Tag Archives: childhood

The Pottallam Reader



This is the story of Catherine, my father’s mother, a peasant woman.

My grandmother was a little girl when she was married. She told me that she was about 8 or 9 years old and playing in the field one day, when her brother came looking for her to fetch her home. She wondered why her playtime was interrupted and went home crying only to find out that she was to be given in marriage that afternoon. That day she was hurriedly dressed up in some new clothes by her mother and was taken through the rituals that took place in the front yard of their hut. She was so tired from all the crying and bewilderment, she fell asleep on her father’s lap during the ceremony. She did not remember the groom nor the rest of her marriage ceremony very well. After her marriage that day, she stayed back at her parents’ home until her puberty. Upon getting her first period when she was 13 or 14 years old, she was sent to the home of her husband to live with her new family. All the other children, her siblings, had typical rustic Indian names, but her father named her Catherine, and no one knows why now. I never did ask her how she got a Christian name like that. For much of her married life she was a Hindu and had another name. It amuses me now, to realize that she had a name like that. Funny, it never struck me as odd, when she was alive.

Soon she began to have children in quick succession every year without a gap. I think she managed to have at least 12, of which 9 survived. My father was her first born. She was still reproducing at the time of my father’s marriage, and his youngest sibling was an infant suckling at his mother’s breast at that time.

I guess this is not an unusual story for any little girl that grew up in the same village, at that time. The one little difference that separated Catherine from the other children in the village was that she learnt to read and write, when most of them were illiterate. In fact  most members of her own family were illiterate. She was fortunate to be sent to the local government primary school by her father, much against her mother’s wishes. So her formal education happened in those 3 or 4 years until her marriage. She was probably taught the Telugu alphabets, small words and small sentences and nothing more. But she was a smart woman and she never forgot.

Catherine was determined to send all her children to school. This was an unusual wish for her to fulfill in her part of the world. She was a poor untouchable woman, and in those days the practice of untouchability was very much alive and kicking in the villages of India, as indeed it is today, though its manifestations are more subtle now, and the community of untouchables is protected now by the Law. Those were the days when India had just got her independence and the social milieu was very different from what it is today. I guess words cannot adequately describe how ugly things were for these disenfranchised people back then. Even if words could be found, images cannot be conjured to mark those regressive times.

My father was the first boy in the village to go to College, a remarkable achievement, not so much for the boy as much for the mother who made it possible. Those days Dalit or Untouchable children from the rural parts of India did not have many reasons to go to school and college. There were no schemes to ensure their enrollment. For the poor Dalit families tattering on the edges of starvation and poverty, putting their children in school was a loss of a farm hand and therefore wages. Only a fool would send his son to school!  The benefits of education had not yet captured their imagination, and they did not comprehend that it would pull them out of their vicious cycle of oppression and suppression. What good is a son who can read and write, if he has to come back to the fields to work as a coolie, a laborer at the end of the day? What options lay before him when he finished school? The way their world view unfurled in front of them was that this education could do nothing to reverse their fortunes and circumstances. It was futile to have such aspirations.

But Catherine was determined and she had her way. She sent her son to the primary school in the nearby village and then to a school about 10 kilometers away, for higher classes. She sent all her other children to school also, but it was my father who took exceptionally well to academics. Most of the other children dropped out. It is nothing but sheer magic that my father thrived under those unseemly circumstances.

Anyway, the story goes that my father would give her books to read, and she would read all of them with a great passion. She read everything she could lay her hands on. There was not much material for her to read in a remote village nook. So she would read the papers that were used to wrap articles of food items or other consumables bought in the local kirana shop. We call them pottallams or parcels. After unwrapping the pottallams, she would preserve these scraps of sundry paper and read and re-read them, even though they had no beginning or end, no head nor tail. It was perhaps a shred of a newspaper, or a fragment from a magazine. She read it all and enjoyed greatly the created word. She escaped into the world that this fragment offered her a peek into.

When my father grew older, he got her books from the town’ government library. It did not boast a great collection of books I imagine, but she read with eagerness any book that was placed in her hands. My father told me, that she had read every book from the library.

