The year is 1956, a young M. J. Joseph, known as Ousepachan to those who love him, arrives in Madras, with little to his name. He was a young man in his early twenties, who left his little village on the Malabar Coast and moved to the big city to make a life for himself. For most of his life Ousepachan was known as a man of industry — he came to a city where he knew no one, worked many jobs at once to make a living, and eventually went on to establish and run three companies — a printing press, a typeset company, and a rubber manufacturer for multiple decades. He sent his children to some of the best schools in the city, and built the house in which we now live. There is not one time I have heard the story of his life and not been held ransom-captive in awe.
I have always known Appachan to have the heart of an artist — I know he loves to sing and act, and of course to write poetry. But, in the stories of his life that testify to the ambition, tenacity, resilience, and faith of a man in the service of his legacy, those smaller details begin to feel like skipped-over marginalia.
The year is 2026. Ousepachan celebrates his 90th birthday on the 14th of January and speaks with a quiver in his voice. He counts every year he has lived with the humility earned from being witness to the boundless grace of a wonderful God. He talks of his life in fondness and with pride — like he always does. Instead of our usual laughter-laced teasing for having heard these stories a thousand times over, I listen with a desperation to commit everything to memory. I almost get frustrated with my brain for not being able to purge itself of useless things like stupid fights, or what I had for breakfast to make room for the sound of his voice.
I listen for the footnotes
This time Ousepachan tells me, the whole reason he moved to Madras was to pursue his dream of becoming an actor. However, once he got here, he realised how much of a fool’s errand it would have been. He knew that while Tamil cinema was vibrant, there were only two or three movies coming out every year. To get a role in one of those movies seemed impossible to him, and pragmatic as he was, he knew being a starving artist was not the life he wanted.
Yet now, as a ninety-year-old man who speaks of his life with the tenderness of someone who has lived it, and loved it, he cannot help but reminisce with me about his various exploits in the creative arts.
It was back when he was a high school student in the 5th form year. There was a “fancy dress” competition where he went as a nayattukaran — a hunter. To look like the tribal hunter, he smeared himself with kari (charcoal from a wood-burning stove) at home. He peeled a raw kappa (tapioca) and chewed it until his mouth and lips ran red. He carried with him an ambu (arrow) and a sack slung across his shoulder.
Ousepachan was now a hunter and he needed something to hunt — so he took one of the animals they slaughtered at home for food, whose skin they had kept aside. He stuffed the skin with hay to make a realistic looking civet. He then put a friend in his employ and told him to wait behind the stage to help with his act.
He walked on to the stage with his sack. He stopped, and noticed the civet. Calling out “Adaaa!”, he threw his arrow and his friend then tossed the dead civet onto the stage. Ousepachan, proud of the “kill”, picked up the civet by the tail and laughed. People he had known well — family and friends — told him they barely recognised him because his acting and costume work was undeniably brilliant.
Just as I was sure the story was closing, he throws in a hook! He says to me he was doing this performance naked! I do a double take and ask him to tell me what he means by that. He laughs some more as he explains this entire act was performed in nothing but his underwear that was wrapped with some leaves fashioned into a tribal hunter’s skirt of some kind.
I almost don’t believe him.
There were over seventy people competing that day and the judges just couldn’t seem to agree on who should receive the first prize. While these competitions were held ahead of the school’s anniversary — in this case, the judges’ indecision was passed on to the chief guests of the anniversary celebrations. Appachan says that one of the guests at the event was the then Chief Minister of Travancore-Cochin — A. J. John. This detail stops me for a moment — he clarifies that A. J. John did not really score them but he was present, and the top three ended up tying for first place anyway.
Appachan does not realise that that was not why I pause — A. J. John was the Chief Minister of Travancore-Cochin, not Kerala. That detail anchors the scene of this story in a reality where Kerala did not exist yet in a newly independent India. Kerala as I know it came into existence as a state in 1956.
I try to not let this derail the storytelling.
He tells me rather quickly of another competition held by the Sodality of Mother Mary — a Catholic organisation that also held a similar fancy dress competition. He tells me he went as a chettathi this time — a Syrian Christian woman on her way to church. His sister lent him her chatta and mundu, pleated into a njori at the back. His hair wasn’t long and so to emulate a woman, he wrapped his head in a veil (the way women did then, and some in Kerala still do today). A Bible in one hand, and a rosary in the other, he walks on to stage, kneels down to pray, and then walks off it.
