First Call of the Spring … …

 

The other day, as dawn gently crept in, I perched by the window that overlooked the lane lined with hedge plants, their green leaves swaying in the cool breeze in harmony with the waking world. Hindu in hand, as I was about to begin the routine of the day, the dulcet crooning of a koyal—ku hu … ku hu—wafted in through that morning silence—“uplift[ing] the soul to realms above” … … 

This unexpected grace of Koyal’s melodious debut for the year, a sound so pure and sweet that it sent goosebumps all over … … at once resurrected the vivid memories of a countryside, the countryside that I once called home, now distant but achingly fresh in memory. The landscape came alive … … not merely in sight or sound… …. but in the very soul of that cherished past  … … 

Those were the exquisite mornings beneath a clear sapphire sky. Golden rays of sunlight filtered through the coppery green freshly sprouted mango leaves, casting a soft glow on the garden. I would lean against the rough trunk of a mango tree, a book in my lap, struggling to decipher the sines, cosines, thetas, deltas, etc., scattered across the pages of the Statics Chapter. In between, I’d pause to listen to the serene and soothing cooing of Koyal (cuckoo)—a sound that fed “joy and peace”. Eagerly, I would join in, cooing in chorus … all in the anxiety to coax her into singing more enthusiastically. Those mornings remain vivid in my memory.   

Walking along the field bunds through the Sun hemp crop, its flowery, tall stalks shining like molten gold and filling the air with its own unique fragrance, was a feast for the eyes. Bathing in the water-lily pools was an indefinable joy. Those were the joys and surprises of the spring past— the vernal animation and fluidity of nature, the cyclical renewal of passion for life, year after year. A joy distilled from the contentment and, above all, a deep gratitude for the beauty of nature.

Those pleasures—earth painted in glowing hues across the green canvas of “the shoots of the mango young”, the fine breeze blowing over the fragrant jasmines—are now things past. They have been replaced by the blaring honks and exhaust fumes of motor vehicles, the heat and grime, and faceless concrete structures devoid of greenery …

 

Above all, there was that innocence—innocence with which we greeted each other, bathed in the fragrance of new beginnings, and spent our summer holidays in gay abandon in that cool Malaya breeze of spring. When these childhood memories stir within me, my heart aches, as if echoing words of Sarojini Naidu: “O I am tired of painted roofs and silken floors, / And long for wind-blown canopies of crimson gulmohours!”

 

Indeed, I long to escape to the countryside, where koyals call from behind the cover of parrot-green fresh shoots. Loves to lie beneath the boughs of mango trees, inhaling the fine fragrance of jasmine carried in by the pleasant breeze of vasant from the distant fields, and simply get lost in nature’s music.

 

Indeed, I dream of once again playing with the spring, embracing that childlike innocence! Why, I even long to sway in that ‘madness’ once more, as Bhavabhuti epitomized in one of his verses: “The mango who anointed the breeze / with his first perfume / dripping from buds bent low / by the weight of bees greedy in mutual play, / shows greater glory now in his maturity, / when, covered with full-blown blossoms, / he brings men madness.”

 

The colors, sounds, textures and aromas— the very mood and ethos of Vasant, the Ritu raj’ (king of seasons)—are further glorified by the fresh leaves put forth by trees, lotuses emerging from tranquil waters, cuckoos intoxicated by the nectar of mango blossoms singing sweetly, bees buzzing around the newly bloomed flowers, winds scented by jasmines. Days turn delightful, evenings become pleasant, … and all around people are swept into the sway of Shringara rasa….

As “… the spring wind, friend of Love, from Malabar sends greetings and the message: / ‘I have arrived within the woods, / delighting bees and cuckoos, and I now invite / you and your beloved to join me” everything becomes Madhura, sweet. Love awakens, and erotic feelings quicken, as the mind is energized and the heart throbs with excitement.

Adornment of spring is not a mere beautification; it’s a ritual and a promise. For adornment is the means that ties the beautiful to the beloved, nayaki to nayaka, and man to god. Even in the sensually charged mind that luxuriates in vasant, beauty and the beautiful are the integral parts.

 

Vasant plays a vital role in human life. Without nature, life becomes motionless and meaningless. As the ancient wisdom goes, Jiivah jiivasya jiivanam—life depends on life. This fundamental principle underscores the importance of living in harmony with nature…

 

Seers advise us to live life in all its amplitude, intensity and sacredness. This calls for our whole attention, mindfulness towards everything around us. The Rigveda says: “For one who lives / according to Eternal Law / the winds are full of sweets; / the rivers pour sweets; / so many plants be / full of sweetness for us.” This verse reminds us of the interconnectedness of life and nature.

 

Interestingly, you know, the research of Harvard psychologist Ellen Langer, author of the book, Counterclockwise, suggests that revisiting past experiences can even reverse aging. By creating a “reminiscence bump”, people can improve their well-being by reliving past environments, if only virtually. This is something I often do, slipping into memories of the past and finding joy in them. 

 

Today, that kuhu… kuhu of an unseen koyal resurrected the joy of vasant, reminding a poet’s muse: “The trees are coming into leaf / Like something almost being said; / … / Begin afresh, afresh, afresh”.

**

 

Visits to Higginbotham on Platform No. 1

Sipping coffee—the saviour of the otherwise dull Sunday—as I flipped through Hindu paper, my eyes got stuck on the page that portrayed a few photos of yesteryears of Indian Railways and a little of its history: the first passenger train ran between Bori Bunder (Mumbai) and Thane on this very 16^th of April in 1853. Today, Indian Railways rank fourth in the world with around 114,500 km track and about 7,500 stations. It is the only railway network in the world that is managed by a single entity: Ministry of Railways, Government of India.

It at once awakened the child in me. For, there is something evocative about the trains: it conjures up our childhood visions of waiting for the train on the platform, the powerful echo of a train on the tracks resonating in the quiet station, which announces its arrival long before the black beast chugs in; the sudden commotion on the platform as the passenger train anchors; the coffee vendor’s deep baritone voice airing “coffee-coffee-coffee” without pausing for breath; in a frenzy, everyone boarding the train, our fighting for the window seat to watch the endless stretches of lush green beetle vine orchards of Angalakuduru and hutments behind the palm-groves of Sangamjagarlamudi village that pass by the window … peeping out of the window to watch the steam engine backing-up towards our train to haul us to our destiny… Aamma pleading with me to pull back my craned neck and to sit quietly…. Oh, what not!

And, as we graduated to adulthood, these experiences took a new colour. In the pursuit of education, as we all, having gone to different institutions such as AU, BHU, Sagar University, Agriculture College, Engineering College of different towns, etc., come summer, used to land in Tenali one by one for holidays.

In most of those evenings of summers past, we used to assemble at the park abutting the tank, talking about all sundry into late evenings. … In between, me, Sridhar and YSR in some evenings used to go to the railway station just to walk along platform No.1 from south cabin side to north cabin and back till the GT arrived … just to vicariously enjoy the sense of adventure in the comings and goings of exciting passengers.

