Nadopasana: A Story of Sound and Soul: Part 4 of 4

The Surrender

‘Fifteen years rolled by. Ramaiya was a grown man, and had started doing the bulk of the work in the farm. He was stronger than me, both physically and mentally. He didn’t seem to mourn his parents as much as I did. We were comfortable and had enough to eat. We found a suitable boy for Kamakshi. Ramaiya always thanked God for being kind to us, but I wasn’t sure God deserved any credit.’

‘My nightmares still troubled me. I’d wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, remember that I was a grown man, and there was no one to comfort me and nudge me back to sleep like Gauri did.’

‘One evening, as I was drying my clothes, Ayya declared to his students that he had a new composition. He sang the raga nattai; his students repeated his phrases. Then he started teaching the new composition.’

The old man stayed silent for a minute, with eyes closed, and started singing:

‘jagada-Ananda kAraka

jaya jAnakI prANa nAyaka’

‘The song simply enumerated many names venerating Lord Rama. It was all in Sanskrit. Ayya explained the meaning as he went. He explained that there was no verb in the entire composition. It starts by hailing Lord Rama as the provider of happiness for the world. I found it fascinating.  Stanzas flowed one after another. There was no symmetry in notes between paragraphs, no repetition. The variety and beauty in the composition was breathtaking. All the nattai I had learned came rushing back.  I was humming the song for a week after I first listened to it.’

‘They were learning the song all week. As I started paying attention to the lines, the words offended me. How can you call a deity the provider of happiness for the world, when He allowed a young man and his wife, mother of two children - no, mother of three children -  to be cruelly taken from their worlds? I had always had an agnostic streak in me, and pondering on the meaning of that song made me question the purpose of devotion even more. I was no longer a musician, but that did not stop me from questioning my guru’s statements as to how devotion was essential to music.’

‘I raised this with my guru when I ran into him next. He sadly shook his head and walked away without replying.’

‘My routine continued. It had been a bad year for the crops. It hadn’t rained. The rivers were running low. Kollidam was dry. Kaveri had some water, but not enough to flow into the distributaries. The canal adjacent to my fields was bone-dry. We were waiting for rain, and were aware that the crops were running out of time. Ramaiya and I tried hard, but we were a few days away from ruined crops, and possibly hunger, a condition we hadn’t known. What sort of parent I’d be to these children if I allowed them to go hungry, I asked myself quietly.’

'I felt sadder than usual after performing my brother’s annual rites that year. Guruparan, the priest, asked me to remember Gauri, but reiterated that we were making no offerings for her. My heart ached. I went home listlessly, asking Ramaiya to tend to the fields that day without me.’

'That evening, when I went to the river, Ayya was asking his students to elaborate the raga Arabhi. I sat with my eyes closed, remembering my guru’s Arabhi. After some time, Ayya sang a new song that he had composed in the raga. 

‘amba ninnu nammiti nanTE nI kanumAna mEmamma?’: ‘O mother, why would you doubt that I placed my trust in you?’ 

I found this moving. Perhaps the reference to a mother?

Beatiful Arabhi seemed to rise like a tide and engulf the mantap, the riverside, and all its occupants.

As the song progressed, I was drawn in by its message. Ayya sang each passage and explained its meaning.

sarma dAyaki gauri dush-

karma kalusha vana kuThAri

nirmala tyAgarAja hRc-cAri

dharma saMvardhani OMkAri

My eyes welled when I heard the line ‘O Mother Gauri, she who confers happiness’. Another line implying that a deity confers happiness, but this time I had no problem imagining the deity to be a merciful mother, someone you can surrender all your problems to. She was Gauri, after all!

Tears obscured my vision. I walked without being able to see clearly,  but my feet took me to the mantap. I settled on the floor as they completed the lesson. I sat still. As the students dispersed, a few nodded to me in recognition. Ayya looked at me quizzically. 