“First prize, M. J. Joseph.” he claims, with the mischief of a little boy glimmering in the voice of an old man.
Another year, he went as a pilgrim — one that was walking to Sabarimala. “There were no buses or cars then, so people walked to Sabarimala in groups,” he tells me. For this act, he wore a kalli mundu and a thorthu, and carried an irumudikettu on his head — the two-part bundle every pilgrim carries, offerings in the front, rice and provisions in the back. He took a lamp in his hand. Then he walked the stage the way they walked the road, singing — “Swamiye Saranam Ayyappa.”
“First prize, M. J. Joseph!”
I see so many echoes of his life in mine and I carry that with a reverence that I need to hold gently, yet boldly. I remember the girl in kindergarten who went as a lady who sold flowers in the street, or the girl in elementary school who went as Florence Nightingale, an angel, or even Mother Mary for her fancy dress competitions. I remember how I graduated to doing plays in middle school and high school, and how it eventually gave way to the pragmatism of financial services.
I think of how often we describe ourselves by what we do — when for most of us, there is often so much more to us than what we do for a living. We are who we are by how and what we love, and yet it is known to a precious few who reach below the surface. So much of ourselves we trade away for security and for a paycheque. Things get busy and the art that paints our lives so easily slips into the blacks and greys of suit jackets and pencil skirts.
Appachan wrote poems for his family, he wrote and acted in plays in social circles he established in Madras, he acted in radio dramas with All India Radio — despite running three companies simultaneously, or holding down multiple jobs, or being the sole provider for his family. So, it holds my heart gently that our loves are jealous loves. They demand to be felt, they demand the room they deserve to hold. Whether it is in the psalms we write to hold our love or our grief, or the quick catharsis as we sketch little doodles or verses in the corners of our notebooks in an office — our lives demand to be lived in screaming colour.
In between all these anecdotes he litters details for me wherever he can – names, people, times, places, and things. He is building this world with the fragments of his memories not brick and mortar- the ones that time has not thieved from him yet.
I think of sunsets.
They paint their skies in glorious colour – like my grandfather’s life does. Yet, there is the gutting reminder that all good things end. I think he realises this too. I think he knows as he tells me these stories of a different time, that his time is coming to an end. I can see it in his eyes – there is joy, pride, deep knowing sorrow, and acceptance. It was after all, a life beautifully lived. It was filled with a love of people and of art.
His voice betrays this as he says, “Adhu okke oru kalam aanu.”
And I ? I think of sunsets.
Footnotes:
- Fancy Dress: In Indian schools, a costume competition rather than formal evening wear. A fixture in school calendars for generations.
- Ousepachan: The Malayalam form of Joseph, used affectionately.
- Appachan: Malayalam for father, but in my case since I called my father Papa or Dad, I called my paternal grandfather Appachan.
- 5th Form: In the old schooling system, inherited from British India – roughly about year 11.
- Nayattukaran: A hunter.
- Kari: Soot or charcoal, in this case scraped from the wood-burning stove at home.
- Kappa: Tapioca. Cassava. A staple of the Kerala table, usually boiled and eaten with fish curry.
- Chettathi: A form of address for any older woman or elder sister.
- Chatta and mundu: he traditional dress of Syrian Christian women in Kerala: a white blouse, the chatta, worn with the mundu, a white cloth wrapped at the waist and pleated into a fan at the back. Now worn mostly by the oldest generation.
- Njori: The fan of pleats gathered at the back of the mundu, the distinguishing mark of how Syrian Christian women in Kerala wore it.
- Kalli mundu and thorthu: A striped or checked mundu worn at the waist. Thorthu refers to a cotton towel used for many things.
- Irumudikettu: The two-part bundle carried on the head by pilgrims to Sabarimala. Offerings for the deity in the front compartment, the pilgrim’s own rice and provisions in the back. No one climbs the eighteen steps without it.
- Swamiye Saranam Ayyappa: The chant of the Sabarimala pilgrim. Lord Ayyappa, I take refuge in you.
- Adhu okke oru kalam aanu: All that was one time. All of that belonged to another age.