This ambling in the railway station and waiting for the arrival of GT remained firmly etched in my mind as a sweet memory. For, the lovely lore associated with the whistling steam engines and passing trains, their choo-choos, chug-chugs, the rhythmic clickety-clack of the wheels of the long goods train that passed through the loop line … involuntarily counting the number of wagons tucked between the engine and the guard cabin as they slide before our eyes … everything of them heard and seen even at that age of life had such an allure that how one can forget all those unique experiences and maze of memories ….

The most inquisitive part of this whole ritual … the ritual of visiting the railway station was: our hanging up in front of Higginbotham stall—a habit that I perhaps picked up watching my brother in the late 50s when I would go to station to see him off as he boarded Howrah mail. Secondly, hanging out before that iconic stall would perhaps appear then as an intellectual demeanor—though, looking back I feel so stupid of it! 

We used to spend quite some time before it staring at the titles displayed on the racks. Prominently displayed were the mystery books of James Hadley Chase. This British writer, who wrote more than 90 mystery books, was perceived as the greatest thriller writer of all time. But somehow for reasons unknown, I could never get enthused by Chase mysteries, though read his popular title A Coffin from Hong Kong.

Rather it was the novels of Perry Mason, written by that Californian lawyer-cum-writer, Erle Stanley Gardner, stacked in the top row of the stall that sucked me in for reasons galore: Once accepted a case, Mason was known to juggle the evidence using unusual tactics to mislead police but to locate the real culprit; his private investigator, Paul Drake helping him out by gathering information that he wanted much ahead of the police; his unacknowledged romantic interest for that cute secretary, Della Street, who was always ready to put his calls through even at late hours with a smile but of course, tauntingly, besides supplying him mugs of hot coffee; his cross-examining the accused and as well as the cops with alacrity and finally pinning down the criminal to the surprise of everybody makes anyone love to read all of his novels. The first and last novel of his that I remembered to have ever purchased from this stall was The Case of Long Legged Models. And, how hungry I was to read them all!

There were a few other rows of novels, prominent among them were novels of Albert Moravia, Jane Austen, Peral Buck, Somerset Maugham, Dickens, Agatha Christie, Alistair MacLean, Ian Fleming, Graham Greene, Daphne du Maurier, RK Narayan, etc. Also on display were the texts published by ELBS (English Language Book Society) such as Teach Yourself Statistics (though purchased, no attempt ever made to learn out of it), etc., that were made available at reduced prices. These visits kept me informed of the popular titles/authors/new arrivals, etc. That aside, thanks to the stall-boy, I was so lucky to enjoy the benefit of reading the blurbs on the covers of various books besides peeping at a few pages here and there. And that pleasure and the pleasing thoughts of those beauteous evenings gave “life and food for future years”.

Right in front of the stall were the magazines and newspapers—Illustrated Weekly, Mirror, Imprint, Filmfare, Femina, Baburao Patel’s Mother India, Pillai’s satirical Shanker’s Weekly, Span, Karanjia’s Blitz, Hindu, Indian Express, Screen, Cine Advance and few Telugu weeklies and dailies—that were spread on a waist-high desk. I used to read the headlines silently… And once noticed the creeping unpleasantness on the face of the owner, I used to pick up Bhavan’s Journal, the only magazine that I could afford to buy in those days (its price was one-quarter of a rupee) hoping that it would please the owner and walk away to catch up with the incoming GT.

At 19.15 hrs, as the GT chugged in, platform No. 1 at once gets electrified: the moving panoramas through the windows of the cooped-up inmates… boys, girls, lungi-clad middle-aged men of bureaucracy and their accompanying sari-clad women with glistering ear studs … all getting up and stretching hands with yawns… some youngsters trying to rush out of the compartment with pots/aluminium cans to fetch water from the taps on the platform … trademark cries—“Vadai vadaai… coffee coffeeee”—of vendors on the platform, the bonhomie of the alighting passengers… the saddened faces of the boarding-passengers … all those interesting scenarios … all those vicarious pleasures remained fascinating to recall even today.

As the GT chuffed out of the station with a long wail, everything turned quiet—an eerie stillness creeped in. And as we climbed the footbridge in that overwhelming silence to walk out of the station the hissing sound of the leaking steam from an engine in the loco-shed near the north cabin had only furthered our melancholic sentience…

**

I. Lata Mangeshkar with Shankar-Jaikishan

Those were the days when marriages were mostly performed in the summer months. For, that was the season when a huge congregation of people arrived from far and wide can be accommodated in the open yards of the neighborhoods. And, one of the common features of marriages of people from the margins of society was playing cinema songs on a gramophone that were disseminated from the marriage pandal to the whole of the neighborhood via loudspeakers – perhaps, a way of announcing the marriage celebration. 

As I reminisce on marriages of those days, I am to remember that distant hot summer afternoons, to be precise of the 50s, when I, sprawling on the cool cement floor of our veranda, heard for the first time Lataji crooning from a marriage pandal Jiya bekaraar hai chhaai bahaar hai (My heart is restless, Spring is here again) / Aja more baalama tera intajaar hai (Come, O my beloved, I am awaiting your return), written by Hasrat Jaipuri and sung by Lata Mangeshkar for Raj Kapoor’s Barsaat (1949). I understood none of those words, nor could I pronounce them rightly, yet I was caught by that tune and that melodious voice. I am not aware of their names even, still, the journey began. 

On yet another such occasion, I heard that marvelous song, Barsaat mein humse mile tum sajan (In the rain met me, you O my love) written by Shailendra and sung by Lata for the same film. The beauty of this song is that half the way, it just slides from a happy romantic mood to a touching melancholy—Der na karana kahin ye aas tut jaae (Don’t delay, lest this hope may dissipate)/ saans chuut jaae (breath may be lost)—that tweaks listener’s heart. That is the beauty of Lata’s delicate and expressive voice. 

Incidentally, it was with this film that the four: Shankar-Jaikishan, Hasart Jaipuri and Shailendra came together as a team to rule the Hindi film world in the 50s and early 60s. And Lata Mangeshkar was a prominent part of that glory, for by then, she, with a dint of hard practice improved the vital coloratura to mould her voice and her singing style uniquely to suit the needs of the song, which indeed well reflects in the songs that she sang for Barsaat. She, according to Pundits, became an instant hit with this film—and, there was no looking back for her thereafter. Indeed, as Shankar of the Shankar-Jaikishan duo once commented, “the Barsaat that had started in 1948 keeps [kept] pouring” till her death.  

