My Friend Sriram

A Srinivas Rao    26^th September 2016

He would have been 54 today and would have been as cheerful as always, for neither misfortune nor tempest would dampen his optimism. “A person must have a cheerful disposition by nature or a disposition made cheerful by art and knowledge” remarked Nietzsche and Sriram was doubly so. Yet rather than listening to the gurgling brook of his voice over the phone, I am met with silence, four months since his untimely demise. I haven’t deleted his number though, not that he might call, but that I might wake up. I miss his infectious and disarming smile that would put even Medusa lower her guard. This is a reminiscence of a person who was close to me and was my best friend. I have wondered what if any we had in common, I believe it wasn’t much, yet we liked each other’s company and it has intrigued me as much as onlookers. I can’t describe him in eulogistic terms; though he had much that was worthy of applause. Probably what fascinated me were the contradictions which we ever so unconsciously gloss over as we make much of a false sense of consistency as a virtue.  Most of us if not all are inconsistent creatures, inconstant and shifting in our motivations, fears, desires and aspirations, it is ‘human all too human’. Consistency I think is a narrative strategy of the mind that possibly highlights, represses, and interpolates in retrospect, creating a convenient fiction of the self. At a distance from one’s own self one might see the range of protean characteristics that really animates each of us; though we crave for that indubitable, mysterious, unchanging essence which might well be a figment of imagination.

In many ways Sriram was a little boy within his large frame. The little one who refused to bet on his fresh stock of marbles stashing them away in his hideout or with his elder brother and earning the soubriquet “pudu gundu’; the youngster who would wear his heart on his sleeve for his girl (even at school) and years later sigh with poetic clichés from Keats, Shelly and Coleridge; the youth whose heart tugged when he read his mother’s ancient tattered accounts where she had carefully earmarked paisa from her impossible budget for an ice candy for him. Most people who knew him are reminded of his winsome smile, generous and warm spirit that would not hesitate to give if he was in a position to do so. His sense of equity and fair play was such that he was a good counsel and would speak well even of detractors, which I think he had none, with the same spirit. He was quick to forgive and I have no memory of him ever holding a grudge nor bearing ill will to any. He also had a sense of humour that was exceptional and endeared him to everyone and tinted with cheer many a darkening cloud. He was compassionate and kind and I recollect the day he called in excitement that he discovered at dawn an abandoned infant girl near his home, umbilical cord dangling, covered with ants. His family and he not only tended to her with great care and generously offered to adopt the infant with long fingers from the hospital who had nicknamed her “Chameli”, which alas did not come to pass.

It was not that he could not be exasperating. I would believe he had little patience for clear and rigorous argument, despite his remarkable intelligence, not that he could not see through its logic, just that belief prevailed just as easily and some things were just out of bounds for rational thought. But he always knew a good argument and assessed his partner’s knowledge well. He wasn’t really cut in any scholarly mould though he had a breadth of interests that were wide, as the Cauvery River with triplets of Sri Ranganatha in her womb, even when not too deep. His role in academia were not so much research or scholarship but served it even better as an administrator and in a leadership role that academics shy away from, often excusing themselves that academic entrepreneurship is a kind of oxymoron. He wore a bundle of quaint contradictions of being in some sense liberally left leaning and at times extreme right in the same breath. He wore his Brahminism with as much contradiction as A K Ramanujam’s father with science in one half of his brain and a smattering of religiosity, privilege and a dollop of the non-rational if not irrational on the other. I am not sure he believed in the Brahminical puffery and claimed descent from the hallowed lineage of an antiquated Bharadhwaja gotra, though he could not utter a decent line in Sanskrit. He elaborated the differences among the hierarchy of Tamil Brahmins about the superiority of the Vadamas as compared to the Iyers of the Chola desha; forget the Brahacharanam and Iyengars who in his reckoning of traditions weren’t ‘there’ yet. Yet he deeply admired the egalitarianism of liberal left and often remarked that they “had their heart in the right place”. What he would not agree with, he would be dismissive of as intellectualism which he identified with the far Left and their pious hypocrisy and often blamed me for being one. He would be passionate if not chauvinistic of the traditions of his tongue, of Sangam Tamil poetry, of Agananuru (an interiorized landscape of love) and Purananuru (of valour and war) of the literary styles, steeped in symbolism; of Tamil epic poetry of the romance of Kovalan and Madhavai of Silapaddikaram and Manimekhalai  of which he was an admirer; of the Veda (of which he had a sketchy idea, despite his emblazoned holy thread); lukewarm to the devotional literature of prabandhams and thevarams; and have an impossible faith in Ayurveda that would make even the Vaidyas shy. His espousal of Vedanta was I believe an Iyer fashion as he had not the patience to wade through its philosophical disquisition and see how Shankara could have borrowed from Nagarjuna’s Buddhism. Yet he could quote with élan which would make his listeners think him to be a pundit; for he had breadth in his reading that was rare. His spirituality was really rough-hewn from a mixture of devotion to the Maha Periaval the earlier Shankaracharya of Kanchi and Sri Ramana Maharshi (and led me to both) both who he held in great esteem. He adored the idea of Shiva who he believed held such contrarian principles all reconciled to a majestic unity in silence. His was a world shaped quaintly by Janakikantan, Kalki Krishnamurthy, Sujatha, (Kumudam, Tughlaq), Dickens, Hugo, Shelly Hardy, Bharathi (though not Kamban), Shandilyan all mixed like a vatalkuzhambu (a spicy heady Tamil concoction).