Once my father left home to go away to the big town, to continue his high school studies, he stayed in the government welfare hostel, and he visited her only during the holidays. In a way, it was a going away for my father for good, for after he left, he never really returned home in the strict sense. But every time he visited her, he remembered to get her books to read.

My grandmother told me that she was always having babies, and there was so much work to do on the farm and at home. Her older children were away at school, and they could not afford to hire laborers, so the couple had to double up and work, looking after their now newly acquired small piece of land, their cattle and their fowls. One can imagine that there would have been no time left to read. Not for Catherine! She told me that she continued to read her books, while she was nursed her babies at her breast. That was the time she squeezed for herself to read.

Almost all of us can recollect our grandparents telling us stories, and Catherine was no different. One summer when she came to visit us, when my brother and I were small, she narrated the entire Mahabharata to us in daily installments, with all its many, many subplots, and florid characters much to our great fascination. The stories were more breathtaking than any grandiose TV serial. She also regaled us with stories from the Ramayana, Jathakas, Sindbad, and the Panchatantras to name a few. Catherine was very graphic with her details and her word imagery was powerful. In due course when I began reading the wonderful Amar Chitra Katha comics as a child, I remember telling myself, these are the same stories, that my grandmother told me, but she added greater detail.

Later in life, she was introduced to the Bible, and towards the end of her life, she read only the Bible and abandoned reading any other book, save this one. I could be mistaken. But I do believe she did not read any other book, and only read books and magazines related to the Bible. That was her personal conviction and a decision that she made for herself. She read and re-read her Bible many times over. She would quote large passages from memory with great ease, and give references without any difficulty.

She must have been 55 years old, and I was a young woman just out of Medical College, when she complained to me of blurred vision. She was in despair, as she was not able to read. By that time the family fortunes had ameliorated, and she was well looked after by her children. She didn’t need to work at all. My father wanted her to come to the city to live with us, but she preferred to live in her beloved village. She spent her days in her room, reading and enjoying her Theological books. Once her sight failed, I was the one who took her to an Ophthalmologist, and had her operated for cataract in both eyes and I am fortunate to have looked after her during that period. How grateful she was to me! The restoration of her eyesight was nothing short of a miracle for her. I don’t think she really cared for anything much in her life other than her books. She didn’t want money, didn’t crave good food, jewels or clothes or anything else that people want when their children fare well. The TV had no fascination for her. She was content with her books.

Looking back, she was a peculiar woman who did not belong to her era and social setting. She read till her last day. Her books were her companions all her life. Only three of her children became graduates, and the rest of her children didn’t show any aptitude for reading. My father did very well for himself and became a civil servant in the elite Indian Administrative Services, and went on to hold important public posts and made a distinguished career for himself. It strikes me as no small achievement for a lowly peasant woman to see her son go that far.

Of all her grandchildren, I was the one who inherited her love for books, the most precious gift anyone could ask for. I never ever thanked you, Nanamma.


My Mom


Thinking of childhood is loads of fun. That is especially true because my childhood was really a lot of fun. I did not go to school until I was 7 years old. Lucky me! I was schooled at home until then. My mother taught me to read.

I remember having a surgery when I was 3 or 4 years old. It was a hip release or something like that. I was in a huge plaster of paris cast and was in bed for a long time. I am unable to tell, if it was a month or two or just a few weeks. I remember my mother telling me stories to keep me entertained as I lay in bed. My mother was not the academic sort. However, I remember her reading every day, just to fill me up on the stories, for I had quite an appetite for them. I would listen and ask for more. And she never disappointed me. I really enjoyed that very much. Looking back it feels so good.

