The Passing of a Generation

My grand-uncle (paternal grandfather's brother) passed away at 2:10 am today morning. Since I am myself almost 50, this isn't at all surprising. Yet, it is a passing away to grieve about. He has been the pater familias for longer than I have lived. As the 9^th of 10 children (7 brothers and 3 sisters), he was the last torch-bearer of his generation. His passing marks a passing of baton acrosss generations in the family. All his siblings have lived up to ripe ages, 65 upwards. Even in this family, this grand-uncle was unusually long-lived – he was 101 years, 5 months and 19 days when he passed away. The only one in his family to come anywhere close was his mother, my great-grandmother, who passed away at 99.

Longevity, continued good health and sharp mental acuity even at age 101 were remarkable aspects of his life; but more remarkable was the fact that he lived life in exemplary fashion. He was well-off by the standards of his time; but never really rich, but yet, he commanded a “following” among his friends and family that could not be explained fully. His house has been an open house for the extended family for well over 5 decades. I have always felt closer to him than any of my other grand-uncles, because I lost my grandfather when I was 6 years old; I remember seeing him only about twice or thrice.

I remember hazily his recounting of his experience in the 1944 Mumbai docks blast, where a ship berthed in Bombay (as it was then known) Harbour blew up – I recall his telling me (along with a few of my wide-eyed cousins) that one of his office colleagues had a huge bar of pure gold land with an almighty thud in his living room balcony, a few kilometres away from the docks. That story was quite riveting – almost like an eye-witness account. I must have been, perhaps, 5 or 6 years old at the time. I later read a story in an old Readers' Digest magazine issue about that incident that lent great credence to that story. On second thoughts, I can say that RD became more credible in my mind because of this article, rather than the other way around. So strong was his influence on my mind. A few years later, RD thereafter really shaped my eclectic reading interests – I became addicted to reading and would read no less than 15-20 issues of the magazine every three months (by picking up old copies from raddiwalas) for several years. The only other relative who shaped my reading habits was my late uncle, Chaitanya D Haldipur.

Among my earliest memories were attending my grand-uncle's 60^th birthday celebrations, in 1970. We went by BEST Bus No.85 from Shivaji Park (a 12-15 minute walk from our home, then) to Tardeo, where it stopped just by the gate of the building where he stayed. There were so many people that I was a happily anonymous 8-year old having the run of their vast (so it seemed to my eyes then) apartment that day. I had a close look at a bouquet of 60 red roses sent by his office colleagues (he must have retired from service that day (I now guess) in a wicker basket, covered with crinkling cellophane – probably the first time I had seen a bouquet.

For a few decades, he did a great deal of social work in our community, and I gathered that he was as liked as he was disliked, for his forthright views and actions, though I was never very aware of what he did. All I know is that for a few years, he was the full-time Manager of our community's Math at Shirali in Karnataka State, where he was credited with quite a lot of reforms, that resulted in the Math becoming financially self-sustained and less dependent on donations from the community. After that, I gathered that he was one of the founder-trustees of the Shree Trust, which set up a Math in Karla, between Mumbai and Pune.

My grand-uncle was headstrong, but managed a remarkable partnership of marriage that lasted exactly 75 years, with my my grand-aunt, who passed away just 6 months ago. As long as she was alive, he complained and chafed because his immediate family would not allow him to go out of the home by himself. Read this in the context of the fact that he had won a WIAA safe driving award many decades ago, and till he was past 92, he drove himself around in the Mumbai traffic. For this, he became some kind of a hero in the eyes of the extended family and his friends and well-wishers, but his immediate family would be on tenterhooks whenever he made off with the car riding over every objection raised by them. The family eventually decided to end these “escapades” by selling off the car. All this time, he looked perhaps 20 years younger than he actually was!

Indeed, an anecdote is shared by many in our family circles about one of his visits to Shirali, when he was around 85. He travelled alone by bus to Bhatkal (the nearest town where the bus stopped), where a car was to pick him up. The car driver was told to look out for an 85-year-old man travelling alone, and instructed to take special care of him. AtmaBappa got down from the bus, not looking much over 60 at that time. He could not see any car or placard-waving driver waiting for him, so after waiting a few minutes, he took a taxi and went to Shirali on his own, while the driver waited in vain, looking out for a frail-looking 85-year-old !

