Of Vag/Wagh (Tiger) Shenoys and Pishvi (Bag) Sanjeevi

Posted on January 31, 2019 by thesepeoplehere

The Amusing Amchigele (Our own) Art of Naming People

I write this piece with malice towards none and love for all. It’s about how some of our Konkani people got their names, and the Amchigele art of choosing some intriguing ones. What’s in a name, you ask? Then perhaps you don’t know about this village in South Karnataka, where there were so many Rams that a wise old woman wrote a song to identify each one of them. It went thus: Gal gal matey halaiyta Vithal Kamatilo Ramu, which loosely translated would mean, ‘Shake shake shakes his head, Vithal Kamat’s Ram’. So on it went, with each Ram’s characteristic forming the lyrics. I am told there were about a hundred Rams. (I regret I don’t know the whole song).

If you are born in a Konkani family, as I was, you would be familiar with the way people are identified by their native place. My maternal grandfather was Kotekar Krishna Kamath, Kotekar being the name of his native place. You would have people refer to friends and relatives with the name of their native place preceding it, as if without it, they would lose their identity. So it wouldn’t be a Narasimha who would be visiting you. It would be a Bolar Narashimu, or a Tirthale Vithalu or a Panvel Pandu, the last syllable of all short names inevitably transformed into a ‘u’, pronounced ‘oo’. So, Kiran became Kiranu, Navin – Navinu, Shyam – Shyamu, Nitin –Nitinu. Get the drift? Abhishek and Shantanu were spared – the former had too many syllables to be tampered with, and Shantanu had managed the ‘oo’ for itself. The youngsters, of course, have dropped these forms of identification, but some with the surname Mallya, have begun to write the name of their native place before their names in capital letters to clarify that they have nothing to do with the hometown of a certain (sur)namesake dorko (Konkani man), who has fled the scene.

I remember a friend deciding against naming her son Kuber, despite the prospect of raising the God of Wealth himself in her home and being the beneficiary of whatever bounty the name brought with it, just because she didn’t want to anger his divine counterpart, when her earthly relatives would address her son as Kubera or Kuberu. She chose what she thought was a safe Venkatesh. She didn’t know then that Konkani tongues are prone to changing the ‘oo’ into a wider ‘aa’, quite glibly. She fumed when Venkatesh responded to Venkatshhaaaaa, happily, unaware that his carefully chosen name had failed to safeguard itself from being altered.

If I had thought that it was only the native place that preceded Konkani names, I couldn’t have been more off the mark. I chanced upon an interesting honorific when my cousin got engaged to a Vag Shenoy. Now, Vag or Wagh or Waghu, means tiger in Konkani. The gentleman (who is my beloved bhavaji (brother in law) now) I was introduced to was a quiet, peace-loving person, who spoke softly, and who, I knew, wouldn’t hurt a microbe, leave alone roar or display any of the ferocious characteristics of the predator. I knew for sure that he hadn’t killed a tiger (not even in self-defence) or tamed or fought with one. So how did the honorific Vag get attached to his name?

Lore has it that when bhavaji’s great-grandfather, Sarvottam, was a toddler, he was carried away by a tiger. Horrified, the child’s mother raised an alarm, and villagers chased the tiger and blocked its way, as it was about to enter the jungle. They went down on their knees, joined their hands reverentially and pleaded with the tiger to let go of the terrified, wailing baby. ‘We promise,’ they said, ‘we will take your name as our own, and generations will know of you, the benevolent one, who spared our child.’ Appeased and moved by their entreaties, the tiger let go of the surprisingly unharmed baby, and the honorific Vag got attached to the Shenoys’ names. To this day, the descendants of the rescued Shenoy baby are referred to as ‘Vagatanchi’ or ‘those from the house of the Vags’. My nephews, not impressed by the tiger-human pact, apologised to the entire tiger clan, nevertheless, when they decided to drop the honorific from their names; they do their bit quietly for the ‘Save the Tiger’ project, now that the feared one is the endangered species. We have indeed come a long way.