We moved to Coimbatore, as my father was posted as the Additional Collector/District Magistrate of that city. We were given a huge British Bungalow to live in. It was such a stately home – a vestige of the Raj. It had a huge banyan tree and acres of land around. My mother  tended a well maintained garden with all kinds of flowering plants there. I ate my food perched on a low branch of the Banyan tree. I was still recovering from the surgery and I was thoroughly pampered! My mother would gather the children of the office staff– the office attendants, the drivers, the dhobi- who also lived on the campus, and she would tell all of us stories. She would make us sit on the floor of the corridor that ran along the bungalow. She would give us rooh–afsa to drink and kal-kals and dhol-dhols that she made to eat. We sat in a round formation, and she would tell us a story a day. The next day, one of us had to retell the story back to the group, to the accompaniment of much laughter and impatient prodding. For Christmas that year, she made all of us do handmade ornaments for our indigenous Christmas tree. It was the most rustic Christmas tree ever. They were mostly made of various kinds of paper, string, glue and clay and color. Then she organised games for us, and gave all of us small gifts, which she wrapped like a giant toffee.

Every day she would go into the garden and bring back flowers which she strung for me. Violets of different hues and violets with stripes. Kanakambarams. Jasmines. Roses of every size and color. I was among the most pretty girls in school, because she would dress me up like a button. She would take time every day in the morning and evening to do so.

From the garden, she would bring back the wounded mynahs and kingfishers, into the bungalow and nurse them. She would set them free.

She made the prettiest smocking frocks for me. For my 5th birthday, she made a violet smocking frock for me. It had the most intricate colorful pattern. She hid the frock from me for all of those months that she was secretly making it. On my birthday, she sat me on a chair on the front porch, closed my eyes, draped me in it, and then made me open my eyes to see it. I remember being thoroughly thrilled. She also made panties for me with a lot of frills. They were the sweetest things a little girl could wear. I look for those frocks and panties in shop windows whenever I go shopping, and I have never seen anything quite like them!

That was among the last time that I saw her like that. Her personality slowly started changing immediately after we moved back to Chennai, upon the completion of my father’s assignment in Coimbatore. I never saw her quite so happy again. I didn’t realize then that she might be sick, and for many years I was antagonistic to her. She was severely depressed. Subsequently she went on her religious trip, and this once amiable parent morphed into someone who was  totally unlike herself. She was always frowning and filled with fear. After my father died her condition worsened.

Only after that, did I take her to see a Professional. Shame on me. Many times during the years that were difficult, I began to fear, if I ever imagined the good childhood days with my mother. Did it really happen just like I thought it did?! After several patient years on medication, she is completely clean today. It is nothing short of a miracle. She has been free of any medication for the past 4 years, and she is back to her former tip top self. The same twinkle in her eyes. My young cousins tell me with incredulous disbelief that they never knew, that Pedamma was so much fun!! I never imagined that such a recovery were ever possible, and it has once again reposed my faith in God. It is now stories at the dinner table all over again, whenever I come home for her gongura mamsam or pachi royyala iguru. I love you Ma!

When you share a bit of yourself


I have often been asked the question, why I do what I do. Why do I work with vulnerable people? Especially children. I know why. I know exactly why.

Something happened that gave me a reason, when I was doing my post-graduation in Pediatrics some 16 years ago. I was just a month away from the final exams. I was still huddled in the College and Hospital Campus, clinging onto it for the last days. I knew I would never ever get those college days back again. Those friends, those mid-night coffees at the Nair tea stall with the bread-omelettes are a favorite nook in my mind’s memory space. Did we take breaks from study to chill out, or did we take breaks from fun to study occasionally. A case of the egg or the chicken coming first pops to my mind. I had decided that I would live my life, like I wanted in the future too. I knew that I would never compromise. But this was different. There would be omelettes and omelettes that I would consume, from all over the world, but the magic of the midnight stroll will be for ever etched in memory. To this day, I hunt for that omelette.

The fifth floor of the Sri Ramachandra Medical College and Hospital was for those people who could afford expensive medical care. The rooms there could be compared with those of any posh up-market hotel room. The service there was premium. One day, as the clock was running out of my time left on the course and the campus, I accompanied my Chief on one of his medical rounds on the fifth floor. We entered the room of a 6 or 7 year old boy with spina bifida leading to paralysis from his waist down. However his intelligence was intact. He had been admitted on one of his numerous trips to the hospital as he had developed an infection in the shunt that was created in his head for draining the meningocele that was also part of his condition.

