I had home schooling until the age of seven. My father worked as a clerk in the General Post Office in the center of the town, commuting on the electric subway trains. He was a strict disciplinarian and assigned me my tasks before he went to work in the morning. I rigorously did my homework in learning Tamil and English alphabets, knowing addition and subtraction, and above all memorizing multiplication tables up to 16×16 using visual-memory boards made by my father.

My father had a very meager salary of 40 Rs. per month but the cost of living was low; one could get thirty one-meal tickets in a clean local eating house for 5 Rs. Because education was considered premium, my father spent 3 Rs. a month on my school tuition of out of the 40 Rs. he earned as a clerk.

As Brahmins, we were all vegetarians; not even eggs were consumed. There was no ice box or refrigerator to store food and just enough was cooked on a daily basis. Our food was just rice and lentil sauce, dry vegetables, and vegetable stews cooked with a variety of spices depending on the vegetable cooked. Yogurt and buttermilk was a must at every meal. Milk was only for coffee and for growing children. There was no mortgage, no car insurance, no utility bills to pay. There was no need of heating the house in the tropical in climate.

There was no such thing as medical insurance, but we had a very competent, trustworthy doctor named Venkataraman for our family physician. He was a true healer who made house calls. He did not have a full medical degree and was just licensed as an associate in medical practice (LMP), just as we have nursing assistants in the USA who can legally deliver and perform a major portion of the needed services. The medicines were compounded and dispensed in the doctor’s office by a compounder who did the job, so we did not have to go to any drug store or pharmacy. Preventive dental health was unknown in the culture and it seems that parents were more concerned to have straight morals than straight teeth in their children. Consequently I had no dental care in spite of having crowded front teeth.

My mom’s sisters, Saraswathi and Savitri with their families lived only five to six blocks away from us. With our close relatives living in same town we had the most enjoyable and memorable time when the whole clan got together during the holidays and Hindu festivals. We were in an exclusive isolated colony where the majority were Hindus of the Brahmin caste and we had no guests come and dine with us except for close relatives and friends who were also Brahmins.

My father fell sick and I went with my mother to the temple to pray for father’s fever. Mom’s directive to me was always to pray and rely on God when you have difficulties. Looking back on my life, I believe she “brainwashed” me in the right direction!

It is customary in that culture for every family to select a deity as their “guardian angel.” They also choose a particular famous temple and make frequent pilgrimages to these holy places. Examples in South India include Palani and Guruvayur. We had our temple at Thirupathi and our “guardian angel” was called Lord Venkteswara.

Parents take their first born son to their family temple as early as they can for what is called the Mundan ceremony. His head is shaved bald and the hair is an offering. This is a symbolic act to initiate the child for the life’s journey.

My father arranged a trip to Thirupathi when I was about six for this Mundan ceremony. We arrived in Thirupathi one late afternoon and father took me on his shoulder to climb the steps all the way up to the first and difficult stage of the trek, until Kali Gopuram. We saw scores of beggars sitting on the sides of the stairs. During the last stage of the walk he fell sick and threw up the snack. We arrived at the Temple in the late evening. The Mundan ceremony was early next morning. There was big line of devotees waiting at the barber’s kiosk. As we waited I read a sign board cautioning visitors to “Behave properly in Thirupathi as we are always watched by a DIVINE Force”. This sign of warning struck me in my guts very deeply. Ever since that time, I was always aware of this Reality.

On coming back my father took me to the Ramakrishna Mission Elementary School South Branch in Sarojini Street in the same town. This was a non-denominational English medium school and its mission was to educate students to become morally upright citizens, independent thinkers, scholars, and patriots, instead of producing clerks, lawyers, and government officials. One teacher, Mr. Venkatavarada Iyengar, tested me in math and English and found me fit for 4th grade — a very pleasant surprise for my dad. I was six years old. Mr. Iyengar was my first one-classroom teacher and he taught all the subjects. My first years’ experience in that school was very positive. I loved going to school as my teacher was caring and encouraging.

During this period between 1933 and 1936, two of my sisters, Muthulakshmi (1935) and Subbulakshmi, (1937) and my brother, Cheenu (1940) were born. Being well aware of the growing family’s needs, my father was preparing for the National General Accountancy Examination which would earn a better job in the system with higher pay. I saw him work perseveringly with great commitment, literally burning midnight oil preparing for the exams. We were so happy when he came home one day with the good news that he had passed the examinations with flying colors — standing second in the All-India ranking. This gave him the job of a Junior Budget Accountant in the Postal System (Part 1) which tripled his salary in 1940.

I completed my elementary school grades in the at the North Branch school and then transferred to the newly built Ramakrishna Mission High School for the next higher grades. At that time a student had to finish five standards (grades) in the elementary school and then complete a six year study at the secondary school to earn the High School diploma — after eleven years of schooling. As a rule girls and boys went to separate schools until they went to college and even there they sat in separate rows. This custom is still practiced throughout India even today.