I wiped my tears and took a good look at the man. He looked about my age, but the serenity and the aura on his face made him look older, wiser. I put my palms together to offer him my respects. I introduced myself, ‘Swami (respected sir), I’m a farmer. I learned nadaswaram in my younger days from Thiru Aiyarappan Pillai. Will you teach me this kriti?’

His austere expression eased. He seemed pleased. His eyes wore an amused look. ‘I can, but I will need to know that you are ready. Can you play something for me in nadaswaram tomorrow morning?’

I sat there, watching the streams left in the drying river for a little longer.

The next morning, I reached before daybreak, and waited for Ayya to arrive and finish his morning prayers.

I couldn’t have explained my choice if anyone had asked, but when he signalled me to play, I played the raga Nattai.

When I stopped, he started singing ‘Jagadananda karaka’, and signalled me to repeat it. I complied. I placed the nadhaswaram on the ground and verbally sang the phrases, as the words seemed important. It wasn’t the kriti I came to learn, but it didn’t matter. The deity didn’t matter. Complete surrender did. And worship through music mattered. Nadopasana, as my guru would have called it!

As we wrapped up, clouds gathered. It started raining. Gentle rain that landed on the leaves of the peepal tree. Soon, another kind of music filled the arena - the rustling of the leaves disturbed by the droplets, and the pat-pat sound of the drops hitting the ground. The smell of wet ground hit the nostrils.

I told Ramaiya that evening that I was handing the farm over to him. He had been ready for years. After a rain that signalled a fresh revival seemed like the apt time.

The next morning, I walked to my guru’s residence, placed a tray of betel leaves, a bunch of bananas, and a few coins at his feet and begged him to take me back. He seemed pleased as he embraced me. He looked old and frail. But something told me that his age wouldn’t affect his ability to guide me. It took me another six years before I felt ready to play concerts. But in the meantime, I was able to move people through my performances in a way that I hadn’t been able to earlier.

My nightmares mostly disappeared. On the rare occasions they did wake me, I was able to imagine Gauri singing me to sleep and fall asleep again.'

—---------

After the old man finished the story, there was compete silence, as if it put everyone in a trance. In a few minutes, his students respectfully approached him with their instruments. He gave them some directions in a low voice. 

Everyone walked over to the riverside after a drink of tender coconut water. The students had placed a pair of coir cots in front of the banyan tree. The evening breeze had set in. They were ready to play. The music started when everyone was seated.

Richard felt peace wash over him. It was all glides and bends in the notes, not the kind of music that he was familiar with. But it was enthralling, all the same. Ponnan explained that the two songs they played were the kritis in Nattai and Arabhi.

On the way back, Richard didn’t speak much. He was speculating if his view of music would have been different if he’d been aware of Nadopasana in his choir days in the village church in England.

Historical footnotes

1. Saint Tyagaraja was born in the year 1767. He produced much of his work under times of great social and economic stress in the region.
2. The Thanjavur region was nominally under the rule of the Marathas at that time, but was torn in the power struggle between Hyder Ali and the East India Company.
3. The battle that occurs in the story is Tipu Sultan’s defeat of British Colonel Braithwaite at Annagudi near Kumbakonam in February 1782. Tipu was Hyder Ali's son. He led the army into that battle.
4. Mysorean forces invaded and occupied Thanjavur region for several months. They plundered the countryside, destroyed crops and cattle, and extracted allegiance from King Thuljaji. This caused severe economic devastation. Folk tales talk about children being kidnapped on a large scale. This was considered a dark era for the region. Folklore refers to this era as Hyderakalam. (Source: Wikipedia)

Nadopasana: A Story of Sound and Soul: Part 3 of 4

The Reluctant Farmer

Ponnan learned the art of farming. He worked hard all day, but his nightmares returned to deny him the necessary rest at night. The local medic was unable to find the cause or a cure.

--------------

A ten year old girl, with a smaller, shy girl in tow, came out of the house. She interrupted the story at this point, announcing in a squeaky voice that plantain leaves had been laid for lunch.

‘The two girls here are your grand-daughters, I presume?’, asked Richard.

