“How do you plan to keep your father’s legacy alive?” It’s a question I get asked a lot these days
“How do you plan to keep your father’s legacy alive?” It’s a question I get asked a lot these days.
Earlier it used to be “What are you doing to keep your grandfather’s legacy alive?”
The question changed, I’m guessing, because my father passed away three years ago while my grandfather did it 45 years ago. And people figured the guilt of not having done enough for my father would be a lot fresher, therefore a lot more mineable, than the guilt of not having done enough for my grandfather. (Let’s just say my grandfather and father were both, how shall I put it, achievers. I thank the lord that the average Babai/Attha I come across isn’t aware that my great-grandfather on my mother’s side was a well-known freedom fighter. Because I’m not really in a mood for a nirahara deeksha.)
Whenever I’m faced with this question — despite knowing the person asking me this would only demand five free copies of my father’s book of cartoons when it comes out — I do find myself responding “Yes, I should do something” somewhat defensively.
Now via this column, I hope to silence all these guilt-trippers once and for all.
My father’s logic was unbeatable, right up to his last days. For an avid horse-racing buff, ironically, he couldn’t be done out in other walks of life. For instance, he just wouldn’t buy the shopkeeper’s toffee-in-lieu-of-change con. Despite being a three-toffee-per-day man.
“How much is this toffee?” he would say to the shopkeeper who handed out a Parle Melody or a Cadbury Eclair instead of the one buck he was owed.
“One rupee, saar,” the shopkeeper would respond.
“That’s the MRP,” my father would counter. “How much are you getting it for from the distributor?”
“Gulp.”
“Let me tell you,” Father would say, doing some maths in his head. “You buy it by the kilo, I know. So, hmmm. You should be getting it — and I’m being generous here — for 50 to 60 paise each, right?”
“Er ... maybe.”
“So, in essence, you are giving me a maximum of 60 paise change when you owe me a buck. You are making an illegal, unaccounted profit by suppressing the change I’m owed. Where is my other 40 paise?”
“How is that possible ...?”
“Let us meet at the consumer court. You will get some clarity.”
“Saar, why are you using periya varthai, saar? Here, have five toffees.”
Case closed.
I remember Dad once hired a taxi. This was more than ten years ago, please note. A few days later, he was presented a bill for Rs 940. For a three-hour hire. It was an obvious rip-off.
“How come?” he asked the taxiwallah.
“Ille, saar,” said the guy showing him the bill. “Actual-aa, it’s only Rs 720, but when you add ST, OT, PT...”
He reeled off a bunch of meaningless initialisms. Dad nodded, took the bill, went into his room and came back with cash.
“Here,” he said.
“What, saar,” said the cabwallah. “You are giving only Rs 560?”
“Look behind your bill,” said Dad.
On it, written in his artistic hand, was “Less IWP rebate: Rs 360/- , 920 – 360 = 560/- Total settlement in full: Rs 560/-” It had a stamp, a random one he found in his drawer, and his unmistakeable signature below to authorize/authenticate it.
“IWP rebate-aa? Adu enna, saar,” said the taxiwallah.
“I Won’t Pay rebate,” said my dad.
Case closed.
Recently I got a call from a real estate company asking if I was interested in buying a flat. I remembered that the brand ambassador for the flats were three well-known Tamil actors, two men and a woman. I told the guy I was interested. He gave me the spiel. I decided I wanted their most premium apartment, the four-bedroom penthouse with a small private pool.
“Excellent choice, sir,” said the guy, beside himself for having made such a big sale on the phone.
“I don’t believe in this instalment-loan business,” I said. “Single payment.”
“Brilliant, sir,” he said. “When could I come to pick up the cheque?”
“You don’t have to come,” I said. “Send Sathyaraj.”
“Yaar, saar, Sathyaraj?” he said.
“The actor, your brand ambassador,” I said.
“Why he will come, saar?” the man said, somewhat flummoxed.
“Okay,” I said. “Prabhu or Tamannah also okay, I’ll adjust.”
“Saar, how saar?”
“Why not?” I said. “You are paying them a fee, no? And that fee is coming out of how much I am paying you, no? So they have been hired by me, haven’t they? So I’d like to chat with them. See if they’ve done a good job with the amenities. I also want to tell them that, regarding all future plumbing, electrical issues, I will be calling them. That’s the deal, isn’t it?”
“I will talk to my boss and get back, sir,” he said.
“Hurry up,” I said. “Simbu is supposed to get back today about the other flat I booked. Tell Sathyaraj I can’t wait forever.”
If that isn’t keeping Naanna’s legacy alive and kicking, I don’t know what is.
