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V Gangadhar

An invaluable inheritance

Standing rigidly at attention. Observing two minutes of silence. Taking pledges that one should love one's country and so on. I do not like these rituals at all because they are meaningless. So many people I know pledge to serve their nation and yet venture forth to serve themselves. These rituals only encourage hypocrisy and double standards.

There is so much of double talk on secularism. One of the newer converts from the Shiv Sena, Chaggan Bhujbal, often sheds tears these days for the minorities and the dalits. Yet, when he was a powerful leader in the Shiv Sena, he suggested that a martyr's memorial in Bombay be washed with holy Gangajal (the water of the river, Ganga) after the dalits had organised a function there. So much for Bhujbal's new found love for the lower castes!

Secularism, concern for the poor and viewing members of different religions and communities as one, can be inherited qualities. Much depends on the environment one was brought up in. If I am totally free from these prejudices today, it is mainly because of the atmosphere in which I was brought up.

Mind you, my parents were orthodox Hindus. We went to temples, celebrated all the festivals and organised plenty of religious ceremonies at home. Grandfather filled our ears with stories from Ramayan and Mahabharat. But all that did not colour our views in any way. Even in those bygone days, my parents believed that everyone was equal.

Dennis (the Menace) paid his neighbour, Mrs Wilson, a wonderful compliment by telling her she had the "softest lap in the neighbourhood". He should know, he sat on it often enough. When I was Dennis' age, I was habitually sitting on the laps of the peons who were employed at our home. Most of the peons were Muslims. There was a chap called Ghaffoor, another one called Moosa and the huge, impressive-looking, head peon (dafedar) Mohammad Farooqi. All of them spent long hours at home and parts of it were devoted to 'taking care of me'.

Oh, they did a wonderful job. Even now, I remember how Moosa and company told me all sorts of stories. I sat on their laps, climbed on their backs and rode piggyback on them. Sometimes, they took me to their homes and fed me typical Muslim sweets. Neither my father nor my mother ever said anything. The peons knew we were strict vegetarians and, hence, never offered me any non-vegetarian or egg preparations.

Quite often, they were fed at our home. My mother fussed over them, spread the banana leaves and served them herself. If any of the peons did not eat his normal quota of food, she enquired about his health. She rebuked them when they smoked and slowly the peons gave up the biri and stopped using tobacco in their paans.

I did not know, infact never did bother to find out, the caste or religion of these peons. To me they were Ghaffoor or Moosa, fellow human beings. While Ghaffoor was clean shaven, the other two Muslim peons wore long beards, which I pulled playfully. Of course, father occasionally shouted at them for being late or not doing something properly. They sulked for a while but thawed when I scrambled onto their laps. Later on, I came to know that the men who drove our bullock cart and took care of the two bullocks belonged to a very low caste. But they were treated like anyone else at our home and were often offered tea, moru (buttermilk) and occasional snacks.

The same behaviour followed when father was posted to Fort Cochin. We were right in the midst of Christian territory. The peons were Catholics, so were our school friends. Pansy, Celine, James, Sebastian, Edgar and others were regular visitors -- and we had a rollicking time together. They brought a variety of cakes while we fed them our traditional Hindu sweets. Our school friends called my mother amma, and she was their permanent favourite.

Christmas was a wonderful experience! Cakes from the nearby XL hotel made the day for us. The house was full of cakes sent by our friends and father's colleagues. Whatever we could not finish was distributed to the peons and servants. Quite often, we went to the services at the local church. The atmosphere there was peaceful and soothing.

It was remarkable that father and mother, who belonged to an earlier generation, never once bothered about the religion, caste or creed of the people with whom we were associated. Mind you, we did not live in big, cosmopolitan cities but in small towns and villages where these factors counted a lot.

Frequently, we heard of incidents where young men and women were killed because they dared to love, elope or marry into other castes or religions. Father would frown majestically, "I do not know when our people will realise that we are all the same." If my parents were liberal, there were other family members who were highly orthodox. My own grandmother complained that my mother was not orthodox enough and cooked her own food separately!

It was a great advantage to have been brought up in this manner. Finally, when I was on my own and working in Ahmedabad, I became quite friendly with my tailor, who was a Muslim. On one Id day, he invited me to his place for dinner. The meal was simple -- big, thick chappatis (Indian bread) and delicious mutton curry followed by egg halwa.

My friend's family was large, with around 14 or 15 members. We all ate from the same thali, tearing the chappatis and dipping them into the steaming mutton curry. Looking at me eat, my friend's father grinned and observed, "Arre, aaj mujhe aur ek ladka mila (Oh, today, I got another son)." It was a touching remark. Later on, I narrated this incident to my parents. "We don't have any money or property that we can bequeath to you," said my father. "But you seem to have learnt the right principles in life."

Mind you, father never lectured us on these issues or on the things he believed in. Nor did he ever tried to influence me on how I should live. If I learnt anything from the way he lived, well and good. As I look back, one thought strikes me. Who needs money or a rich inheritance when one can pick up such priceless qualities from one's parents?

Illustration: Dominic Xavier