It’s not just the tigers who have been honoured thus. Insects, objects, human flaws and failings, and even rags have been chosen as appropriate honorifics for the purpose of convenient identification, often to the chagrin of those thus decorated. I have heard of a Bhanshire (kitchen rag) Narasimhu (the half-man–half-lion god seems to be quite a favourite), probably because he dressed shabbily, a Belta Wamanu (a man who wore suspenders) to distinguish him from a Paala-moola (roots-and-shoots) Wamanu (a gentleman who propagated naturopathy, always carried a bag full of herbs, and gave a demo of their efficacy to whoever cared to listen), a Jalaar (mosquito) Mangeshu (who probably belonged to a place swarming with blood-sucking insects of the anopheles variety), a Paaykhilo (latrine) Madhu, who would never have suspected that in the pre-Swachch Bharat days, his pioneering initiative to build a toilet inside his house would earn him such notoriety, a Kuste Sanjivu, the wrestler who created quite a dangal in his hometown, and a Pishvi (bag) Sanjeevi, who never ventured out of her house without a cloth bag dangling on her arm.

Then there were those who were a trifle insensitively, but certainly with no intention to hurt, referred to by their conspicuous physical characteristics or their habits or traits. So, there was a tambiya bodacho (a man whose head was shaped like a round drinking vessel made of copper or other metals), a sokni (lizard) mhantaro (old man), a thin seventy-year-old man with a penchant for fitting into the narrowest of spaces, a Totli Tilottama, who lisped, a Rulaavu (semolina) Mhaav (elder aunt), who relished upma and ate it every day. That’s not all. If you are the kind who gets up in the middle of a meal to visit the loo, an elder might reprimand you for being a ‘Manjula’, the lady whose this very habit got her name to become a form of reproach.

Do I have an honorific too? Yes, I do, and not a very flattering one at that. I am Bob Archu. No, I’m not a Marley fan but I earned this name for being a bit of a yeller. Ironically, ‘Bob Marlee’ in Konkani means ‘Shouted’. Here I am, shouting out loud, reiterating that this name-calling is always done without an iota of spite. In fact, over the years, I have come to know that these honorifics, however weird and seemingly offensive, are in fact, terms of endearment.

What’s in your name, may I ask?

– Some names have been changed to protect identities

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Mr Rao and Mrs Ruia

Posted on August 13, 2018 by thesepeoplehere

I have never met Mr Rao. Nor have I had the privilege to meet Mrs Ruia. Both names are sharply etched in my mother’s childhood memories. As she ages, her memory seems to grow sharper. Mother lived opposite Ramnarain Ruia … Continue reading →

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Different Strokes: P. K. (Joe) Kamath, Cricket’s Unsung Man

Posted on November 9, 2017 by thesepeoplehere
Dadu in stance

P K (Joe) Kamat

He was a man of few words. I learnt to gauge from the force and intonation of his monosyllabic answers, whether he was happy or cross, though with him, I could get away with blue murder. He rose early. The cricketing grounds beckoned him. From opening the Mumbai Ranji Trophy innings with Vinoo Mankad, he had begun to coach the cricket team at Ramnarain Ruia College, where Ajit Wadekar was the captain. We lived bang opposite the college. Some or the other cricket tournament was always being played on the maidan opposite the college. It was dotted with men in white. There were no sponsors then, and it wasn’t the era of designer gear. Students from Ruia and Podar College, and passersby sat on the concrete fence bordering the maidan, to watch the game, and applaud them wholeheartedly. The emotions even local cricket matches  generated, were palpable. Soon, Dadu (to me) or Prabhakar Kamath, nicknamed Joe in cricketing circles, was coaching the Mumbai Ranji Trophy team. Dadu was the first cricketer to be appointed coach of the Bombay Cricket Association to look after the Ranji Trophy boys.

In fact, he has many firsts to his credit. He was the first Mumbai coach to go to the then Madras, at the invitation of The Tamil Nadu Cricket Association. He was also the first Indian coach to visit Sri Lanka officially. Mr Shelley Wickremeshinge, the then Vice-President of the Cricket Board of Sri Lanka, who later went on to become the Chairman of the Sports Council in Sri Lanka, has gone on record to say that not only had Dadu brought about dynamic changes in Ceylon’s cricket, but also that after being trained by him, those Sri Lankan cricketers who were not in the consideration set before attending the coaching camp, were making their rightful claims for inclusion in the Sri Lankan team. What’s incredible was that he didn’t charge a penny for his services. His passion for the game drove him day after day to the grounds, toiling with the boys, and exulting when they piled up runs on the board.