Every song that Lataji sang under SJ duo, particularly during the 50s and early 60s was steeped in sweetness—indeed, a right kind of emotion oozes in the right proportion. Look at the song Aajao tadapte hain arman (Do come, yearnings tormenting) / Ab raat guzarne wali hai (The night is about to pass off) from the film ‘Awaara’ (1951): she gives life to every word in the lyrics with her voice imbued with the required quantum of emotion plus by that tantalizing drop at the end of a musical turn, curve, statement, and all these features can be distinctly noticed all through the song. See, even after the line Ye raat ki dulhan chal di kidhar, chal di kidhar (Where is this night’s bride heading) ends, her voice remains just for that extra microsecond adding magic to the meaning of the lyrics. The refrain of this song is the way she enunciates the words Ab raat guzarne wali hai in a dissolving tone as the song nears its end, which makes every listener feel the romantic ache of the singer on the screen as though it is his/her own. Indeed, the pain hangs with the listener for quite some time to come as a distant cloud. 

In film, Daag (1952) she sang the song Kaahe ko der lagayi re aye na ab tak balma (why delay, O love, hasn’t come still) (lyrics: Hasrat Jaipuri) in her typical sad persona style that leaves a lasting ache in the listener’s mind. 

When it comes to RK’s films, Lata’s singing becomes all the more enchanting. Listen to that song which starts with a haunting aalaap followed by the lyrics of Shailendra… Raaja ki ayegi baaraat, rangili hogi raat, magan main naachungi (Raja’s wedding procession will arrive, night turns colorful, I shall dance in gay abandon) (Aah, 1953), and the mesmerizing mandolin strokes. There is yet another song in this very movie that stands out as a gem: Yeh sham ki tanhaiyan (This solitude of the evening). Notice the way the tonality shifts, the timbral and decibel control of hers, and the way the lyrics are voiced makes it simply enchanting making the listener feel the ache of the singer on the screen. 

Another song of Lata that I loved to listen to, right from the day I first heard is Rasik balama haee dil kyon lagaaya (O my beloved, why did I give my heart). When I first heard this song, I didn’t know the meaning of a single word of it except ‘rog’, if it meant the same as in Telugu. Yet, the song stuck to me eternally—I could feel the pine of Nargis in the way Lataji enunciated those words… This song from the film ‘Chori Chori’ (1956) was set to music by Shankar-Jaikishan duo based on raag Shuddh Kalyaan, a raag said to be more suited for men’s voice. It was sung by Lataji with all the ‘mardani’ manliness in vilambit laya, slow speed accompanied by sitar. The haunting beauty of Lataji’s voice, particularly the ease with which she straightaway reaches the highest note avoiding the usual practice of gliding from one note to the other while enunciating the words, Neha laga ke hari (falling in love, I am defeated); Dastihai ujali raina (glow of the day bites like a serpant), and then the way she drops down for the words, tadpun main gam ki maari; kaa se kahoo main baina is amazing. Even the opening of this song at a very high octave as against the normal practice of beginning a song within a medium octave and continuing it brilliantly at a high pitch is what perhaps made it one of her best songs. It’s of course, a different matter that SJ composed 10 songs for this film Chori Chori all of which are musically excellent besides being enormously popular fetching them their first Filmfare Award. 

Then came that wonderful movie Anaari (1959), a musical hit of SJ that fetched them their second Filmfare Award. And in it, Lata sang an immortal sad song written by Shailendra: Tera Jana dil ke armanon ka lut jana—what a cadence, the lyrics roll out in a fast phase, as though competing with the violin phrases to outdo them. Indeed, Lata succeeded in imparting that song with all the sadness by singing it in a fast-paced style in her soprano voice. Credit goes to the music directors that while Lata is singing, we hear only her voice and the tabla, while interludes are steeped in intense violin orchestration that made the song a true masterpiece.

Then came that film Dil Apna Aur Preet Parayi (1960) which fetched SJ duo their third Filmfare Award, though a very controversial one, for that was the same year in which Naushad’s Mughal-e-Azam was released. In it Lata sang that unique song written by Shailendra that was layered with varied connotations: Ajeeb dastaan hai ye, kahan shuru kahan khatam/ yeh manzilein hai kaunsi, na who samajh sake na hum (It’s a strange story, where it starts and where it stops / what these destinies are, neither they nor could we understand). The beauty of this song lies in its dichotomy: the music directors composed the track in such a way that Lata could create a melancholic feeling in the listener, though the song was played in a celebration scene. The song is neither too overpowering nor too soft but leaves a right amount of sadness on the viewer. That’s its beauty!

In the spring of 1961, I had a pleasant experience: I had the pleasure of going with my brother and sister-in-law to watch the movie Jis Desh Me Ganga Behti Hai at Saraswati Picture Palace, Guntur. That gave me a chance to enjoy that beautiful song of Lataji on the screen: O basanti pawan pagal/Na ja re na ja roko koi—a plaintive urge for the lover, Raju not to go that echoed in the ravines and rocks abutting Narmada is still fresh in memory. The heart-touching lyrics of Shailendra were sung by Lataji depicting a pure longing or viraha in a Gambhirya style in raag Basant Mukhari that made it more exhilarating. 

By the 60s, the SJ duo had acquired the notoriety of being loud in their compositions. Though despite such alleged drawbacks, we did get to hear soulful, poignant, and melodious songs once in a while. One such sweet song that I frequently heard as a graduate student was: Tera mera pyaar amar (love of yours and mine is immortal), phir kyon mujhko lagta hai dar (Yet, why am I scared), from Asli Naqli (1962) in Lata’s magical voice. The lyrics were written by Shailendra and Lata sang it with a great feeling in her mellifluous, soothing, and captivating voice that makes the listener hang on to this melodious song with all longing. The usage of accordion in the interludes only made the song more appealing. How I longed to listen to it sitting in the playground while it was blared out from the radio in the distantly located pavilion, which indeed made the song all the more melodious! 

Then came that film, Dil Ek Mandir (1963), said to have been made just in 27 days with two magnetic songs by Lata. Again, listening to the song, Hum tere pyar mein sara aalam kho baithe (steeped in my love for you, I lost my bearings) penned by Hasrat Jaipuri and rendered by Lata in raag Des, sitting at a distance from the radio in the playground along with my roommate who used to offer me the translation for the Urdu words, was a dear delight. Watching Meena kumari on screen playing Sitar and lip-syncing to the lyrics aired by Lata so clearly and sharply with matching expressions, to profess her love to a despairing husband, was a dear delight. But all my praise goes to those immortal lyrics penned by Shailendra and sung by Lata, Ruk Ja raat thehar ja re chanda … (O night, don’t end! And you moon hold on …), so magnificently in her mellifluous voice, no wonder, if the moon stood still mesmerized by Lataji’s voice.  

It was during 3^rd year summer holidays that I saw the film Arzoo (1965), a musical romance, at Venus Picture Palace of my town along with Sridhar. Two songs from this film sung by Lata are still fresh in my memory. The first one is Aji ruth kar ab kahan jaayiega (lyrics by Hasrat Jaipuri) which was sung in high pitch. How effortlessly she sang it at such a high pitch without sacrificing its melody! How smoothly and beautifully she slides from high notes to low notes! Thanks to S-J duo for their excellent composition of the song based on the most pleasing and melodic Raag Des and to gorgeous Sadhana, who with her matching expressions to the lyrics, made the song pretty romantic and enjoyable on the screen.

