was electrifying: there was noise, colour, music and revelry in true New Year’s eve style, heightened by the excitement of a star’s presence in the middle of it all. I was overwhelmed. Though the bouncers formed a protective circle around us, people were crowding in, hoping to touch Appa, wish him, or just soak in the atmosphere around him. For someone brought up in relatively sheltered ways, it was awesome!

  We had been in the club for all of ten minutes when it struck midnight. The entire family was enjoying themselves. Appa gave me a hug. ‘Happy birthday, Kanna… happy?’ I was ecstatic. Everyone around us was screaming Happy New Year, including the extremely loud DJ. But my father had wished me Happy Birthday first. I was on cloud nine.

  The fall back was not very comfortable.

  ‘Shall we leave?’

  I thought I had heard him wrong. The confusion must have shown on my face.

  ‘You wanted to see a discotheque, I have done my duty and shown you one. Let’s leave now.’

  Disappointment nearly brought tears to my eyes. I wanted to soak in the noise and excitement some more. Maybe dance with my cousins.

  He gestured to Amma, who gathered us together, ready to leave. The crowd, by now, had become almost unmanageable. We left immediately and went home to sleep like good children. What an anticlimax for an eighteenth birthday. But looking back, I think it was the best fifteen-minute birthday party I have ever had.

  I can sympathize with my father now and laugh at my younger self. He had to straddle two worlds, the traditional one he was brought up in and the modern one his daughters were growing up in. I may be prejudiced as his daughter, but I think he handled it like a true superstar!

  Lungi & the Louvre

  We Indians are a nosy lot. Within the span of a train journey, we often find out everything about our fellow travellers including their birth star. But when it comes to celebrities, we are thankfully much less prying than in the West. I see photos of scared, confused and often angry star children being chased by photographers and thank my lucky stars that I had a relatively normal childhood. Like most kids, my summer holidays were spent at my maternal grandparents’ home, a modest three-bedroom apartment in the middle of the then sedate and calm Bangalore. Kids from the entire building played together in the evenings and friendships were formed. The ties forged then are strong even today. My grandmother believed in pampering her grandchildren throughout the vacation and would cook us delicious meals, take us out for ice cream, movies and shopping. Some of my favourite memories include taking long walks inside the Indian Institute of Science (IISc) campus and playing for hours with the other kids in the building.

  Thanks to my mother, vacations with Appa would also be somehow arranged. She understood their significance and convinced her workaholic husband of the importance of happy childhood memories that involved the entire family. So whenever possible, Appa would take some precious time off during our vacations and we would go on a holiday. Since he was instantly recognized everywhere in India, these holidays would often take us abroad, so that we could enjoy our time together as a normal family. We could go for walks and take him shopping like normal fathers and daughters.

  One of these rare holidays was in Western Europe—London, Zurich, Bern and Paris—with a big group of family and friends. As usual my sister and I spent the entire flight watching movies back to back while Appa slept. I have always admired his talent for sleeping whenever he could, without being disturbed by anything that goes on around him. Back then I would wonder how he managed to keep so calm during the excitement of flying. Now I understand and sympathize. When I travel with the boys, I can’t wait for them to settle down so I can take a much needed nap!

  The next few days were fun and everyone was enjoying themselves immensely. There were around thirty suitcases and assorted hand baggage to be taken care of as we hopped from one city to the next. Inevitably, by the time we reached our beautiful Paris hotel overlooking the Eiffel Tower, one suitcase was lost and it was mine. The bellboy had delivered everyone’s ‘bursting at the seams’ suitcases except mine. I had been so engrossed in the view that I forgot to check if my suitcase had arrived. I was sharing a room with my sister and cousin, who were so busy checking out the French menu and the foreign channels on TV that they just assumed everything had been delivered.

  It was around noon and the plan was to leave the hotel as soon as everyone had freshened up, to see the sights. My sister went first, and once she was in the bathroom, I decided to unpack but couldn’t find my suitcase. I ran out and checked every room that our family were in but there was no sign of it. The bellboy couldn’t remember if mine was amidst the rest of the luggage and the front desk wasn’t helpful at all. I walked around the hotel frantically looking for my black suitcase with the pink ribbons I had tied around the handle so that I could identify it easily. Giving up, I barged into my parents’ room and flung myself on the bed, crying. I was in the city where fashion was foremost and didn’t have any clothes to wear! Amma called the airport, the concierge and everyone in between, but no luck. By then everyone was ready to head out to lunch. I was dressed in smelly, wrinkled clothes and desperately needed to shower. There was no way I could borrow someone else’s clothes either. My sister was much smaller than me, so were my cousins. (Okay, I will admit it, I was pretty big in my childhood.) My mother’s and aunts’ clothes were too large. They would fall off me.

  I was crying helplessly on the bed when Appa came back into the room. ‘Get up and go shower,’ he said. ‘You can wear my t-shirt and my lungi. It will look fine, trust me.’

  Yes, my ‘comfort first’ Appa travelled with a lungi to Paris and was now ready to make it, and his chubby, image-obsessed tween, worthy of the fashion capital.

  Styled by the stylish superstar and with his encouraging words, ‘We are in Paris, let’s make a statement!’ ringing in my ears, I walked out more confident than I would
have been in my own tee and jeans and feeling infinitely more special. I admit my memory of that day has ‘style style dhan’ as the background score! (Though I did have to put up with my sister teasing me until I bought new clothes. But then, it is the duty of the younger sister to bring the elder one back to earth, once in a while.)

  Sisters

  I enjoy having a sister. My very first memories of Soundarya, or Mittu as she is called at home, are of her visits to Bangalore. She would usually land up during my vacation time. She was a really cute, chubby baby and I loved her. She was also a total mommy’s girl and would cling to Amma and want her around all the time. I always looked forward to their visits. It was almost a celebration at home—until I realized I had to share my toys with her! I wasn’t used to sharing anything with anyone at that point. Little did I know that in a few years we would be inseparable and sharing a bedroom.

  My sister and I are opposites in every sense. I grew up in a traditional household with my grandparents who had certain rules that had to be followed. She grew up with my mother who can never be anything but indulgent. I love classical dance and played the veena when I was growing up. My sister loved golf and played the piano. I am a voracious reader while she hardly reads books, but she can sketch well. I write and she is an artist. She is an extrovert, I am an introvert. She makes bold choices while I go with the flow. And there is just one difference that bothers me. We were both plump little babies, but after a point she lost all the baby weight and has remained stick thin!

  Other than being related by blood, my sister and I share a special bond. It may have been created due to the circumstances of our birth and upbringing or the fact that Appa always gave a lot of importance to family. Family comes first and we both believe in that implicitly. No matter what happens, she will have my back and I hers. We aren’t very demonstrative or clingy as siblings. I was never one to share my feelings openly; she understood that part of me and always worked around it. I treasure this non-judgemental aspect of our relationship and when we get an opportunity to let our hair down and enjoy ourselves, it has always been epic. Our most special moments have been unplanned, often ending in long gossip and bonding sessions that last through the night.