People close to me know about my love and craze for antiques, especially Indian fountain pens, watches and spectacles. Few months back my elder cousin brother who lives in my father's ancestral home offered me his late father's spectacles which he had preserved safely. I refused to take it because my brother had kept it very fondly and safely in memory of his father. Few weeks after that incident my uncle in Bombay gave me his 40-year-old Seiko 5 automatic watch when he knew about my love for old watches and about my modest collection. It was the watch he had asked his friend who was then working in the Gulf to bring for him. My uncle had used it for long, and later kept it in his cupboard, almost as if forgotten, when he got newer watches. After years when he took it out to give me, he and I were pleasantly surprised. A couple of shakes and the automatic watch started working! Similarly, my friend's mother, too, gave me her HMT Asha which she had used while she was doing her graduation. I had refused to take it, too, because it would have very good memories attached to it. But she insisted that I take it.
Yesterday, I was very blessed and deeply fortunate to get another antique item which had scores of memories attached to it. I was at my another elder cousin brother's home (Mine is a very big family with both my father and maternal grandmother having 9 siblings each!). He called me into his room saying he had something for me. I went in with no clue what he was talking about. He placed at my hand a small, dusty, black, iron box. Before I could ask him what it was he said that it was a very old camera which he had got as a gift from his father-in-law. I was shockingly surprised! Shocking because I wondered how that crude a box could be a camera. It was a plane black iron box, with two small dust laden glass pieces and three holes covered with glasses which I, after my brother telling me, knew were lenses. There was a small circular screw with which the back side could be opened. It had a tiny leather strap that served as a carrier, and had 'Kotak London' printed on it. My brother, who is a photographer by profession, could get a hang of the antique camera easily and explained to me quite a bit about its working. But, I was not satisfied. I wanted to hear it from his father-in-law who had gifted it to him. I somehow guessed that there would be stories attached to it, for I knew that my brother's father-in-law, Mr Rajan, was neither a professional photographer nor had gone abroad.
(The camera need not be raised to the level of the eye; it was to be kept at the level of the photographer's stomach and the glass piece on the camera's side facing the photographer would show the image that was about to be captured.)
Late evening my brother and I reached the house where Rajan uncle was staying. He wasn't there then but when I showed my brother's wife the camera and told her that I wanted to speak to her father to know the story behind it she was happy, and, as if like a gentle warning, told me that her father, who is otherwise very silent and reserved by nature, is known to talk a lot about stories of his youthful days, so much so that they had to often start a countdown for him to stop reciting his stories! My excitement peaked, for I love to hear stories of good old days.
When Rajan uncle returned home I showed him the camera and told him that his son-in-law had showed it to me and explained a bit of its working but I wanted to know more. "It looks so old," I told him. "Very," he said. "At least 100 years old!" For a second I could not believe my ears. "What!" I exclaimed. "Yes. I am sure it is at least 100 years old," and immediately added, "I had had got it from my friend in 1973." My excitement found a higher peak. I knew for sure that if uncle could recollect the year he is sure to remember the story, too. I volleyed him with questions like who was the person who gifted this to you, why did he gift this, were you a photographer, et cetera. For the next half an hour he spoke of stories that were worth listening multiple times.
He began... "It was 1973 and I was working in a hotel as a cleaner. I was 18 years old and I had gone to Bangalore (from his hometown Keralassery in Palakkad district of Kerala) in search of a job. I had to take up a cleaner's job in a hotel because I could not get a job elsewhere as I had failed my tenth standard examination. When I was working there I met this gentleman who later gifted me this camera. His name was Michael. Michael Rosemonde. His father was from Gujarat and mother from London. He was working in Rallis." "Do you know that company," he asked me. "Yes, the cycles; I have heard of them," I replied. "No. Not that. Cycle company was Raleigh and this is Rallis," he explained to me with the spellings.
He continued... "He used to come to the hotel where I worked daily. Back then a Wills cigarette costed 20 paisa (Re 0.20). He used to smoke there daily and he used to engage me to get him the cigarette. He used to give me 25 paisa, 5 paisa as tips. This happened for few days and one day he asked me, "What is your name?" I did not know a word in English. I did not know what he had asked and looked at him blankly. Another person who heard this explained to me what he was asking. When I told him my name he asked me if I would be willing to work elsewhere if he found one for me. I replied in the positive. Very soon he found me a job in the bar of the prestigious Bangalore Club. It was a club where the elite used to come. I was very happy working there. The beer there costed Re 1 back then. But that was a big amount those days. We used to get a week's vegetables for Rs 10, a litre of petrol for Rs 2.75. Money has lost value now. Michael and I soon became very good friends. He told me that I should learn English. He started giving me English books to read." Taking a break from the story which I was listening with rapt attention, he said, "even though we are not interested or we do not understand what is written in a book by just looking through the pages we get a hang of few things like a sentences or two and few words and spellings. That is enough." "I started watching English movies," he said resuming the narration. "And soon, I started watching one English movie everyday. Many days he and I used to watch together. All of the English language that I learnt is because of him and him alone."
Rajan uncle is sad that he does not know where his dear friend currently is. He even has doubts whether he is alive now because Mr Michael was, uncle told me, quite senior to him. "He had a home in Coonoor by the name Cortney. I have not gone there but he had told me." I was surprised that uncle even remembered the name of his friend's house which he had not visited even once but just heard of.
Rajan uncle heaps praise on Mr Michael. "He was a very good gentleman. He helped me a lot. Not only me, he helped many other people. One Mr Das was in love with a Brahmin lady but their families did not allow them to get married. They got married without the families' support and it was my friend Michael who gave them space to live in his house for few days."
Rajan uncle recollects.. "Michael used to ride a Bullet bike. He used to really like his bike. But when he was getting old he was scared to ride his Bullet and got a car, a Fiat Standard. He used to tell that he was getting old and he needed a roof over his head and hence he bought a car."
Rajan uncle also told me about a lady, whom he referred to as 'chechi' (elder sister in Malayalam) from Lingarajapuram, Bangalore who had helped him a lot during his stay in Bangalore till 1992.
When Rajan uncle finished his stories and we were called for dinner, I asked my brother to click a picture of the three of us - Rajan uncle, the camera and me.
When Rajan uncle and his wife came back to their hometown in Kerala they carried with them two bags. One of very fond and harsh memories and the other of books that Rajan uncle had read and learnt during the course of his nineteen-year-long stay in Bangalore. The bag of books remained unopened for a long time, and recently when it was opened, his daughter said, more than half of it had been eaten away by the termites.
Most things we use have scores of memories attached to them. Instead of simply throwing them let us all preserve them and tell to our younger generations stories and memories attached to them just like how Rajan uncle does.
