Those were the days...

As each generation grows up there is always a curiosity to know something about the past in the family’s history. An enthralling journey down memory lane is the tales about one’s ancestor, preferably where the skeletons tumbled out of the cupboard. As my growing up years were in Delhi most of the stories about our family were based on what my parents told us rather than hearing them from grandparents or other family elders living in the erstwhile Mysore state.

My paternal great grandfather had been bestowed an “Inam” village by the then Maharaja of Mysore. This entitled him to collect an annual tax from the inhabitants. Many years later my father would travel all the way from Delhi to the village for this ritual. Those days the main train to the South was the Grand Trunk Express powered by a steam engine. My father would prepare for the soot filled journey by buying a new pair of khaki shorts and a khaki Sola hat. He would be received at the village station with a lot of pomp and fanfare. However, at the crunch time he would be told why the tax would not be paid that year because of drought, and other supposedly natural or man-made calamities. His trips would end up being expensive as he would also have carried gifts for the village elders. The Government’s repealing of “Inam” villages deprived my brothers and me from enjoying this privilege.

My grand uncle was universally popular amongst the young at all family functions. No one knew his real age but with his walrus moustache he always looked as he was nearing his century. He regaled us with stories of a bygone era. He was addicted to snuff and always carried a small steel snuff box along with a rather “aromatic” white-turned-brown handkerchief. It was mesmerizing to watch his ritual each time it was time for him to have a ‘fix’. One of my uncles once managed to sneak out that box and replaced the snuff with coffee powder. We were all mortified at the suffering we put the old man through. Being a great sport he forgave us pretty soon.

After marriage the portfolio of tales grew .My wife’s maternal grandfather served in the Postal Department in Madras Presidency. During the First World War he volunteered for military service. He endured a long and tough journey for a posting in Mesopotamia (the modern day Iraq).One of his supposed skills was in cooking. There are several versions on what vegetarian fare he actually dished out to the other soldiers. But we were told that there was universal appreciation in the trenches for his ‘Paal Payasam’ which he made with condensed milk to celebrate the Armstice.

I wonder, in the decades to come, what anecdotal activities of mine would interest my grandchildren to narrate to their friends. I shudder to think!