The mystery of ''Peppin''

Last week I told you about the first “Peppin” to be implanted here in India. The infant who died, an English lad, all of 10 months old, was, perhaps, the first, of many Peppins to be laid to rest in the arms of Mother India. The date is important—1825–because, after that, many more of my kind have passed on, here in this blessed land. My paternal grandfather, John Arthur, was born in 1882, but where and when still eludes me. He had a son in 1918–John Alexander—who sired me in 1952. And I’m still here to try and make sense of the rigmarole that my family history lends itself to.

I do know that my father was orphaned before he reached the age of five, but schooling in Madras, with a guardian residing in Trichy makes little sense. My dad’s younger sister was put in a convent in Madura, an even worse predicament, for the family-related guardian represented blood ties, at the very least. All said and done, it is a most peculiar tale of two orphans. In the year 1939 Adolf Hitler happened and my dad was ready to do or die, for a sovereign he did not know. Who could blame him for deliberately seeking another hell on the battlefields of North Africa and Europe? Not me, definitely not me.

But what happened to my paternal grandfather. From what I gathered, which is little or nothing, he vanished in the early 1920s. Not deliberately, mind you, for he was just about enduring his own personal hell. His wife ( and mother of his two children) had forsaken him for another man, and grandpa hoped (I fear) that the earth would swallow him whole and put him out of his misery. However, death is not all that kind ( and please don’t tell Emily Dickinson), and so the shattered man had his purgation in— WAIT FOR IT—dear old Veteran Lines, right here in Pallavaram. He died in 1940, and his remains may be found, either in St Mary’s cemetery, or one of the older cemeteries in Madras. I just didn’t feel like pursuing the matter further.

Yes, records indicate that my paternal grandfather lived among these parts. Was there something mysterious that led me to Veteran Lines in 1986, more than 45 years after my grandpa passed away? I am sure my dad did not know that his father walked the same paths here in the Lines. My dad introduced me to the Lines, in the first place, way back then; so was it a homecoming, for him, without him having a clue regarding the antecedents? The ways of the world are surely indecipherable, and I’m sure I’ve had my share of baffling, arcane, stuff.

Many moons ago I wrote a spoof called “The Ghosts of Veteran Lines”. It was published in the magazine Anglos in the Wind. I, too, am one of those ghosts, mourning the loss of heritage and hope in this all-consuming, hectic, rat-race that is life nowadays. How was I to know that a ghost of my past wandered around here, pondering the same dilemmas? How was I to know that my dad was not even aware of those ghosts of the past?

Another curiosity, dear Reader. Both my grandfathers died in the same year: 1940. While grandpa (on my mother’s side) died—literally of a broken, grieving heart, my grandpa (on my father’s side) died, broken- hearted and bereft of human compassion (from all the aspects of his increasingly depressing and miserable life). Two hearts, differently broken, by very disturbing circumstances, in both cases. Coincidence? Don’t tell me you seriously believe that!

Mum began her career in 1940, too. So did my dad, in his battle against the forces of evil represented by the Kaiser. Mum was 20, dad 2 years older. As the eldest sibling, mum had to display tremendous grit, battling personal loss and the dissolution of everything her father represented. As for dad, he went to war, not knowing if any tears would be shed for him if he perished. But life and fate and faith played games with everyone involved. Dad came back, not to a hero’s welcome, but just scraping by, because he was one of those mechanics who serviced the greatest battle- tank in all of military history. His prowess probably helped him land a job on the Railways, and he served the biggest employer in the world until the day he retired.

Not “The Greatest Story Ever Told” is not over yet, dear Reader. Serving up the best for the last is as old as the Scriptures, so I will go with the tried and tested formula. I guess you can’t keep a “mystery” under wraps for all time.

I’ll close here, and try to unravel the intrigue in my next blog, next Friday. Until then, adios. I sincerely do not want to “go gentle into that good night”