You would have noticed by now that I appear very unwilling to admit the efforts of my father in promoting his children in life, profession, education and career. That was exactly as the common man hates the policeman who enforces the law that the public are only too willing to break. He caught me stealing coppers and buying drinks for my friends in the nearby bunk shop and that the shop man watched me being punished by my male ancestor after reporting about my sherbet parties. That the prosecution witness, namely the bunk-shop-man supervised the punishment imposed, hurt me more than the actual pain. Next time he tied me to the post when I was eleven year old for the simple fact that I started his car, a 1927 Fiat convertible and drove it around town when he was away in Madras. I was also whipped for refusing to sing a song in front strangers who were his friends who had come to dinner. The last time he beat me up was when was 17-year-old, when he caught me smoking in the street. That was when I ran away from home for the simple reason that my uncle Mr. Aramudan, my father’s brother failed to protect me for the first time. My anger was more against my affectionate uncle who appeared indifferent to my sufferings, than my martinet of a father. That the cops of the city of Madras caught me and brought me home was a real relief for the 17 year old, who really did not know how to start living `on his own’.
Posted on: Wed, 09 Jul 2014 09:48:42 +0000
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