Appa lives on

What are the odds of meeting someone at a random temple event who knows the goodness of appa?

At the Muthalamman Mariamman Temple in Kalkulam, a Chennai family had gathered for their annual abhishekam to their kuladeivam.

About fifty of them—silk-clad women with gold necklaces and big jimmikis stirring  ven pongal and chakkara pongal; men arranging chairs; children aged three to ten darting through the crowd in a merry game of catch. A little boy tugged at his mother’s saree, whining, “Pasikkudhu”—I’m hungry—while she tried to distract him.

Inside, the abhishekam was in full flow, the Mariamman—just the face on a pedestal—gleaming with sandal and turmeric.

I asked a gentleman where the family lived in Chennai.

“Triplicane,” he said. “Three generations now.”

On impulse I asked, “Have you heard of Dr. S. B. Mani?”

He paused, eyes warming. “He was my doctor… till he passed away. Do you know him?”

“He is my father,” I said.

His joy was immediate. He went around telling everyone, “This is Dr. Mani’s daughter!” Soon two more gentlemen joined us, trading memories of appa.

Venkatesan—the first man—smiled: “He used to charge ₹10… then ₹50. I think by the end it was ₹75 or ₹100. But whenever he saw me, he’d say, ‘vaa paa Venkatesu’ He was a man of few words. He must have really liked me.”

“My cousin also used to consult him and used to come all the way from Mylapore”

“After he passed on I did not know whom to consult for my diabetes”

I was amazed at the small, tender details he remembered.

We exchanged numbers. By then the alangaaram was complete. After the deepa aradhanai , a lady pressed a  tumbler into my hands—delicious koozh with a spoon of  murungai keerai poriyal and a drizzle of kaara kuzhambu on top.

Appa… you still live on—in the memories of those who received your selfless care.

 

 

 

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