by Bharadwaj Subramanian
[box]Vembunathan, a middle-aged, Chennai-based Iyer is all set to prove himself. Laugh away as Bharadwaj Subramanian unravels Vembu’s big aspirations![/box]M.S. Subbulakshmi was singing her soul out in praise of Lord Venkateshwara, trying in vain to wake him up to save the day, yet again.
On a more mortal scale, Mr. Vembunathan was scowling at his wife’s less-than-soulful rattling of things to do, right at the beginning of a glorious day, at the end of a wonderfully snore-worthy night.
Mr. Vembu, or Vembunathan Venkataramani Iyer, was a respected Senior Manager at the Canara Bank branch at Habibullah Road, and was well known among his social circle as a connoisseur of fine coffee, divine carnatic music and good food, not necessarily in that order. To his friends only; his wife Sumalatha, or “Sumikutty” as he preferred to call her, had some rather sarcastic views on all of the above three, and his son Rajesh would rather go off to shave a raccoon than to talk about boring stuff like his previous generation and their proclivities. Not that Vembu was that bad; being a content man, he didn’t really care about the tiny flaws in his character that his family nit-picked on. Enjoying life without having to do anything too disruptive seemed more important to him than dealing with such things. And so he lived, happy and contented, in his own
little world.
Having finished all of his morning ablutions, Vembu walked down to the gate to fetch the Aavin milk from the yellow bag hung for the milk-delivery woman, and picked up the day’s edition of The Hindu stuck in the ironwork. After finishing the hard task of delivering the milk to the kitchen and demanding a good tumbler of strong filter coffee as a reward, he settled down on the porch to complete yet another part of his comprehensive morning ritual: to read the Hindu, from the front page to the last.
“89 yo Indian completes the London Marathon” – announced the front page, followed by a description of the 89 yo Punjabi, Fauja Singh’s exploits; Vembu would not have been so bothered by the headline, if not for the full-page Adidas ad featuring this beatific old timer, sporting a cool pair of shoes, in the third page. This bothered Vembu to no end, for some inexplicable reason – maybe he felt that the old man was mocking him for having grown his waist by five inches in the last three years alone. At any rate, Vembu became visibly morose, causing his wife’s voice to drop to a tone of genuine concern.
“Was the sugar in the coffee too low? I keep forgetting how much sugar to add. Yesterday, I added salt by mistake to Rajesh’s coffee. He was livid! But the boy should not talk so much. Doesn’t he have any semblance of respect for his parents? I am his mom, for God’s sake! Same thing with the milk-woman yesterday. I was asking her about the days she didn’t deliver the milk, and she started shouting at me! How dare she shout at her customer? Oh by the way, that just reminded me, you need to go and get the new cards for the next month today. Also can you go to the grocery store and get these? A quarter kilo tomato, a quarter onion, half kilo beans, …”
Vembu’s brain began to tune out the frequencies that characterized his wife’s voice, and he started thinking, something he had not done for quite some time. He had to do something about this running business. He had to show to himself, that even after so many years of doing nothing, his faculties were sharp enough to start something anew, and achieve. He had to prove to the world that he would not take this lying down.
“I’m going to train for the
Chennai marathon.”
His wife, who had been going on with her stream-of-consciousness narration consisting of gossip, grocery lists and T.V. soaps, stopped
in her tracks.
“What? What are you even saying? Were you even listening to me talking?”
“No. But I’m going to run the
Chennai marathon.”
Suma was miffed, and snarled back – “Yes, right. Collector sir is going to run God knows how many kilometers all of a sudden. Like he even can. Just walking to the gate to pick up milk tires you; there isn’t a chance in the world you are going to run a marathon. Even if you do, I’m going to be there to see you make a
fool of yourself.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I’m going to do it anyway.” Vembu was not a stranger to his wife’s lack of faith in him – he always believed she didn’t realize his fullest potential, and he never let it stop him. Poor woman, she and her small world – what would she know? Had he not become the president of
the local Seniors’ club?
The Seniors’ club that primarily consisted of the fifty-plus olds, almost had its seven-strong membership in attendance that evening at the Somasundaram grounds. Mr. Selvam had not come, having gone to the US to visit his daughter and his grand children; Ganesan had informed them that he had a doctors’ appointment for his diabetes problem, and would be joining in late. Although an informal gathering, the club still had a hierarchy, borne partly by the members’ need for giving themselves titles, and partly because they had been so used to a structured organization, having worked in banks and in public offices. And Vembu was the president, since no one was willing to take up that title anyway.
