Michelle Sindha Thomas
GOD’S OWN COUNTRY | KOTTAYAM 1900-1977
III: PAPA
Papa remembers only vague interactions with Babyammachi on the weekends she spent in Kottayam: She rewarded him with a turtleneck because he was brave and did not cry during a vaccination. She once pinched him while trying to teach him math and so he flung her umbrella and ran off. “She did her best,” he says, while he and his brothers spent their childhood seeing her only occasionally, entirely raised by their grandparents, uncles, and aunts.
Papa, on the fence
Papa fondly called his aunty Agnes “Aama”, which means “turtle.” Well, she looked like a turtle. His grandparents were called Appachin and Aamachi, of course. His uncle James used to call each of the boys, affectionately, “Ponnomon,” meaning “my precious one.” And so they called him, in return, Ponnumon. Young Syriac once asked him a question for which he didn’t know the answer, and Syriac responded with outrage: “You know everything, Ponnumon, but you don’t know this?!” Uncle James was an avid photographer, and he developed his own film at home in the dedicated darkroom. The house at Baker Junction was a lively, stimulating place for three boys to grow up: They could perform science experiments, play music, read the books which arrived for their grandfather by the stack, play in the attic, play in the wood cellar, play pranks on the visiting priest, adopt cats, rescue them when they fell in the well. They watched the coffee tree bloom with jasmine-like flowers that filled the neighborhood with their fragrance. They picked guavas in the yard and played among coconut palms and tropical plants; they once circled the long-barren pomelo tree in song, beating it with sticks, and still tell of their shock when it began to bear huge fruits months later. Their home was in the bustling heart of Kottayam, and their grandfather built a medical shop in front of the house for his nephew, Kuttapan, to manage. Kuttapan was a family man and during holidays took the boys to see their cousins and other relatives in the Kuttunad countryside. The city boys marveled at the watery world of their ancestors where, instead of roads, they traveled along canals and rivers.
Meanwhile, Aunty Lucy completed her Master of Social Work degree with honors and received a scholarship to attend Loyola University in Chicago. “When I wanted to go to America,” she said, “my father was very reluctant because I would have to travel alone by ship. He thought I should go by plane, by British Airways, which was about three or four thousand rupees.” Babyammachi had saved the insurance money from her husband’s death and told her, “I will help you to buy the ticket.” Lucy arrived in Chicago in the fall of 1962, wearing a sari and sandals, unprepared for the coming winter, but she was quickly supported by the Loyola Malayali Student Association. “I didn’t have any problem with meeting friends and all,” she reassured me, including American classmates and other Indians in the city, including her beau, our yet-to-be Uncle Jerry.
“All my sisters were fond of our three boys,” she remembered, saying, “When I first went back, before I married, I bought lots of candy and clothes and everything for Syriac, Ike, and Jake—those three were our pets.” She traveled with suitcases bulging with presents, and once she arrived, called them over to open her bags and enjoy the surprise. Ike was about eight and said, “Aunty, I have some homework to do, so I will do that first and then I will come.” Of course, he grew up to become a doctor. Papa must have been tiny then, and she said, “I bought for Jake some kind of pant and shirt with a tiger design. It was so cute when he was going around with that tiger design.” I wondered at this sentimental Lucy I’d never before witnessed as she repeated, “They were our pets. Everyone wanted to buy things for them because they were the first children in the family.” Papa does not remember this tiger costume but fondly recalls the Japanese sweets and records she brought for the grown-ups: The Sound of Music, My Fair Lady, the latest hits of Lawrence Welk. As they grew older she sent her nephews records recommended by her friends at work, including Let It Bleed by The Rolling Stones.
Papa, top center
Papa vividly remembers acts of kindness from family friends and neighbors who felt compassion for a boy growing up without his father. He was napping on the porch one day and woke to find a straw hat swinging from his wrist, and wonders to this day who gave it to him. A kind-hearted relative-by-marriage whose mother had died when he was young took little Papa to Best Hotel for a pineapple jam sandwich, cut into two neat triangles. He looked out for the three boys, checking in on them often, inviting them to his wedding to a nurse from America, shortly after which he died in a plane crash, on his way to Madras for his visa interview.