The other best song of the film that was sung in her eternally haunting voice was: Bedardi balma tujh ko mera man yaad kartaa hai… (O heartless one, my heart is remembering you). It was composed in the raag Charukeshi, a raag that best suits to express longing and yearning in love and pleading for love. One day as I was listening to this song from the radio at my brother’s house in Nagarjunasagar, and enjoying particularly, the opening alaap that sets the right mood to sway with her yearning to the accompaniment of only tabla and the marvellous interludes of saxophone riffs that elevated the composition, my sister-in-law walking out of the kitchen, joined me in relishing the wholesome beauty of the song.

Then I must take you around that historical movie in which all the songs were that of Lataji’s solos: Amrapali (1966). Here again, SJ excelled themselves in composing masterpieces for Lata to sing to the accompaniment of Desi musical instruments. The first song that comes to mind when you think of Amrapali is that powerful but subtle song, Neel gagan ki chhaon mein… penned by Hasrat Jaipuri and sung beautifully by Lata in the composition, raag Bhupali so melodiously with an apt feel for the lyrics. The beautifully interlaced orchestral pieces, the accompanying dance by that great dancer, Vyjayanthimala and the vocals of Lata made this song one of the most cherished to watch.

Next is that sublime romantic melody, again sung by Lata but the lyrics were of that Kavi, Shailendra: Tumhein yaad karte karte, jayegee raat saaree… (O my love, remembering you, the whole night will just pass awake, missing you…). Her slow, rhythmic rendition was simply stunning—wonderfully emotes the feelings of pain, pangs of separation, and the resulting frustration. And, equally beautiful were the Sitar riffs conveying the emotions as softly as Lata’s voice conveyed. They are simply outstanding! And on the screen, Vyjayanthimala conveys matching emotions through her eyes.

Well, there are so many such songs that deserve to be quoted but it’s perhaps, time to draw the curtain down, lest you may … So, let me wind up this post with two of her duets under SJ that stand eternally marvellous. The first one is that monsoon duet with Manna Dey, Pyaar hua ikraar hua hai (‘am in love, I confess it) / Pyar se phir kyoon darr ta hai dil (Why then is that heart so afraid of love?) in which in the last Antara, Lataji, dropping herself from a surging flow to slow pace, in fact in a kind of soft-trembling tone utters dead slowly: Main na rahoongi, tum na rahoge (I won’t be there, nor would you be) / Phir bhi rahengi nishaaniyaan (Yet, there remains signs of us) that makes listeners’ heart quiver…

The next is that “Yeh chand khila, woh tare hanse, ye rat hajab matwali hai (the moon is shining, stars are smiling, this night is so bewitching) with Mukesh from the film, Anaari (1959). The beauty of this song is the duel between the accordion and Lata’s crystal-clear emotive vocals. Put together, they, along with that shining Nutan and smiling Raj Kapoor, made the song a memorable melodious romantic, watching which makes the listener’s senses calm. 

So that brings us to the end of the Journey with Lataji under the baton of Shankar- Jaikishan that started with that Barsaat and continues to delight even in today’s barsaat. Yes, none of them— music directors Shankar- Jaikishan, lyricists Hasrat Jaipuri and Shailendra, and Lataji— are anymore with us, but their renditions are still pretty interesting, maybe even comforting for people of my age who have grown with them ….  

 

**

 

 

A Dreamy Walk in the Alma Mater

 

It was four in the evening and my auto brought me to the main gate of the Bapatla Agricultural College, my alma mater. At the gate, a security guard peered at me perhaps to ensure that I am a harmless visitor… Hearing that I am an old student of the college, he did let me in… So, here I am on the campus once again after 54 years.

And there in front of me a two-kilometre-long lane, the main artery of the College, snaked ahead connecting the main gate to the rest of the buildings in the campus. As I walked in, there, right in front stood that imposing and dominating two-floor stone edifice with its long corridors adorned by gothic arches, joining Lord Byron “…left a grand impression on the mind, / At least of those whose eyes were in their hearts.”

Behind it the playground and the pavilion, to its right was the Veterinary block then the old hostel (Pothana), opposite to it was the JC Bose Life Sciences block, as we proceed further down, there was the new hostel (Vemana), opposite to it stood rows of asbestos sheds housing Extension Dept. on one side and Physiology labs on the other side,  then those two new hostel blocks called Siddartha and Vivekanada opposite to which there was the diary and attached dormitory rooms … and behind it towards the east stood two huge sheds of World War II time. Abutting them was an expansive vacant space and to its south there stood veterinary hospital and Animal Husbandry labs. This was the road that I had walked several times over, for four long years.

As it is said that the mind first seeks familiarity… I too scouted for the familiar spots on the campus. And this led me to the gallery in that stone building sitting in which I heard first, third, and final year theory classes. As I entered the gallery, a battalion of fuzzy memories assaulted me…

It was also the same venue in which I did practice mock-teaching, of course, when none were around, what a pleasure it was! In one such mock-teaching session I encountered a surprising or should I say shocking experience: as I, scribbling Kerbs cycle on the board, turned towards the empty benches in an attempt to explain it, there sat the F&BG Manager in the second row abetting entrance, silently watching me or should I say, listening to me. But quickly recovering I continued the lecture as though he was not there.

That was followed by another interesting encounter. After finishing the drill, I went to the restroom to wash my hands that were dusted by chalk piece powder. Unwittingly I left the door unbolted, for I was in just to wash hands. As I came out, Prof IVP, that domineering lot (though lean and of frail personality) of the campus, who standing in front of Chemistry lab, perhaps, for me to come out, said with a quizzical smile, “What man, what would it have been, had Pushpamma came?” Offering excuses, profusely, managed to somehow wriggle out of that awkward situation.

It was the same gallery in which, while I was reading Alistair MacLean’s The Guns of Navarone sitting by the window in the back row facing gas tanks, in the Dairy-Chemistry class of Mr. Rehaman, that he suddenly calling me, “that last row, window-side man”, questioned, “What is anaerobic metabolism?” Taken by surprise, I tried to answer him by structuring something from out of what he had scribbled on the board and I thought I was near right. Instead of being satisfied with it, obviously with a clear understanding of what I was doing, he enquired about my marks in the second term exams. I said, “Got 36” (out of 50). He then questioned, “How did you get it?”  “That’s what I was given”, replied I. “Don’t be smart, come and sit on the front bench from now onwards”, ordered he. That was really a hell of a punishment for me.

