(April 9 is the birthday of  Dr. Babu Paul's brother, K. ROY PAUL, I.A.S. (former civil aviation secretary and chairman of Air India. Retired as UPSC member)

There was a hill, lying like Ahalya, awaiting its Raman for a million years, may be more. Then Raman came in the form of St. Gregorios in the last decade of the nineteenth century. And the Ahalya had sapamoksham. The silent hill became the holy hill, a sacred space on this earth. Though not conspicuous like Everest it had a name too. The name was Cherumala.

Cherumala separated the mundane from the divine. The village church to the east and the village market to the west. The rhythm on the west side was punctuated by swearing and billingsgate. That on the east by sacred chants and litanies. And on the eastern slope of that hill perched a small house, erroneously if not ironically called Pallibunglav, the Church Bungalow. A small house of two ill-lit bedrooms. To know that it faced the uncut steps that Parumala Thirumeni walked made up for all inadequacies. We were on the sacred side.

I was playing with Yakkob Chettan on the school verandah, not too far away. He trained me in playing with olappamp, the Malayalam English Dictionary translates that as imitation snake made of palmleaf- what a labored translation!-, as if he knew that I was destined to spend half my life playing games with politicians. Then came the word. That I had a baby brother. Good bye, olappamp. Now I have my brother to play with.

Soon came his baptism. The first event that I recall albeit vaguely. My father has recorded on the last page of his Bible that I was baptized too, but I cannot recollect that. Of course. He was christened Kuriakos, after the child saint whose relics were enshrined atop Cherumala by St. Gregorios. But I insisted, so said my mother, that he was my younger brother, my anian, and that is how he should be addressed. They called him Aniankunju. The village had not heard that name before. So just as they called me Vaavoo since they had not heard the word Babu they called my brother Aneenkunj. Interesting place, our village was.

The second frame in my memory is that of an enthusiastic three year old boy clumsily putting pinches of salt at the corner of the plantain leaf  during the lunch that followed. I insisted on being part of the action and the lowest risk was in entrusting me with common salt.

A year went by. Our Amma went to Trivandrum for higher studies. Before she left she told me repeatedly that I was a brave boy and would not cry when she left. I lived up to that image, my mother used to reminisce later. I stood there, on the threshold of our house, eyes welled up, stark naked, with one hand where boys place it at that age and the other I do not know where, may be on the doorframe. I cannot recollect whether the picture is from my memory or my mother’s.

To ensure that I took good care of my little brother my father made me my brother’s keeper. And I felt very responsible. Whenever my father was away I prayed for his safe return, and assured God that as I would take care of my little brother He may concentrate on my father. Decades later, the morning of November 21, 1987, our father on earth repeated that instruction. That I was my brother’s keeper, come what may. He died that evening.

We had a beautiful childhood. Our father was our best friend. We shared jokes. We played together. Together we planted coconut saplings and together we watered the plants. And when he was not around my brother and I played.

As children of a priest we invented a game called Holy Quorbono. A trophy that Achan won for some elocution competition was the chalice. A quarterplate for paten. Amma’s neriatu for cape. Magazine wrappers to be worn on hand. I was the priest and my brother the acolyte. As he grew older he asserted his right to be priest and wanted a Puthenkurbana. Not too happy of course, but I obliged my beloved brother. He was my brother. And I was his keeper.

I had none to depend on but my father. And he like the eagle would push me out to fend for myself. My brother had greater protection because I did not know why eagles behaved the way they did. He was just three years younger, but somehow I always felt, then, and even now to some extent, that I was responsible for him.

Yes, we had a beautiful childhood.

We had a cat, Sootie. When she died Anian and I buried her, under the Moovanden Mavu just outside the courtyard, with full ecclesiastical honours. I wore the cape and my brother held the candle in the left hand and the incense in the other. “Dust thou art, to dust thou returneth”, said I. And my little brother said, sobbing and tearful, “Amen”. Then we together recited Makklilappan and I gave the final benediction, ‘Aneenkunju’ no longer sobbing but crying out wildly. May Sootie rest in peace.

And we had a dog. We called him Musso. After Mussolini. He would chase all vehicles that plied on that dusty road. And one day it met with the destiny that makes our PM-to-be cry. It was our misfortune to witness the tragedy. Puthenkavi, the Dalit attached to our family as was the custom those days, was there too. And her exclamation made a lesson in philosophy. She said, Athinte ariyethi. The foodgrains God had earmarked for our Musso had run out. We all have a certain quantity of foodgrains reserved for us, explained the illiterate servant, and we live only as long as stocks last. I have started counting the number of grains left for me, but that is unimportant.

My brother followed me, like Parasuram following Venad on the rail track in Kerala, with the Maharaja’s Scholarship, State rank for SSLC, Engineering degree and IAS, all three years after me. I gave up before I was due.  Was a premature baby anyway, who gave up the comfort of the womb to face the hardships outside too soon. My brother, the only full term baby our mother had, carried on. He should have been India’s Cabinet Secretary. The loss is the Republic’s. He should have been the Principal Secretary to the Prime Minister. The loss is Manmohan Singh’s.

As a man he is the man. I am reminded of what Ingersoll said about his younger brother Clark. My brother, too, like Clark, is a brave and tender man. Oak and rock in crisis, vine and flower in rosier times.

The only evenings of the current century that I do not feel lonely are spent with him, with our parents around as invisible smiling Presences. And wherever we sit down together is Kuruppampadi.


 K. ROY PAUL, I.A.S. (Former Civil Aviation Secretary & Chairman of Air India. Retired as UPSC Member)