by M. N. KRISH
‘Not at all,’ the old man said, taking a long hard look at Joshua. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’
‘We’ve come looking for mathematician Ramanujan’s old house. The auto-rickshaw guy said you or someone in this house would be able to help us.’
‘Sure, come in,’ the old man said and led the way.
Lakshman and Joshua took off their shoes and followed him into the house. He asked them to sit on the wooden chairs in the airy veranda. He took a round stool for himself.
‘Where is Sir coming from?’ the old man asked, his eyes darting in Joshua’s direction.
‘America,’ Lakshman said.
‘Thought so,’ the old man nodded. ‘Professor?’
‘Yes,’ Lakshman said.
‘Yourself?’
‘From Madras.’
‘Professor also?’
Lakshman nodded with a smile.
The old man walked up to Lakshman and Joshua and shook hands. ‘I’m Ranga Bashyam,’ he said. ‘I was a Tamil teacher in Town High School here. Retired as the assistant headmaster.’
Lakshman translated for Joshua and they introduced themselves.
‘Ramanujan used to live nearby only. Just a few houses down,’ Ranga Bashyam said. ‘But the house has been vacant for some months now. Under lock and key since the last tenants left the place.’
‘Yes, the driver told us,’ Lakshman said. ‘Is it possible to take a look at the house?’
‘By all means.’
Ranga Bashyam called out for his granddaughter and whispered something into her ears. The little girl went running back into the house.
Lakshman rose from his chair.
‘What’s the hurry? We can go after coffee,’ Ranga Bashyam said.
‘It’s all right, we don’t want to trouble you so much,’ Lakshman said.
‘Where’s the trouble in this? You’ve come to our house from so far. Especially Sir, all the way from America . . .’
Lakshman and Joshua had been itching with anticipation ever since the auto-rickshaw driver pointed out Ramanujan’s locked house on the way before dropping them off. They couldn’t wait to get inside and take a look. But hospitality in India often reared up at the most inopportune moment and Lakshman had little option but to submit to its irresistible force. He sat back down and filled Joshua in.
Soon Ranga Bashyam’s wife arrived with two steaming cups of coffee. Ranga Bashyam dragged out an ornate wooden tea-table carved over a century ago and positioned it between Joshua and Lakshman. His wife placed the coffee cups on it and said, ‘Please have.’
‘Please have,’ Ranga Bashyam chimed in in English for the first time. ‘Original Kumbakonam degree coffee.’
Lakshman hadn’t made the connection earlier. Now that Ranga Bashyam made it clear, he didn’t waver anymore. The aroma was already floating up in the air and titillating his nostrils and he was no fool to pass up the opportunity. He forgot all about Ramanujan and picked up a cup.
‘Josh, this is degree coffee, as it’s famously called,’ he said. ‘It’s a secret recipe known only to the brahmins in this area. You won’t get this taste at any restaurant. It didn’t strike me earlier but we’re drinking right at the source. Doesn’t get any more authentic and original than this.’
‘Degree coffee? Okayyy, that’s new,’ Joshua said and picked up his cup eagerly. The first sip hit him like a pulse of electric charge. He stiffened in his chair, hair standing on end, scalp tingling. He did not reckon that a cup of coffee with generous dollops of milk could still pack so much punch, much more than some of the pitch-black espressos he was used to. ‘Wow, this is strong stuff,’ he said. ‘Could keep me up for days.’
They took their time and sat sipping the coffee with relish, much to the delight of their hosts. While they were at it, the little girl delivered a huge key bunch the size of a tambourine to the old man.
They thanked the old lady for her hospitality before making their way out of the house. ‘This cup of coffee alone made our whole trip worth it,’ said Joshua. When Lakshman translated it for her, she was positively blushing.
Ranga Bashyam escorted them out of the house.
Lakshman and Joshua put on their shoes. Ranga Bashyam threw a yellow woollen shawl over his anga vasthram and walked down the steps, the key bunch jingling in his hands; Joshua followed him, fanning himself with his hat.