‘You can say that. Ramaiya’s children. Ramaiya is as good as my son. You remember the name, right? Ramaiya is Manian’s son. And Gauri’s.’

Richard noticed that his voice fell as he pronounced Gauri’s name, as if trying to avoid a painful memory.

‘And where are your children?’

‘Ramaiya and Kamakshi have been my children. I never married. Kamakshi now lives on the other side of the Kollidam river. It feels like she was a child just days ago -  now she has a child of her own! Her husband is devoted to  her. He farms rice and bananas.’, Ponnan said with a hint of pride.

A woman, who was introduced as Ramaiya’s wife, greeted them with her palms together, and served lunch with the assistance of the two girls. The lunch was elaborate, but unfamiliar to Richard. He ate so as not to be rude to his hosts. Valavan seemed to relish the meal. 

They returned to the cots after the meal. Richard was a bit stiff from sitting cross legged on the floor for the meal. It was still hot, but somehow he was less bothered by the heat now.

The older man seemed a bit lost in thoughts. He came to the present, and asked if Richard would like to listen to some music before hearing the rest of the story. Richard, engrossed by the tale, wanted to hear the story first. Ponnan seemed relieved, and remarked that late afternoon or early evening would be a more  appropriate time for music in any case..

‘So, you went back to farming. I’m eager to learn how you managed to master the instrument’, prompted Richard.

‘I didn’t touch my nadaswaram for a few months after leaving my guru.’, resumed Ponnan. ‘But I got to listen to music. I used to go to the river first thing in the morning to bathe. In the evening, I’d return to the river to wash the cows, clean my plough and spade, and simply rest and catch some breeze. This man, Tyagaiyya, simply called ayya, and his disciples used to teach younger students in the mantap nearby. The locals used to say in hushed tones that the group assembled for music every day. They didn’t pause their practice even when the armies clashed and the soldiers were running around.’

‘I would listen passively as they sang. Once again, the melody, the ragas and the improvisation in the music appealed to me. The lyrics were in Telugu and Sanskrit. They used to explain the meanings as they taught, but the meanings never registered with me.’

‘So, you never played nadaswaram those days?’, asked Richard.

‘Guruparan, the priest, occasionally persuaded me to play at the temple. But I was aware that my fluency was gone. I wasn’t playing the instrument enough to retain the skill. I found that I couldn’t translate everything that came to mind into notes through the instrument, and started playing safe, simple phrases. I was listening to music every day. Pristine, creative, exhilarating music, but purely as a listener rather than a student.’

Click here for part 4 of 4.

Nadopasana: A Story of Sound and Soul: Part 2 of 4

 Best Laid Plans

Ponnan lost his parents to the great disease when he was five. Fortunately for him, Manian, his older brother, took him under his wing. To be more precise, it was Manian’s wife, Gauri who did. Gauri, barely sixteen herself, cared for the five-year old as though he was her own child. She fed him, bathed him, sang him to sleep when his nightmares woke him, walked six miles each way during the hottest months to get exotic breeds of mangoes for him from santhai, the weekly farmers’ market.

Ponnan always called her by name. She transformed from an easygoing adolescent to a protective tigress when people chided Ponnan for not respectfully addressing her ‘anni’. She put the whole family on a diet when he fell sick and had to follow a bland food regimen. She glowed with pride when he returned from the temple and sang thevaram verses, imitating the priest. In due course, his nightmares disappeared.

The family owned agricultural land south of Thiruvaiyaru. As per local custom, Ponnan was expected to help Mainan in the farm. Gauri cited Ponnan's interest in music, and urged her husband to find a suitable teacher for him. Manian acceded to her wishes, and arranged for Ponnan to learn from a famous local nadawaram teacher, Aiyarappan Pillai. He would learn music full-time, instead of farming.

Aiyarappan Pillai taught him the basics, taught him the various scales, and impressed upon the need for devotion in music. Ponnan had a photographic memory for ragas and songs, but was somehow unable to make the connection between the carnatic music and its spiritual aspects.. He made progress, but remained detached from the devotion that his guru was advocating. This continued into his teens, with him staying with his teacher, and his brother continuing his farming.