Papa and his brothers grew up attending Miss Baker School, right across the street from their home. While their family was Catholic, there were no Catholic boys’ schools in the area, and their grandparents appreciated the academic rigor (and convenience) of the Protestant school administered by the Church of South India. Papa remembers very little about his elementary school days (besides an oft-repeated, unsolved mystery regarding a boy named Jabahar who always smelled like banana fritters). He was not without rascal antics: He once stayed home from school and spent the day tagging along with his grandmother. They went to visit their Hindu neighbors, the owners of G.R. Prabhu and Sons’ stationary shop. Papa became bored while the adults were chatting and he started wandering around, exploring the house until he happened upon their prayer room, full of images and statues of the family gods and a big, beautiful pair of scissors used for cutting the wicks of oil lamps. He tucked the scissors into his pocket. When he went home, he quietly started snipping at everything in sight until he went too far and sliced the edge off a woven mat in the living room. His grandmother started investigating, the truth came out, and Papa had to return the scissors to G.R. Prabhu and, most embarrassingly, his sons, who were his classmates at Miss Baker school.
Papa rhapsodizes about instruments his family had at home at Baker Junction: an organ, harmonium, guitar, and bulbul plus the exotic instruments that would show up when fun Uncle Johnny and his band, Friends Orchestra, would rehearse for shows. The band played Malayalam, Tamil, and Hindi songs, and occasionally Western-style music; Papa was around five or six when a guitarist and a drummer joined a rehearsal and he first encountered live drums, transfixed. Over the next few years, his grandfather noticed his sense of rhythm, how his hands were always busy repurposing innocent objects as drumsticks and beating on every surface: Once, when Appachin was inhaling steam, his face under a towel draped over a bowl of hot water, little Papa approached from behind and started drumming on his head! Appachin urged Babyammachi to buy a percussion instrument for him to play. She brought him a tabla; young Papa said, “I don’t want a tabla, I want bongos.” A devoted musician herself, she understood the particularity and obliged.
Around this time, Babyammachi started building Rose House for her little family. It was pink, with a flat, modern roof and a breezy reception room, just a few kilometers away from her parents’ place at Baker Junction. They christened the home by hosting Uncle Johnny’s wedding reception and started moving things from Baker Junction immediately after the party. While she would continue teaching away from home and visiting Kottayam on weekends, Papa was still only about ten years old and his brothers were young teens. Babyammachi’s aunt and namesake, Clarammachi, also moved from Baker Junction to care for the boys. Papa remembers helping Clarammachi with her tasks, husking coconuts and pounding spices for cooking with a huge mortar and pestle. She continued to serve as the key maternal figure guiding young Papa, encouraging his musical talent and protecting his tender heart. “She was like a buffer and always on my side,” Papa says, “We were one team.” His favorite Malayalam aphorisms and bits of wit and wisdom are gems she bequeathed him, for example, “Don’t take the snake from the hedge and put it in your lap,” and, “Where there is a beating going on, don’t go show your cheek.”
Clarammachi was a petite, fair-skinned, bird-like figure, with earlobes stretched from wearing heavy gold earrings in a style bygone earlier in the century. She adored Papa as if he was her own child. Clarammachi was his grandmother’s sister, herself doted upon by a mother who assumed she could not have children until she gave birth to two daughters late in life. They were sent to a convent school in Aleppy, but before she finished high school, Clarammachi was married, to a good man from Changanasherry. Together they had one son and, Aunty Lucy the social worker hypothesized, “I think he had some mental illness.” Remembering him from her own childhood, she said, “He was very knowledgeable and he would always go to the library and read. He was always reading and he was very smart in that way. He was like a walking encyclopedia, but seemed to develop a schizo-affective disorder after a certain age: He was very nice to us but would sit alone, talking to himself sometimes. He went to the army and returned—then, one day, when he was 30 or so, he walked out and nobody heard from him after that.” Clarammachi’s husband had already died by then, and she was alone in Changanasherry. She moved in with her sister and family in Kottayam, watching her nieces and nephews grow up, then her adorable grand-nephews. When he was little, Papa would confide in Clarammachi, “When I grow up, I want to buy a drum set,” and she would promise him, “Yes, I will sell my earrings and buy you some drums.”
