Gem from Junk

GEM FROM JUNK
(Dandavat Namaskaram to Sree K V G. “Dhanyosmi”! For any reference to Pandava Gita brings that big lump in my throat and with moist eyes I seek the members’ indulgence when I take this liberty to post this piece which I had written last year for another similar forum.

PROLOGUE

Next month would be my dad’s Aabdikam.
One recent afternoon I was browsing his bookshelf looking for something to read. God was back on my radar screen and I was hungry to read something good about Him. For some unknown reason I was lead to a slim dog- eared book with an indistinct spine. I pulled it down; saw it was this book titled Pandava Gita, opened it up and noticed that it wasn’t one my dad had ever mentioned about. He had in his own hand inscribed to my son. “To V….., Find your Roots! like your great- grandpa. Love, from your grandpa”
I sat down on a chair and flipped dubiously through the first pages. And everything came back in a flash transporting me to those good old days. The book was no more an enigma.
The gem: the book or the Paper Boy?
Sigamani, a rag- picker came into our lives when he was just ten quite accidentally (pun intended). But that was 8/9 years back; for today he may be around nineteen or so. And to say that my old man had some contribution in shaping his life may well be an understatement. So we were not surprised to see him at my dad’s funeral (last year) extending a helping hand to all of us and wiping his own tears now and then as he went about quietly meeting our errands.
“I will be missing Thatha”, was all he could manage then.
Later around 4 PM when my friends, relatives and other mourners departed, Sigamani quietly handed over an envelope to me and was about to make his exit.
“Wait. What’s all this, Mani?” I had enquired.
“Ellai Saar,……uuuummmmm...” He had mumbled something. He was returning to us the loan he had taken from my dad for his bi-cycle; at least so he said because we never knew a thing about it. I promptly gave him back the money and bid him a fond ‘bye’ wishing him good luck.
But let me begin at the very beginning.
It seemed not too long back- one of those foggy winter mornings when my dad cut short his morning walk and came back home rather agitated with this then ten year old boy Sigamani in tow bleeding profusely from a leg injury caused by an accident.
“That reckless two-wheeler knocked this poor boy down. Of course it was not the scooterist’s fault. Nevertheless he didn’t even stop, you know”, my dad had burst out.
My daughter (a doc) administered the first aid and took him to the nearest clinic for further attention. Ever since that day Sigamani became the man ‘Friday’ for my dad. He would trim the grass, tend the plants, wash the car, pluck tender coconuts, and gather flowers for pooja-- all for some handsome pocket money, a nice chat with the old man and some sumptuous lunch. My dad later put him in the nearby government school. On dad’s recommendation, the boy was employed as a part time hand to handle the evening- rush- hour-customers at the grocery stores (owner being a generous naattukkottai chettiaar). In the morning the boy dropped the news papers and milk packets in our colony. Beginning of last year he decided to be more independent and became a Kabaadiwala, collecting old news papers, magazines and junks -- his last stop for the day sometimes being our house. My dad gave him our news papers free and held long parleys, having found in him a patient listener ‘like his grandson’. But in return, my dad was allowed to dig through Sigamani’s day’s collection of old papers, magazines and other junks and buy back what he liked.
“Years of visits to flea- markets have honed my skill to pick up gems from junks! Look at the ‘nice nice’ things these people throw away” my dad would say to my son.
“You are cool Thatha! But then you are dumping those ‘nice nice’ old books on to my shelves and messing it up”, my son would complain.
“De! De! Kazhuthakkii………….” my dad would start.
“I know what you are going to say”, my son would interrupt.
“What?” my dad would question.
“Kazhuthaikki theriyumaa karpoora vaasanai? Right?” my son would guess. He has heard this compliment number of times before.
“Yeah almost." “Bunder kya jaane adrak ki swaad” my dad would try his Hindi.
“Thatha, I am not a monkey and please remember my dad is your son too” my son would remind him. A sign that my son is striving to become his own person.
“That’s the whole point” the ld man would check mate.
Then there will be a roar of laughter. That would be a signal for my wife to join the discussion with an excuse to offer a cuppa to Appa and hear some juicy stories. I would be pricking my ears in the next room thinking “yaar mandai urularatho inrai dinam?”
“These old books tell tales, you know?” my dad would continue justifying his collection of junks.
“Oh?? Like what?” -that would be my son
“Look at this one: Pandava Gita. Have you heard of this?” - my dad would say.
“UUUmm No, Thatha” - my son replying disinterestedly.
How could he have? This was weird stuff to read for a guy who is being fed day in and day out on cricket, football and MTV. How can he appreciate this idea of a God who wants to woo him, court him and love him? Though it sounded weird, my dad’s imploration usually made my son to just go along with it for a while. But by the end my dad would have had him and all of us too firmly in his mesmerizing grip. His description of God made more sense to us than any we had ever have heard before.
“What God wants is for us to allow him to form an intimate relationship with us. He wants to hear from us, talk to us, and journey with us’, my dad would declare to no one in particular.
“See. This book, now thrown as garbage was first published in 1970@ Laburnum Road; Cost Re 1/-; published only 5500 copies. By the way who was Laburnum?” – my dad throws a question at my son.
“Must have been some British administrator, some one like Brabourne?” – ventures my son.
“Thought as much. Your GK can be written on the back of a postage stamp”.—my dad would say.” You know the name Bombay immortalized a city that was Kipling’s birthplace,” my dad would say of the author and poet Rudyard Kipling, the first Briton to win the Nobel Prize for Literature, in 1907. “The name, though, is of Portuguese origin—bom bahia, meaning ‘good bay’.” my dad would add sipping his coffee.
“You know V…., sometimes renaming proposals by politicians are provoked by misplaced beliefs that old names are linked to British or Portuguese colonial history. A couple of years ago, downtown Bombay’s Laburnum Road was to be renamed due to the British ring to the name. Then someone said, “‘But that’s a tree, not an Englishman,’ The road gets its name from the golden-yellow flowered, Indian native laburnum trees lining it. Ha Ha Ha.”—my dad would laugh loud.
Then suddenly my dad becomes serious and continues,
“Bhakti is the language of the heart. Mahabharata, Bhagavata and Vishnu Purana form a glorious trilogy. And found in them are the choicest prayers and out pouring of devotion. But they are voluminous works. So an unknown compiler graciously culled out some flowers of devotion from them and wove them into a garland. This is Pandava Gita. The immortal Vyasa composed the Mahabharata and the Puranas and Pandava Gita is an anthology of prayers from them. Therefore traditionally Vyasa is regarded as the composer of Pandava Gita as well. The anthology however is the labour of love a GEM of an unknown compiler—can you beat that?”
“Out of these 80 odd verses, which is your favourite one, Thatha?” queries my son glancing through the book.
“Uummm difficult to choose. Ok. I’ll put Dhoumya’s prayer on top. And there is a reason for it. By the way do you know who Dhoumya is? I bet you will draw another blank”
“Uummm so ok. Who was it?” my son would ask
“Dhoumya was the Purohit of Pandavas and was always given to study and worship. Yet he had a gnawing feeling of inadequacy about himself. He felt that he had not measured up to the expectations of a righteous life. Those who are truly holy and good are refreshingly free from self-complacency like Dhoumya. Your great-grandpa too was an eminent Shastrigal from a village in Palghat. When asked, he would say ‘as a village priest, my idol is Dhoumya’. I wonder which present day Vadhyaar would hold a similar opinion?” would be my dad’s sad refrain.
We all would notice an unmistakable wetness in the old man’s eyes when he thinks of his scholarly father enmeshed into abject poverty. So all of us except my son depart leaving the old man alone to reminisce.

