Articles by Chandra Shekhar Balachandran

Saturday December 4th 1971. Morning classes had just begun. Schools had “morning class” on Saturdays – an awkward arrangement with classes starting at 7:30 or some such hour and ending around noon. The previous night, Friday December 3rd 1971, the nightly All India Radio (AIR) newscast had announced the outbreak of war between India and Pakistan. I missed that. Saturday morning, the newspapers carried tall big headlines announcing the events, with details. I merely glanced at these. The second period was Social Studies class by Sri B Narasanna (BN, as he was called at school). We pulled out our extremely…

Kathri. Scissors. That was the connection that first brought this man into my life. In my salad days, learning to ride a bicycle was not quite what it is today. One did not have access to bicycles to fit one’s age, no trainer wheels, no helmets, knee pads, nothing. One borrowed a bicycle from one’s siblings or other kinfolk. You started with simple strokes that were not written down in any DIY manual. It was community education. Peers, neighbor uncles, one’s own kin, or someone or the other would help you learn. You went out, took several spills, and got…

To be adopted by a canine! What a lovely thing it was. Many years after the hoity-toity Madame Pussaa had adopted us and departed from our lives (sad story, don’t want to go into it just now!), we were adopted by a canine from the street. There were always a group of them hanging around in the street – self-appointed sentinels who warned us that someone who was not familiar to them, was afoot on the streets. They would howl and bark. Among these was a female dog, un-named, who had a litter of four or five. One survived. Street…

I come from a family that can only be described as bonkers. Come April, amma would ask (I wish I could capture the exact tone of the original Tamizh in English; alas, it’s not to be!), “All right. When does your drama start?” Fact was that come May, I would suddenly, without any preamble or warning, fall ill with high temperature – ague, the works. Standard Operating Procedures would kick in with clockwork precision. I would gather up all the blankets and rugs I could find, make a multi-layered protective covering with them, and go to bed, shivering. I would…

Very early every morning, from the west, I would hear Sri Thirumale’s voice. He would have washed some clothes and would be putting these up to dry on the bamboo poles hung horizontally from the ceiling. All the while, he would be reciting something. One day, while I was in class 2, I found myself sitting in front of Aththi as she taught me the first shloka of the Sri Venkatesha Suprabhaatam (or just ‘Suprabhaatam’ as it is even now known). How this came about, I don’t remember. This is what Sri Thirumale used to recite every morning. After some…

“Pussaaaaa! Vaammaa, paal kukkeyn!” (“Come here, drink some milk!”), aththi called out gently and sweetly. Ms Feline Attitude (FA) gave her a disdainful look, tossed her head as only the callously cold of her species could and would, flicked the tip of her tail, and walked away in what Wodehouse would have called 'a marked manner'. But let me rewind a bit. On the west of our house, with a stone slab compound wall separating the property from ours, was the home of Sri Thirumale. With his family lived an elderly lady (his mother, if I recall rightly), whom we all called aththi. Aththi was a very…

Moves are often not momentous when they happen. In hindsight, many of them turn out to have been keys that opened doors to rich treasures. Moving from N R Colony (to where auto drivers still balk at plying!) to Jayanagar in 1963-64, on the shores of the Lakes Yediyur (yes, plural), is a vague memory for me. Most of life in the new house, however, is as fresh in memory as if it were only yesterday. Well, day before. The north-facing house was owned by film personality Chi. Sadashivaiah (1908-1982), or some close relative of his. It was set in…

“Sekaaaaaaarrr ... Go to the market and get me kottamalli for four annas,” amma called. Kottamalli is coriander, you know. Living near the Yediyur lake, the Lake Titicaca (so called because of all the caca that used to flow into it whenever it rained—I kid you not, that was a limnologist's, if that's the word I want, dream lake!) of Jayanagar, Bangalore, had many advantages. It's all geography, hon. We were right by the main road on which the various vegetable vendors from the south of Bangalore carried their fresh produce from the previous afternoon to the Krishna Rajendra Market—a.k.a.…

There was a commotion at the front gate. A woman crying and speaking at the same time. I, then a 1970s high school student, rushed to the living room to look out to see who it was and what was going on.  Just at the same moment as amma rushed out of the kitchen. The woman at the gate was Kamala. Amma rushed to the front door to ask what had happened. In between sobs and convulsive crying, Kamala said, “My anna (older brother) has died and they have brought the body to the village. Is my mother here?” “The…