I am a Tamilian.
We are an ethnic group with a history going back two millennia. The **Tamilars** primarily reside in India's South Eastern state of Tamil Nadu, in India. There are seventy-five million us worldwide. I am one of them. The other and perhaps more illustrious Tamilar is ***Sundar Pichai*** CEO of Google.
Tamil Nadu, created in 1956, was ruled by powerful dynasties whose patronage ensured art, music, literature, and architecture thrived throughout its two-thousand-year history.
The Pandians were one such dynasty that ruled large swathes of present-day Tamil Nadu, Kerala and Northern Sri Lanka.
The Cholas were a mighty seafaring Empire. They spread their cultural and religious influence to Cambodia, Laos and Indonesia. They were the longest reigning dynasty in South India and built many great temples, the Angkor Vat and the Brihadeeswara temple being the prime example of their influence.
At Kanchipuram, the Pallavas ruled parts of northern Tamil Nadu and Southern Andhra Pradesh from their capital between the 3d and the 9th centuries. The shore temples at Mahabalipuram and a group of Royal monuments are their contributions to our rich legacy.
The Chola's defeated the Pallavas, whom the Pandians ultimately defeated, and were eventually decimated by the marauding armies of Malik Kafur, the slave general from Delhi, who also decamped with the famous Kohinoor diamond.
Then came the Chalukya, the Marathas, the Portuguese, the French and finally the English when they secured a grant of a three-mile-long strip and a fishing village called Madrasapatinam in 1639 and began the colonisation of India.
Over the next three hundred years and after several bloody battles, the British consolidated territories once ruled by the Cholas, Pandyas, Pallavas, Chalukyas and Chera into the Madras Presidency.
My grandfather was a skilled stenographer who worked for Imperial Chemical Industries.
Birth.
On August 7 1958, I was born around 7 PM in my grandmother's modest one-room apartment, which was hurriedly converted into a maternity ward.
I didn't know who Sherlock Holmes was at the time. But, I deduced, that must have happened when six years later, my kid brother was also born, in a poky little room whose occupants were remorselessly evicted, to make way for mummy to deliver her second baby boy.
We named him after the father of our nation, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi. Mohandas, which was shortened and earned the moniker Mohan. A quarter-century later, he would earn yet another moniker that our first hire and Mohan's guru bestowed upon him. His real name is PN NARAYANASWAMY, which was shortened to Swamiji. From then on, he was universally known as Swamiji. And he is quite the SWAMI.
But I had Royal trappings. I was the firstborn of the second generation, and I was, therefore, privileged. So I thought. My poor mother had to struggle to put me into this world. I simply refused to leave the comfort of her womb. I was late by 19 days, so they say. But here I was on August 7 1958, at 7 PM, a bonnie baby weighing nearly ten pounds entered the world.
I found comfort in my mother's bosom, which it seems caused her a lot of embarrassment, for I was on mother's milk until the age of four!. Anyways someone gave me the nickname RAJA. And I have lived up to my reputation. Often like a Prince, sometimes like a pauper but with all the Royal trappings.
1958 was a great year.
On October 1, President Eisenhower established NASA. Eleven years later, they would put two men on the moon. The Eagle had landed. Neil Armstrong's first steps on the moon would be immortalised by Walter Cronkite, the legendary anchorman of CBS News.
That same month Pan American Airways (PanAm) flew a Boeing. 707 to Le Bourget airport, Paris (LBG) from New York, and ushered in the Jet-age for passenger travel. Four years later, this airport would be re-christened John F Kennedy International airport (JFK) to honour the slain 35 President of the United States of America.
Flight PA 711 made a technical halt at Gander, (YQX) Newfoundland, as she could not fully load because of weight restrictions imposed at Idlewild airport. So she flew via Gander and took on fuel to complete her onward journey.
Gander is a sleepy town consigned to the pages of history. On September 11 2001, this once important airfield launched operation Yellow Ribbon when a small team of air-traffic controllers handled the unexpected task of preventing 38 wide-bodied planes from proceeding to JFK. The Jumbo's landed at Gander airport, and this incredible catapult into stardom revived its fortunes as a tourist destination, much to the dismay of the Ganderites.
While the 111 passengers were drinking champagne in the waiting lounge, somewhere in Karol Bagh, in New Delhi, my relatives broke coconuts to appease God and thank him for sending Raja.
The year lumbered towards a dead-end but for Barbie Doll, who made her debut in 1958 and an Italian singer, Domenico Modugno, whose song Volaré would be the tune many people dance to date. A timeless classic.