Rose House became a music hub. Clarammachi and Papa’s older cousin Mercy, who moved in when she began teaching at a nearby women’s college, were indulgent guardians, utterly accepting of the boys’ taste in rock ’n roll and the constant stream of friends coming and going for rehearsals. Papa’s eldest brother, Syriac, had taken voice and music lessons as a child. He started playing harmonium when he was five, then taught himself guitar and started gaining local recognition and a reputation as a genius guitar player, sought after for parties and events. Uncle Ike started with violin lessons, then switched to bass guitar. Papa never took lessons, but practiced his bongos ardently and joined Syriac and Uncle Johnny at performances starting when he was only ten years old.
Papa never did forget that drum set he first saw at Uncle Johnny’s rehearsal and started asking him about it with more intention as he got older: “Where did they come from? Whose were they? Do you think they are still around? Can we try to find them?” Johnny supposed they might be in storage at the Kottayam Home Guards Club, suggesting that they check in with the president of the Kottayam Arts Society, C.T. John, who would know for sure.
Papa was a kid in shorts, a pre-teen on a mission, and he set off in pursuit of the illustrious C.T. John. His first lead was Nainan, a singer who lived in his neighborhood. Nainan was about 15 years older than Papa, and amused by the quest, he was glad to help. The very same day, he took Papa across the Tharthangaddy River to see another singer, Kuriakose, who might know where C.T. John lived—and they happened to live in the same neighborhood! The three of them headed to C.T. John’s house. Little Papa looked through the window and realized C.T. John was taking an afternoon nap; they waited at a neighbor’s house and returned around 4 pm when he was ready to receive them. C.T. John entered the sitting room, elegant in his pure white mundu, with a professorial aura and the easy confidence of a man of influence. Papa introduced himself as Johnny’s nephew and explained the reason for their visit.
C.T. John knew Uncle Johnny from his glory days, and shared that while, unfortunately, the drums were no more, Papa was welcome to gather the musicians he knew, professionals including Kuriakose, Nainan, Johnny, his brother Syriac. C.T. John welcomed them to rehearse at the Home Guards Club and even invited them to perform at a prestigious monthly event: The Kottayam Arts Society gathered at the club for cultural programs—plays, fine arts shows, and concerts, and C.T. John invited the band to open these programs: “You all can perform before the shows!” This offer was beyond Papa’s expectations. He was thrilled and promised to assemble a group. He excitedly went and told Syriac, Uncle Johnny, who had started taking to drink by then and had lost his focus on music, Johnny’s associates from Friends Orchestra, some of whom had become locally famous, and they began a schedule of rehearsals at the Home Guards Club. As promised, every month, when the Arts Society had a show, they were the opening act, performing Indian pop music and rock instrumentals, covers of Ventures songs. These performances were lauded as a second wind for Johnny’s Friends Orchestra. The group started generating a buzz among the Arts Society members, who started booking them for parties, functions, and concerts, and they soon became famous in Kottayam.
Uncle Ike and Papa
Around this time, a rock band called The Elite Aces traveled from coastal, cosmopolitan Cochin to perform in Kottayam. Papa was fascinated by their music, covers of popular English songs by Cliff Richard, the Beatles, CCR, the Rolling Stones, and The Ventures. Papa and his brothers were impressed and inspired to start their own band: The Bit Ventures. Their first show as The Bit Ventures was at Alleppy, where they played instrumental covers. Papa played rhythm guitar, Syriac played lead guitar, and Ike played bass. Their friend, a famous percussionist named Shahul, played bongos and his friend Rajan Kora played the congo drums. Eventually the band put their money together and bought drums from Cochin for Shahul to play—Papa still did not have his own drum set. “Understandable,” Papa says. He was wearing shorts, he reminds me, which means he was still in 7th or 8th grade, while Shahul was 15 years older and a more experienced musician.
The Bit Ventures played for a multi-band rock festival at the Ernakulam Fine Arts Hall and the national Junior Statesman Magazine published an article about them. This was a turning point for the band—The Bit Ventures became popular all over Kerala and were constantly booked to play shows in major cities: Cochin, Trivandrum, Alleppy, Thrissur. They would rent a Tempo van with a driver and travel great distances with their instruments; for Alleppy shows they had to travel by boat, of course. Occasionally, they played with Ambli, a film singer, for her live concerts. Clarammachi sat at home while the boys were running around everywhere and coming home at 2-3 am. They were hired for gigs even on weekdays. Syriac would pull Papa out of school for out-of-town shows; their teachers understood and supported their priorities. Music fully consumed Papa’s attention from age 11 onwards…he even failed one year of school.