As my Chief meandered through the hallways, entering and exiting rooms filled with eager, anticipating patients, I accompanied him along, slightly behind, but always catching up. We entered this child’s room. As my Chief interacted with the parents in his customary fashion, I interacted with the kid in my customary manner. This child was in bed and I first made eye contact with him. The kid responded, silently. Something about this response was not normal. Kids always respond to me. I do not impose myself up on them. I give them respect. A kid is always able to discern when you do not condescend and talk down to him. Kids have to be absolutely sure if they can trust. Especially in a hospital context, a child quickly learns to be suspicious of everyone in a Doctor’s Coat.

This kid warmed up to me.  But, I could tell that something was amiss in this kid’s face. It was not a happy face. It was the eyes. The sparkle was not there. It was not a tear stained eye, but it was a sadness laden eye. It was those eyes that give him away. A kid at that age has not yet learnt to camouflage his unhappiness to the world. So I picked up on his scent of sadness and instinctively I looked into his eyes. They were big and beautiful and deep. They were intelligent too.  In the next few minutes, the medical business was transacted. The mother unloaded her concerns and my Chief, as usual answered her as directly and clearly as possible. Then the mother of all questions, “When can we go home?” was popped, for which he responded as usual and said, “I’ll review his progress and let you know in a day or two”.

It was time for us to move to the next room. When I turned to move, the kid caught hold of the hem of my apron (doctor’s coat) and would not let go. He did not speak anything but held on to it for some time. I had to un-squeeze his grip to let go. I looked into his eyes once more, and told him that I needed to go, but I assured him that I would return later to talk to him.

 That night I returned to his room as promised. It was past nine in the night, and the family had finished dinner. As I entered the room, I saw the flicker of the TV lights on his face, and I could not help noticing the unhappy eyes. His eyes were surprised and filled with joy to see me. Life came into them. I settled down beside the child to talk to him. It was the first time I had a real conversation with him. All the basic questions were asked and we adequately warmed up to each other. It was then that he paused long and hard, and asked me clearly, and surely a few questions he was dying to ask, since he first saw me.

“Are you really a doctor?” “Did you really go to college?” “Did you actually go to school?”

My heart broke at that point for a brief moment, before I composed myself. Finally it all became very clear to me. This child was never sent to school. His parents treated him very specially, and taught him at home for fear of being rejected at school by the other kids. It is very difficult for a child with a disability to go to a normal school in India. The challenges are many. Right from access to attitude almost everything is a barrier. So the parents with good intentions did not want the child to be at the receiving end of all these difficulties and sheltered him at home. They replaced his childhood friends, his world.

As for me, I grew up in a happy home. Though I was a child with a disability, my parents did not treat me specially. And I went to a normal neighborhood school, along with all the other kids, first in a rickshaw, and then in the school bus. My teachers treated me normally. My amazing Head Mistress ensured that I always participated in every school activity. I was class leader; I was Assistant School Pupil Leader. She would always ensure that I had a part in the school play. I took part in sports day, fashion parade, fancy dress. I went on school trips. My friends in school were amazing.  Though initially inquisitive, children very soon understand and appreciate the diversity in school mates, if taught well.

An unhappy child just breaks my heart. A child with a disability is particularly precious. The vulnerabilities are multiplied. The longing to have a chance to do everything that other children take for granted is not recognized well enough. We exclude them from living life to their fullest because of the misplaced intentions and insecurities of parents and teachers. Sometimes they just don’t know enough.

That day, the child’s probing yet honest questions showed me the pain of being “special” and excluded. I counselled the parents about admitting the boy in a school near his home. In the months that followed, I facilitated the process of enabling reasonable accommodations in the lifestyle and infrastructure of the child and stayed on until he went to school. It is many years now and I haven’t stayed in touch with the family. But I know he must be doing well.

That day, when I put out my arm to reach a sick and sad child, I learnt a valuable lesson in sharing a part of myself. It wasn’t much. But it was enough to flip the frown of that child into a smile.