I had planned an elaborate post to mark the death of my most beloved grandfather, T. V. Venkataraman. Now I find, I don't know how.
I had planned to say: The T in T.V stands for Thiruvaroor, the town where he was born on 6 October 1924 and where his ancestors were from. The V stands for the name of his father, Veerasami Iyer. I would have mentioned that my grandfather was the oldest of six (surviving) children. He was a brilliant and gifted young man, who was offered a scholarship to go a fine University in South India. He had to decline as his father had died, and the responsibility of his entire family had fallen on his young shoulders. He then raised, educated and married off all of his 5 siblings (3 sisters and 2 brothers) while slowly working his way up the Southern Railways. He married my grandmother, Alamelu (born Rajalakshmi), some 10 years his junior. They went on to have 4 children of their own, including their only daughter, my mother. Together, they raised this entire brood of siblings and children till each was able to stand on their own. Till the day he died, all his siblings, each grown old, with children and grandchildren of their own, considered my grandfather to be the head of the family.
At his funeral, for a particular ceremony, the priest mentioned that anyone not going to the funeral home could perform this last rite: that of giving the dead a symbolic handful of rice for their journey into the afterlife. He mentioned specifically that anybody could do it, adding, anyone younger than him and anybody older than him. At that moment, his younger sister, almost weeping, said out loud in Tamil, "There is no one older than him. He was the oldest of us."
Like many men of his time, my grandfather could be severe on his children. He was not the warm, cuddly helicopter parent that we see today. He believed strongly that his greatest duty was to provide for his family. And in his mind, he did so to the best of his ability. As a grandfather, he was warm, affectionate and sentimental. As a young man, his poverty led him to live off the generosity of others for a while. The saddest story my mother ever told me about my grandfather was about his time as a young bachelor, when he had to depend on his uncle for food. His uncle, not being a man of great means himself, would offer him the water that had been used to soak the rice before it was cooked. It was not a real meal, but was full of starch and some nutrients, and would have to be enough for a poor young boy with no other options. That's all my grandfather had to eat, water. As a result, his feelings towards food were understandably complicated. Due to this, he took great pleasure in feeding us and taking us on food related excursions.
My grandfather could read and speak Sanskrit fluently. He was a devout Hindu Brahmin. He took great pains and care to perform his daily rituals. He was a meticulous man; there was a place for everything. He always made time to slowly take out every item used for his prayers and then put them back after he was done, just as slowly. His lower middle class upbringing meant that he did not like to waste things. He was a frugal man in most respects. He did, however, like to spend money on gadgets (TV and computer) and on his grandchildren. He saved as much as he could, as often as he could, as long as he could. Still, I believe he may have greatly regretted that it was never enough to buy him a house. He died without ever owning property.
He was an immensely proud man. Many believed this to be a fatal flaw, even some of his children. I saw a different side of it. He was immensely proud of me. Of my brother. Of my mother. He saw the hardships we faced and he was proud of the fact that we overcame them without much help.
My grandfather only ever raised his hand to me once, when I was careless in playing and managed to hurt myself very badly. He felt so guilty for having hit me that he cried.
He loved guavas. Sometime after the death of his parents, he went to Kashi (Varanasi) and, as is the custom, gave up eating them.
Although I believe he loved all his grandchildren, he had special affection for the 3 oldest. My brother was his first grandchild. Pictures of him holding my brother as a baby convey one thing very clearly, that he adored my brother without an ounce of reservation. Unfortunately, there are no pictures I can find with my grandfather holding me as a baby. But he loved me. He loved me completely. My cousin, the older son of my grandfather's oldest son, the legitimate heir, so to speak, of the bloodline, was similarly adored. The three of us spent the most time with him as children. My two youngest cousins lived away from my grandparents for most of their childhood, and as a result, spent only a few weeks every summer with them. This was to their detriment, I firmly believe.
My favourite memories of my grandfather involve him taking the three of us to a fair, where he bought us food and candy. He bought me a little cup of soap water which I used to blow bubbles. He bought me books of Russian fairytales, which I still have.
He read everything I gave him that I had published. He was so very proud of them.
Whatever his faults, this is what I believe, absolutely, irrevocably and firmly. He was as good a father as he knew how to be. He raised so many people, and did it the only way he knew how, by providing for them. He made many mistakes. He was the best grandfather I could have ever had. He loved me. And he was loved by me. My most beloved Thatha. He lived a full life. And now he is gone. And nothing will ever be the same again.
So, here's the thing, it appears I had something to say after all.