One year after the band started, Papa’s best friend A.T. joined and started playing the bongos. He was always hanging around Rose House during rehearsals and quickly caught on to the bit of percussion Papa showed him. Meanwhile, Shahul had long known that Papa could, and was determined to, play the drums. When he was 12 or 13 years old, Papa made a drum set out of a big tea box with a pedal fulcrum on top that he could drum with a stick; with pipes and a cymbal he made a high hat. Shahul would never let Papa touch the professional drum set even though all the band members had chipped in to buy them and rehearsals took place at his own house. One evening, when Papa was 15 and walking home from town, he was bitten by a snake. His doctor advised that he stay up all night to make sure he maintained consciousness and ensure the danger of poisoning had passed. To stay awake, he thought, “Let me play the drums gently,” keeping himself engaged until sunrise. Word got out to Shahul that Papa played the drums without his permission, and while Shahul did not confront him then, his patience with Papa ran shorter than ever.
A few weeks later, just before a performance, Papa was waiting onstage, absentmindedly touching the tom-tom when Shahul finally lost his temper. In response, Papa went on strike, saying, “I am not playing at the next rehearsal if Shahul will be there.” Uncle Johnny had witnessed the incident and supported Papa, saying Shahul was in the wrong, that it was not proper for him to lash out. By then Papa was feeling bold: He had been assembling parts for his own professional drum set. He had traveled to Manual Industries in Cochin and bought a snare drum. He went again with A.T. and ordered a bass drum and accessories. Piece by piece, he had nearly put together a full set of drums. Syriac, the band’s resident genius and undisputed leader, stood up for Papa, telling Shahul he was no longer in the band and they watched him walk out, angry.
Uncle Syriac
Papa still was not the band’s drummer; they needed him to continue playing rhythm guitar. His friend, A.T., played the drums, and for difficult songs, Papa took over. When A.T. accepted a job at a faraway tea estate, Papa finally became the official drummer of The Bit Ventures. They continued to play songs by The Ventures, in addition to Santana, Grand Funk Railroad, and brand new originals inspired by English music they heard on Radio Ceylon and the countless records they acquired. Syriac’s fame continued to grow and he was regarded as one of the top guitarists in the state, if not the country. He was regularly occupied playing guitar for film playback singers and prestigious solo gigs. Ike left the band when he went to Chengasherry for his pre-degree. In college, Papa had started a side band called Shark to keep the music going when Syriac was busy. Papa was the lead guitarist, A.T. played drums, Simon Diaz, whose mother was in UK, played rhythm, and Raju played bass. Papa also helped get his friend Tommy’s band, Violet Haze, started and they began rehearsing at Rose House to make use of their variety of drums. Tommy would eventually buy the drums when Papa moved away.
In 1974, 1975, and 1976, The Bit Ventures organized Rock Cyclone music festivals, during which they invited bands from other cities to play with them at Mammenmappala Hall in Kottayam. This is how they met new collaborators from Quilon: Zach of Fourth Experience and his friend, Bernard John, lead singer of The Hitchhikers. They moved to Kottayam and joined The Bit Ventures. The band sold tickets and raised additional funds by means of sponsors who would give large sums to advertise on tickets and fliers. The band’s popularity was growing exponentially and they began receiving inquiries from other states, including a proposal for a show in Bangalore—on the week they were to leave for America.
Everyone knew them as the boys who were going to leave soon. In early 1975, Babyammachi had taken a one-year leave of absence from teaching and went to Chicago to help Lucy with her small sons. Aunty Lucy encouraged her to stay in Chicago and bring own her sons to complete their education in the US. She had tried to convince their mother and brother James to move, too; James went to America, hated it, and went back. Babayammachi decided to stay and retired from teaching altogether, writing home to tell the boys that she would like to bring them. Papa wasn’t excited about moving because of how well things were going for the band, but moving to America was considered a great opportunity. Educated Indians could quadruple their earning potential in a new country hungry for their professional talent. The demand was so great and migration was so high in the ‘70s that the population of Kottayam stood still and nearly declined over the following decades. Clarammachi dreaded the thought of parting from her dear nephews; knowing great change was imminent, she removed her gold signet ring, telling Papa to wear it and remember her always. “I’m still here,” Papa protested. Babyammachi sponsored the boys and little did they realize that within months they would move away from Kerala to Chicago, Illinois.