This episode suddenly took me to Biochemistry classes of I V Subba Rao, whose lectures I enjoyed the most. What a professionalism! He used to write lengthy chemical equations on board without a piece of paper in hand in Biochemistry classes. Remarkable. So was the case with Dr. Rangarao’s classes, who used to say with a mischievous smile in his glistering eyes, “I can teach DDT for months, for Muller wrote three volumes” indicating their size with his hands. How impressive it was to listen to crop husbandry lectures of Prof IS Rao delivered in his unique rising intonation.

Coming out of that trance, as I walked towards the other end of the building where the Agronomy Dept is located, Mr. Rama Rao and his long-winding recitation about growing tobacco nurseries in one of our 2^nd year practical sessions struck to mind. More as a messenger, starting thus, “Along the coast of Andhra, over 650 km, stretching from Kalingapatnam in Srikakulam district to Kothapatnam in Ongole, tobacco nurseries are grown in raised beds of sandy loams during the months of August-September…” he vomited, all that he might have struggled to memorise last night, in one go. Indeed, I did say to that effect to my neighbour, who unfortunately laughed at it. Perhaps, feeling that I mocked at him, he ordered me to walk all the way back to college that was almost five km from the farm, while he along with others drove off by college bus. And that love-hate relationship with him continued for the rest of the year. For, after all, hadn’t Salinger said: “You can’t stop a teacher when they want to do something [?]. They just do it”.    

Of course, my preceding-numbered classmate often used to question me: “Emoi Radhakrishna endukoi why do you tease the instructors? They will spoil your chances of …”. But I used to simply brush it off saying “it is a hell of a lot of fun and to have it, aren’t we to pay a price?” A lousy rationalisation of a lousy student! But looking back, I now feel how stupid of me to pick a row at them, and end up in lots of disadvantages?

But then, that was how life was then… As I was caught in it, a funny incident came to mind: once, in the veterinary practical class, Dr. Venugopal Reddy was explaining how to get the animals that suddenly fainted back into senses using ammonium carbonate salt to activate their sympathetic nervous system. Watching my neighbour meddling with the jar containing the salt I just said, “Smell it”. And he did it… and Lo! He had it … at once shrieked loudly, for the mucous lining of the nose might have got strongly irritated (for the bottle containing salt must never be kept directly under the nostrils, it must only be moved in front of the nostrils from this side to that side). Thank god, in a knee-jerk reaction, I snatched the bottle and put it aside. A momentary horror … but thank god nothing untoward happened, for Dr. Reddy is known as a strict disciplinarian.

Reminiscing over such recollections, walking till the end of the road and saluting the corner room of Vivekananda hostel in which I stayed before walking out of that campus once for all, took a U-turn and as I neared the basketball court, a sudden surge pushed me to that sandpit abutting the basketball court in which I and my roommate spent many evenings listening to Radio Ceylon that blared out from the pavilion and talking endlessly about Burmanda’s compositions for Navketan, particularly songs sung by Kishore Kumar such as Hum hai rahi pyar ke… dardbhi hamen qubul, chain bhi hamen qubul; Aankhon mein kya ji roopehla badal… and so on…

In that creeping darkness, as I settled in it, cheers from the pavilion rose and fell sinusoidally, a raw energy pulsating in the thick air was palpable in that cheering… Dusting off the sand, tucking away my memories, slowly walked back to the gate. As I returned to the entrance, involuntarily my eyes looked for kakkurthi, that seedy town hall canteen, sitting in which we talked about everything under the sun over a coffee glass…

Noticing a new building in its place, slowly walked along the road and by the time I realised where I am, I am already in the railway station Lo! Those walks in solitude on that soft sand along the railway track towards the VLW training centre in the twilight hours ruminating on everything under the sky flashed at once. In the silence of that encircling darkness, one evening it could be about the life of Gopichand’s Sitapati and his ineptness, another day about Buchibabu’s Dayanidhi and his flirtations with … yet another day about Adriana, that simple girl of Albert Moravia from Rome with no fortune except her beauty that turns her into a prostitute and her nudging us towards Nietzsche’s “amor fati”, and its underlying philosophy… “Do not seek for things to happen the way you want them to; rather, wish that what happens happen the way it happens; then you will be happy”, and so on….  

And yet in another evening it was about Somerset Maugham’s Larry Darrel in Razor’s edge and his loafing to search for true meaning of life –its pain, passion, and poignancy of life itself – his landing in India and getting bugged by Advaita philosophy …to “Raise, wake up, seek the wise and realize…” but finally planning to practice in Chicago “calmness, forbearance, compassion, selflessness and continence”— and in the maze of that ambiguity, how many evenings were thus spent/wasted?

Come Sunday, I used to sit in town library dusting off the old books such as Radhakrishnan’s Eastern Religion and Western Thought or his two volumes on Indian Philosophy and inhaling the accumulated dust while flipping the pages and of course, enjoying their musty fragrance… Or, it could even be those volumes that present us with Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda… how many mornings I hanged around with his Advaita Vedānta Philosophy … But then looking back I wonder today, why I did all those foolish deeds… deeds that have no bearing on my college education…Well! Then in those days I was certainly feeling high with such books in hand… But today, it certainly appears to be a non-profitable deed. May be , an offence even,,, for, that is not for what I was sent to Bapatla. Too late to realize!

Now you may question, what’s this rumination all about? Or, why at all? Well, I don’t know, but one thing I know for certain: whenever I think of my alma mater, a strange bewitchment overtakes me.

**

That September in 1966…

 

It was the fourth day!

No respite from the pouring rains: grey clouds greeted the dawn again by silently pouring rain. Life was at its dullest phase. No discernible human activity around. For, everyone is confined to their own interiors. Wind stood still. Except for the drone of the rain beating the flowing water on the ground, all else was silent.

The shrill voice of a mother from a neighbouring house yelling at her child running out into rain, perhaps, to play with her friend in the opposite house had at once made the silence louder … the melancholy hanging in the air became denser.  

Having leafed through the damped newspaper from the left-hand corner of the first page to the right-hand corner of the last page, placed it back in its place, of course, neatly folding. And that put me back in my gloom. For, there after I had hardly anything to do, except to brood, of course.

Or, eagerly look forward to that alluring posting orders from Directorate of Agriculture. But then, how long? How many more days? Indefinite waiting, though with all the hope, became more torturous than … no hope even…

Being away from home for the last four years, and perhaps, having grown up in the hostel during that emerging adulthood phase, staying home at a stretch for five long months … that too with no work became so uncomfortable…. Over it, this rain that wafted me in dissonance for the last four days! … Ha! It’s all making me squirm within… Even my parents appeared to have noticed my discomfort.

**

‘‘Radha! Radha!” a sudden call from Naanna (Dad).

Came out of the room into veranda and stood in front of him.

“You said admissions are still open in some universities in the north for MSc, right?”

“Yes. Last year one of my seniors joined in September.”

“Then, why don’t you try?”

Taken by surprise… not being able to comprehend the sudden development… … remained silent for a while. Pulling up the wits, looking down at my feet … mumbled, “I may have to rush immediately to that university campus and lodge the application in person.”