Everything unravelled when the war broke. The English and the Sultan of Mysore were fighting each other, and the fight spilled into the Kaveri region. There had been a battle near Kumbakonam, in which the English were routed. The Sultan’s men chased the Englishmen all the way into Thiruvaiyaru. A few English soldiers hid in the haystack in Maniyan’s farm. When the Mysore soldiers found them, they got hold of Manian, who was working nearby, and killed him as a warning for anyone who might dare shelter the enemy soldiers. Gauri was never seen again. Some said they saw a woman being carried off by the Mysore soldiers.

Ponnan’s world fell apart once more. Manian’s death was shocking, but Gauri’s disappearance was devastating. She was the only mother Ponnan had known. The couple left behind two children - Ramaiya, who was six and Kamakshi, who was two. Just as Gauri had assumed the role of a mother at sixteen, Ponnan had to assume the role of a father at fifteen.

With the help of Guruparan, the priest, he performed the final rites for Manian. He wanted to perform the final rites for Gauri too, but the priest forbade it - she might still be alive. Oddly, this made Ponnan sadder, as it didn’t provide him closure. It was as if he was neglecting his final duties to his adopted mother.

Ponnan went to Aiyarappan Pillai, touched his feet, and asked for permission to leave his training, so he could work on the farm and feed his family. Pillai consented with sadness. In parting, he remarked that he had great hopes for Ponnan, and had been holding out hopes that he would discover the devotional dimension of music.

Click here for part 3 of 4.

Pic credit: Wikipedia.

Nadopasana: A Story of Sound and Soul: Part 1 of 4

Year 1826, Thiruvaiyaru, India

Richard Baker wiped the sweat off his forehead with his shirt sleeves. He was breathless as he tried to keep pace with the younger man. He paused to take another swig from his water bottle - a gift from the military men who had cleared him for the visit. He offered Valavan a drink, who simply shook his head.

‘How much farther?’.

‘We’ll enter the town in ten minutes. The house is very close to the Aiyanaar temple at the entrance to the town’, replied Valavan, and started chuckling.

‘What is so funny?’

Valavan paused to translate the words in his head and then said in halting English. ‘You’re asking ‘how much farther’ every few minutes. Reminds me of the lines children chant in my village as a part of games - how much farther is the washerman’s house?!‘

Richard grinned. Valavan was obviously not the deferential sort. Most Indians froze with fear and awe as they talked to the colonizing race. Valavan, refreshingly, talked as an equal, and even teased Richard on his appearance as he seemed to wilt under the sun.

Richard took another look at the man walking ahead of him. Slim, dark-skinned, energetic. His eyes seem to always wear an amused look. A man of uncertain age. He had been working as a translator to the East India Company’s forces. Richard’s friend, John Morrison, had lent him as a local guide and translator when Richard arrived in Madras on his research mission. Valavan had suggested a bullock cart for the trip into town, but Richard had refused, not wanting to draw too much attention. He was interested in speaking with one man, arousing as little interest or suspicion from the locals as possible.

The house was a modest one - shingled, neatly painted in white with red decorations along the bottom. Two neem trees provided shade in front of the house. The ground was smooth, devoid of vegetation - perhaps treated with cow manure, as was the custom in those parts. There was decorative floor art in front of the house. Richard later learned that it was called kolam in Tamil. There was a granary painted in black, sheltered under the shingled front porch, the thinnai. The host had arranged a simple, but elegant mat to be spread on the spacious thinnai. 

An older man welcomed them with his palms together to greet the visitors. He was dressed in all white, with a white towel on his right shoulder. His skin was wrinkled from exposure to the sun. The skin suggested that he would be about sixty, but his gait was upright, suggesting a younger age.