Papa attended CMS College for his pre-degree and studied economics, thanks to his buddy M.I. Rajan. Papa always had a solid circle of friends, connected by their love for music. Rajan was the one who told Papa about Jimi Hendrix; he knew about anything new and cool and would share it. Papa says, “His mother was 100% okay with him being friends with me. Our friends’ parents sometimes had a problem with music people, but she knew our father died and she had seen us growing up.” Kottayam was still a small town of around 60,000 and everyone knew of the three musically talented boys whose grandfather was the Deepika newspaper editor, a former lawyer who had resigned because he didn’t want to support dishonesty, they knew the medical store and the Vanitharamam ladies’ magazine which his aunties now managed. “People knew about us,” Papa says a little less humbly than usual. Rajan and Papa had been in classes together since kindergarten but were not friends until they finished high school. Papa says, “That summer, he sought me out, we talked about guitars, and every day afterwards we hung out together, walked all over town, talked about music. He knew a whole lot about music. Even in school, he would give me music magazines like Monkey’s Annual.” Papa brings up the transparent blue drum set that we grew up with in Chicago: “The reason I was interested in see-through drums was because in high school Rajan showed them to me in a magazine; someone had made them out of fiberglass. It was fascinating to me, and when I saw the drums at Biasco Music in Chicago, I thought it would be nice to have them! I was surprised I got them! Only in America could we get a drum set like that, but they sat in the box for a long time because we had nowhere to play them.”
Papa, in stripes
In 1975, Papa encountered Mama.
Papa was 18 years old, quiet and watchful, brown and lanky, with a puff of curls and gentle, deliberate movements. By the ‘70s, CMS college had over 1,300 students from all over the country. Mama had just arrived from Bombay and enrolled for her pre-degree program late in the school year. Papa didn’t realize he had met her on her very first day of school.
“I just noticed her,” Papa says. She was a modern girl from a big city, “something like a movie star!” In Kottayam, there weren't too many girls who were dropped off for classes in a car, and she was strikingly beautiful: She was a head taller than the other girls, eye-to-eye with the boys or taller, with shiny, waist-length hair which she wore center-parted and loose instead of in a demure plait. She even dressed differently: Instead of cotton saris, she wore midis and maxis, bell bottoms and “elephant pants.” Her name was Nirmala Thangam, which means “pure gold.”
They met in true filmi fashion, on one of those grand, winding staircases signature of CMS college, a rich, brown, teak wonder, the first built in India. He was coming down from the cashier’s office while she was heading up to registration with Nani, going up the stairs the wrong way, following Nani, who was going whichever way she pleased like the darling diva she was. Papa was coming down the stairs the right way, of course, and accidentally bumped Mama on his path. At first, she didn't think anything of it, but some amused boys who witnessed the collision commended Papa, “Aha! That’s the way you do it!” She then believed he bumped into her on purpose, and shouted after him, “Are you blind or what!?”
He never heard any of this. “I don’t remember if she said anything,” he says, always believing her an angel, “I don't even know if I said sorry, maybe I did. That is the brief encounter I remember, otherwise, there was no need for us to talk.”