When he was 100, when I once visited him, he was spiritedly holding forth when suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he asked me, “Where is Revati?” Only when I assured him that she was in the bedroom, talking to my wife, did he continue. It was a remarkable bond. He was physically fitter than she was, throughout their life together. Revatipachhi, as I called her (meaning Aunt Revati in Konkani, my mother-tongue) was the complete opposite – she was cool and frail; AtmaBappa (Uncle Atma) was mercurial, oozing health and energy. She was about 5 ft tall; he was almost 6 ft tall. She could barely be heard; his resonant baritone voice boomed across three thick walls of his home for over 50 years. They became the longest living couple in India as reckoned by sum total of their ages (using dates of birth as recorded in their passports). I like to think that they both lived so long because they both did not want to be the first among them to die, leaving the other alone.

While he stayed independent till the very end, he appreciated the lifetime of dedication of his daughter-in-law, Rekha, to her family. Rekha has been the one strong, steady feature in their domesitc life. At one time, there were four residents in that home, and three of them were unable to walk without support. Rekha took care of their every need selflessly. On his 99^th Birthday, he announced to me in Rekha's presence that from now on, Rekha is the Boss of the House. He then told me sotto voce, that he was only saying it now, but that has been the case for quite a few years already!

When Revatipachhi passed away 6 months ago, something was snuffed out of AtmaBappa's life. While earlier, he was impatient with everyone because they restricted him and did not allow him to go around without a walker (which he was forced to use after a hip bone fracture when he was 99), now he had fallen silent. The last time I met him while he was up and about, which was probably a month ago, for the first time in my memory, he almost looked his age. He seemed lost, as if in some distant thoughts. It now took him 12-15 minutes to walk in tiny steps using a walker, from the living room divan to the dining table. But yet, he refused to be touched or assisted by anyone. He insisted on walking on his own, his streak of independence undulled by the ravages of Time.

His 101^st birthday (just a month after his wife passed away) was a quiet, normal day, in June this year. I went to greet him. I touched his feet, and no sooner had I said, Many Happy Returns, he said in his usual stentorian tone, “No! Don't say Returns! I don't want to see another Birthday!”. I returned home with a slight feeling of despondency. At 99, he refused to undergo cataract surgery in one eye, saying,”What do I need better eyesight for? What will I see?” That seemed like his usual pragmatic self. But this was different – I had seen a person waiting to die.

The end came, for all practical purposes, about 2 weeks ago, when he got up to walk when nobody was around him, for a few seconds, and fell to the ground, with his head hitting the ground hard. The resultant blood clot and brain swelling pushed him into a coma, from which he never really came out. Doctors were amazed to see that his vital parameters were all perfect till the very end. They actually expected him to emerge from his comatose state soon. But that was not to be. After 2 weeks in the hospital, they brought him home. His wife had insisted that she not be admitted to a hospital, because she wanted to die at home. He probably wanted the same – because, within 24 hours of his returning home, he breathed his last.

Atmaram Ganpatrao Haldipur, RIP.

Mother Teresa of Somalia

Picture this: Somalia: the longest-running failed state, a country at war with itself for over a decade. Now picture this: Dr Hawa Abdi, a lady, a gynecologist, imbued with a spirit of service that has made her daughters into converts to her cause. She and her two daughters now run what has grown from a single room to a 400-bed hospital. These bed are always full, but in the hospital campus stay 90,000 displaced people who also need medical help or a shelter from the violence and madness outside the camp. Her hospital has become one of Somalia's largest relief camps.

In May, 2010, she was abducted and held at gunpoint for being a woman and running the camp, but the womenfolk in the camp nearly 75,000 are women or children) – through sheer numbers, and aided by a flood of approbation from the world over, they forced Dr Abdi's release. Dr Abdi, however, was made of sterner stuff – she insisted that the leader of those who abducted her apologise in writing for her abduction and vandalisation of the hospital.