When I first met him fresh out of Engineering college, this streak of romanticism, literature and well read, well informed wit seemed so other worldly that I chased it as any other chimera of the mind that spoke of the ‘other’. He cared not for consistency and claimed like Emerson that it was the hobgoblin of little minds, which at times was just a cop out. That rustic charm of making a pongal of diverse strands of tradition with no necessity of reconciliation made him fascinating to argue with and at times provoke, for they were tied with just strings of belief, like most of us. He was the quintessential village boy of Malgudi days (though he nicknamed me Swamy), ensconced on a tree by the pond in Kaulapara village near Shornur in Palaghat, Kerala where his grandfather and many of his fellow Tamils lived, belonging neither entirely to Kerala nor Tamil Nadu and especially not further North where they were “darty, unculchured, naarth Indian fallows” (according to a common friend).  He poked fun at all other Indian languages and cultures and referred to my own Andhra background with the contemptuous epithet “Goulty” and went into paroxysms of laughter if one imitated their accents. He dreamt of the massive elephant of Kaulapara called Komban, the oracular shamans of Kerala, Velichapaadu who quaked with crooked swords with dishevelled hair let down their deep red robes, or the enormous and fright inducing costumes of the Theyyam;  and spoke of them with a reverence, I could only mock. He was fond of travel though he rarely did so with much leisure though compelled mostly by work, and I believe it was born of his boyhood years along railway lines that his father traversed on a daily basis at the tiny town of Villupuram where he had settled before finally migrating to Madras. He imagined traversing the Tamil landscapes thinais of (kurunji, mullai, marutham, neythal, pallai) mountain, forest, cropland, seashore and desert of the Sangam period, symbolic of a panoply of moods in love poetry possibly as a sixteen year old imagining himself to be Vatapikondan (Nrasimhavarman Pallava) or Arulmozhivarman (Raja Raja Chola) with a flaming sword. In one such travel his mother was anguished at his mischief when he like Quixote threw away her handbag with her tickets and money and keys out the running train. He was romantic at heart and incorrigibly so and it was dramatized with his own marriage (against his family’s wishes) to Jayashree who was his shadow through his life when both were just about twenty one; a rather unlikely love story in conservative Madras in those days, when he would bunk his AM Jain College, economics lectures to be with her and tramp the village city of Madras, munching ‘sundal’ by the Marina beach.  Those were the days he thought J Krishnamurthi was just another pulpit pounding holy man India could do without. Those were also the days he possibly romanticised the Janatha Vimukthi Perumana and the Tamil Eelam in Sri Lanka and later Prabhakaran’s LTTE and only fortuitous circumstance of marriage and common sense conspired to bring him to Bombay in search of his destiny. A decade later in 1993 he had his only child, the apple of his eye, Harshita to whom he would weave each night imaginary tales, now a consultant in Chicago, whose name was suggested by his students, a variant of their own heartthrob in class. He rose from really humble migrant beginnings from a pencil salesman to being CEO of his own firm and executive director of a business school he built with his own hands.