Mama had little trouble adjusting from life in Bombay. She knew Kerala from the summers she spent visiting her grandmother and her days unfolded in tropical languor: She and her brother, Vinod, lived on the family estate in their summer home, a white modernist masterpiece with an Olympic swimming pool, nestled in the Rubber Board hills. The house was named after her: Nirmala Nikethan. Her father was in the tire business, and downhill from the main property was a retreading facility Vinod was intended to oversee, with Ideal Tyres employees coming and going to the shop in town. Mama would wake up at sunrise, as she still does, borrow a bicycle from one of the workers, and ride around and around the property line before they left for the shop. She would then head to school, either with her driver or with Vinod or on her own, in a yellow Fiat with the license plate JNC834321. Since she was one of the few at CMS college with a car, and a girl driving on her own at that, kids teased her, giving her a long, polysyllabic nickname: JNC834321. The students in Mama’s classes were kind and welcoming, giving her notes from the start of the semester so she could catch up. While she knew enough Malayalam to get by, not many of Mama’s new classmates conversed in English fluently, only George Thomas, whose father was in the publishing business and mother worked as a doctor. He had jet black, spiky hair, a gap-toothed smile, and a charming disposition. They became great pals, and in her yearbook he wrote, “I would have fallen in love with you if I didn’t think of you as my sister.” On her way back from classes, she would stop at Best Bakery to buy coconut macaroons and take them home to have at teatime. The maid would make tea and together they would enjoy the bakes. She would go swimming during the Radio Ceylon English music hour, and when the sun went down, she went in and ate dinner with Vinod, started her homework, propped on her elbows in bed, safely under her princess canopy mosquito net. They were Jehovah’s Witnesses, and on the weekends they would go in service, then go to night movies at Anand and Abilash theaters with the boys from the shop. Nani and Grandpop came in and out of town, back and forth from Bombay. Nani would bring huge suitcases of clothes in styles girls in Kottayam were not yet wearing, might never wear. Only Mama and the Punjabi girl at CMS wore a two-piece salwar kameez set back then. She had a maxi dress with suspenders, smocked dresses with puffed sleeves, custom fitted button downs, an array of trousers. One of the boys taunted, “Hey, you got your grandpa’s pants on?” She retorted, “No, actually they are your grandpa’s,” generations before the golden age of yo’ momma jokes. A stream of boys would escort her all the way home from class; they wouldn't say anything to her, but rode alongside her little yellow Fiat on bicycles and motorbikes and when she turned into her driveway, they likewise would turn and go their own ways. Sometimes she raced the boys who had cars. She wasn’t afraid of anything because she was from a big city, she wasn’t intimidated by testosterone because she had grown up with two huge, laughing brothers. Once, a lineup of heroes was walking in the college yard, and when they saw her they closed rank and veered to walk in her path, as if to challenge her—what would she do? As they came closer and closer, in their tight line, she kept walking, without breaking stride. When they reached her, they had to move aside, the Red Sea parting for her.
One day, many months after she arrived in Kerala, Mama was at home getting ready to take a shower; she had oiled her hair and was wearing a slip dress. Papa and The Bit Ventures were in the Rubber Board neighborhood selling tickets for the 1976 Rock Cyclone. Every year, a bunch of friends would pile into a car to sell tickets in the outskirts of town, especially in wealthy neighborhoods where residents were inclined to appreciate English music. The boys pulled into the driveway of Nirmala Nikethan. “Her house was just one of those we visited,” Papa says, innocently. Some of the boys knew Vinod, but he wasn’t home. He continues, “I think somebody else went up to the door. They talked about the show, but I don’t think we sold tickets. I just saw her; the others were talking to her. I was the youngest in the group so I was just standing in the back.” This was only Papa’s second encounter with Mama.
Later on, Mama noticed Papa on campus and pointed him out, remarking to George Thomas, “That boy had come to my house.” She says she didn’t think anything of him at that point—she was just making an observation. George Thomas was Mama’s favorite classmate but he also played guitar and knew Papa. “Yeah, he was probably a year younger than me,” Papa says, “and he told me I should call Mama and gave me her number. He didn't say why and I didn't ask. So that’s why I called.”
To this day, no one knows why George Thomas played cupid. Papa says, “He and I had never discussed Mama but she is so noticeable, the most beautiful girl in town, the one everyone talked about. She had a car at her disposal and a driver dropping her off at school. She was the only one like that being dropped off in a nice, new Fiat. I liked her very much at that time; there was nothing there not to like!” Papa called Mama: “I called the house and said, “This is Jacob Thomas.” Mama responded, “And so?”
He made small talk: “She was abrupt in the beginning because she didn't know who I was or why I called. All I could say was that George Thomas told me to call.” He called again in a few days. She knew it was him. Somewhere between the time she got home and dinner with Vinod, Papa would try to call. One time, he asked, “When is your birthday?” She said, “Oh, it has already passed, but I don’t celebrate my birthday anyway. I’m one of Jehovah’s Witnesses.” He had heard of Witnesses before. One of his family’s distributors was a Witness and Clarammachi once had a long conversation with visiting Witnesses, giving Papa their journal to read. He had long stopped attending Catholic services, so Mama’s religion held no particular relevance for him. Mama admits that she liked him—she thought he was a good person. Sure, all those other boys were hovering about, but they didn’t do anything. He was serious, he was sincere, and with great difficulty he was trying to talk to her.