My senior uncle got married and we moved out to a suburb called Munnady, in the center of the city, to be closer to my father’s new but temporary workplace since he passed the Accountancy exam. My fraternal grandfather who was living in our ancestral village came to reside with us in this new location.

Beginning my first year (called first form) of my secondary school in 1941 was a thrilling and exciting experience. The school had no library and the classrooms were crowded with nearly forty students in a class. I had some excellent and caring teachers particularly for mathematics and geography in this school in my high school years.

I went to the Madras Christian College School for my second form. This was my first exposure to a multireligious environment as the teachers and the students were both Hindus and Christians. Included in the student population were Moslems, and the same was true in the neighborhood.

I took daily a lunch box to school. On the first day of classes, as I started eating, one of the teachers came to me saying that I should eat my lunch in the room specified for Hindus. I had not noticed the sign outside the room I was in or realized there were separate rooms for each religious group.

Soon after we moved to this new location and during the middle of my school year my father was transferred to a city called Nagpur to assume his new position as a Junior Accountant in the Postal Service. My parents left for Nagpur with my siblings, but my grandfather stayed so that I may finish my school year. World War II had broken out by then, and the Japanese bombed Chennai harbor. Many started evacuating the city, and my parents decided to terminate our stay in Chennai and that I should come to Nagpur to be with my family again. Our school gave me the passing certificate for the second form, even though I had not completed the school year, which they did for all those who were leaving town because of the war.

For the first time in my life I made an overnight train journey alone to go to Nagpur. My grandfather, (my Thatha) took me personally to the station and put in the third class compartment. This is the last time I saw him, as he passed away a few months later. Mr. Heberlin, an Englishman who was my father’s boss while he was working in Chennai, happened to be traveling with his wife in the same train but in the first class coach and served as my guardian.

When I arrived in Nagpur on the following morning I saw my father in a Western suit and a tie in black dress shoes for the first time, greeting the Heberlins in the platform. My father went to work on his new bicycle from the station after putting me in a “tonga” (horse-drawn carriage) to go home accompanied by a servant, Pundit. On the way he stopped the vegetable market at the request of my mother. Our home was in a suburb called Dharampet and for the first time in that house we had a living room with chairs and coffee tables. My brother Cheenu who was then two or three ran away from me, seeing a dark and tired boy in the house.

We moved to a suburb called Chota Dantoli to be near the Madrasi Elementary School, where the Tamilians in Nagpur sent their children. My two sisters, Muthu and Subbu, enrolled in their age-appropriate classes. This was their very first school experience. They admitted me in the third form. It was a very small school with congested classrooms, not in one building, but in scattered locations around the block. All the teachers were Tamilians and so were the students. The second language I had to take was fortunately Tamil. I passed the third form narrowly with just enough marks for passing the grade. It was the year 1942 and my third sister Lalitha was born. My fraternal grandmother, Parvathi came to Nagpur to manage the household as my mother was caring for the newborn.

My father wanted me to transfer to a better school, Patwarden High School, which had spacious classrooms, laboratories, a big playground, a library, and a large assembly hall with high ceilings, and walls bedecked with portraits of national leaders. However, I would have to take Sanskrit as my second language. Taking this second language in this school was like a boy transferring from England to a school in Soviet Russia where he has to learn new alphabets, vocabulary and grammar. For the other students whose mother tongue was Marathi, it was a walk in the park as Marathi was derived from Sanskrit and the grammar was close. I was very hesitant, but on second thoughts changed my mind.

My father passed the Accountancy Exam Part 2 with flying colors, this time earning the first rank in this all-India competition. Based on this he was promoted to the next higher post, Senior Budget Accountant, and was transferred to Jabalpur. He left the whole family behind in Nagpur so that we may finish our schooling.

I had a miserable school year in the Marathi speaking environment. The students were bullying me constantly, calling me names like “black face.” This was the first time I faced linguistic and skin-color cultural prejudices, as we south Indians were darker than the Maharashtrians of the north.

We moved to Jabalpur when the schools closed for the summer after the annual examinations. This move was a nightmare as my parents had to transport four children with over ten wooden cases of household goods. The overnight travel involved a transfer in Gondia station around midnight. The move was negotiated well, even though it was rough.

A report card came during the summer holidays from my school indicating that I had failed in the forth form. My marks in Sanskrit were 17%, when 25% was the required minimum marks to pass that grade in spite of the passing marks I got in other subjects. The school system in India was such if a student failed in one subject he had to repeat the entire grade all over to go to the next higher grade. My self-concept did not collapse.An inner voice told me that it was not my fault but that of the system.

Realizing the difficulty I had in my studies my parents decided to send me back to Chennai, to continue my studies in the Ramakrishna Mission High School and live with my uncle and grandmother once again. On my journey back to Chennai, my father accompanied me up to Nagpur. He took me to my school principal’s home in Nagpur and pleaded gently whether he may condescend in making an exception to the passing requirement rule. After all, this was the first exposure of the Tamilian boy to the Sanskrit language. I recall well that he refused with a straight face.