Celebration Time - From the Book - A Story of Faith and Miracles

Celebration Time Few in the extended Valluri and Vemavarapu families were privy to the fact that my mother would have been a Padma awardee for her notable contribution in rehabilitation of tuberculosis patients. Apparently, Sanjay Gandhi was singularly impressed with the yeoman service performed by her in revamping the scarred physical and mental bodies of those suffering from the debilitating disease. This word was carried by a Gandhi family loyalist named Bibi Amtus Salam who had generously contributed to the rejuvenation exercise launched by my mother. The Catholic Church through the benevolent aegis of CARITAS and the Missionaries of Charities also pitched in and above all the right-wing Sangh Parivar led by Shri Dhanraj Ojha (who bore an uncanny resemblance with character artiste Om Prakash) also arranged for funds to run the projects. “Balaji, how can you equate Swami Vivekananda a spiritual giant with the Swamiji of Mysore,” the more cerebral friends would question her. And pat came the reply, “Has your child suffered from malabsorption, have you kept innumerable nights watching your child writhing in pain?” The genius and intellect of such friends paled into insignificance as they had no answer. I was now in Class 10, a decisive year, while my sister was in Class 5 of Presentation Convent. My father was busy climbing the ladder of FICCI and simultaneously working backroom for the Janata Party. Several devotees of Swamiji attempted a truce which was politely turned down by my parents. However, the strings of spirituality were unexpectedly conjured by the magical universe. This was the period when we began frequenting Aurobindo Ashram in New Delhi where my father’s close friend Mr A. Rama Rao working with Khadi and Village Commission was based, and their organisation too started to help my mother in the hospital projects. Quite unexpectedly we attended several lectures and discourses of Swami Chinmayananda of the Ramakrishna Mission and we also had the privilege of paying homage to Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Thus, the universe had manufactured in its own strange and magical way such that the vacuum of Swamiji’s absence would not be felt by the family; a family which was once tied so closely to him. My inner voice made me realise that it was my parents’ faith that things would work out fine even if we were no longer attached to Swamiji; faith which was developed over a period. Tenth standard meant hectic preparation in all the subjects which included mathematics and sciences. I was competing more with myself than against Bumboo who was expected to be one of the toppers of the school. Not surprisingly, a majority of the students performed rather miserably in the pre-board or preparatory examination. This was also the stage where I began my tryst with reading biographies and autobiographies, a habit I have never given up. I also began to write and act in one act plays at home. My father would read out C Rajagopalachari’s Ramayana and Mahabharata to me and my sister besides which we devoured comics like Tintin, Asterix and Amar Chitra Katha. In Hyderabad It was the day of denouement as the class 10 examination results were to be declared by C.B.S.E. This was a major milestone leading to an important career choice for any student. Job opportunities, prior to globalisation and opening of the economy in 1991 were straight jacketed and followed a straight and narrow pattern, a definite trajectory. In this steeplechase majority were asses and a few, fine bred horses. I was figuring out whether I was an ass or a horse as education implied going through motions, rote learning being the modus operandi. In the pre-liberalisation era, the standard markers in the life of a student were, 10th standard, 12th standard, graduation, and post-graduation. Unless of course one joined course like engineering, medicine, Chartered Accountancy or MBA. The really hardworking ones crack the Civil Services Examination. At the top of the pyramid was to become a Civil Servant, an IAS officer. My father was very keen that I follow the hallowed traditions of the Valluris and join the august IAS. I was in Hyderabad spending my summer vacations once the 10th standard examinations were over. My mother had decided that I ought to interact with the Valluri clan too after spending considerable time with my grandparents at Madras and being at the Mysore Ashram. The weather was muggy and a flight landed from Delhi ferrying my cousin Jaya, her husband and their two young sons. The quartet was returning from London. The Valluri menage were present in large numbers at my uncle’s household to receive the family from London. My paternal uncle, once a former judge of the Andhra Pradesh High Court had subsequently emerged as a prominent arbitrator. As a trustee of the Sathya Sai Organisation he had performed seva for the organisation. He and several other Valluris were staunch devotees of Sathya Sai Baba. Baba has a world-wide presence even to this day and several miracles take place; sacred ash appears from nowhere among other magical events. When on this planet, he commanded a mammoth following which included the who’s who of India and overseas. I was once told by the parting transmigratory souls at Mysore Ashram that Swamiji and Baba often met at the astral plane, something which I could never decode or fathom at that time. In the meantime, the ongoing celebratory mood did not seep into me. Since morning I was in a mild kind of tension as the results by C.B.S.E. were to be declared on that very day. I was expectantly waiting for the telephone to ring, waiting for the BIG announcement. Every minute seemed to be a lifetime. Clouds of doubt and fear gripped me. Did I flunk? Oh God! Hope I did not fail in maths. How much did Bumboo manage to score? Why were my parents not announcing the results? Such kind of negative thoughts cannonaded my mind. and I was struggling to remain afloat. In this finite existence this extraordinary long wait appeared eternity peppered with several possibilities. Jaya, my cousin, could palpably feel my levels of anxiety increasing with beads of sweat forming on my forehead. After some agonising moments she handed over a chit of paper. With a degree of trepidation, I read my mother’s handwriting and silently exclaimed - a 1st Division, 64.45% with 120/150 in social sciences. The Valluri ménage broke into quite an applause. Though because my uncle, was present the celebration was rather muted. The results were a shocker for Bumboo, as a rank outsider, treated like a pariah by him and the more cerebral kinds, I had outperformed several of them. Bumboo could manage only 62% and was a picture of resignation and discomfort! I was to learn later that Satra had enquired about my result. She had sailed through scoring a splendid 70% plus. My parents and their friends were extremely joyous and some devotees had called up Swamiji to inform about my performance in the 10th standard. My mother heaved a sigh of relief as her faith in the divine had scaled new heights. My father was rendered speechless with my performance and achievement as he pored over The Statesman, his favourite newspaper. It was a high-octane time and there was massive celebration at D-19 the moment I arrived Delhi from Hyderabad quite like a politician winning at the hustings.