His taste in books was most remarkable and he had a taste for good literature and significantly influenced me in what I read. I would hear his endless tales of the greats of literature though curiously it was dominated by the Romantics and Victorians of the 19^th century English icons as Byron, Shelly, Coleridge (over Wordsworth), Dickens, Hardy and Hugo; overlooking the Modernists like Eliot and Woolfe and the empire of ‘theory’ that followed. It also seemed fortuitously shaped by his school teachers and a bookseller in Matunga who gave him a selection of his best literature collection in serendipitous bargains of second hand books. His reading also had much admiration for Nevil Shute and the significant mystery novels from Doyle, Christie, and even Sheldon, McLean, Archer, Follett etc. It was indeed eclectic if one forgave the leap of faith between the authors. The reading had a liberalising influence on him that made him wide in his sympathies and deep in his curiosities. He loved reading, often buying more books than he could read, and a habit that kept him shining like a new vengalapannai (brass pot) bought at Pongal. I often borrowed his books and some remain with me reminding me of his influence. When he left for the US he passed on his treasure chest to me, not that I immersed myself in such literature but held them in hope that I might. Also ranked among them were Jack Kerouac and his ‘Dharma Bums’ or Guevara’s ‘Motorcycle Diaries’ that he romanticised as leading the life of a vagabond, what in Tamil he styled himself “nadodi”; closer to what Bhupen Hazarika would have sang “ami ek Jajabor”; nevertheless he was far from leading such a life on wheels. We travelled at times together, we trekked, jumped into buses with no idea of destination, argued and fought, at times inebriated, circumabulate the hill at Arunachalam, sneaked into at midnight the ruins of the Hoyasaleswara temple at Halebidu yelling out aloud. He thrived on a good competitive game of cricket, football, hockey or any that caught his eye on TV when his daughter was distracted from Scooby Doo or Sponge Bob Square Pants. He did not find the time or inclination for physical exercise though many were the times he would be tempted to sneak out of office to watch a match and recount the proceedings with glee, even-handedly even if India was on the losing side, telling us how India “snatched defeat from the jaws of victory” or how Sachin’s batting was choreography on the lines of Don Bradman. His taste in films was less inspiring and was principally old Bollywood and his greats were Gurudutt, Balraj Sahani and Dev Anand in that order, not particularly cogent though steeped entirely in a romantic dye. Though his exposure to world cinema was limited he would discern a great film if he saw one; with a fondness for Depardieu, Kinsky, Deneuve, Ava Gardner, Marlon Brando, Robert Redford, Liz Taylor and Richard Burton. His taste in music unlike a Tam Brahm was not as well cultivated and could not tell Mohanam from Hindolam, though he did go to Kutcheris in the Carnatic season and endeavoured to listen. He loved and enjoyed old Bollywood music especially the romantic and sentimental songs of Mohammad Rafi and Lata Mangeshkar and when moved, he would link them with Shelly that ‘the sweetest of songs tell the saddest of tales’.  He spoke glowingly of TM Krishna who seemed iconoclastic, and disdainfully of Sudha Raghunathan not on virtuosity but possibly on popular opinion of the Chennai socialite circuit he had possibly insinuated into. His familiarity with Hindustani music was not particularly good, though he listened to it with an open mind; though he would not agree that I thought it to be better than Carnatic. He was however entirely a Tam Brahm in his food habits especially thayir sadam (curd rice), though he rebelliously ate meat in his youthful years; touchingly he shared his meals and drinks liberally (with me for years as the principal beneficiary). His tastes were however more Palaghati in desiring sadya with thoran, olan, kalan, washed down with pradhaman and other such exoticised vegetarian fare, though Jayashree was more eclectic in her cooking (to who remain indebted).

