Tag Archives: madras

Shraddha Saburi

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This is a tale of a surreal experience I had many, many years ago. Even so, I can vividly remember the dream and how the entire episode unfolded. I had and have this sense of Divine Providence.

At the centre of the story is the divine aura of Shirdi Shri Sai Baba. At our Lucknow residence, we had this simple picture of him in a white garb, sitting on a rock or large stone. The line below said, “Why Fear When I am Here.” My mother was an ardent devotee of this Saint .The Sai Leela periodical was a must-read for her and many a time I went to the Post office for making the annual subscription vide Money Order. She once told me that in the late 40’s a gentleman called Shri Narasimha Swamy had come visiting to our ancestral home in Madras. Over coffee and snacks he told my grandparents and family about this spiritual and humane being and his profound influence in interior Maharashtra.  Indeed, this great apostle of Shri Sai carried the inspiring story of the Baba across the South. In the early 50’s he was the catalyst and the force behind the construction of the Sai Baba temple in Mylapore, Madras. It has since become the Shirdi of the South. Much later, I remember my Mama (maternal uncle whom we have always looked up to) telling me more about Shri Narasimha Swamy. That he was a well-known lawyer and a member of the Madras Legislative Council for many years. A double family tragedy set him off on a spiritual quest to all parts of this vast land. In the mid 1930’s he heard about this godly-man from the small town of Shirdi. A visit to the Samadhi and multiple interactions with the local people and the Baba’s close circle convinced him about his tryst with Divinity. Then followed several meetings with more Sai disciples in the cities of Bombay and Poona- Judges, lawyers, professors, government officials… Today, of course, the Spiritual Master has millions of devotees across the country and in many parts of the world. Shirdi has become a major pilgrimage destination.

The year was 1975. We were on an extended summer vacation at the serene family home in Madras. This was a yearly sojourn we really looked forward to. My father, a retired Army doctor, returned to Lucknow after a two week stay. He had joined a well-known private trust hospital in the city. Those were the days of Inland letters and post cards. A letter from my father jolted me out of the holiday mood. He had written that my roll number had not appeared amongst the list of successful candidates for the Intermediate exam, published in the local newspaper. He had requested a friend of mine to confirm at the college and the list on the Notice Board also did not show my name or number. My world had gone topsy-turvy. I felt acute guilt and shame. I had let my parents down and wasted a crucial year of education. I had become a failure for family and friends. The rest of the Madras trip was a blur. The only other thing that I recall is my mother taking me to the Mylapore temple for a darshan.

The long rail journey back to Lucknow was a miserable experience. The train was scheduled to reach in the early morning and I had a restless night on the upper berth. And then I was there at the breakfast table with my father and couldn’t meet his eyes. He said that yes, it was disappointing but I had to move on. No sharp words, no rebukes. It made me feel even smaller. While getting up he said that I should go and collect my report card and later on we would discuss the next course of action.

So around 11.00 am I got on my bicycle for the long haul to the college. My mother had come to the gate and applied Vibhuti (holy ash) on my forehead.  As I cycled, I thought that it was probably the Hindi paper which had pulled me down.  On reaching the college administration office I met Sharmaji at his table. I requested him to first check the Supplementary List register. This was my best hope. Supplementary meant that I could have another shot at the paper I had flunked in- provided my marks were within 5 marks of the pass-marks cut-off. I could then move on to a graduate degree course albeit from a less reputed college but would not lose out on a year. Sharmaji went through the sheets and shook his head. He then moved on to the Failed Students Register and seemed to spend an eternity looking it over. “You are not here, as well,” he remarked and reached out for the third file. After a couple of minutes he looked up and smiled, “Babua, you have passed. Why have you wasted my time?”  He handed over my report card and took my signature on the duplicate. I had passed with good marks in all the subjects including Hindi. A wave of relief swept through me. As I stammered through my back-story, his smile broadened. He shook my hand warmly and asked me to get him ½ kilo mithai (sweets) from Ram Aasrey or Chowdhary Sweet House, two well-known sweet marts in Lucknow. I virtually broke the record, cycling back home. My mother and brothers were delighted at the sudden turn of events. Three good friends also landed up in some time and they wanted to celebrate the occasion. But it was getting time for my father to reach home for lunch. It was a very happy and chatty group around the table with my buddies joining in. The entire atmosphere had changed in a few hours.

After a long break my friends wanted to hang-out together. So on this hot summer afternoon we cycled to Chowdhary Sweets for Sharmaji’s order plus for family and friends. Then all the way to the college where a surprised Sharmaji was happy to receive his treat. It was past 3 pm and all the cycling had taken its toll. Someone suggested that we catch the movie at the nearby theatre. Tickets were easily available as we entered the plush AC hall. In a few minutes the main feature film started with the hero running and running and running in a desperate manner. He reaches the house of an eminent Judge at night and confesses that he has killed a man. He wants to tell his strange story before the police arrest him. My mates and I looked at each other- wow, this is going to be thrilling. But after the first 15 mins it all unravelled into some bizarre Nagin story. Time to take a nap. Come interval and we took our cycles from the stand and headed for a good Chat (street food) joint. Batashes, aloo-tikki, samosas and lemonade- the works. A great end to an eventful day. The strange thing was that I kept seeing that picture of Sai Baba- off and on.

And then suddenly I heard the shouts of the coolies. The train had reached its destination station. Oh shit, this had all been a dream!

