To father, with love

The 16-year-old boy was crestfallen when his father firmly told him that he couldn’t pursue education beyond the intermediate level. That was in the mid-1920s. Dejected, he left his paternal home in Chamarajanagara for Calcutta (now Kolkata). Despite the setback, his spirit and dreams remained intact. In Kolkata, he worked as a kitchen supervisor in a hotel, often manually grinding dosa and idli batter himself. A year later, he returned home with his hard-earned savings and started “Narasimha Coffee Stores”, selling high-quality filter coffee powder. 

Many neighbours near his father’s house ridiculed him, saying, “Ashwatha thinks he can be a businessman? Has anyone in Nagara (Chamarajanagara) ever heard of a Brahmin venturing into business?” However, the young man, then in his early twenties, proved them all wrong. People flocked to his coffee store for the fresh aroma of his coffee powder, which he roasted and prepared himself using hand-rotated grinding machines.

By his late twenties, Ashwatha had to shoulder the responsibility of his wife and two daughters.

By his late twenties, Ashwatha had taken on the responsibility of supporting his wife and two daughters. As Chamarajanagara was just 12 miles from Gajanur, Dr Rajkumar’s native place, Rajkumar and his father would often stage Kannada dramas in Chamarajanagara for Gubbi Veeranna’s company. “Muthuraj (Rajkumar’s original name), bari hotteli stage mele hogabedi! (Don’t go on the stage on an empty stomach),”
Ashwatha would ensure they had a meal before the performance, often getting them set dosas from Pacchappa’s
Hotel. This was much before the actor became a phenomenon in the world of Kannada cinema. 

By the time he turned 40, with the financial backing of a friend from Mamballi near Kollegal, Ashwatha started a movie theatre in partnership.

That was my father, Ashwathanarayan, who passed away 48 years ago at the age of 59 due to a third fatal heart attack. The people of Chamarajanagara had affectionately called him “Ajaata Shatru” (without enemies) and “Karna” (for the only dharma he knew was charity).

Even after settling in Mysuru for his children’s education, my father remained deeply connected to his roots. He would become upset if the fodder for the cows and buffaloes was delayed and would cycle to Nanjumalige, a km away from our Laxmipuram house, in dhoti-friendly ladies’ cycle, to buy grass and hinndi to feed the cattle.

My younger sister and I were in our early and mid-teens when he passed away in 1977. I remember him joking with our doddamma (his elder brother’s wife): “Though I did not get any property from my wife’s side, she has been my Laxmi and the finance minister of our house ........” Those were my father’s last words when he was on an oxygen cylinder in a nursing home in Mysuru.

A regular reader of the Deccan Herald, he would often remark that his obituary would be published in the newspaper when he passed away. Appa, here’s a tribute to you around Father’s Day!