‘Why this demand for Ramanujan all of a sudden, sir?’ Ranga Bashyam asked Lakshman as soon as they stepped on to the street. ‘Why’s everyone going after him now?’
‘Have you been getting so many visitors?’
‘Not so many, but I’m surprised seeing foreigners interested in Ramanujan all of a sudden. Another foreigner was here only a few weeks ago to see the house and now we have Professor here.’
Lakshman stopped dead in his tracks, his ears pricking up like a prairie dog’s.
40
‘Another foreigner came here, really?’ Lakshman asked.
Ranga Bashyam stopped and spun around. ‘Yes sir. He too was a university professor, but much younger.’
‘University professor?’ Lakshman said. ‘You remember his name?’
Ranga Bashyam thought for a bit and said, ‘No sir, I don’t remember. My memory is not as good as it used to be. Also not easy to remember these foreign names.’
‘Do you at least remember which place or university he was coming from?’
‘From some university in America, sir. Some sports university.’
Lakshman was taken aback. ‘Sports university?’ he said and turned to Joshua.
Joshua had managed to attract a small crowd of onlookers on the street, the two men on his tail mingling among them. He was following Lakshman’s exchange with the old man with some detachment, but sporting a bright smile on his face. Lakshman quickly filled him in and asked if he knew of any sports university in the US.
But it didn’t ring any bell.
The three of them stood on the street staring at each other’s faces for moment, Ranga Bashyam a bit puzzled: Were these people interested in Ramanujan or the other foreigner?
Lakshman had a flash. ‘Do you mean Tennessee Dennis University?’ he asked.
‘Ah, yes, the same place,’ said Ranga Bashyam. ‘Tennis University. That’s it.’
‘Any chance he said his name was Jeffrey Williams?’ Lakshman asked next.
‘Maybe; I’m not so sure. But I remember the name of the other boy who came with him. Narasimhan, that’s what his name was,’ Ranga Bashyam said. ‘Very strange people, both of them. Very strange.’
Lakshman made no reply. He was busy relaying the information to Joshua. Joshua’s elastic smile evaporated instantly.
Lakshman turned back to Ranga Bashyam. ‘What did they do here exactly?’
‘I’ll tell you, but why don’t we go inside the house first?’ Ranga Bashyam said.
The house was only a few doors away and they got there in no time.
‘This is it,’ Ranga Bashyam said, pointing at the non-descript building nestling among shops. He climbed up the steps and started working the lock with the unwieldy bunch of keys, trying each key one by one.
Lakshman and Joshua stood on the street and quietly ran their eyes around.
The house didn’t seem to have undergone much change since Ramanujan’s time. It remained more or less true to the old pictures Lakshman had seen: a modest, old-fashioned brahmin agraharam row-house with alternating stripes of white and red – lime and red-earth – decorating the plinth. It had a sloping roof topped off with red, curvy terra cotta tiles that were blackening with age. Coconut-frond thatches bordered the roof-slope, jutting out and shading the doorway like eaves. The roof frame was a bamboo grid propped up on wooden columns, sturdy tree trunks painted turquoise-blue, no doubt cured for years to last this long. Burmese teak perhaps, Lak
shman thought. The curvy oil-lamp niches carved in the walls was sufficient proof that the construction of the house predated the advent of electricity.
‘I don’t know why no one has bothered to turn this house into a memorial or something,’ Joshua said to Lakshman. ‘It’s been what, over half a century since you guys got independence, isn’t it? I’m sure if a fair price is paid to the owner of the property, they’d be willing to sell it in public interest.’
‘That’s true,’ said Lakshman. ‘But who’s going to take the initiative?’
‘What about the people who made the movie?’
‘What movie?’
‘Didn’t people turn Ramanujan’s life into movie and make a lot of money?’
‘No,’ Lakshman said. ‘What gave you the idea?’
‘Aren’t there Indian movies on Ramanujan?’
‘Movies? You must be joking,’ Lakshman said. ‘There’s not even one.’