“Did you see the match today? Tendulkar got out at forty. Dravid kept the match going though – but I don’t understand why Tendulkar keeps getting all the attention,” Dr. Ranganathan quipped. Dr. Ranga was a close friend of Vembu’s, and was the Treasurer of the club, whatever that title meant. “ I would for one, love to see more attention devoted to the man. After all he’s the solid pillar on which India rests,
Master Blaster or not.”
“But he is not ‘Ton’dulkar,” said Vembu, as though that settled that. Dr. Ranga started saying something, but he checked himself, realizing pursuing wasn’t worth his time. Vembu continued, “ Speaking on the topic of sports, Ranga, what do you think of running? Did you see the news about that Fauja Singh, on the London Marathon? How is that even possible?”
“I suppose with proper training and a diet regimen, anything is possible. Although, given his age, and his name, I suppose he must have been a soldier or something at some point in time,” replied Dr. Ranganathan.
“So can people like us also run marathons, given adequate training?”
“I suppose so. Why are you asking
this suddenly?”
“Well, I read the article on the man today in the Hindu, and I was thinking of training for a marathon myself.”
The group, which had been a hubbub all this while about all things worldly, suddenly fell silent, followed by peals of raucous laughter, except Dr. Ranganathan, whose face sported a look of I’m-sorry-I-even-got-into-this.
“Vembu, have you thought this through carefully? I would say walking would be fine, but a marathon is an extreme step, for someone like you, with your high cholesterol and what not. Look at that man, and look at you! I’d say you shouldn’t do the marathon, and start off slow, with maybe walking for a start. I have been telling you to do that regularly for years now,”
reminded Dr. Ranganathan.
But Vembu wouldn’t have any of it.
“Look, I think I can do this. I am just taking things light right now, and I can get back in form any time I want to. I was not the captain of the Sourashtra high school cricket team for nothing! You all just wait and see, and you people will be
eating your feet out!”
The next morning, Suma was surprised to see the bed next to her empty when she woke up. First she thought, with a hint of relish, that her husband had run off and she was finally free to sleep in; but the hand tugging away at her shoulder suggested she wasn’t going to enjoy the comfort of the Kurlo-pillows any
longer that morning.
“Sumi, Sumikutty, wake up. I need coffee. I am going to go running.”
The sight that greeted her when she turned made her spontaneously laugh. Vembu was a sight, black wool headband, matted graying hair, red t-shirt, a checked Bermuda, ankle high socks, and a pair of canvas shoes that had been gathering dust for over two years, making him look more like a circus clown than a marathon runner in training. But the look of determination on his face concerned her a lot; she hadn’t seen him this determined in all her married life with him, and she was worried where this adventure is going to lead her. Nevertheless, she got up, cursing him for being unable to do even the most mundane task of
making a tumbler of coffee.
“Illa Sumi, I can make coffee. Just that the taste of coffee from your
hand is just something!”
She couldn’t believe the compliment so much that she started making the coffee in absolute silence, although it did strike her that Vembu was appealing to her nicer side to get his
way that morning.
“Besh besh. Romba nanna irukku,” exclaimed Vembu, imitating the man in the Narasus’ coffee ads. And before she could say anything in response, he was off like a little bird.
Hardly had Suma finished brushing and started preparations for making the day’s meals did Vembu stumble in the house, like he had run the marathon already twice over. Realizing that he had to be Superman to have done that in such a short time, and he would not exactly be looking like a man who had the genes of a tomato infused in him were he Superman, she concluded that he would have hardly
done two hundred meters.
“One kilometer I think. Anyhow, give me some water. I think I had enough training for today,” said Vembu, and promptly proceeded to
sleep in until two.
When he woke up, he wasn’t feeling all that great. He felt absolutely weak, like he had just been hit by a goods train, although not as dead as he should be if that were true. Suma grew concerned enough to call Dr.
Ranganathan that evening.
“Ranga, see what I told you? I ran a kilometer today. Anyway what’s my blood pressure now? Also, give me some Bactrim and some Paracetamol. I think this is just some small fever, that’s all,”
diagnosed Vembu.
“Will you let me do my job?,” replied
Dr. Ranganathan sternly.
“Ok, ok, but I can run, and I can
train. Don’t you agree?”
“Sure Vembu, I’ll agree to anything you say, but your body says otherwise. Your blood pressure is 155/95. Your temperature’s hitting 102. If anything, I’d say your body’s begging for mercy. Not surprising, considering the fact that your heart is weak, and your cholesterol levels are pretty high. I would suggest you put off running for a few days, and start off slow. A kilometer of running within such a short time? What were you trying to do, beat Usain Bolt?”
admonished Dr. Ranganathan.
“All right, all right, I’ll take a break. But I’m not giving up that easily,”
replied Vembu.