EPILOGUE

Later I gathered from my son the full story about Dhoumya which went something like this:
“The news of Draupadi Swayamvar was being proclaimed throughout the land. On the suggestion by Kunti, the Pandavas who had been living at one brahmin’s house for long decided to move towards Kampilya of Panchalas. On the way, they met Sage Vyasa who was very happy to know their destination. He said fame and fortune awaited them there. They went ahead after receiving the blessings of the Sage.
During the night they reached the banks of river Ganga. They were tired and wanted to bathe in Ganga. At that time a Gandharva named Chitraratha was there in Ganga with his wives. He became very angry at the intrusion of his privacy and a great fight resulted. Finally the Gandharva pleaded with Yudhisthira. He was pardoned. The Gandharva offered beautiful white horses that never tired. Yudhisthira asked him to keep the horses till such time as when he needed them. Yudhishthira asked the Gandharva to suggest name of a rishi whom he could take as Kulaguru. Chitraratha suggested the name of Sage Dhaumya. The Pandavas were pleased with the suggestion. They approached Dhaumya. Dhaumya gladly accepted to become Kulaguru of the Pandavas.
DHAUMYA THUS BECOMES FAMILY PRIEST OF PANDAVAS
Quite a tale from the gem from the junk! But for me the gem is Sigamani, the paper boy. Why? Well, he could have as well not mentioned anything about the loan he took from my dad. And after my dad’s death none of us would have been any wiser about it! But no. He put the amount in an envelope and returned with grace- an unmistakable stamp of a thorough gentleman. A GEM.

Footnote: My wife tells me that her favourite pick from Pandava Gita is that of Gandhari’s prayer to Krishna
Twameva Mata cha pita twameva
Twameva bandhuscha sakha twameva
Twameva Vidya dravinam twameva
Twameva sarvam mama devadeva
As for me it is what Vasishta says,
Krishnaa ithi mangalam naama yasya vaachi pravartate
Bhasmi bhavanthi thasyaasu mahaapaathakakotayaha
Meaning as soon as one begins to recite the auspicious name ‘Krishna’, crores of his heinous sins turn into ashes (i.e. they are wiped out).
Can a sinner ask for more?
**********
(V V R, 10th Oct 2005)

Yantrasya mama doshena kshamyathaam Madhusoodana/
Aham yantram Bhavaan yantri mama dosho na deeyathaam//

Forgive my defects, O Madhusoodana!I am merely an instrument; Thou its operator; hence,do not consider me at fault.)
Warm regards
V V R
22 Jun 06