“I remember telling her, in Hindi, I’d like to marry you,” Papa says, “I said it in Hindi because I was shy. If you see enough Hindi movies you know how to say that much. In school you don’t learn those kinds of words.” He spoke these words to Mama only a couple of weeks after he first called her house. I am always astonished when I hear Papa tell this part of the story, as he is such a shy guy: “I was scared of girls,” he says, “Talking to girls was hard. Because it was Mama, I had to force myself and be brave because I knew it was worthwhile.” He marvels, “I didn’t see George Thomas that often. Nobody knows why he gave me the number. This was against all odds. There was no need for me to look at someone like Mama because she was a rich girl and I was just an ordinary, middle-class person. But I was also famous, I guess. People knew me and my family in Kottayam. My grandfather was famous, all the learned people knew him. And I grew up performing in the music industry, all of my friends were musicians, music enthusiasts, fans.”
“Mama was a very respectful person,” Papa says, and I give him a side eye. “We didn't talk long, but she was a very nice, well-mannered, respectful person,” he continues, “Not like what you hear about girls in Kerala who were very shy; in those days you didn’t see girls talking to boys unless there was a reason to talk. Even in college, girls sat on one side of the classroom and boys on the other.”
Mama was shocked when he asked her to marry him and said, “First off, I don’t know you, secondly, I’m one of Jehovah’s Witnesses and I’ll only marry a Witness, and third, all of this is beside the point! My father will kill me!” Papa said, “Two weeks will become two years and you will get to know me. I will become one of Jehovah’s Witnesses. And I will ask your father for your hand.”
Papa figured out a way to see Mama every day: “Our family had the medical shop in town near Baker Junction, where I grew up. After class, I would go into town and hang out near the shop in an area we nicknamed Johnnypaddy. All the music people would gather there. Maybe in the beginning she didn't notice me standing there, but after I started calling, she did.” Mama indeed started to notice Papa hanging out in Johnnypaddy. She once asked Papa if there was something wrong with his eyes. He said, “No, I was winking at you. That’s how you tell someone you love them.”
Nani and Mama
Mama was going back to Bombay with Nani for summer vacation. When her train was leaving, Papa stood by the bridge for as long as he could see the train and, annoyingly, Nani’s bumblebee sunglasses in the window. Mama could see him from the train, growing smaller and smaller in the distance.
When she returned, Papa gave Mama a ring to prove his sincerity. This is one of only two times he spoke to her in person. He and Tommy went to her house and he gave her Clarammachi’s ring, saying, “This is for you, but I don't want my grandaunt to notice. Can you give me another one to replace it?” Mama went to Tommy’s family’s gold shop and had a replica made, sending it secretly with Tommy’s lackey to give Papa. This part of the story is entirely new to me. I recently went with Mama to her safe deposit box and saw a simple gold signet ring with the most pleasant antique luster. I told Mama I had never seen this ring, it was so restrained compared to her rings and those she inherited from Nani. Inside, it was engraved with the name Jake. I picked it up and asked if I could wear it for awhile. I even started putting it on, because her answer was always yes, she was glad for us to take interest in her heritage jewelry. But this time she made a sharp intake, “No!” and took it from me, opening a velvet pouch with an identical ring of a gold that felt newer and more familiar: “You can wear this one instead.”
Babyammachi had already moved to America at this point, and by the autumn of 1976, visas arrived for Papa and his brothers. America was supposed to mean a drastic improvement in their lifestyle, but Papa says, “I felt just the opposite.”
Fifty people planned to go the airport to send off Papa and his brothers. Going to America was a big deal in those days and everyone wanted to share in the excitement. Mama couldn’t join because their relationship was secret, but she still arranged to see Papa off in her way. Her homeopathic doctor was in Kottayam, on the route Papa would take to the airport with carloads of friends. Mama went for her appointment, the doctor insisting nothing was wrong and wondering why she came as she stood by the front door, anticipating the motorcade. Tommy knew she was waiting and drove very slowly as they passed. Papa saw her and quietly looked back through the rear window for as long as he could see her.
Playlist:
All Out 60s Malayalam Spotify Playlist
The Sound of Music soundtrack
My Fair Lady soundtrack
Let It Bleed by The Rolling Stones
Walk, Don’t Run by The Ventures
Wipeout by The Ventures
Have You Ever Seen The Rain by Creedence Clearwater Revival
Aqualung by Jethro Tull
Samba Pa Ti by Santana
Little Wing by Jimi Hendrix
Houses of the Holy by Led Zeppelin