And by golly, take a break he did. By taking a week off work, and sitting at home, polishing off all of the mullu then-kuzhal, maladu and murkku that he could lay his hands on, watching highlights of cricket matches half the day, and sleeping away the rest. If anything, the layers of lipids lining his blood vessels only thickened that week instead of thinning. However, by the end of the week, he was itching for some “action”. His first task was to find a running buddy. He decided to
ask Rajesh.
His attempts to wake up his son only reminded him that he might have rather tried to wake up a log, and it would have sprouted legs and started running with him. Rajesh was giving some serious competition to his own father in the sleep department; it infuriated him that Suma strangely seemed to support her son’s sleep more than his own.
“Don’t you have anything better to do? Leave kuzhandhai alone! Poor kid, must have been tired doing all that studying and going to college,”
sympathized Suma.
“Right. Cutting half his classes and running off to the movies, and hanging out with his so-called friends. Yes, yes, your son is preparing for the Collector exam. Let him sleep while his illustrious dad goes ahead and sets an example of himself,” countered Vembu.
“Yes, yes, I’m going to see you make an example of yourself alright,” Suma snidely remarked. Vembu left it at that, defeated.
He then called up Ganesan, his close buddy from school time, to be his partner in crime. Ganesan was, however, much more realistic about his capabilities.
“Running? No way I can’t do that
right now!” he responded.
“But hasn’t the doctor suggested that you start walking or jogging to keep fit? You could start jogging with me! Dr. Ranga anyway suggested that I don’t run too fast, so I suppose a jog would be the best. And if we have company, we would be able to motivate each other to keep up. Come on Ganesa – haven’t we done so many things together? Weren’t you my Tendulkar at Saurashtra high school? I would be much grateful if you would back me up now,” said in Vembu, in his most convincing voice. It seemed to work.
“All right all right. You do have a point there. Lets start jogging. But not too much distance. I think about half a kilometer should do,” said Ganesan.
The next morning started off what would be Vembu’s training regimen with Ganesan, or so he liked to call it. Although they called it a regimen, it was more of an occasional distraction due to their love for sleeping in, especially during those cool December mornings. And when their conscience pricked them every once in a while, reminding them of their commitment to something called a marathon/jog, they would speak for half an hour over the phone, planning the minutiae of their run/jog in all seriousness, and proceed to sleep in the next morning. When they did run, their strategy involved bugging the hell out of everyone involved in their lives.
Their run days involved waking up their grumbling wives for a tumbler of coffee and a banana , and meeting up at the Somasundaram grounds to jog once around the playground. The sight of two heaving, graying men around the playground did elicit strange looks from the little twits who came there for cricket coaching; the slightly older twentyish working out at the government gym sported a smirk every time their eyes caught sight of the duo. However, thankfully, none of their Seniors’ club members were present; since they found they could hardly run anything more than a single run around the playground, they did the only natural thing: they went back to their homes and to the club and bragged about their improving mileage.
“How much did we do Ganesan? Five kilometers yesterday right? Oh man, that was tough, but we did manage to make it. We are planning to do eight kilometers eventually, so that we can run five comfortably on marathon day. Did you buy that protein mix I told you? It is available in Subiksha…” said Vembu during the next Seniors’ meeting, confident in the knowledge that Ganesan would pick up the thread effortlessly. And the bravado seemed to work, since the rest couldn’t be bothered enough to wake up early in the morning to verify the duo’s claims.
However, Dr. Ranganathan was incredulous.
“How far did you two say you were running?”
“Five kilometers. Five kilometers already! I feel like I can do the marathon anytime now. Yes, I won’t win for the best time, but I will definitely be able to run!” quipped Ganesan.
“I don’t believe you. Not a bit.”
“You are just jealous, Ranga. May be my family doctor should also start running with us, then he’ll see what we are talking about,” replied Ganesan to rounds of laughter, quelling Dr. Ranganathan’s further comments and questions on the issue.
Their apparent seriousness caused some ripple effects at home as well. Suma, for one, started to wake up early on her own on his run days, and this pleased Vembu to no end. Her comments about his apparently improved physique, comparing him to a present day Surya, only increased the height of the pedestal he was sitting on. She began calling up her friends and relatives to tell them of his commitment and determination; and many of them congratulated and appreciated his resolve. Vembu was of course, enjoying all the attention; but all the same, with the marathon just two weeks away, and having trained to run barely a kilometer so far, he started getting jittery, and called
Ganesan up right away.
“Ganesa, I think we’ve gotten ourselves too deep this time. Yesterday Sumi was telling me that her brothers are going to come to cheer me during the marathon. Even Rajesh is going to come to stand at the final checkpoint. I don’t want to look like a complete failure in front of them. And we have a long way to go. We need to do something,”
confessed Vembu.
