Dhoti power
MY FATHER wore dhoti right from his teenage and khadi it was till his last. The patriotic fever caught him and it was a fight against the trouser clad whites. Gandhi and Nehru influenced him to no end, he marched along their footsteps. In spite of all this involvement, he managed to graduate the first and only one from his area of domicile. Gandhi's death came as a blow to him, my mother said and he fasted for days unable to bear the grief. We children grew up in this atmosphere of patriotism.
My father dressed in an unusual way. It was always white. The dhoti, mundu as we call it, and his long sleeve shirt would be starched and coloured with neelam ideally. The proportion was known to his dhobi and a slight variation, it was turmoil. The long sleeve shirt would be folded and the upper portion of the shirt had three buttonholes. He treasured his replaceable buttons and the colour was always black. My mother misplacing it always led to chaos. All of us participated in the search and it would be traced to some corner in the house. We suggested to buy a few more of this magic holder but he refused calling it a waste and always kept its number to three, the minimum requirement.
Then came the Sixties and my father was in for another shock. The death of Nehru . He was moody for days and we never dared to intrude into his private grief. Nehru's ashes were brought to our native place in Quilon and I went along with my father to pay our respects. He insisted that we carry all the flowers from our small garden. For the first time I saw tears in my father's eyes.
Weeks later he declared : "I am going to Delhi."
"Why this sudden decision to go to this strange place with no knowledge of Hindi."
"I want to see the samadhis of my heroes, Gandhi and Nehru."
He was determined and we never tried to dissuade him. Having some knowledge of north Indian culture I told him "Dad, anyone from the south is known as a Madrasi there and about your dress, I have my own reservations." He shrugged off my doubts saying that his heroes belonged to the whole nation and culture and creed should never stand in the way. He was to his holy place and we missed him for days.
Back from his pilgrimage, we were surprised to find him more depressed and moody. After a few days I asked him "Dad, how was your trip?" He stared at me deeply. The eyes had a tinge of anger and hurt. He was waiting for an opportunity to unburden himself. "Son, you were right. My dress let me down. I was called a Madrasi wherever I went. I got a room with much difficulty, as Madrasis were viewed with suspicion. At hotels I was never attended on with respect and usually served last." Finally he managed to trace an old friend who saved him from the turmoil and packed him off by the next train. "I will never go to Delhi again," he declared much to our surprise.
Years have passed. Father is no more. After the recent elections, the newspapers flash pictures of dhoti clad men in all the important places in Delhi. A five star hotel lobby is full of them, a scene which could not be imagined years earlier. Political power from the south has been recognised and many take oath in dhotis. The dhoti has achieved a national respect. My father is not alive to see this success. Had he been alive, he would have smiled in triumph.
T.V. SREE KUMAR
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