‘You mean to say people haven’t made a single Ramanujan movie in any of your dozen languages?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Lakshman said. ‘Indian movies have got their own grammar and syntax, even more stringent than Panini. Ramanujan’s life does not comply with them. How can you squeeze in songs and fight scenes into a biopic on Ramanujan? There’s no way they’re going to make a movie with these constraints.’
‘So it’s not just the government?’
‘No, it’s not just the government; it’s everybody.’
‘This is one of the many things I never quite understand about you guys,’ Joshua said. ‘You have no sense of history.’
‘I hope this house is turned into a memorial in my lifetime,’ Lakshman said. ‘But we should be careful what we wish for. For all you know they may end up demolishing the house to build a memorial.’
‘Come on, nobody can be so thoughtless,’ Joshua said.
‘Nope. That’s exactly what they did a stone’s throw from here,’ Lakshman said. ‘There was a musician saint who lived there, Thyagaraja. Every classical musician worth their salt uses his compositions; he’s kind of their bread and butter. Guess what they did to his eighteenth century house? . . . They tore the place down and built a spanking new memorial. So I don’t mind this so much; at least the place is in one piece.’
Ranga Bashyam finally managed to coax the lock open and called out: ‘Please come in, sir.’
A strange feeling welled up inside Lakshman. He couldn’t imagine how somebody who grew up in such meagre circumstances and lived for just thirty-two years managed to leave such an extraordinary legacy lasting a century. For once the word fabulous seemed like a grossly inadequate understatement. The humble house that stood in front of him suddenly seemed holier than the hundred temples in Kumbakonam. This trip was indeed a pilgrimage in the true sense of the term. He took off his shoes reverently and climbed up the steps in his socks. But that upsurge of piety was also tempered with a touch of irony. During Ramanujan’s time Lakshman wouldn’t even have been allowed to enter this street of brahmins. But now he was being ushered in after a serving of degree coffee.
Though vacant, someone on the street had been caring for the house this Margali. Several florid rice flour kolams bordered with a ribbon-like band of red earth decorated the front yard. The one in the middle was even embellished with a pumpkin flower, stuck in a little ball of cow dung.
Lakshman skirted past the kolams gingerly. Joshua too took the cue and followed him with caution.
‘Josh, watch your head,’ Lakshman said as he walked through the main door.
‘I wonder why the door’s so small,’ Joshua said, taking off his hat. ‘It’s short even for you.’
‘Hey, this is India. They can give you a perfectly logical explanation for everything,’ Lakshman said. ‘The door’s small because they want to instil a sense of modesty in people; you have to bow before you can enter. All old homes are built like that. Our old house in Trichy used to be like this before we brought it down and rebuilt it.’
‘So you took care of your memorial problem yourself? Didn’t trust posterity? Good job!’ Joshua said, almost crouching to pass through the narrow doorway after Lakshman.
Ranga Bashyam made a majestic announcement as soon as Joshua and Lakshman entered the house: ‘This is the childhood home of Srinivasa Ramanujan, the greatest Indian mathematician of the twentieth century. This is the very roof under which he discovered hundreds and hundreds of theorems as a young lad.’
Lakshman couldn’t help smiling at how theatrical Ranga Bashyam sounded, as if he’d personally known Ramanujan and played kabaddi with him as a kid.
Ranga Bashyam made a sweeping gesture with his arms. ‘Please feel free to look around.’
He made it seem as if it was some sprawling royal palace, but in reality it was just a Spartan house with a main room, a bedroom and a kitchen. It was no different from any other agraharam house in a small town or village. It stood on the strength of wood, brick and lime and showed no hint of steel or concrete. An open courtyard – mutram – funnelled sunlight and fresh air into the living area. There wasn’t much furniture to be seen in the living area except for two gaudily painted folding chairs, clearly a more recent addition to the house along with electric lights and ceiling fans.
Lakshman circled around the main room and courtyard, but he couldn’t find any trace of Ramanujan however hard he looked. The house had been left unoccupied for quite some time and the musty, woody odour that characterized such old provincial homes was even more pronounced here. The scent brought back memories of his childhood home near Trichy and he closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Olfactory nostalgia.