Soon after waking up at dawn, he placed a thick steel pan on the gas, cracked a few eggs into it, sprinkled the sizzling half-fried eggs with salt and pepper, wolfed them down with a few slices of toasted bread, topped it with a tall glass of filter coffee, and headed out. I had no idea then that he walked from Matunga to Kurla and back, to increase his stamina. He was known for his impeccable fielding, and his adroitness in the slips, and his insistence that the boys he coached trained themselves to be ambidextrous fielders. I remember my mother telling me how, taking a full-blooded catch off the unorthodox right-handed batsman Budhi Kunderan’s bat, had split his palm, and how, after getting the gash stitched up, he was back at his favourite position in the slips. My grandmother worried for her son’s well being after that, often talking about how injurious the season ball could be. Helmets were unheard of in those days.

Many are the stories of his discipline and strictness. How the cricketer son of Dadu’s contemporary was made to run extra rounds, when he came to know that the India hopeful had guzzled beer the  previous night. How the intense fielding practice exhausted the boys, who were later grateful for the punishing regimen at the nets. How he had got Ajit Wadekar, known as his protege, to perfect his one-eyed stance. I remember seeing young cricketing hopefuls sitting on the steps of Kumkum Laundry and Central book Depot, opposite Ruia College, rise as he walked by, as a mark of respect to this unobtrusive man, who went about doing his job with quiet passion. I also remember how young cricketing hopefuls visited our Matunga home to take some advice from him, and how he heard them out patiently, reassuring them and offering them tips. Often, as the boys in our neighbourhood played cricket in our building, he stood for hours watching them, playing umpire, and settling any disputes that arose out of controversial deliveries, doubtful LBWs and issues of whether the ball had hit the outside edge of the bat or not. Whether it was gully cricket or a test match, it was sacred to him.

Dadu was a zealous letter writer and was among the few who held a record of sorts for being a regular. He wrote a column on the sport, in the Free Press Journal, under the byline Hooker (coined after the hook shot), often sitting at the tiny desk in his room, at night, writing longhand. An avid reader, he was a frequent visitor to Strand Book Stall, and the library in our house was stocked with books ranging from Chaucer to The Complete Works of Shakespeare to Dickens to The Autobiography of a Yogi. He had a habit of signing his name on the first page, a quirk I have picked up, much like I have, the reading habit. He loved music, and had an enviable collection of long-playing records, from the soulful melodies of Talat Mahmood, Lata and Kishore to those of Sudhir Phadke, and Marathi Natya Sangeet too.

Dadu was my maternal uncle, my mother’s elder brother, but a father to me. I lost mine to a rheumatic heart, at two months, and grew up in my maternal grandparents’ home, lovingly supported by my two uncles – Dadu, the cricketer, and Kishore (Kandu), the shuttler. Even after retiring from active cricket, and coaching the Ranji Trophy team, Dadu coached the under-19 team for some time. Then age caught up, and athlete’s veins too, a condition that left him in great pain, making him reclusive. He remained a bachelor, wedded only to cricket and books. And, every morning, he sat in the comfy chair in the balcony, reading 3-4 newspapers, sipping from his tall glass of filter coffee. Then, inhaling a pinch of snuff, (an inheritance from my grandmother), he sneezed, and retired to his room to read or rest. When he passed away, he was a shadow of his former self, but his eyes never failed to light up, when he watched a new young cricketer dive to take a difficult catch. His close friend, Vasu Paranjpe, and his best buddy, Vithal (Marshall) Patil were there to bid him goodbye.

Dadu had played his innings well. When the time came, he returned gracefully and quietly to the pavilion. It was a privilege and blessing to have been brought up by him. He played straight. So do I:).

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The Father I Did Not Know

Posted on June 19, 2016 by thesepeoplehere

I cannot truly say that I do not know him. I have his blood running through my veins. I know from a couple of black and white, dog-eared photographs that I look like him. My eyes, I’ve inherited from Mother. Otherwise, I’m quite unlike her. I laugh a lot. Aloud. Drawing disapproval from Mother. She would be happier if I were more mellowed. I know that my raucousness is a paternal inheritance. At least, I like to think so.

