022 – 25635866

Back when landlines were popular, we would ring 022–25635866

‘TB Subramanian’, he would answer.

‘Thatha!’, one of us would exclaim. ‘Cholu Konde’, he would say without skipping a heart beat.

Veshti clad, vibuthi sporting, filter kaapi drinking — our thatha was a man of quiet strength.

All those who rang his door bell would be greeted by his beaming face, saying ‘Welcome, Welcome’.

His name has an interesting origin. The TB in TB Subramanian is short for Thirumalai Kozhundupuram Bhaskara Subramanian. The first two names are indicative of his hometown, the third is in memory of his father, Bhaskara and finally, the fourth, Subramanian is the name sake of Lord Murugan. The association with Lord Murugan came because when our great grand mother was pregnant with Thatha, she dreamt she was sitting under a tree in Tiruchendur and someone handed her a baby boy — an association that my thatha continued to keep by staunchly believing in ‘velundu vinai illai’ all his life.

One among 9 siblings raised by a single mother, his childhood tales were surreal for us to hear. He would often reminisce about days where not even electricity was available in his village (Kottaram, Tamil Nadu) and the bullock cart was a popular means of transport.

As a young child, he suffered tuberculosis, which back then was a grave illness to beat. Miraculously he not just survived, but went on to thrive. His school teachers noted his intelligence and offered him a scholarship, which saw him through high school. He was generous even as a child and was known to always lend a hand in help to his siblings.

To support his family after graduation, he moved to Mumbai, or Bombai, becoming the first one in the family to move away from Kottaram.

His few worldly possessions packed, he set off on a local train when the unthinkable happened. He lost his few and prized certificates and identity papers.

Somehow, he managed. The papers through some stroke of good luck made its way back to him. He found a job at Life Insurance Corporation of India (LIC), where he was employed until retirement. He was immensely proud of his workplace and would always refer to it as ‘yenga office’. Even today, LIC is synonymous with Thatha for us. He worked hard, and eventually bought his own house in Mulund East, Mumbai.

It was in this house that almost all of his major life events occurred. His marriage to our grandmother, the birth of his two children, our grandma’s death, our parent’s marriage, Shaktiya’s birth, our uncle’s death and finally his own demise.

Through each of these defining moments, Thatha showed exemplary grace. Whatever life threw at him, he took without complaint. He would wordlessly arrange the pieces that came his way and continue on his path.

Our earliest memories of Thatha are of a doting grandfather, who has perhaps raised his voice at us once in all our lives. We remember going to gardens with him, where he would fight with the older kids who monopolised the swing sets and make sure we get an opportunity to use them.
We would insist on taking the amusement rides we saw and he would happily oblige, patiently waving at us with a broad smile and rewarding us with ground nuts and balloons when done. We remember him always being a call away, to collect one of us from school or to keep an eye on us.

We remember his indignant argument on a public bus, when passengers ignored the ‘ladies only’ reserved seats — all to make sure our then young mother had a seat on the journey, while he, a 70 year old retired white haired man would continue to stand for the entire duration.

Regardless of him aging, he would insist on taking only public transport if needed and walking as much as possible. He was a strong advocate of saving money and living well within your means.

As we pen this today, a myriad of memories flash before our eyes.

The way he would fondly call our childhood his own personal ‘Krishna Leela’. His insistence that all guests who visit him should compulsorily have a glass of water, at the very least. His indignation if we said, ‘my grandad’s house’, instead of ‘my house’. His habit of coming to ‘see us off’ at the building gate., waving until our car pulled out of sight. His waving at us from the balcony.

Him throwing a tantrum and asked my parents to buy him a smartphone when we moved away from Mumbai, all so he could video call us from time to time. His random selfies.

His prayer that we get a good life partner because we always said ‘I love you’ to him. His wish to baby sit our children and help us out. His text messages, ending with ‘with affectionate regards, Thatha’ even though he was using his own mobile number.

His cute and funny idiosyncrasies like taking his identity card to have tea at the neighbor’s house. Storing the smallest of items in a cover within a cover in a cover . Answering the phone with ‘Jai Hind, Vande Mataram’ if you rang him on Independence Day or Republic Day.

He was hands down the best filter-kaapi maker. We remember him often saying when we visited him, albeit once a week, ‘I am fortunate to have such affectionate grand children’. He somehow always managed to find something to be grateful for.

His social circle was wide, almost everyone on the road would know him. He would remember not just their names, but also the names of their family members and occupations. He would know all the house help in the building, who would often stop by his house to have water or coffee and Thatha would often play their favourite TV channels for them. His social skills and diplomacy were unparalled in the family.

He had so many quips and timely adages, we can never read or think of any of these without hearing his voice in our heads:
‘Jai Bhavani’ / ‘Jai Bajrangbali’
‘Health is wealth, knowledge is power’
‘A work well begun is half done’
‘Don’t be lonely, be alone’
‘An apple a day keeps the doctor away’

When we were teenagers, our mobile phone bills used to go to his address. One time when the bill was sizeable, he gently chided us saying, ‘phone is meant for communication, not conversation’.

When he started to get sick in old age, we knew we would eventually have to let him go and say goodbye, at least for now. Every time we saw him or spoke to him, we could see him shrink slowly. Regardless, if you asked him how he is, he would say ‘With God’s Grace, I am fine and happy. I pray for your long life and health, you have a long way to go.’

For him, prayer and meditation were 24x7 services he could avail of at any point and God a kind friendly listener. He would follow his prescribed duties as much as possible, doing sandhyavandanam every evening and topikaranam in front of Lord Ganesha’s shrine if he was in a temple. If you told him to rest or to take it easy, he would say, ‘I will do as much as I can until my body allows me to’.

His ultimate motto was to be good but in as practical and efficient a manner as possible. If people interrupted his prayers, he would gladly spend time with them and pick up where he left off when they were done. If you asked him if it bothered him to be interrupted, he would say, ‘You must see God in everyone. Treat people well — your prayers are done right there.’

It was hard watching him grow older and weaker, perhaps the hardest thing we have had to confront. He has been there for all of us for so long and through so much, none of us were quite prepared for a day that he would not be around. Without him, there is a void that all of us are hard pressed to fill. But try we shall.

Thatha left us early on 25 December, with the grace of Lord Mahavishnu, on the auspicious day of Vaikunta Ekadesi. As much as we will miss him, we know that no matter where he is, he is always with us in spirit.

Ever smiling and forgiving.

In this period of mourning and grief, it is more important than ever for us to hold on to the man he was, and remember the wisdom he imparted to us.

Thatha has always been a man who has striven to understand rather than be understood. The way he lived is a lesson that would do us well to remember. Staying as active as possible, being self-sufficient and independent in every way, and despite his challenges, having a kind smile to share with all whom he came across.

If we grow to be even half the person that he was, we will have won life.