Pages from My Life

When I Joined Government Service in 1960, I Didn't Know I Was Rich! Recently, a friend forwarded me the above image showing what Rs. 10 could buy in 1960. I read it with great interest. Then I did a little mental arithmetic. My starting salary in January 1960 was Rs. 199 per month. Good heavens! If ten rupees had so much purchasing power, I must have been a wealthy young Veterinary Assistant Surgeon without ever realising it! In my first book, Memoirs of a Veteran Veterinarian, I have mentioned that I would occasionally give my mother Rs. 50 or even Rs. 100. At that time, I thought I was merely helping her. Looking at the figures now, I realise I was making royal donations. The irony is that I never felt rich. There were no mobile phones, no air-conditioners, no online shopping and no expensive coffee shops tempting us every day. Our needs were simple, our wants were few, and our happiness was abundant. Looking back, I now realise that I was richer than I ever knew—not only in mone...

In the early 1970s, when I was about thirty-five, I developed a rather embarrassing problem. The tip of my nose slowly turned a light reddish colour. It wasn't painful, and it didn't interfere with my breathing, but it did interfere with my peace of mind. At first, I ignored it. After all, we are experts at hoping that minor problems will disappear if left alone. Mine, however, showed no intention of leaving. I began to imagine that, given enough time, I might qualify for a job as a clown in a circus without even applying. All I needed was a colourful wig and a pair of oversized shoes! At last, I decided to consult one of the city's most famous dermatologists. As I entered his consulting room, I was greeted by an unexpected sight. The doctor's own nose was considerably larger than mine and noticeably darker than the rest of his face. To make matters even more interesting, he kept rubbing and scratching it while examining me. I couldn't help thinking, "If this i...

This incident took place during the MISA Emergency in April 1976, when fear ruled the streets of Chennai. At the end of our street in Gopalapuram lived Mani Mudaliar, a wealthy elderly bachelor. He lived with his sister's family, and his nephew, Palani, happened to be my closest friend. My father was a man who chose his friends as carefully as people choose diamonds. He had only a handful of close friends, and Mani Mudaliar was one of them. Sadly, my father passed away before his friend did. By April 1976, Mudaliar was old and suffering from a terminal illness. One night, sometime after midnight, he breathed his last. The family immediately tried to call a doctor. That was easier said than done. Those were Emergency days. Because the family was known to be close to the household of the dismissed Chief Minister, many doctors politely—but firmly—declined to visit. Nobody wanted to invite unnecessary trouble. Then Palani had a brilliant idea. "Why not call Balu? He's only a f...

Long before supermarkets, food delivery apps and online shopping, Madras' streets had their own dependable delivery network. It came on wheels, announced its arrival with a cheerful bell, and never failed to attract a crowd of eager children. During my school days, one such favourite was BBB – Bangalore Brahmin Bakery. It was a household name in Madras. Founded in Bangalore by Thirumalachar in 1898, BBB had become immensely popular in our city as well. Its bakery products were neatly displayed on trays inside a specially designed tricycle vending cart. But as schoolboys, we admired not only the delicious cakes, buns and biscuits—we were equally fascinated by the lettering on the front of the cart. It proudly displayed one giant 'B', followed by the rest of the words painted in smaller letters: angalore, rahmin, akery, un, read and iscuit. We would happily read it aloud as "B-angalore, B-rahmin, B-akery, B-un, B-read and B-iscuit!" Whoever designed that signboard c...

People generally assume that veterinarians are fearless creatures who can handle anything that walks, flies, crawls or slithers. I am afraid I have been an exception to that rule. Although I spent my entire professional life treating animals, I have one confession to make—I am terribly scared of snakes! Perhaps it is because I was born and brought up in the heart of Chennai. My acquaintance with snakes was mostly through pictures, story books and cinema. The only snakes I admired were those comfortably confined behind glass in a zoo!  Fortunately, throughout my veterinary career, not a single snake was ever brought to me for treatment. Looking back, I think the snakes also preferred to keep a safe distance from me! There was, however, one notable exception. While serving at the Veterinary Hospital, Saidapet, I was periodically assigned to visit the Children's Park at Guindy, a delightful little zoo maintained for the public. My duty was to examine the animals and birds and attend t...

Recently I listened to a discourse by the eminent Vedic scholar Sri Dushyanth Sridhar. One point he made me stop and think. What follows is simply the gist of what I understood from his talk. If I have misunderstood anything, the mistake is entirely mine. According to him, after death a person either attains moksha or is reborn according to his or her karma. That made me ask myself a simple question. If a person has attained moksha, he has become one with God. If he has been reborn, he is already living another life. If so, how do we understand the common belief that our departed parents and grandparents continue to bless and protect us? As I understood it, from a purely philosophical point of view, the answer is different from what many of us popularly believe. At the same time, Hinduism places great importance on remembering and honouring our ancestors. Rituals such as Shraddha and Tarpanam are beautiful expressions of gratitude towards those who gave us life. My Take: I am not qual...