life's lessons

I need to begin by first saying a big thank you to all those who have posted their memories on this space. I know there are a lot more that are running around the spaces in our heads waiting to be shared. The blog has been an amazing way to replace (only partly though) those late-night chats that families get animatedly involved in, during summer holidays, weddings and other get-togethers, reminiscing, laughing and commenting on each others' lives.

It's been a bittersweet experience to read all the posts, over and over again, and to realise how much appa has meant to so many people. And how much his memory continues to mean. For me, his not being here in a physical sense has in a strange way meant that he is here all the time. When I drive to work and go past the pillar on the border of Parade Ground, I see him sitting there with Malli anna and his "Guruji", Lakshminarayan Mama, engaged in discussion about the meaning of life and living. As I cross the Paradise flyover and catch a glimpse of Secunderabad PG College I can see him as he was in the late sixties, a lecturer in the math department there. At Raniganj and James Street I see him as a young boy, in the 1940s, walking to school along the railway tracks with his friends, having missed the train to Secunderabad from Begumpet. And as my car groans its way over the traffic-jammed overpass at Begumpet Railway Station, I see him as he was the almost-last time I saw him--in the changing room at Country Club, smiling even as he told me, in a voice that refused to admit weakness, "I think it's a heart attack..."

Many of you have talked of his kindness, his selflessness, his constant smile. All that is true. But what I can talk about is what he taught me--not in the lecturing, admonishing sort of way most parents probably teach lessons, but in simply being what he believed in. As Controller of Examinations, as Vice Principal of Science College, as Principal of Nizam College, and just as a person, he refused to budge from belief. He held a few simple truths close to his heart, and he lived by them. To believe that you can make a difference by simply being honest, considerate to those less fortunate. To always understand that people cannot be all bad; that there must be an explanation for their "bad" behaviour--that everyone deserved the benefit of the doubt. To care deeply about the disadvantaged and the dispossessed. Yet, to enjoy the moment, to take extreme pleasure in the simple things of life--the taste of a good mango, the deliciousness of melting butter on toast, the cool smoothness of ice cream, the lilt of raga thodi sung by O S Arun or T V Sankaranarayanan, the swing of a sixer by an ace batsman, the heady rush of a roller coaster ride...

When I was growing up, my father was my champion. He was the one who worried about my getting home late, but when I did come home, it was my mother who scolded and fussed, while he simply smiled and said, "so you're home". When I spent the money my mother had given me for groceries on movie tickets, he was the one I told, and then he in turn convinced her to not ruin the pleasure of a movie with a lecture on responsibility. I learned that lesson because it was not delivered in a lecture. I learned because he, along with amma, never laid expectations on me. They just believed that I would grow up okay, and I guess, that is what happened. Not once while growing up did I ever come up against a wall of refusal. They allowed me to believe that I could do anything I set myself to do, and from that belief I drew a strength--but it took me a while to figure out where that strength came from.

The biggest lesson I learned from him (and I am certain there are many more I will continue to ferret out as I think about how he dealt with situations) is that it's okay to stick up for things you believe in, even if other people call you impractical and idealistic. It's that idealism that kept the smile on his face.

Right to the end.