The man spoke a few words of welcome. Richard had trouble understanding him. He would normally understand most of the words, but this man’s accent seemed very different from that of the people in Madras who had taught him the little that he knew. Valavan performed the superfluous introductions, as both men had been told about each other. The man was introduced as Ponnan, respectfully known as Ponniah, the great nadaswaram artist. Richard had been in awe of nadaswaram, the wind instrument, and had been looking forward to meeting its most famous exponent.

Two young girls brought buttermilk, some fruit, and a tray with betel leaves and betel nuts to welcome the visitors. Richard took the buttermilk gratefully. Ponniah also told the visitors they would be served lunch in an hour or so. Valavan smiled, as if that was expected. Richard accepted, thanking his host profusely.

Seeing Richard struggle to sit on the mat, the host arranged two cots under the neem tree for them to sit on. They started talking. Two bare-chested young men, probably Ponniah’s students, stood at a respectful distance.

Richard thanked their host for agreeing to see him, and said, ‘I’ve come to India to learn about the various music forms and musicians. I come from a very different land, and am fascinated by your music culture, your tradition of learning by staying with your teacher, the gurukulam. I’d like to understand how you learned the instrument, how you teach and so on. I’d also like to listen to your music.’

The older man nodded, wiped the sweat with his towel and asked something that Richard was unable to understand. Valavan replied, ‘No, he is not related to the kumbini. He is a traveler and writer’. 

Ponniah’s face cleared. He seemed to relax. 

‘There are hundreds of good musicians around here. Why did you ask for me, specifically?’, he asked.

Richard replied via Valavan, ‘Sethurama Pillai from Madras called you the greatest living exponent of nadaswaram. He suggested that I meet you, and gave me a letter to give you.’

Ponniah asked one of the disciples to open the envelope and read it. ‘My eyesight is not what it used to be’, he added as an explanation. He seemed pleased to listen to the letter of introduction. He started his story.

Click here for part 2 of 4.

Pic credit: Wikipedia.

Episode 4: Recalling a Favour

Continued from:

Chapter 1: The Secret Letter

Chapter 2: The Confidante

Chapter 3: Summer Doldrums

Vichu, 1991, Bengaluru

The room was silent but for the low hum of the air-conditioner. There were some business newspapers on the table, each bent on outdoing the others in shallow stories. There was an Asterix comic that was a welcome outlier in the pile. I picked it up, and browsed it in a distracted manner.

The receptionist came in and told me that the interview panel was ready to see me. I picked my binder up. I briefly wondered if my tie had gone astray as it tends to do, found no reflective surfaces, and decided it didn’t matter. I walked into the interview room.

There was a woman and two men seated across the table. They smiled without warmth, and asked me to take a seat. After introductions and a few pleasantries, the woman asked me for my life story. I gave them a response, glossing over some parts that were painful to talk about. That was followed by a few questions on what I would do in response to a few hypothetical situations. I found those tiresome, and answered them as well as my limited patience would allow. 

There was an uncomfortable pause as the panel exchanged a few hand-written notes between themselves. 

The morose looking man who introduced himself as Raju broke the silence: ‘We are in the final leg of the interview. A few more questions. Can you tell me a compelling reason why we should pick you over all these other candidates?’

I wanted to respond with, ‘Mr. Raju, have you had to tear down a successful family business and sell it a at scrap value?  Have you had to work under the burden of knowledge that you will be betraying everyone who relied on it for a living? I have firsthand knowledge of what not to do, and have been burnt by experience. I bet I’ve experienced more at this age than you have in your comfortable middle age existence.’

Externally, I said, ‘I pride myself in being able to create and evaluate ideas. I have a decent academic record. Finally, I think I did fairly well in the entrance test. They didn’t tell me the scores, but if you check it, you will be reassured as to the aptitude part.’

His face broke into a smile. This time, it didn’t seem forced. He said, ‘Mr. Vishwanathan, it’s better than that. You came first among the 120 people we’d invited for the aptitude test. Congratulations!’.

That was indeed better than I expected. It was my turn to offer an authentic smile.

They asked me what my dream job would be. I gave them a stock response. Vani would have added that I would make a great worker, as long as the work met my snobbish standards. She likes pointing out that I lose interest when I don’t regard the work as interesting. Fortunately, these people wouldn’t be meeting her.