Currently, Somalians are reeling under a famine, and all she can provide is drinking water, and a rent-free place to stay. While the majority of those in the camp are women and children, men are allowed to stay with two conditions (the first applies to all in the camp):

• those staying in the camp do not talk about family or clan (the reason why Somalia is so deeply divided), and
• they do not beat their wives. Any wife-beater is locked up in an empty storeroom.

Just 5 doctors (including Dr Abdi and her two daughters) and 16 nurses at the camp conduct 20 surgeries every day and treat 300-400 patients every single day, seven days a week; AND manage the camp. Truly deserving candidate for the Nobel Prize. Hope that she is nominated soon – the prize money will help her foundation and Somalia greatly.  

Passing of a grand-aunt

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Today morning, my grand-aunt passed away. If you ask me, how close I was to her, I am not sure. But if you ask me how close she was to me, I have a different, emphatic answer. 


She was unobtrusive, quiet and soft-spoken. She was small-built, being less than 5' tall, and frail and delicate, like a fine, porcelain doll. She never uttered a harsh word ever, to anyone, or so it seemed to me. The only thing large about her was her heart. She was kindness personified. Which meant that for over 60 years now, their spacious apartment has been home to anyone from the extended family visiting Mumbai, and staying even for months and years, sometimes, no questions asked or answered. 


Many, like me, felt close to her, because she was always there, for anyone who wanted to meet her, be with her. And now that she won't be there any more, it feels like a part of my emotional skyline has disappeared. I do not remember feeling like this even when my Mother  and before her, my Father passed away, sad though I felt then. I felt emotionally strengthened when I saw my grand-uncle take it stoically and philosophically, at age 101. "Everyone has to face this in life", he said. He continues to be an exemplar.  


About 2 weeks back, on hearing that she was not keeping too well, I, with my family, visited her, an hour's drive away. My teenaged children, like most of their age, do not particularly like visiting relatives. But visiting her was special, for them too.  They wanted to accompany us, said so, and did so. Not that they even understood what she spoke. She usually spoke in Konkani, my mother-tongue, whereas they are not comfortable in that tongue. English and Tamil is what they are comfortable with. Yet, they just wanted to be there.  


She was very expansive and inclusive in her blessings: May you be happy and succeed in whatever you do, wherever you may be! she intoned softly. She was devout to a fault, till the very end. 


In law, a person is said to have attained a particular age on the day before his/her birthday. By that logic, my grand-aunt and grand-uncle completed 75 years of married life today. They tied the knot on 29 May, 1936. That was really way back - when my father was a 4-year old, and my mother yet to be born. This union, that brought forth three children, but extended a protective umbrella for perhaps 100 others from the extended family, is destined to shine in our extended family's memory as an unusually rich and productive union. Not because of its sheer longevity, but because of the rich tapestry they wove out of the threads of family, keeping them together for over half a century as pater familias and mater familias. Tomorrow, probably 100 or more relatives would have gathered to wish both of them and seek their blessings. Instead, many more will probably make it there a day early, to pay their last respects to one of them. Indeed, their youngest son was on a 2-day visit to be with them for the 75th marriage anniversary celebrations, which will, sadly enough, now not happen. 


When I last met her about 2 weeks back, she was very talkative - to the extent that she felt out of breath. She bemoaned the fact that she came to know of my mother's passing away over a year after the event. This fact was hidden from them by all of us, knowing how close my mother (their nephew's wife) was to both of them, to spare them the sadness and possible shock. In that period, she never failed to ask after my mother whenever I met her.  


A brief statistical note:
Recently, I researched a bit on the Web and found that my grand-uncle and grand-aunt could lay claim to a rare distinction - that of being the oldest living couple in India reckoned by the sum of their ages. This sum, as of today, was a staggering 193 years and 184 days, when their union came to an end. In deference to the wishes of the immediate family I did not publicize this fact earlier. Indeed, they are probably the second oldest ever in India, second only to Philipose and Sosamma Thomas of Kerala. Sosamma passed away in 2006 at which time their combined age was 201 years and 198 days. 


Revati Atmaram Haldipur, R.I.P.
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