Harsha Gopal's reflections on his grandfather

MY PATERNAL GRANDFATHER

D. Padmanabhan, or “Padmanabhan Grandpa” had a tremendous influence on my life in almost every way. Even in my earliest memories, he was living with the residual effects of two devastating strokes, both of which he had suffered before he had reached his 47^th year. I am now 44, and I think of what his family went through when he had his first stroke at 39. Nevertheless, his mind was vibrant and his intellectual curiosity unaffected by the ravages of these strokes. I stayed with my grandparents through several summers and on many other visits, picking Grandpa’s brain and raiding his huge memory. He literally knew something about everything.

His active youth loomed large in my life, an exemplary Alpha-male who was an expert shot and equestrian, a tennis player and a linguist. He was a man equally comfortable with a British official as he was with a Himalayan rishi. He wrestled a crocodile, shot a cobra on a chandelier, hunted dangerous big cats and fearlessly went after these local threats on nighttime shikaar rides. I listened to his stories with great interest, and learned about everything from Plato to The Upanishads from him.

He was amazingly well read, probably the widest read person I have ever met. He used to take me to the British Council Library in Bangalore when I was a boy, and later to the lending library at the Cosmopolitan Club in Madras. Because of him, I became a fan of PG Wodehouse. I recall discussing with him a Wodehouse essay that I had borrowed from The British Council regarding the disputed authorship of works by Shakespeare. Grandpa already was well aware of the controversy and disagreed that Francis Bacon could have written the plays. I would have many such discussions with him and credit him with my varied interests.

His interests were far wider than most of his contemporaries. Although he excelled in chemistry in his undergraduate education at Presidency College and Kings’ College Cambridge, he later joined the Indian Civil Service, pursued the law and became a magistrate, judge and Collector of Madras. All the while he maintained wide pursuits. His enthusiasm for tennis and bridge spread to my grandmother who studied these diversions with equal enthusiasm. He was a gourmet and she became one of the greatest cooks in my memory. His English was impeccable, but he never made me think that this adopted language of ours is any more important to know than any other language. He also was literate in Tamil, Sanskrit, Hindi and Urdu (he taught me Urdu script, which I have since forgotten), and conversant in other languages. I see much of him in my multilingual children. Although he would say that we don’t speak English in America, he instilled in me an eternal love of knowledge, language and books. Mostly he instilled a love of learning which I have not lost, and which he never lost.

He would often speak of his time in England with great fondness. He was an unabashed Anglophile, but despite that could see the English for what they were, and for what they did to India. I will never forget his anecdotes about playing tennis with Paul Robeson at Cambridge or meeting George Bernard Shaw on the London tube, or his funny stories about his housemate, Mohan, and his other housemate MN Sambamurti (my other grandfather).

Since he was limited in his mobility by paralysis, our activities were cerebral and verbal. My memories of him are of long discussions in which my opinion was as valuable as his. Mostly he used to tell me stories. His favorites were Shivaji and Birbal. Shivaji was one of his great heroes, and he became one of mine. Through these characters I learned about the great and open-minded Emperor Akbar. Grandpa and I shared a great admiration for this illiterate Renassance man. Similarly, we shared a distaste for his great-grandson, the narrow-minded and cruel Aurangzeb. He brought these people into my present world. I became absolutely fascinated by this period in history because of him. I remember doing my own amateur excavations of a Lodi era tomb with my friend Avaneesh in Delhi. When I told him, he didn’t scold me, but listened with fascinated interest at how we sneaked in with a crowbar and unsuccessfully tried to lift a tomb lid. He was my friend and confidant, and loved me unconditionally.

He could meet anyone and could talk with anyone. He didn’t suffer fools well, but he would also never prejudge anyone, and treated people equally. He didn’t worry about caste or social station. There was a Dalit boy who lived near them in Lower Palace Orchards, Bangalore named Anniappan. Although he would kid around and joke with the boy, it was always good natured and it was always filled with love and respect. He developed a great fondness for this boy from a completely different station in life, both in age and social status. All people great and small were deserving of his attention and time. He greeted my adopted sister, Deepa, into his house as his granddaughter without hesitation and with the greatest and deepest love. I have never seen anyone open his heart up as much as he did. Underneath the gruff exterior and the short temper was a kind and gentle soul. He loved all his grandchildren and it was obvious. He loved his sons and their wives, and most definitely he loved Grandma to distraction.

It has been 26 years since his passing, but I still think of him all the time. I see him every time I look at Surya and Anya and their long foreheads (or at my bald pate). I see him every time I open an old book to read about Indian history or philosophy. I think about him every time I play tennis. In fact, he was a tremendous influence on my family joining Longwood Cricket Club this April on his 100^th birthday. My first exposure to both tennis and private clubs was through him. My first exposure to most things was augmented in some way by Grandpa. He taught me innumerable things, and I was a willing and enthusiastic student. It is his view of religion that I hold to this day. He explained it so clearly to me that finally religion and spirituality made sense to me.

He also used to say things that I will always remember, such as “the term ‘American culture’ is an oxymoron.” Although he may not have believed that, he would say it to provoke discussion, and provoke discussion it did. He said things that he knew would make me think. And he was funny. That is what I miss the most. His sense of humour (he would have preferred the British spelling). I still find myself chuckling at things he would say. I miss him and hope that he looks down proudly on the large family that he helped to create, as we look up to him with all our love.