The offer came in the next few days. Amma was thrilled to see the generous salary, and got all tearful, imagining how my father would have reacted, had he been alive. The offer advised me to have my passport ready, as there would be a trip abroad for training. I applied for a passport. I felt no thrill, looking at the world through my skeptical eyes. 

****

Vani phoned me the next day to let me know that Krishnan would be in Bangalore that weekend. I found a sense of elation at rediscovering the childhood friend. There really had been no one who understood me in a non-judgmental way since his abrupt departure. 

I counted the days and then hours before I could meet him for lunch. I had picked an Anglo-Indian restaurant on St. Mark’s Road that served good tea. Krishnan arrived on time, beamed, and hugged me. Not being a hugger, I responded awkwardly.

I ordered a pot of tea for myself. Krishnan made a face as he heard the word tea, and ordered a cup of coffee. That facial expression took me right back to our boyhood days. We ordered sandwiches.

He told me about his work, his bachelor life and his recent pastimes. I lingered on the topic until he brought my father up. I told him about the abrupt end.

I was finishing the first year of my M.B.A in Coimbatore. The call came early on a Sunday. I was roused from sleep by my roommate, who looked very uncomfortable as he said I had an urgent phone call. When I emerged from the room, Sami, the caretaker, appeared to be waiting for me. He quietly walked with me to the phone room.  I picked up the instrument. It was Vani. She said in a few words that appa had suffered a massive heart attack, and had been hospitalized. She wanted me home immediately.

I called a taxi and left immediately. When I arrived at the hospital, appa seemed conscious, but appeared too weak to speak. Amma was incoherent in her panic. Vani was calmer, but seemed uncharacteristically shaken. As I approached appa, he opened his eyes, smiled at me, and went back to sleep. He never woke up.

The cremation and the ceremonies kept us busy in the next few days. Everyone who arrived on hearing the news expressed shock: ‘He looked young for his age. Never even complained of a headache. Just shows you how fickle we are!’ Mom cried relentlessly upon encountering each visitor.

Nagu mama appeared in as much grief as we were. On the fifth day, he approached me haltingly. “Vichu Kanna, I know this is not a good time, but we have to talk about some important…”. He appeared to lose his nerve, paused for a few seconds. “... things.”, he finished.

I walked with him to the terrace of the house.

“Has your father been telling you about his finances?”

I noticed he was using the wrong tense, I simply shook my head.

“How about Vani? Does she know?”

Vani was not interested in monetary things. I was about to say so, when I realized I had not been very keen myself, although I was financially savvier. I shook my head again.

“Do you know that your father had borrowed money?”

I gave him a puzzled look. Why did appa need to borrow money?

“He had always run in business in a lean way. I mean, without much slack in money. He would have a two week payment arrangement with the suppliers, counting on the customers to pay on time. It was working well for him. However, ever since we opened the new store across town, things have been tighter, with no room for error. Since he.. ahem.. fell ill, supplies have been coming in, but the orders have slowed. People may have heard the news and switched suppliers.”

“How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad. I can show you when you feel well enough to go to the office.”

I nodded.

“And there is one more thing. He had borrowed money to open the new store from a guy called Chinnaraju. He’s a loan shark. Interest and principal installment are due the first of every month.”

I realized the urgency. It was only a week away. 

We went the same evening. Nagu mama and Ashok, his son, sat with me all night. We went through accounts payable, receivable and the bank accounts. It was clear that we had a significant shortfall. We had enough money to keep the business running. But there was no way we could pay Chinnaraju.

“This is bad news. He’s not exactly humane in how he collects his dues.”, remarked Nagu mama, looking shaken.

We made a quick plan to suspend deliveries until we used up the supplies in stock, estimated the upcoming salaries, and worked out a cash flow statement. 

In the process, I discovered how little Nagu mama was being paid. And Ashok was not even an employee. They had been staying up with me all night. How was I going to repay such loyalty? I had been taking these people for granted all these days.

