The Ghost who talks

Yes, dear Reader, the mystery of “Peppin” is about to be unravelled. Don’t blame me for the fantasy ending; I am, perhaps, only the medium, sought out to bring this tale to life.

Yes, both my grandfathers quit this life in the year 1940. Of course, I didn’t meet them. My dad, born in 1918, had a most miserable life till he was almost thirty. His dad had had the most horrendous life after he was thirty, and for the rest of his life. My dad never got to know his dad, and probably didn’t do too much to find out why: he was abandoned, see? So what he felt as a son, he kept very much to himself. I don’t remember having a heart-to-heart conversation with my dad (ever), for, I believe, he concealed the sorrows of his life, assuming that no one could ever understand his predicament.

This is not normal, I’m sure, for every father-child relationship must be based on two-way communication. But that emotion passed me by. I remember, once upon a time, he tried, hoping sentiment would seal the deal. “Will you go to church with me, tomorrow?” he asked me one Saturday evening; “It may be the last time!” Like father, like son is what they say; so I blurted out my curt and unfeeling answer: “When was the first time?” I guess that sent him into his shell, for good. I was not at home when he died, but I flew down the same evening, performed all the rites on the next morning, and stayed a week before returning to my job overseas.

My mum, who had her share of personal grief and loss, was much more convivial. She, as a teacher, had many tales to tell, but the one that is embedded in my memory is the one she told, of my miraculous birth. The maternity ward at Trichy’s Government Hospital was particularly busy on the night of the 19th of June, 1952. Just after midnight I was born; yes, yours truly, the one and only Bryan Oliver Peppin. That wasn’t the miracle, however.

I was taken by a nurse to be cleaned up. Another nurse carried away another boy-child, born at about the same time, for the same purpose. Somehow the two boys got mixed up, and I was placed at the breast of another woman. Apparently, I refused to drink. My “ma” was undergoing the same ordeal; that infant also refused. Two women, two new mothers, two infants, four different wails and no solution in sight. The head nurse, noticing the commotion, did the most expedient thing: she swapped the babies. Both kids settled down immediately, common sense won.

But; what if? Questions kept popping up every now and then. I am Indian, of course, but am I truly ANGLO-INDIAN? I still do not have that extra cash to do a DNA test, but I can honestly say that I am perfectly comfortable in my (Anglo) skin, and will never ever trade it for anything else.

Madam Indira Gandhi was spot on when she described my community as the pioneers of modern India, for we have always led where, even today, some are feign to follow. The pre-eminent leader of the community, Frank Anthony, spoke the uttermost truth when he said [and I’m using my own words here] “the more you love and respect your country, the more your country will love and respect you”.

Are ghosts for real? I’m sure I’m no ghost, but how do I exorcise the ones from my past? It’s a strange feeling, not knowing who you really are. I remember, when I was about 10 years old, in Vestry School, I actually experimented lying alone in a freshly dug grave. The Indo-Chinese was of 1962 had brought foxholes to the barracks nearby, and they were too welcoming to resist. Lying there, with only a box of blue sky to look up at, I pondered the questions that have troubled humanity for too long. “When will it suffice?”, says the poet Yeats, but we never get the answer. Even today the world is witness to a needless, destructive, self-annihilating war. “That is heaven’s part” says the same poet, as we innocent bystanders, wait endlessly, for GODOT.

A pack of cards has four suits, Spades, Hearts, Diamonds, and Clubs. But most players know you cannot beat a NO TRUMP. Think about that, too, dear Readers.