My father had come in the Fiat car to pick us up. With the extra luggage, one of us had to go home in a cycle rickshaw. I quickly opted for it. But there was no escaping my father at the breakfast table. He quietly told me’ that what has happened has happened. I should go and collect my report card.’ As I left my mother applied the Vibhuti (holy ash) to my forehead. I grunted it out to the college on the cycle. On my request Sharmaji pulled out the Supplementary register first. He shook his head and my heart sank. Then to the list of the failed candidates. As I continued to watch numbly he said that I had passed. The report card and the warm handshake. The smiling ask for a ½ kilo of mithai from those famous shops. I shook my head. Have I been here before?!?

The good cheer at home. A happy lunch with family and friends. Then we pedalled off to Chowdhary Sweets enroute to the college. We were drained by the time we handed over the sweet box to a delighted Sharmaji. Then a friend suggested that we chill out at the nearby cinema hall- watch the matinee show.  The film was ‘Milap’ starring an upcoming Shatrughan Sinha and Reena Roy. A re-run before the next big release hit town. As the credits rolled- the lead man is shown running and running but with a touch of agony. He knocks at the door of Judge’s residence. It’s night time. As the Judge checks out this distraught man, he blurts out that he has killed a person and wants to tell his strange story. My pals are excited by this dramatic opening sequence. I whisper to them that there is some Nagin angle to the plot. Sometime later we have all switched off and dozed off.  We make our escape during the interval and go over to a nice Chat joint. The delicacies wipe out the bitter taste of a bad movie experience.

When I discussed all this with family and friends the standard response was that my dream reflected that I was confident of clearing my exams. The culprit was a typo error. A few years back a school-mate who has become a reputed psychiatrist and I were swapping stories; he said that the non-stop running of the movie protagonist was in fact me running away from my sorry situation and ending in a confession. (Read failure-guilt-shame).

For me many things did not add up so rationally. I had been away from Lucknow for 45 days and had no way of knowing what movie was running at the cinema hall near the college. It was a spur of the moment decision to beat the summer heat. Although it was a re-run we had no clue about the film or its subject. With our limited pocket money we picked and watched only Hindi movies with our favourite stars and directors. Milap had never been on our watch list. Also we had never walked out of a movie at half-time before. On the radio the only film program I tuned into was Binaca Geet Mala. Else, it was all about cricket or hockey commentaries. Most of our leisure time was spent on the sports field. Also, those were not the times of social media and IOT with movie spoilers as a common occurrence.

Then about dear Sharmaji. He was just one of the Admin team at the college office- Mr Sebastian, Tiwariji and Mary Madam being the others. I had met and interacted with the others also in equal measure- about forms, fees, special classes, leave applications… The fear of failing the Hindi test paper was also not misplaced. It was a tough paper that year. Internal assessment would have seen us all through but we also dreaded the possibility of it being checked by some strict lecturer at say Allahabad University. Indeed, I came to know later on that some of my classmates who were also pretty good at the subject had their grades pulled down by the Hindi marks. They got a lower Division.

Finally, there is the matter of the Sai Baba image virtually punctuating my dream narrative. Add to it my mother’s simple and pure faith. The uncanny sequence of events. Way beyond just intuition – moving into the metaphysical space. An undercurrent of curious energy which transcends normal explanations.

Shirdi Shri Sai Baba. Shraddha Saburi. Faith. Patience.

Being Human

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Photo by V Srinivasan on Unsplash

His name was Balu.  Short for Balaji. He lived his entire life in what was then Madras. He had no recollection of his date of birth but was likely born around 1932. Five years before his beloved sister, Bharathi.

I came to know him as he stayed in the out-house of my uncle’s ancestral house. He was just around 5ft 2’, lean and wiry and with a perpetual half-stubble which changed to salt and pepper in later years. He had a bent right leg below the knee and used to hobble around. An attempt at corrective surgery had failed.

Balu was family. I had an inkling that my grandfather and Mama had helped in getting his sister married off to a nice guy working for the Railways.

He did odd-jobs for the house-hold and was the Man Friday whenever needed. But he lived and helped-out in a much larger community space. He stayed the night at the hospital to bail out a needy family. With his connects he was the go-to- person for weddings and family ceremonies. He explained the government forms and regulations to small shop-keepers and traders. Balu was fluent in Tamil but also had a good knowledge of English. We never knew whether he had passed his Matriculation exams or not. He had expressed his fear of Maths to me on a couple of occasions.

I have never seen a person with less wordly possessions. He had 3 half-sleeved shirts and 3 white veshtis. Two towels, undergarments and rubber slippers completed his wardrobe. Every year when we visited Madras my father used to gift him a shirt piece and a veshti. He also ensured that the shirt was stitched.

My folks knew that if you gave him money it would be soon spent on idli-sambar and coffee at the corner restaurant and the latest MGR film in town. He had a passion for the movies. He could recite the famous dialogues of MGR or the other thespian Sivaji Ganesan in one take.

It came as no surprise that Balu  gave English language tuitions to a starlet and a singer associated with Tamil films. He was also a big hit with children with his gift of telling stories and anecdotes. His re-telling of the Hindu epics would have done justice to the big screen. These sessions with the kids normally happened in a small park near his sister’s place.

In the thirty years or so that I knew him I have not seen a kinder or more simple person. Soft-spoken and always flashing his distinctive grin. He had lost an upper tooth. He never spoke about his problems. He never asked for money. Indeed he is the first person to advise me to never bargain hard with people like the vegetable vendors. Their margins were small. But also to be careful of the unscrupulous auto drivers who took many for a ride.

Balu passed away whilst sitting alone at a bus-stop adjacent to the lane where Bharathi lived. It looked as if he drifted into a peaceful sleep. I later heard that over a thousand people attended his funeral to pay their last respects. This ordinary Aam Aadmi had touched thousands of lives. In his death, came alive the true meaning and value of his existence.

An extra-ordinary human being. We still miss his toothless grin.