“Do it, then.”

“Alaage (OK), I shall go by Howrah express in the evening to Bhubaneswar and explore the chance… ”

*

It was raining whole day. In that rain I went to the station in the evening. … Purchased the ticket to Bhubaneswar and walked onto the platform No 1. Very few passengers were on the platform… There was no indication of train arriving at the right time – 8 p.m. The gale became strong. It was 11.30 p.m. Three quarters of the platform under the shelter was drenched. ASM was not in a position to indicate the likely arrival time of the Howrah express. Slowly, the platform became empty. I was the only man hanging around the door of ASM’s room. He finally said, “It may come by tomorrow around 7 a.m. but not before that. I went home spending two rupees. My father was unhappy of my returning home.

At 4 a.m. father woke me up and putting me in a cycle-rickshaw again sent me to station in that gale. Criminal waste of five rupees, a fat sum for those days of my family. At last, the train came at around 7.30 a.m. and I boarded it with a half-drenched holdall, and a bag. As the train chugged forward, I could manage to squeeze in between two elderly people and see the day pass off… As I reached Bhubaneswar station the next day morning, rain too came along … took a rickshaw and in that downpour … getting fully drenched … went to Agricultural University hostel. Luckily, I could meet my friend Prasad garu in his laboratory…

Recovering from his surprise at my unannounced presence before him, took me to his room. After finishing the morning chores, sitting before him I told him the purpose of my visit. As I feared, he told I am too late, for this year their institute completed admissions very early. But he gave me a new hope: advised me to go to Kalyani University near Calcutta and try as they are yet to close their admission process… That evening, wishing me all the best, he put me in Puri-Howrah express at 6 p.m.

 * *

On reaching Howrah the next day morning at 6.40 a.m., requested a constable at the taxi stand to guide me to Kalyani Agricultural University. He said something in Bengali, and all I could make out of it was go to Sealdah station, take a local train from there to Kalyani. My next question was how to go to Sealdah. He immediately summoned a taxi and asked him to drop me at the Sealdah station. He said it may come to 10 rupees and told taxi fellow to take dastaka in an authoritative voice. I sat in it and reached Sealdah station.

With the help of a porter went to the right counter and keeping an eye on him, bought the ticket for Kalyani. Following him walked on to the platform and waited for the train. After a while as the train arrived, porter, pushing me inside through that crowd, and dumping my luggage in the entrance, went away. As the train started, passengers at the gate started shouting at me pointing to the luggage. Wondering if the yelling meant for removing the luggage from there, I tried to explain why I kept it there. No, they didn’t agree and finally I was to pull them deep inside.

As someone offered a little space to sit, sitting on the edge, hesitantly, I ventured to strike a dialogue with the neighbour in English. He was not that curt as the earlier lot was, so slowly I started enquiring about the Agricultural College in Kalyani. He said no agricultural college in Kalyani but only university. But as I kept on pestering him with all kinds of related questions, he asked his neighbour in Bengali about the college and finally he told me that there is an AG college at Haringhata and if that’s what I want I must get down at Kancharapara station and not Kalyani and catch a bus in front of the station to go to the college.

So, got down with my holdall at Kancharpara station and came to the bus parked in front of the station. A boy draped in khaki short and shirt standing near the bus door was crying: “Haringhata, Mohanpur… … Haringhata …”. Approaching him enquired if it goes to agricultural college of course, in broken Hindi. He, without saying a single word, perhaps placing me as an outsider, snatched the holdall from my hand, threw it on the bus top and simply pushed me into the bus. Oh! My God, the roof is so low, I have to bend a lot, but no space to stand even, yet people are still pouring in. The khaki short-wala came in and stacked us all tightly one over the other, almost.

Finally, the bus, pregnant with hundreds of passengers, took off. On the way, many had boarded while none got down. At last, my halt came. Students got down from the bus in droves. Unmindful of my pleadings to get my holdall down, the cleaner was busy in getting people out and shouting, “tar tare …jaldee, jaldee. utaro.”. A student, taking pity, perhaps at my broken pleadings in mixed Hindi-English and my face wrapped in fear, silenced the cleaner and climbed onto the top and dropped the holdall.

To my great relief, he enquired as to where I am heading to in English. I told him about my expedition to seek admission in MSc Entomology offered by this college. He and another student, perhaps his friend, helped me to carry the holdall to the college building that was quite away from the road, while the rest of students rushed away speedily, perhaps to catch the class.  

On reaching the building, placing my luggage in one room, he took me to administrative office and enquired with Badebabu about the scope for my admission. After a little conversation with him he took me to the Dean’s office. By then Dean had left for home. Then he narrated to me the whole conversation he had with Badebau. The gist of it was: If Dean permits, Entomology Department can conduct interview, for one seat is still to be filled. But Dean is leaving to Calcutta the next day straight from home. So, he proposed to visit him at his residence to seek his approval for special interview.

He, skipping his class, took me to his hostel room. I then had my bath and felt like a man again. Then, he took me to his mess. On reaching dining hall, I could realise, how hungry I was. But to my horror, there was nothing except fish curry, rice and lentil. I managed to gulp rice with that watery dal and kill my hunger. Then we had a stroll along the lake. Surprisingly, in no time we both gelled so well as though we knew each other since ages.

That evening Mr Nimai Banerjee took me to Kalyani to plead my case with the Dean. As we got down from bus in Kalyani, it rained so heavily as though clouds busted all at once. Power was off. Pitch dark all around. No shelter was visible nearby. We stood under a roadside tree. We were fully soaked in the rain. Water was oozing out of our clothes. After a while as the drizzle slowed down, we came on to the road and headed towards Dean’s house.

Enquiring here and there in that darkness, we could somehow reach Dean’s house and knock on the door. Peon came down with a lantern in hand. Banerjee said something in Bengali and he took us to the first floor. Greeting him we both stood at the door, for water was still oozing out of our clothes. Then Mr Banerjee explained to him about me and my desire to join Entomology Dept as PG student etc…

Dean appeared to be unhappy at our visit at that hour with an unusual request. He perhaps didn’t expect an undergraduate student calling on him pleading the case of an unknown South Indian for admission into MSc. Dean’s voice was becoming louder and louder, yet Banerjee kept on saying … may be pleading my case, all in Bengali.

As the Dean started almost yelling at him, I intervened saying, “Sir, kindly grant me five minutes time, I shall explain the correct position to you. It’s me who is to be scolded for disturbing you at this odd hour. Mr Banerjee, empathising with me and my purpose of coming to Haringhata, merely came to espouse my cause. Sir, Badebau said that one seat in Entomology Dept is still left unfilled. All that I pray to you is grant permission to the Entomology Dept to conduct interview. If I am good enough they may select. If not, I will go away. Sir, believe me, I have not come here to unduly influence you in any way. All that I appeal to you is grant permission for conducting interview, nothing beyond that Sir”.

