Valiyachan

A terror..... that would be the first impression anybody would have when they witness him walking through the village streets. Children would run helter-skelter screaming at the sight of his shadow. But in appearance he was just another common village man. It was his heavy coarse voice, resultant of many years of smoking bidi, that invoked such terror in people.

His fear was not just restricted to kids, but elders too. People seldom said anything wrong in front of him fearing his eardrum shattering yell and an unfortunate slap that will leave its mark on your mind for a lifetime and on your body for weeks or mostly months.

He was a terror for many, but also a devoted son and at the same time a carefree bird. He had a lot of adjectives to describe himself, but for me, he was my "Valiyachhan" (literally means Big Daddy), my uncle and my Dad's elder brother. The first born of Unnimaya and Narayanan Nair was named Raman and was fondly called Gopi by his parents and later on by his friends. I used to tease my grandma for her selection of names as for me he was more towards shades of Ravan than Ram. His studies as a child came to an abrupt end, the story of which is now a family fable amongst the Nairs.

Apparently, my uncle was never interested in the knowledge that would be imparted in schools. He always believed that nature was the best teacher. Much to his dismay my grandma was very particular about her kid's education, which she herself could not receive in her childhood. Somehow against his wishes, my uncle reached 4th grade, but his journey ahead came to a halt and year after year he remained in the same class. This continued until one fateful year, my father, his younger brother joined him in 4th grade. The ridicule of his teachers and friends was too much for him to take and he vowed never to step back into a school and declared that he will start working in the farm with my grandma.

This story did leave us in splits on several occassions. But nobody dared to narrate this story in his presence, except my grandma. Me and sister would laugh over this joke whenever he wasn't around. It was only in the later years that I witnessed his sorrow over the incident of his past and understood why he used to be so angry with kids who didn't take studies seriously.

Since my uncle's debacle in his academic front. He had started working at the family owned farm. Soon he was married to a girl of my grandma's choice and everyone thought things will finally settle down for him. But then again what is life if it follows our desires. My grandma and aunt both were head strong ladies with opposite viewpoints on almost everything. The tipping point that ended uncle's marital life was when one fine day both the ladies got into a fight while working on the farm, which went awry. My uncle lost his cool and hit my aunt pretty severely. My aunt couldnt take it anymore and broke off the relation and never ever returned. As a child, hearing this story had reinforced my uncle's image as a terror in my mind. 

It is a fact that as kids or perceptions are coloured by what our parents tell us. My memories of him as a child was a lot scary. Half of it is attributed to his appearance and behaviour and the other half was the doing of my parents. I was constantly threatened by my parents that if I don't study well I would end up like my uncle. The mere thought of it scared me to no extent. But as we grow up and gather experiences we learn to see things from different perspectives. As I grew up I saw a different persona of Valiyachhan take form in front of me.

This specifically started happening when he started visiting us at our house in Vasai (suburb of Mumbai, in case you didn't know). We were not in a condition to go to Kerala when I was in tenth grade and twelfth grade, obviously because my parents thought I should not be distracted from my studies. I'm not sure how that plan succeeded, as I was hardly ever focused on studies. But the best part was that I could get my grandma and Valiyachhan at my place without have to face the dull boring times at the village in Kerala. It was this time when I got to know so much more about him and learnt so much from him. I still have two such instances very vividly etched in my mind.

Language No Bar

Whenever he visited us at Vasai, I would be amazed at the number of friends he would make. He was pretty fluent in Malayalam and Tamil so people with proficiency in these languages would definitely be a part of the list. But what amazed me was that he also had friends who had no clue about these languages neither did he know how to converse in Hindi, Marathi or English. But still he would manage to have a meaningful conversation with them and after he would head back to Kerala I would always be stopped by some random guy on the streets to enquire about him.

Once I did ask him how he managed this. His answer was pretty direct. "Language is a requirement of those who do not communicate through their heart." To that point I thought such things were only possible in Bollywood movies.

When Life Throws Onions

On one occasion when me and my sister came back from school, we realised that the food my Mom had made had gotten spoilt. We were hopelessly illiterate in the ways of the kitchen and very pretty hungry after a hectic day at school.

When we presented our problem to Valiyachan he walked into the kitchen and found that we didn't have any other veggie or even eggs to have for lunch. When I had almost given up hope he suddenly said, "We do have onions." I was in no mood for a joke and here he was reassuring me and my sister with onions. Before we could react to his probable jest, he commanded us to go freshen up and get ready for lunch. We knew it was better not to argue with him and obeyed him all the while wondering what he was up to.

When we sat down at the table he served us rotis and a dish entirely made of onions and spices. It was one of the most scrumptious meals I've ever had. I never knew that you could make an entire dish with an ingredient that's generally added as an extra. From that day on whenever we had a chance we would make him cook that dish for us.

When I think of it now I see that on that day me and my sister both learnt to look at things from a different perspective and make the most of what's available. Even till this day the taste of that onion sabzi lingers in our memories as does the lesson it taught us.

My Cruelty Towards Him

Almost until 15 years of age I had considered this man a failure, a burden on my father. But little did I realise that he was in fact a great support to my father. Parents at times have a wierd way of scaring their kids into studying and for my parents portraying him as an example of the consequences of poor education was the easiest way to scare me and my sister.

But in fact my parents, especially my father, respected him a lot. He knew that it was because his elder brother was out there in the village taking care of his mother, he could focus on his career and earn enough to give all of us a comfortable life.

By the time I actually started to understand him it was too late. He just had to leave. I was in college that day, when a sudden phone call from my father informed me that Valiyachhan was no more. What transpired after that I have no memory of it. I just remember the dread I felt when Dad asked me if I am joining them. I immediately said a no, made up some excuse of some exams and kept the phone.

That day my friends unanimously declared that I was a cruel man, who had no regard for the dead uncle whom I loved so much. I never justified my reason for not joining my parents to bid farewell to him. I knew no one would understand the reason.

We live in a country where people give rites and rituals more value than the person for whom it is being performed. Emotions don't matter in these things. It's just a fear of what society would say if we do not follow the norms. But little do I care for such triviality.

I had misunderstood a man for almost a quarter of my life time just because I paid heed to social perceptions. I considered him a burden because he didn't work or earn any money as any male in the great Indian society is supposed to do. It took me a long time to realise the flaw in my sight and look beneath all that societal muck to see what a gem he really was. He rose in my eyes as a person who gave up everything including his self respect for the sake of his mother and family. He was a hero for me, a person who looked at life from an angle we would mostly never understand. Looking at his lifeless, spiritless body was something I could never gather the guts to do. I wanted him to remain in my memory as the same free spirited, terrorizing and to a certain level sweet person that I had come to know him as.

My cruelty towards him was not that I didn't perform his last rites, but that for a long time I couldn't see the brightness of his soul and love him as much as I loved him during those last few years.

P.S. This is for my father. I know he misses his elder brother a lot, but will never express it to anyone. This scribble is for the undying love that these two brothers shared.