Other than my flesh and bones and the genes, which are constant reminders of my connection with him, and the very few sepia-toned photographs, I have no memories of Father–none whatsoever. Not even of the affectionate kiss (which Mother told me about) he planted on my cheek, as he battled a rheumatic heart condition in a suburban hospital. Even in his condition, she said, he asked to see me and sat up to hold me in his arms. She wants to reassure me, I think, that in the two-month relationship we had as  father and child, he did his bit. It makes me feel good to know that he loved me, short though our association was. I have had to visualise this description in my mind’s eye to create a memory, and I have done so umpteen times, all through these years. It has now assumed the character of actual recall and I can feel the warmth of his breath and the tender brushing of his lips on my cheeks.

I think of Father often, of what I have missed. When I see a young father walking with his little daughter, her tiny hand held firmly in his, I wonder what he is saying. And when she looks up at him, secure in his love, I mourn the lack of that security, in my early life.  What is it to feel sheltered by a male parent or admonished by him? How different is a father-daughter conversation from a mother-daughter chat? I guess I shall never know. At least not firsthand.

So, I gather anecdotes about Father, from Mother, my uncles and aunts and my relatives who knew him closely, who breathed the same air as he did, who have heard his voice and laughter, and who have touched him. They have seen him live, and leave too. Prematurely. The snippets about him are like pieces of a jigsaw  puzzle, with one significant piece missing. That leaves the picture incomplete. I try to shape the missing link, to paint a portrait, but it eludes me. My quest, to get to know Father, continues. As I write this, I can’t but marvel at the fact that  he lives on, through me.

Here is a poem I wrote a few years ago:

https://unrhyming.wordpress.com/2015/06/21/to-my-father/

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Embracing Wellness

Posted on January 8, 2016 by thesepeoplehere

I was told that she didn’t mince her words, that what you saw was what you got. I was told that she was straightforward and honest, sometimes brutally so. I like people who wear no masks. I was looking forward to meeting her. As the editor of a women’s magazine then, there had been some interaction with her through one of my colleagues. We had also featured interviews of two women, who credited her with saving their lives and who were deeply grateful to her. One had battled severe diabetes and the other was a breast cancer survivor. Both had given up hope, and so had their doctors, when they decided to consult her. Under her guidance, not only had they survived but they were also glowing with good health.

So, when I was diagnosed with GERD (gastro esophageal reflux disorder) brought on by a diet of junk food and late nights while attending a demanding theatre workshop, a friend advised me to consult Dr Vijaya Venkat. It all started with a severe throat-ache, which a local ENT surgeon diagnosed as a throat infection and prescribed antibiotics. The three-day course only worsened my condition and I was sicker than I had ever been before. I took a second opinion and was diagnosed with GERD. Now, there were other medicines to take and antacids to dunk into my system. These left a thick coating on my tongue and made me queasy. It was as if my whole system was on fire. I was a dishrag. I had no appetite for food or work. Just lifting my head from my pillow required such effort that I thought I had contracted something incurable. I approached Dr Venkat with great hope in my heart. Many were the people I knew who had turned to her in despair and returned with a life-giving blueprint in hand.

When I met her at The Health Awareness Centre (THAC) at Elphinstone Road, in Mumbai, she was sitting on a low cane stool, a diminutive figure, her fingers interlaced. The large bindi on her forehead and the stunning coral necklace with a striking Devi pendant that she wore with panache caught my eye. She beckoned me to sit, her printed silk sari making a swishing sound as her hands moved. Before I could open my mouth, she said, “Go off wheat and wheat products. All the redness on your face will go away.” I had been brought up on a diet of roti-sabzi. Bread, sooji and other derivatives of wheat were regular fare on our dining table. Wheat was staple. How could I give it up? As for my skin, I had attributed the redness to sensitivity and a tendency to break out. Not even remotely had I associated it with the wheat in my diet. I nodded meekly. As we went through my history, she paused and looked me directly in the eye. “You are an editor, aren’t you?” I nodded, not knowing what I had done wrong. “You should be more responsible. You drink three litres of water every day? Whatever for? Are you a bathroom? Are you a labourer working on the road in the hot sun? You work in air-conditioned environments. Why are you overloading your kidneys?” she chided, as a mother would her errant child. I could see the anguish in her eyes about what she perceived as unthinkable. ‘How could people do this to their bodies?’