The next few days, I visited the stores and the factory, and was calling all the debtors to gather the dues. Everyone seemed to empathize with my situation and agreed to pay in a few days. I suspected most of them were sincere, but not all.

We managed to pay the month’s wages, but had no clarity on how sustainable the business was. I made several spreadsheets with the best case and worst case scenarios, and even my most optimistic case didn’t sound good. The orders kept coming in, but the lack of confidence from the suppliers and anxiety among the employees were palpable.

That’s when Chinnaraju, the moneylender, chose to pay a visit to my house. I was in the shop. Amma and Vani were in the house. Chinnaraju barged in with two other men, and asked when my mom intended to repay the principal. She had no idea, of course. He demanded that the principal be paid back in a week, and made some veiled threats about women’s safety if the deadline wasn’t met. 

Vani phoned me. I asked her to take mom to a relative’s house and conferred with Nagu mama. The only way for us to pay Chinnaraju’s dues was to do a fire sale of the business. I brooded for a while and came to a quick decision.

I headed to see my old acquaintance Seshan, the criminal lawyer. I didn't tell Nagu mama where I was heading - he might stop me. It was strange that I thought of him. The name hadn’t entered my mind for years, and I had no contact with him since the eventful day in my boyhood. But my instinct told me that he might be able to help. 

I arrived at his office, told his assistants that I needed to meet him, and sat down. He seemed thoughtful as he received me. When I tried to introduce myself, he interjected, saying he knew who I was, and offered his condolences on Appa’s passing. 

Without explaining why I thought he might be able to help, I explained the situation with Chinnaraju, and asked if he could help me buy some time. He seemed thoughtful for a minute, and asked me to wait outside. After about 10 nervous minutes, he called me inside.

He addressed using the affectionate title ‘thambi’, and used the respectful plural in addressing me. ‘Thambi, I owe your family a debt of gratitude. I usually don’t get involved in the business dealings of my clients, but I may be able to talk to Chinnaraju about this. If you end up not paying him, I will be in trouble, but I feel I have to do this. Go home and expect a phone call from me tonight.’

I thanked him and turned to leave. He called after me, ‘And one more thing. Do you know Kareembhai, of the bicycle shop?’

I nodded. That was a name from my childhood. I had occasionally seen him. I knew that he had ‘retired’, after handing his businesses to his son, but hadn’t kept in great touch.

‘I’ve asked him to come and stay with you for a couple of days, just for safety. He knows all of Chinnaraju’s men, and knows what to do if anyone comes visiting. That’s just to be cautious. I think I can buy you more time. I’ll ask for two months.’

That still seemed short, but I didn’t know what to ask for. So I nodded.

When I reached home, Kareembhai was already there. He was seated on the swing in the portico, drinking the buttermilk that Amma had brought. He had brought a small bag, presumably clothes for overnight stay, and a cassette player with some tapes. He asked me where he could sleep. I showed him to my father’s office room at the entrance to the house. He promptly found a socket and plugged his cassette player in, remarking that he couldn’t sleep without listening to a few songs.

Seshan called late in the evening, giving me a new deadline two months out. I wasn’t fully confident I could meet it, but was grateful for the reprieve and thanked him profusely.

Again, how was I going to repay all these folks?

When I explained all this to Vani, she seemed shocked that I would seek the help of a notorious lawyer, but admitted that it was a creative idea that wouldn’t have occurred to her. After all, she conceded,  if he made his name by supporting loan-sharks, wasn’t he the right person to help?

The two months didn’t save the business, but it saved us from bankruptcy. We were able to keep the house, and enough money to last until Vani and I finished our studies. I’d missed the academic year so had to go back the next year to finish my MBA. Vani resumed her M.Phil in English.

I sold the business to our chief competitor. I didn’t get the market value, but that was the best we could do. The buyer kept half the employees. I paid generous compensation to the others, including Nagu mama.

Krishnan seemed shell-shocked. He sat frozen as I finished the story. 

(To be continued)