Another Friday Missive

Last week I claimed some “Peppin” ancestry when I introduced, to you, an infant who died, in India, when he was just 10 months old. That was in the year 1825, and the grave still exists. This week I take you to the front of St John’s Church, in Trichy, where another ancestor—this time, a direct one—lies buried, in, to my mind, the most soulful and evocative grave in the slowly diminishing cemetery that surrounds the church on three sides. This monument belongs to my maternal grandfather, Richard Adolphus D’Monte. He died, grief-stricken, just after the death of his eldest son, in the year 1940. Both men lie side by side, in graves that have been ravaged by time and thieves.

All available documents indicate that my maternal grandfather was a fairly rich man. He was a highly placed officer on the Railways, and even had his private inspection car. All this was before my time. He owned a 28-acre farm on the outskirts of Trichy, and even had a motor car. Not only that, old-timers will remember the “D’Monte Lines”, just down the old railway bridge that connects Trichy and Golden Rock. There were at least 14 individual, almost identical, compact, single-storey houses, that were owned by my grandfather, and some photographs still exist of the place. All, all gone, my dear Readers, siphoned away by swindlers and spoilers. I have no regrets about this lost, though fortuitous, fortune, because, I believe, I was a king in my own right.

This is where the present meets the past. My mother, Ruby Grace (nee D’Monte) was 20 years old when her father died. She was probably not too interested in family politics and the cutting up of the estate. She had done a Teacher’s Training course, and in 1940, joined the world-famous St John’s Vestry Anglo-Indian High School, in Trichy. She soon realised that wealth may come and wealth may go, but education goes on forever. All before my time, mind you, because the classic Anglo future, for boys, was “from fourth form, to platform”, as my late, good friend, Noel Thomas, from Vizag, so poignantly put it. I’m sure you know what the girls were good at—secretarial services, sports, and every social grace.

My mother married a World War II veteran, in 1948, John Alexander Peppin. My sister arrived first, in 1950, followed by yours truly, on the very cusp of Gemini, in 1952. I must say that my mother takes all the credit for putting her two children on the education bandwagon—the first two Peppins (from the Indian angle) to attend college since the time of good old Adam.

My sister pursued a career in nursing, while I dallied between sports and studies. I was passionate about hockey, the Anglo sport, and captained two Trichy colleges, in 1973 and 1975, before being selected to represent the University of Madras. I completed my Master’s in English in 1975 and soon landed a job in The New College, Madras. I rose, over the years, to become HOD, and then opted for voluntary retirement from service.

I can proudly say, today, that four of my students have stepped up to fill my shoes, carrying on my legacy ( if it is mine at all to claim), with dedication and aplomb. The old song tells about a man’s journey through life, from a jack to a king, but my journey was different—from a king (in Vestry, where I reigned supreme all my younger days), to a king ( of the New College, where I am still the only Anglo-Indian faculty member). Have I not been blessed, even doubly blessed?

Hold on; I’ve still not got to the Peppin side of this East Side Story. Yes, you know that I was born in 1952, but did you know that my dad was born in November 1918? And what about his dad? From what I have gleaned, with the help of Gemini, is the fact that a John Arthur Peppin was born in 1882. Was he my dad’s dad? From the records I dug up, this John Arthur Peppin married an Isis Powell (my paternal grandmother) of KGF, in the year 1912. The marriage was registered in Bangalore, and very little is known (to me) about the couple until my dad was born, in 1918, and his sister, in 1920. After that, the Peppin trail runs cold; my dad was placed in St Patrick’s Anglo-Indian School, in Adyar, Madras, while his sister was tucked away in a convent in Madura. Both were orphaned. All this happened even before their formative years, a classic “ babes in the woods” story come horrifyingly true. To make a long story short, my dad failed his High School exams, but passed the great test: he was accepted to be a part of the KIng’s Army, in the fight against Adolf Hitler. Of course, he won, returned to small-town Trichy, waited for Independent India to complete a full year, and then got married.

The sequence that followed you know quite well, dear Reader, for I have been narrating this history all along. But what you still don’t know, and what I’ve only recently discovered, I’ll keep for next week. I’m really sorry for the cloak and dagger ending.

In the mean time, mourn with me, at the passing of my brother, long-term friend, and colleague, Ahmed Meeran Mohideen. He will be sorely missed.

RIP, Meeran.