To my luck, listening me through, he said, “tikaaci, tikaaci… kal officeir asben …. …”. Immediately Banerjee thanked him in Bengali, perhaps, and quickly pulled me out as I was about to say something more. We both climbed down the staircase and heaved a sigh of relief as we came onto the road. On the road he told me what all transpired and his instruction for us to see him next day morning in his office. He saw a ray of hope in it.

Next day morning at 9.30 a.m. we went to Dean’s chamber. I went inside alone and greeted him. He called his peon and pointing to me, said something to him in Bengali. As the peon waived his hand to me, I thanking the Dean, DR SB Chattopadhyay, followed the peon. He then took me to Entomology professor’s chamber and said something to him. I was later interviewed by Dr N Dutta, Mr Amul Mukherji and Mr Pranab Roy for about 15 minutes and then they asked me to wait outside. I came out and as advised waited in the corridor. After five minutes, they called me in and said, “You are selected; go to administrative office and pay the fee”.

Thanking my stars as I came out, Banerjee informed that the next day was the last day for paying the fee. My God! All that I have in my pocket was three less of fifty rupees… Now, another challenge. Gave telegram to home but I am sure of not receiving the money in time to pay the fee.

Then suddenly, Nimai’s friend Mr Roy who was also following me along with Mr Benajee came to us and gleefully said: “Just now Badebau paid me scholarship money. So, you don’t worry, I can lend it …you pay the fee with it.”

I could not believe my ears. His offer made me stand speechless, stare at him in awe! Who am I to him and he to me? My association with him was hardly for 24 hours. Yet, he was ready to lend me hundred rupees. Remained numb for a while. Mr Nimai nudged me to go and pay the fee first, for the college will be closed for Puja holidays from tomorrow. Overwhelmed by these two young students’ concern for me, the stranger, I went upstairs and paid the fee.

Fifty five years ago this month, climbing down the stairs of that grey-building of Faculty of Agriculture, University of Kalyani with receipt in hand… overflowing with mixed feelings of joy, wonder and fear—what if my father could not afford it—wondered if I had become student again!  

Looking back in gratitude to Mr Prasad, Mr Nimai Banerjee and Mr Roy, all that I could now say is, “you all made my life, Anek anek dhanyabad (many, many thanks)”. 

Dr TL Perumallu —An Eventful Journey from Angaluru to America

We all know that our life is limited, and have to end up ultimately underneath a white sheet, never to get up again. And yet, it is always a pain when it happens to someone we love. It’s not even easy to get used to the fact of someone being gone, for just as we think it’s reconciled, accepted, when someone or some incident associated with the gone points out to him/her, you just get hit all over again. And, ever since Rajani called us one morning from the US and with a brief prelude muttered, “Pedababu is no more”, that’s what’s going on with us. 

It’s not a year or two; it’s an association that dates back to the early 70s. To be precise, it was on June 20, 1973 that I met Dr Perumallu for the first time at his marriage. I still remember that late sultry night in Mangalagiri, when he, entering the choultry in the attire of a bridegroom accompanied by a doting battery of people, looked for a place to recline, I, being from the bride’s side, hurriedly went out and fetched a cot for him to lie down. Next day, after the marriage, he spoke to me with such warmth as if we knew each other since ages.

Such long conversations continued thereafter uninterruptedly... either on phone or in person. In one such chats, he narrated about his days in Andhra Medical College (AMC), Visakhapatnam as a PG student of general medicine. A known voracious reader of every book that had landed in the library, he almost became a sort of ready-reckoner for fellow doctors. No wonder, if he with his up-to-date medical knowledge, unwittingly, had become an affront to the faculty!

Being known for his thorough clinical as well as theoretical knowledge of medicine, when once a top-notch politician, a minister in the then Central cabinet, one Mr Bezawada Gopal Reddy, who was on a special visit to the city, was admitted to the Rajendraprasad ward of KGH for a sudden medical support, Dr Perumallu was asked by Prof Raghunathan, to be the physician in attendance to the minister. This PG student, in his usual style, opening a dialogue with the minister to elicit information about his habits to diagnose the problem, and examining him thoroughly, said: “See, cardiomyopathy is a condition that can be corrected if you give off alcohol. Well. We may, at best, give you a temporary relief with medication, but ultimately, unless you quit alcohol, no permanent cure can be assured”, hearing which the attending staff turned queer, while the minister, bursting into a laugh, uttered, “Oh, my young doctor!”

But ironically, this dependable doctor cum PG student in general medicine under Prof Raghunathan, was not found good enough for awarding MD even after appearing twice. In the cross fire of petty caste politics, petty conflicts between the internal and external examiners, etc., he had to quit the program in 1968 in sheer frustration.

But he was not the man to walk out silently: he went to Prof Raghunathan’s house and on knowing he was not at home, asked his wife to convey Dr Perumallu’s “good bye” to him and also to inform him, “Dr Perumallu’s failure to get MD is not a shame to Perumallu alone, it is equally a shame to Prof Raghunathan, for after all, he was his student.”

Of course, this brave young doctor was not the one to lose nerves; instead, in August 1968 he boarded a plane bound to Heathrow with a kettleful kajjikayalu (traditional sweet) given by his elder sister in Delhi and eight pounds in pocket to redeem his fortune… After landing in London, of course, he was to pass through harrowing experiences till he secured a job. Staying in YMCA hostel, rolled on the days by eating kajjikayalu and drinking water; and then as his eight pounds evaporated, at the advice of a fellow-boarder approached DWP to seek Jobseeker’s allowance and once secured aid, started actively visiting a few hospitals for giving interviews. Finally, he joined Brighton General Hospital, Brighton as a general physician in the geriatric ward. Within no time, he could relate himself with the old folks in the ward so much by attentively listening to their narrations/woes and explain about the functioning/dis-functioning of their organs due to wear and tear/old age, that everybody used to wait for this young Indian doctor’s visit to the ward longingly. Immediately after getting salary, he said that he bought a blazer to keep himself warm in that biting cold and shifted to a private accommodation.

Talking about his experiences in Brighton Hospital, he narrated an interesting anecdote: listening to patients systematically describing their problem, he seemed to have felt as though reading the textbook of medicine once again. These interactions with patients finally led him to realize that the symptoms of various diseases that he read in textbooks back home was not that of the authors of the textbooks but a mere compilation of what the patients had narrated to them.

In June 1970, he shifted to the US, where he did his internship in internal medicine at Toledo General Hospital, Toledo, Ohio. In July 1971, he moved to Independence, Iowa and did his first year residency (July 1971-June 72) in Psychiatry at a State Hospital in Independence. While relentlessly pursuing his desire to acquire as much knowledge as he could of various facets of medicine, he stayed focused on making a few extra bucks by attending to all kinds of hospital work, all in the anxiety of quickly pooling sufficient money for marrying off his youngest sister back home. This is one trait of him—the trait of devotedly supporting his widowed mother in managing the family, discharging his familial obligations such as marrying off his sisters, etc., that I respect most, indeed this won my reverence for him. Perhaps, feeling enough dough had been pooled up, he returned to India in July 1972 to get his youngest sister married.

