Portrait of a gentleman

Had he lived, my father would have celebrated his 100th birthday earlier this month. As it was he passed away peacefully at the ripe age of 87, a number considered unlucky by Australian cricketers because it is 13 shy of 100! But we’ll put that piece of irrelevancy to one side. The reason I decided to write about this gentle, soft-spoken man was that, ironically, we may have done nothing had he been alive today. It is the way with members of my family and, I suspect, many others in the Tamil Brahmin community. Birthdays, anniversaries and the like are treated with a studied indifference that is peculiar to us.

Typically, my father would be reading the newspaper, and observing the date on the masthead, would turn to my mother and go, ‘Ha, did you realise today is our wedding anniversary?’ The laconic response from my mother would be characteristic. ‘So what do you want me to do about it?’ At which point, he would bury himself in the sports pages.

My father, S.Subrahmanyan, was a career banker, who diligently worked his way to the top of his bank’s echelons. Much of his working life was spent in the Far East and in Calcutta. Like others of his ilk, on retirement at the age of 60, he moved to Madras with my mother to spend the evening of his life there. In fact, attaining the age of 60 is considered a landmark with plenty of rituals involved (shastiabthaopoorthi). Landmarks of 70, 80 and 90 pass by almost unnoticed, and I haven’t actually come across a centenarian. I can understand that in the days of yore, when everyone kicked the bucket quite early, 60 was considered an important milestone. But as we all know, in this day and age, 60 is regarded as yesterday’s 40!

As the second of three brothers, I can say that exposure to our family was much greater on my mother’s side for a variety of reasons. My father married into a family that, while observing most religious rituals, was not overtly religious, barring some exceptions. My mother, her sisters and brothers (they were eight in all), were mainly obsessed with two things in life – their own immediate family – its dynamics and politics, and Carnatic music. If anything, the latter was our religion. If you were to walk in unannounced while the siblings were in conversation, chances are one of these two topics would be animatedly engaging them.

At the time they were married, what my father knew about Carnatic music could have been written on the head of a pin with a pneumatic drill. The only Kalyani and Ranjani he knew were probably his childhood neighbour’s daughters. To his eternal credit, however, he slaved away over the years, to come to grips with this arcane art form. He had no choice. By the time I was in my teens, he could actually recognise Todi and would even tunelessly essay Tyagaraja’s Emijesite nemi in that majestic raga. I guess, it was all a question of osmosis. ‘If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’, seemed to be his unstated motto.

My father was tall and very fair, and he cut quite a dash in both official and social circles. He was equally fluent in English and Tamil, though his Tamil-accented Hindi was comically dodgy (‘Aisa karne se kaisa hoga?’) His handwriting was bilingually steady, clear and firm.  Generally soft spoken, he rarely raised his voice. ‘Suddha blackguard’, was top swearing for him. He was articulate and could be cutting when the mood took him, particularly with my mother, which was rare! With these sterling attributes, it was not surprising that he was nearly always the first choice to be elected unopposed as President of a number of social organisations in Calcutta – South India Club, Bharati Tamil Sangam, Amateur Dramatics – to name just three. I recall that he always prepared his welcome and thank you speeches assiduously and would rehearse in front of the dressing room mirror at home – hand gestures and all! His one big moment was organising Dreamgirl Hemamalini’s dance recital. He was in a complete tizzy for days, and my mother was not best pleased!

Sartorially, these social gatherings would find him in a spotless white ‘jarigai veshti’ and full sleeve crisp white ‘jubba’. His formal pinstripe suits were pretty spiffy as well. A real head turner, was our UCO Bank Subrahmanyan, as his friends referred to him. It was the way of those days, when most people worked all their lives in the same organisation, and were forever identified with their company prefixes - Lipton Raghavan, Brooke Bond Nagarajan, Metal Box Sankaranarayanan, ITC Subramaniam and so on. This quirk appeared to be a uniquely South Indian affectation. Note, the last named Subramaniam was spelt differently from my father’s name, who was extremely particular about the way he spelt Subrahmanyan. He would famously refuse to entertain any official request in writing, if the ‘h’ went missing from his name, or if any other variation crept in.
Like most others of his ilk, my father did not demand too much out of life. He had simple but particular tastes. Fond of sweets, like any diabetic, he would nonchalantly tuck into a Mysore paak, and the devil take the hindmost! In the last few years of his life, he wallowed in the unqualified success his first grandson, Sanjay, enjoyed as a Carnatic musician. I could sense him smiling from up in the heavens when the young star was awarded the prestigious Sangita Kalanidhi title from the Music Academy Madras – the acme of excellence in Carnatic music.

Some years before his passing, my father was offered a double-scoop of delight as he turned the pages of his morning daily. The music review section headlined a Sanjay concert in block letters, ‘Monarchic majesty of Khamboji’, while the business pages hailed his daughter-in-law Shobha, for being elected President of the Indian Newspaper Society. His telephone did not stop ringing all day long, and he lapped it all up! In sum, I would describe Mr. S.Subrahmanyan as a gentle man. And a gentleman.

(The writer is a brand consultant who loves music, cricket and good humour)