I thought of all the articles I had read and even edited, where some expert or the other had recommended drinking 2-4 litres of water every day. I thought of all the times when I drank water even when I wasn’t thirsty just to complete the recommended quota, and moved around uncomfortably with a full bladder, often thinking that at this rate I would probably have to carry a portable toilet with me. One size didn’t fit all. How could I not have seen that? How could we subject our bodies to these excesses so blindly? I cringed, and listened intently. Dr Venkat was imparting new life lessons and I was an eager learner. Every word she said made so much sense. By the time my session with her ended, I was ready to “throw the antacids out of the window” and with it all the tinned and canned food in my larder. I was all set to review and renew my life–my food habits, my rest periods, my time out, my sleep patterns, my interaction with my loved ones, my exercise routine, my relationship with nature, the way I looked at my body, and the way I breathed.

Innocuous-looking lemon shots doused the acid in my body, like no antacid had done. With her recommended life changes, I was back on my feet in days. “Listen to your body. Pay attention to its signals,” she said, emphasising time and again not to undermine the body’s intelligence to heal itself and to rely on nature to provide us with whatever we need. “Eat local, eat seasonal,” she insisted, opening my eyes to nature’s bounty of fresh fruits and vegetables. “Nature never looks back,” she pointed out, reminding me that when we cling to the past, we stagnate, not allowing the forces of nature to take us forward. She was refreshingly different from the dietitians and weight management consultants I had met. She was a woman with a vision. She believed that self-care was earth care. She wouldn’t tire of stressing upon the fact that we were all connected, that our every action could create harmony or discord and impact the environment.

She cared. For every person who sought her counsel, and returned with a loving hug, a broad smile, an invitation to have lunch with her, some caring, maternal scolding, a blanket open-door welcome to her centre whenever one felt like visiting and a new, vibrant outlook towards health. She was committed to wellness, not as we see it–the absence of disease-but as a state of high energy, vitality and happiness. In a world, where the cosmetic industry goes blue in the face recommending sunscreens, she taught me to befriend the sun, to meet its gaze through a green leaf. She taught me to look at my body as a whole entity and not in parts. She taught me to switch off every two hours, to let go. She taught me to stand and stare when I was struggling to achieve work-life balance. She taught me to simplify my life, to declutter my mind, to make peace with my hormones. “Hormones are for harmony,” she said. She put me in touch with my own self, a magic machine I had never paid much attention to. “There’s a Universe in us,” I remember her saying. “Follow your heart.”

As she familiarised me with the natural way of living, she also insisted I relax and not be too rigid. “God has made things for our enjoyment. Don’t feel guilty if you eat junk once in a way. Life is all about balancing,” she said. It was the most practical philosophy of life I could adhere to. Today, I’ve come a long way from the days when acid corroded my body. My life is simpler. I listened to my heart and decided to slow down. Now, I have the time to gaze at the stars, to listen to the call of the cuckoo, to watch my breath. I live with far more awareness and can’t stop wondering at the miracle that my body is. I’ve moved from curing to caring. It’s been a challenge at times, but worth every little change I made. I do go off kilter, but I always return home. I know the way back now. Today, I can enjoy a spicy vada pav without beating myself up about faltering, but I’m aware that I can’t follow it up with an orgy of fried food.

The last time I met Dr Venkat, she was at her Worli centre for a short time–Earth Mother, crusader, visionary, Amma–engaging her brood in a friendly chat. She had traversed a long journey. She had transformed innumerable lives with her healing touch. I could see that it was her turn to have some time out. Little did I know that she was listening closely to her body and that she would leave it soon. Dr Venkat leaves behind a valuable legacy, a treasure house of wisdom. It is there for whoever wants to explore life to the fullest. All it takes is an open mind, a free spirit, some discipline and commitment, and a heart full of love.

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