ABONDONED HUSBAND'S GUIDE TO SURVIVAL -II

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Azhuku Veshti (The Filthy Waist cloth).

It was the year 1937. Though at that time, my parents were still too young to get married, both my paternal grand fathers, both Officers of the Military Accounts Department, were posted in the remote regions of what was then known as the North West Frontier Agency. Both Grandparents personified the department often referred to as the MAD “Brahmin priests from deep south India who carry the soldiers’ paychecks”.

This, now the border area between Pakistani Punjab and war-torn Afghanistan, was even then in deep lawless foment. It was later classified as the Fourth Afghan War. In case you don’t know the History, the first was 1842 (The British army got massacred –all except one), the second 1875 (the gay British commander got assassinated by his Afghan boyfriend), the third 1919 and then this one in 1937, was led by the “Fakir” and the “Pir” who had got the already rebellious  and fierce Afghan tribes into yet another localized conflict with the Imperial British Raj in (undivided) India.

Convoys carrying arms and ammunition through the treacherous Khyber and Bolon passes were ambushed and looted.  Fully guarded military vehicles carrying the salaries to the British Posts were looted – Attock, Dera Ghazi Khan, Mardan, Landi Khataul in the Khyber pass … the wildest and fiercest country, where Rudyard Kipling spoke of “a Jezail behind every rock” (A long Afghan muzzle loader gun, which could bring down Soviet Helicopter gunships). The British Government in India even tried to use air-power, and perhaps, the first action the Royal Indian Air Force (which Dad joined in 1944) was the use of Hawker Hind bombers.  

Legend has it in our family, that the first time the money did get through, was when both my grandfathers rode an open jeep through the tribal areas with the armored car carrying the money just behind the jeep. My father’s father, Damal Bhashyam Iyengar, was Assistant Pay Master. Very religious he had his own portable Temple. Very orthodox, only pure Iyengar Brahmin food- with all its rules and taboos could be served only by his wife. My grandmother who endured all the hardships in travelling to and living in remotest parts of India, bore him 9 children – all born in assorted places in India and Pakistan. (Dad was born in Lahore) He was in dress too, totally traditional – never wore trousers – just a white 9 yards dhoti in panjakacham style (drawn between the legs), bare chested in Summer, with a huge broad White & Red “NAMA” on not just his foreheads, but reached half way back on his bald skull.

My other (maternal) grandfather, KSK, was Pay Master. Coming from the covenanted services, he was a “Brown Sahib”. He wore a regulation Safari Suit with a Sola Toupee. He was also quite orthodox, vegetarian and usually sported a more modest “Nama” Note: Actually both Namas were different – My grandfathers belonged to different sub-casts – Thengalai & Vadagalai – one nama was a “V” and the other a “Y”

In fact there was a third Nama sporting Iyengar in the jeep too. Sriramji was a poor Brahmin orphan who found a place in my Grandfather, Bashyam Iyengar’s household as the cook. He was indispensable to the joint family. Even on the long six day train journey from deep south Tamilnadu to the borders of Afghanistan, only orthodox food could be served. Moreover, Sriramji had a physical deformation – he was club footed.

As the jeep and armored car wound its way through the mountains, both grandfathers watched nervously the wild tribesmen behind the rocks. They were arguing amongst themselves.

“These are not the usual Khafir British Officers. They are temple priests – the highest caste. Look at their foreheads and see their caste marks. They have very powerful and magical spells in their Tamil language. They also work in the MAD department and are really quite mad to be so far from their homes. We cannot kill them and commit a great sin. And look at that third fellow – he is blessed by Allah – he has deformed feet.”

The pay money went though.

Both grandfathers had accommodation in the Peshawar Cantonment, outside the old Walled City which led to the Khyber pass. One day, Sriramji went all by himself to the old Walled City to get Curry Leaves. Somewhere in the labyrinths of this ancient city, built by King Porus who battled Alexander, Sriramji lost his way and by the time he reached the gates of the city, he found them locked. Now, he was trapped in this hostile city full of fierce frontier tribesmen.

In fact, it was one of the Hostile Fierce Tribesman who recognized Sriramji.  He spoke as kindly as possible to the cook and offered to take him to his house for shelter for the night. Sriramji was of course terrified that he was going to be kidnapped for ransom. He would not enter the Musalman’s home or even drink water. He slept on the doorstep. The Tribesman, through his contacts, got the local police station to call the cantonment telephone exchange and my grandfather was informed the Sriramji was “safe”.

When the gates opened, a full platoon of army soldiers led by a British NCO, marched in to “rescue” Sriramji. Disheveled, hungry and thirsty, Sriramji was escorted out of the Walled City like a Roman Victory Parade. Needless to say, the Afghan Tribesman was quite offended that this was the thanks he got for his compassion to Sriramji.

Sriramji survived in the family even after my grandfather retired to Chennai and cooked and served willingly for what had now become a large joint family with growing grandchildren. Sriramji did all the work with help and supervision from my long suffering grandmother. I remember him hobbling around and giving all of us culinary delights without complaint or fatigue.

Now, I’ve been in the world of clothing design and I have always taken an interest in Chef uniforms. And it is ridiculous that a dress which is bound to pick up food stains should be so elaborate – and white!

Sriramji wore only a short white Dhoti or Veshti. At least, it was originally white, now you would have to search among the turmeric, chilly, oil, jaggery, et al –all the stains of cooking. His torso bare, the dhoti (Veshti), was not just garment, but Sriramji’s, hand wiping, dusting, lifting hot pots, wiping sweat (a lot in that smoky firewood kitchen), gadget. And, I think he had only one Veshti.

One day my grandmother got quite fed up and gave Sriramji a new clean Veshti. That day, my grandfather sat for the morning meal, tasted it and remarked to Sriramji “Yenna nov, sappadu yennamo ruche seria illai” “What uncle, the food does not taste so good today”.

Sriramji pondered this for a few minutes. Then his face lit up and he looked down and said:

Illai Anna, naan innuku azhiku Veshti kattikuvillai” “Oh today I did not wear my filthy waist cloth”!!

Another sublime cook was Pyarelal, our “Khansama”, who cooked for my Dad when he was posted in various Indian Air Force air bases. His cooking was very tasty – he made whatever I liked even if my mother did not instruct him to. Better still, he did not make what I did not like – like Brinjals (Eggplant) even when mother instructed him to. A great story teller and natural comedian he always kept my sisters and I happy.

Pyarelal was a chain smoker – he smoked beedis only. This was Ok in Dad’s household as he too was a chain smoker of Panama Cigarettes at that time. But while cooking?

“Yeh kya hai, Pyarelal, Beedi peeke Atta boond rahe ho?” “What is this Pyarelal, you are smoking a beedi and kneeding the wheat flour?” Mother would scold him.

“Koi baath nahi, memsahib, issi se taste badtha hai” “No problem, madam, it improves the taste”. Pyarelal would reply with a straight face.

Father would sing praises of Pyarelal’s cooking, but mother would only say “that’s Ok, but don’t go in to the kitchen and watch him cook, you may not feel like eating:”