K S Sadasivan, August 3, 1926 -
May 24, 2014
24th May would mark a year of my
dad’s passing, after fighting a losing age-related battle. He was hale, hearty,
and healthy till 2011, when a relatively minor stroke started his slippery
slide down. He lived a full life, and I believe, enjoyed almost every moment of
it. While I am sad at his passing, it would be wrong to call it untimely.
Like men his age, my dad too was
a proud man. He loved being fawned upon, but despised being attended to. If the
male attendant tried to help him up from the chair, he would be curtly admonished. He
never liked being bathed; the attender was expected to get a bucket of warm water
ready, place the soap, and towel close by, and leave the bathroom. It was tough
for us to see this proud man slowly wither away; from a healthy 75 kilos into a
45 kilo bag of skin & bones – gone were those healthy cheeks, the fat
around the belly, and the not-so-obvious muscles. But he never lost his humor,
or his love for food, sports, books, travel, and music. And his tenacity. Even
though each stay at the hospital left him weaker and sadder, his spirit
remained high. His memory was near perfect, and had this ability to recall long
gone events of his childhood as clearly as his dinner of the day before. A
voracious reader, he loved his Kamban’s Ramayanam as much as Shelly’s Paradise
Lost. He enjoyed Nazrul Geet, and Amir Khan as much as MS and Madurai Mani. He
would invite Sanjay Subramaniam home to share his music collection. He would
spend hours watching Premjit Lal & Jaidip Mukherjee practice at Deshapriya
Park. More recently, he was devoted to Chennai Super Kings, Federer, and
Vishwanathan Anand. He was glued to IPL games till the minute he went into a
coma from which he never got out. But anyway, these are not the reasons I
remember him.
He was a gregarious, fun-loving,
and a forever-young man, with an ability to connect with people across every
age divide. He enjoyed the company of his grandsons; Dushyant and he would
spend hours discussing history & ancient civilization, sports trivia, and
Hollywood.
Four funny events spring to my mind when I think of my dad.
1. Kolkata, circa 1960s - I might have been slightly older than a toddler. Our Southern Avenue, Kolkata house had just one bathroom, so there was always a rush to get in first. My dad was never in a rush, and once in, would take an eternity to get out. While inside, I would hear him singing his favourite ragas for a long long time. And then suddenly, I would hear him welcome strangers, and have conversations with one, and sometimes two other adult men. One voice was always my dad's. The other voices were either gruff, or very deep, with weird accents. I used to wonder how my dad could talk to someone in the bathroom; I would be curious enough to try peeping through the rot at the bottom of the door to find out who these visitors were. My dad would tell me that one of his two bathroom friends, Ramgop or Praghu would regularly visit him, and talk to him through the bathroom window. I tried my hardest to get a glimpse of these two friends, but never could. It took me few years of growing up to realise that dad used to have these weird conversations with non-existent folks, as a way to entertain himself and us kids outside.
2. Kolkata, circa 1974. Dad was
bare bodied, and in the skimpiest of towels before his shower, long stick in
hand, hanging clothes, when a senior executive of a fairly large company came
to meet him for the very first time. Not keen to entertain him while he was
busy with his personal chores early in the morning, my dad shoed this gentleman
away with “Mein yahaan ka chaakar hoon, sahib bahar gaye hain, shyam ko saath
baje ke baad aayenge. Abhi sahib ne bahut kaam diya hai mujhe, toh maaf
kijiyega, aap ko chai deney ka fursat nahin hai. Sahib aaney ke baad aayiye”.
The poor man of course believed and walked away, only to see a smartly dressed
man with the same countenance meet him that evening. They had a very good laugh
of course. But what cheek!
3. Goa, 1980. Mom was away in
Madurai for a family event , when Mahadevan the tailor came home one evening to
collect a trouser cloth from dad. Dad, who had this habit of making humongous
quantities of food, and setting several litres of milk for making yoghurt,
decided that day that he had to get rid of the excess, days-old, super-sour
yoghurt. Eyeing Mahadevan as a prospective customer, he came up with an
ingenious concoction of carrot-yoghurt-sugar shake. Inspiringly christening it
a lofty “Gulshan Ras”, he offered a very tall glass of this attractive, thick,
orange coloured, absolutely terrible-tasting shake to Mahadevan. Of course, it
helped that Mahadevan was a soft man, and owed dad a bunch of money he had
borrowed for setting his store up. I recall the pain and sorrow in
Mahadevan’s face as he hastily gulped down that sickening potion. As he
triumphantly set down the empty glass on the table, and smacked his lips clean,
dad wickedly enquired “Eppidi pa irundhadhu (did you enjoy)?. Mahadevan, of
course replied with the customary lie, “Romba nalla irundhadhu saar. Idhu peyar
enna, saar (was awesome, what's it called)?” Mahadevan must have repented the
second his answer left his lips, because dad was very quick on the draw.
“Gulshan Ras”, he gushed, and topped the tall, empty glass once again up to the
brim. Poor (by now) sick Mahadevan had no option but to down it. That probably
was the last time I saw Mahadevan. It is quite likely Mahadevan left Goa for
greener and more importantly, safer pastures.
4. Goa, 1982. Mom was yet again
away, so dad decided to don the apron, and prepare an elaborate meal. Hours
later, dad & I set the table. Happy that a gastronomic delight was awaiting
all our senses, he opened the pressure cooker to pull the rice out. His beaming
self turned into incredulity - this large vessel in the cooker did not have a
morsel of grain in it. It was wiped spotlessly clean of any evidence of having
ever carried rice. We were flummoxed. Dumbfounded. And hungry. Just as we were
debating what exactly could have happened, a single morsel of cooked rice
landed on my arm. And then we looked up – the entire inventory of cooked rice
that should have been in the vessel, was nicely stuck to the ceiling forming a
perfect circle. We stood rooted, gazing at the ceiling for what seemed like
eternity. Finally, light dawned on us - the valve in the cooker had given way,
and the pressure inside the cooker had shot the rice through the tiny orifice
to the ceiling ten feet up!!! And the starch kept the rice nicely glued to the
roof. We shut shop, had a good laugh, and went out for a BIG gujju meal at
Khardeshwar Bhavan.
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