In 1973, he married Dr Anjana Devi, FRCS, on 20^th June. Then marrying off his youngest sister to a doctor, he went back to US in July 1974 along with his wife to work for four to five years, make enough money and return to establish a hospital of his own in Guntur. After finishing his 2^nd and 3^rd year Residency in Psychiatry at the State Hospital, Independence, Iowa, he moved to Danville, Illinois in June 1976 to work at VA Hospital as Chief of the Psychiatry Dept. Later in June 1978, he moved to Cherry Hospital in Goldsboro, North Carolina as Staff Psychiatrist. He, working in that hospital in various capacities: Liaison Psychiatrist, Director of Behaviour Modification Unit, etc., took early retirement in December 1998 due to health problems.   

Family loyalty was a deeply held ideal for him. True to our tradition, he looked at the family from a ‘collectivistic’ perspective and was always concerned about belongingness, dependency, empathy and reciprocity with his family members. He had tremendous love for his mother, sisters and their families. This doctor, who went to the US with a specific objective and with a definite understanding to return to India, after accomplishing the said objectives, to start private practice in Guntur, was to abandon the idea hearing about the untimely, unexpected and unnatural demise of his beloved mother in 1981. It took quite a long for him to come out of that shock.

It was only after three years of his mother’s death that he came to India, in 1984, along with his family and stayed with us for a month and a half. Of course, thereafter he kept visiting us once in every two-three years. During those visits, we used to have long hours of conversations on various topics. He was such an avid conversationalist that he could relate himself with anyone in no time and make them feel at home with his cheerful disposition. He was very good at framing acronyms to explain his philosophy of life/ his faith in spiritualism. 

Once, he narrated his school experiences in Bandar that were pretty interesting to listen. Showing scars on his shoulder, he spoke about how he used to fetch water for his college-going sisters every morning from a distant well by keeping a bangy (a yoke, to whose both ends a rope-net is hanged to place the filchers filled with water) on shoulder. He fondly recalls his school teachers by their names … and narrates how he used to carry vegetables, etc. from Angalur for them… He warmly recalls the prayer that his history teacher—the teacher who is famously known after his fictional wife, Kantam, Munimanikyam Narasimha Rao—asked him to recite in the mornings: “Saraswati namastubhyam varade kamarupini / vidyarambham karishyami, siddhirbhavatu me sada …”

At times our conversation would veer to farming, which we both were attached to very longingly.  Even as a student of MBBS at AMC, Visakhapatnam, he used to attend to important farm activities. During his visit to India in 1999, I was to accompany him to Angalur, Masulipatnam and back to Guntur. While returning from Angalur, he stopped the cab on the road side under a Palmyra grove and showing me the fields that were a little away from the road, narrated how he as a student of AMC, every year in December, used to come to Angalur to get their paddy crop threshed, and even happily slept in the nights at the threshing flour in the company of a labor and brought paddy home securely. For, that was the only source of income for funding his education and other needs of the family as a whole.

On his every visit to India, he invariably used to visit his former professor of medicine, Dr Kodandaramaiah, at AMC, Visakhapatnam, perhaps to express his reverence for all the clinical knowledge, particularly the skill of differential diagnosis that he had imparted to him at KGH. In one such visit, as the professor narrated to him the events that led to his son’s death on his way to Chennai for medical aid, he seems to have at once exclaimed in wonder: “Professor-garu! What you said in KGH in our third year clinical-rounds is still ringing vividly in my ears: ‘If a patient complains about itching between the fingers, with no accompanying visible symptoms, your hand should immediately reach out for the kidneys.’ How is it, of all the people, you failed to diagnose the breakdown of the functioning of your own son’s kidney, that too, when he complained about an itching sensation continuously for a day or two”. Fighting back his tears and holding his hands, the Professor summoning enough energy to mutter: “Perumallu-garu … meekinka avanee gurthu unaayaa—you still remember all those lectures … you are such a good student, naaku andaruu inkolaa chepparu—but I was misled by others… it’s all quirk of fate … by the time it struck to my mind, it was too late.” This realization was indeed too late both in the case of his son and Dr Perumallu as well. Later, sharing this incident with me, he, being what he was, felt bad of his reminding him of his lectures and thereby multiplying his guilt-led anguish.

Ever since he took pre-matured retirement from the Cherry Hospital, Goldsboro, he had been calling me on phone on every alternate Sunday and we used to chat for hours together. Sometimes, he would take me on tour of Gray’s Anatomy… At times it would steer around cardiovascular diseases and the emergence of coronary collaterals, etc… It was such a pleasure discussing with him on such diversified topics, particularly psychology and psychiatry, for I was also interested in knowing a little more about human relationships, particularly, pathological relationships, transactional analysis, behaviour modification, etc., ... they were simply enchanting.

One Sunday, during such conversations suddenly, he landed on that short and burly neurophysiologist, Prof Brahmayya Sastry of AMC … Sharing his relation with him, he narrated how he got his sister who just got her PhD employed in his lab for undertaking research in one of his ICMR-aided projects. He had a high regard for him, not because he gave job to his sister but because he instilled in his young mind in the 60s how important it is to take physiology of a patient, particularly, the importance of Na, Ca, and K in maintaining cardiac stability, into consideration while evaluating his condition and prescribing medication. I too have an admiration for this Professor for he was one of the few Indian physiologists whose work was quoted in that bulky Physiology text of Medicos, which I read with interest as I was then fascinated about ACh, its synthesis, AChE, synaptic transmissions, neurotransmitters, etc. Having that at the back of my mind, I could hang on to the phone with interest listening to his talking a lot on the related issues. And, listening to him while he takes me on tour of such diversified topics was a sheer pleasure.  

The last few months had however turned out to be a little threatening. For, his health started deteriorating fast. Yet, he kept on sharing with me his philosophy of life, his varied interests, and his encyclopaedic knowledge of medicine that was intact till the end on phone but sensing his tired tone, I was to cut the conversations short. But he was as usual talking as though nothing had happened. But the very word ‘cancer’ was such a shuddering for me and my wife that it became difficult to put up long silences… used to eagerly look forward for his telephone ring on Sundays  … and as the days advanced with his experimentation with new drugs and listening to his getting in and out of hospitals for one correction or the other, and yet his speaking to us… always with a cheer in his tone… it was all nice to listen to him but deep in the heart, there was always a tug in the corner …

And finally, as the day came for the end of his journey from Angalur to America, everything was peaceful: On that fateful evening of 7^th December 2020 he,  in medical parlance due to cardiac arrest, passed away peacefully, “Unto the Shepherd’s arm!” while conversing with his younger daughter. All that I could now think of is: just to ruminate on his talks … on what he once told me, “We meet to part” … and silently offer my Śraddhānjali to him….