He wandered off to the kitchen area, and seeing nothing of significance there, stepped into the courtyard and began walking down to the back.
Joshua put on his hat again and followed him.
The walkway was narrow and unlike the front portions of the house, ill-maintained, with yellow plaster peeling off the walls and black patches of dust here and there like islands. It sloped down to the backyard with a draw well and bathrooms. The water-starved Madrasi that he was, Lakshman climbed down the steps and peered inside the well. It was right after a good monsoon season and Cauvery too had been in spate, so Lakshman was treated to the rare sight of a water table that was just eight to ten feet below ground level.
Soon Joshua loomed up from behind and Lakshman caught his reflection in the water.
‘Anything here?’ Joshua asked.
‘No,’ Lakshman shook his head. ‘I was just curious.’
They looked about for a bit and walked back inside the house, to the courtyard and then to the main room.
‘You haven’t seen the bedroom yet,’ Ranga Bashyam reminded Lakshman. ‘It’s here. You can go in and take a look.’
The bedroom was to the left of the main entrance; it had a barred window overlooking the street. Lakshman went after Ranga Bashyam, Joshua following close behind, his hat clutched in hand.
An antique-looking wooden cot lay in front of the window taking up much of the bedroom space.
‘This cot . . .?’ Lakshman said tentatively.
‘Ramanujan’s!’ Ranga Bashyam said. ‘He used to sit on it in front of the window and do maths all day long. My grandfather has seen him with his own eyes. He used to know him well.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes sir! The whole street was like one big family in those days. Everybody knew everybody else very well. Believe it or not, my grandfather spent days searching for him when he ran away from home.’
Lakshman and Joshua spun around and took stock of the bedroom. Except for the cot near the window and a bookshelf recessed in the wall, there was nothing else in there.
‘Aren’t you going to take photos?’ Ranga Bashyam asked, his eyes trained on the camera Joshua had strapped on his beltline. ‘The other foreigner took pictures everywhe
re.’
Lakshman became alert instantly. ‘He took photos?’
‘Yes sir. He didn’t just stop with photos. He and that Narasimhan fellow even went out and started taking apart the thatches on the roof.’
‘What!’ Lakshman gasped.
‘Yes sir. When I warned them that there could be insects there, scorpion or centipede or something, the Narasimhan fellow brought a bamboo cricket stump from somewhere and began poking and probing with it. I kept asking them why, what they were trying to do, but they just ignored me. Kept sticking the stump up all over the roof like maniacs. I tried to stop them, told them the thatches were re-laid only recently, but they just wouldn’t listen. Said if something happened to the roof they’ll pay for it and asked me not to worry.’
Lakshman quickly transmitted the information to Joshua, hissing into his ears even as Ranga Bashyam kept talking, his eyes surveying the cobwebs hanging off the sturdy wooden roof beams.
‘Did they find anything in the roof?’ Lakshman asked.
‘No sir. They even turned this cot upside down, but nothing much,’ Ranga Bashyam said. ‘But that professor fellow took a lot of photos. Didn’t even spare this empty bookshelf.’
The old man unhooked the wooden door and flung the recessed bookshelf open. ‘I don’t know what is there to photograph here but he just kept clicking.’
The bookshelf was empty with long rows of black ants crawling up the back wall. But there was something about its unvarnished wooden door, its inner side . . .
Lakshman and Joshua couldn’t see what it was exactly from where they stood. With hearts pounding faster and blood rushing to their faces, they homed in on it in two strides like two cheetahs converging upon the same prey.
41
They examined the hazy spot on the door, their glasses gliding down their noses . . .
It was an old, sepia-tinted oilpaper map of India, squarish in shape, almost as big as the wooden door. All four of its corners were frayed – someone had tried to peel it off the door but failed. The contours and outlines of the map had become pale with time; the labels were all reduced to illegible smudges. But the ragged lines of major rivers had survived, especially in the north. Sharp streaks of grey – pencil marks, probably – were visible in some places, concentrating heavily in the south.