In 1958 the Indian Government took the first steps toward removing the last colonial thorn in its flesh. Preparations to liberate Goa from the clutches of the Portuguese had commenced.
India accomplished the mission on December 18, 1961, and Goa became integral to the Indian dominion.
But its freedom was short-lived. Five years later and some four hundred years after the Portuguese came by sea, there was another invasion. This lot crossed the Bosphorus into Asia, travelled overland through Iran, Afghanistan, and Pakistan, and then drove to Colva beach in Goa.
Their leader was eight fingers, Eddie. An American of Armenian descent whose life's motto was "I hate work, begrudging every moment I've wasted as a wage earner. My aim in life is to get through life doing what I want to do." His real name was Yertward Mazamanian.
Around 1966, he settled at Anjuna beach in Goa; at that time, "a tiny hamlet with a few tea stalls and houses dotting a pristine sandy beach". In his own words.
“I was the first FREAK in Goa. I turned up and liked it so much, and I just wanted to stay. And then others started coming. In those days, they came overland from Europe in camper vans, and no one had any money.”
I'll skip over to 1960.
I was two years old, and my newborn novelty began to fade. I could walk, talk, eat and sleep. They pierced my ears, let my hair grow and often dressed me as a girl. They even took my picture in full regalia, adorning the walls of Paul Studios for a very long time.
On July 27, 1960, an earthquake measuring 5.6 on the Richter scale struck Delhi. The panic-stricken residents fled their homes, as did my family. My fathers, seven cousins, brothers, mom, grandfather, and several stray relatives took refuge in a nearby Cinema Hall.
I am told that I insisted on watching a late-night show. Be that as it may, I developed a taste for the celluloid industry from an early age, just as I would acquire a taste for other things.
Our families separated. We moved into a large house in the nearby village that would be swallowed eventually by what know today as Safdarjung Enclave.
A fence separated our house from our neighbours. The occupants of this house were an English couple named Mr Mrs Pritchard and auntie Pritchard, who started a Kindergarten called the PLEASANT LAND SCHOOL. I was amongst her first ten wards. I learnt all the nursery rhymes, sang and drew.
Back home, my grandfather taught me the English alphabet. I grew so fond of it that I enrolled in an English literature course at Delhi University fifteen years later. I quickly grew out of this fetish in a year and bid adieu to Shakespeare, Milton, Chaucer and Plato. A decision I would never come to regret. But it was a great experience.
Circa 1962. The only thing I remember about the SinSino-Indiano Indian war was the trenches nearby. Everyone dug long furrows in the fields. These became our playgrounds. India lost the war, and the Chinese occupied large parts of Eastern Ladakh and crushed Hindi Chini Bhai-Bhai's spirit (Indians and Chinese brothers in arms).
It beats me how an impoverished nation and a messy democracy that were culturally poles apart could come together. But they did for a very brief time.
In the dying moments of the war we lost, we celebrated our Prime Minister Pandit Nehru's birthday. Affectionately called chacha, we celebrated his birthday on November 14 throughout the country.
My grand-aunt took me to Bal Bhawan, a platform to nurture adolescents and teens' creative talents like a precursor to Google Campus. I wore crisp white knickers and a half-sleeved shirt and stood in a long queue waiting to offer a rose to Jawahar Lal Nehru.
1963 was quiet, but for two events and a third significant one.
On December 27, 1963, a holy relic, believed by many to be a strand from Prophet Muhammad's beard, was stolen from the HazratBal, in Srinagar, leading to mass agitations. They recovered it on January 4 1964. And a fellow Leo, the Bandit Queen Phoolan Devi, was born in 1963.
The other significant event was my family becoming economically affluent, and the kindergarten kid had now graduated to Primary School. We moved houses to a locality populated by refugees from Sindh, Pakistan. The Sindhi's were a clever lot, and our landlord, Mr Jamathani, a bespoke Tailor, built a three-storied house, and we occupied the first floor.
I was still in Pleasant land school. Mr Pritchard passed away, and his wife returned to England. It was quite a way from Lajpat Nagar to Safdarjung Enclave. My father assigned two of my Uncles to drop me and pick me up on their bicycles. I would sit on the front handle on a tiny seat. Transfers. A word I would learn 14 years later. It became my raison d 'être.
My father wanted only the best for his first son. He enrolled me into a small new school whose journey began in Defence Colony in 1964. Tagore International School. Its motto. "I am worthy." Now you know from where I get my confidence.
The next seven years were a roller coaster ride. Subconsciously, I was getting primed to become a Travel Agent, and the following 12 chapters are about Nagesh's journey of weaning himself away from mother's milk to Bombay Sapphire.