Ganesan was much more optimistic. “Vembu, we have always come through challenges together; I think we’ll also come through this with flying colors. Trust me, we are smart, capable people. We can show everyone that we can do this. We’ll show that we don’t back away from something we’ve committed to. I’m sure if we push ourselves, we can do the entire marathon – we just have
to do it.”
That bit of pep-talk mollified Vembu for a while, but he still had a nagging doubt that their game was up. It infuriated him; he was not a man to take failure. He will find a way out. He began planning for an eight kilometer run the next day in earnest.
Nobody had expected the following day to pan out the way it ended up. Suma woke up, smiling with her most beautiful face beaming at her husband’s commitment, and looked at him set off to his final training run before the marathon, and did not expect to see him two hours later, livid and in a respirator, at the Apollo Hospital ICU, with a grave looking Dr. Ranganathan standing beside her. Sumalatha, for all her sarcasm towards her husband, couldn’t stand the sight of the man in the ICU, especially given how purposeful he had become of late, with the marathon in sight and all. She broke into tears, and asked Dr.
Ranga, sobbing.
“How did this happen?”
“I don’t know – some of those youngsters at the playground saw him fall, and went to help him out. He had become unconscious at the time; fortunately they found my number in his “In Case of Emergency” list and called me up. I went immediately with an ambulance and picked him up, and brought him here. God bless those kids. He had a mild heart attack. I think he pushed himself too hard this time – his heart just couldn’t take the load. But he is stable right now; and he needs a lot of rest and recuperation,” said Dr. Ranganathan.
By now Rajesh had also reached the hospital, and for the first time,looked utterly concerned and grieved. “What should we do, doctor?” he asked.
Dr. Ranganathan replied, “Well, as I said, he needs a lot of rest and care from the two of you. He needs your support the most – he wanted to run something as ambitious as the marathon, and was almost there, but unfortunately his age got the better of him. Make sure you show him that you still care – that would definitely help him in getting better faster. I have to go now since I have another patient to attend to,”
and left.
Consequently, Vembu received what could only be described as the attention enjoyed by kings. Oranges, apples and grapes kept pouring in, since the doctor had strongly suggested that fresh fruits are the most effective in strengthening him; instant oatmeal suddenly appeared in large quantities, apparently sent from the US by his wife’s brother living there. Enough Britannia packets accumulated for him to give away two each to every kid that visited his bedside. And Suma was by his side all the time, squeezing oranges and feeding him juice, bringing home-cooked food every day, specially cooked with very little oil and spices. Even Rajesh started coming by the ward quite often; he and Suma took turns in staying with him during the night. All in all, Vembu seemed extremely thankful, and sometimes suspiciously pleased at the suddenly increased concern from his kith and kin. The marathon date came and passed by; Vembu was morose the whole day of the marathon. Eventually, three weeks passed, and Vembu was declared fit enough to leave the hospital, and go home.
The evening of the day Vembu got home, there was a small celebration at the Seniors’ club meeting.
Ganesan had just got back home the previous week after suffering a serious diabetes related complication; it seemed to have arisen from his cousin’s son’s upanayanam three weeks ago, where the food, combined with the increased carb intake he had found necessary for marathon training from his research on the internet, had triggered a massive increase in glucose levels, enough to knock him out for a day. Anyway, he was back, hale and hearty, his hand holding a box of sweets made with Splenda, and he was handing them out to the rest of the party. When the company eventually dispersed for the night, Dr. Ranga dragged Ganesan and Vembu aside.
“This is the last time I am bailing you two out. Do you have any idea how far I had to go to ensure that your gig isn’t up? Saline drips and sugar substitute medicines and what not! I would have never done this for you, for all the show you have been putting on. You better not do this drama ever again; I repeat, I won’t be around to pull you out,” admonished Dr. Ranganathan, to a laughing duo.
“Relax da Ranga! We do thank you for your help at the last moment. But I should confess, the heart attack was the icing on the cake; I never have received so much attention from my wife and son as I have in the last two weeks. I think I am going to do this heart attack business once in a while here on,” replied Vembu, with an I’m-kidding
smirk on his face.
Ganesan chimed in. “Ha ha, yes yes. It definitely worked. At the end, what do we want, Ranga? Just the appreciation of our family and friends, isn’t it? And we did end up getting it, without losing face. But yes, we could not have done it without you. Anyway, didn’t that joke go ‘The Punjabi might be strong because of his chapathi, but we are smart because of our curd rice’? That’s cent percent true,” he said, with a beaming smile.
“Chapati and rice all right. You two are one of a kind,” growled Dr. Ranganathan.
Picture courtesy : Olibac – http://www.flickr.com/photos/olibac/