SP Jain Institute was his homestead where he served in more capacities than anyone I know, often humbly as factotum for Dr Shrikant; as consultant, researcher, and analyst, as programme director, as admissions in charge, as administration in charge, cost and expense controller, as trouble shooter, as executive assistant or even personal confidante.  His was an impeccable character, incorruptible and despite having the ear of his boss, never misused his proximity, even though some might add that he could have done more. It was with Dr Shrikant where he cut his teeth, honed his skills and shaped his perspective. His intelligence shone like quicksilver when solving mental calculations and logical conundrums, it was much above the rest. He was good with numbers and financial calculations and was not risk averse though some believe was less than prudent in his investments. Yet despite his wealth in later years, he remained frugal and modest, never forgetting his roots or where he came from, keeping intact the warmth with which he enveloped those he knew. He kept his own counsel and was self-reliant in all his major decisions and possibly had a strong sense of destiny. When working on large data in consulting assignments his was the work of analysis which was acute and thorough, though he cared less for synthesis than was desirable in putting together the big picture, for which of course there was the boss Dr MLS. His devotion to Dr Shrikant was understandable as he spent his formative years with him and learned at his feet all that was possibly worthy of emulation, something he carried with him even unto his great swim in the Great Lakes which was an almost faithful mimesis of what his master had done with the S P Jain institute (without the Tiruvalluvar and the motely deities on the manicured campus). His new masters I believe were principally the resource providers, well connected to business leaders, politicians and the bureaucracy, less the visionaries that some claim, and despite their well displayed accolades they piggybacked considerably on his extraordinary energy of the early years. I guess he too stalled just as his master had when it reached its limits in a few years with not more innovation but expansionism, more programmes, more campuses and more students. Yet for taking the Great Lakes Institute off the ground and keeping it aloft within a decade was considerable an achievement; for south of the Sahayadri, there was little advance of the Business school than ISB and IIM Bangalore, especially in the conservative Tamil heartland whose Brahminical diaspora had always sought an education beyond its sacred geography.

He was administratively competent and skilled though some of us complained of his not too great an attention to detail. He trusted people implicitly and more than he ought to and unto the last. I believe some betrayed his trust in significant ways, though he would never talk about it. His friendship knew no calculation and he befriended men and women of varying temperaments, some patently unsavoury. Neither caution nor admonition would deter his faith. His treatment of his employees was marked with dignity, respect and affection for which most of his staff were fiercely loyal. After working with Dr Shrikant, his new bosses would have been a diminuendo and in my estimate far removed in vision, perspective and insight on institution building, or education (possibly I might be prejudiced that they put up for sale, the equity in the institution to a less than salubrious buyer, a decision that seems less idealistic than their claims) but he kept his faith and loyalty amidst the critical drone from some of us on their quest for glory. It surprises me that SP Jain where he spent most of his career for over 18 years did not possibly think of even acknowledging his presence or rather absence at his demise (possibly citing an absence of a precedent) despite his established contribution. His own master Dr Shrikant had discarded his mortal coil just six months before, heartbroken with his ouster. Sriram had even tried reconciling me to the Institute but failed as the new management balked. I recollect him mentioning before his departure of plans to collaborate with them for an initiative at Bangalore. I imagine narrating to Sriram how the institute seems to be grappling with chimeras of identity that don’t seem agreeable; but then I am reminded how he would tell me to leave them to their own designs, if not fate.  Sriram’s trajectory in the final decade was meteoric, much of it well deserved; capped by an award of Outstanding Business School Director award in 2010 from AIMS. His exit from the shores of the Lakes seemed surprising and rather inexplicable, if not unfair; and was given the ‘Lifetime Achievement’ award by the school he ‘founded’; not without irony. He capped it with becoming a successful entrepreneur that is so counterintuitive for someone with an academic background; it was his swansong.  Many who knew him hope and wish that his venture Cloudcherry eminently succeeds and fulfils his wishes. I believe he had a premonition of his early departure, as he drove himself against ill health and time. He always was dismissive of any concern with which we indicated to him his faltering health. He was more ill than we fathomed.

After his migration to Chennai for the better part of a decade we really lost touch. I saw him less than I would have wished to, as he stopped sharing his itinerary when in Mumbai. He remained too busy to answer or return calls, and our meetings were strictly confined to formal home visits once or twice a year, presided by my mother or his family’s presence and not the blessed and loquacious “Old Monk”.  I did not really enjoy teaching at his new college despite his enthusiasm, and over a ten year horizon must have been there just thrice doing three different courses. Yet the joy of being with him was more than sufficient compensation. I had met his extended family a few times as also that of Jayashree and always wondered at how they seemed enviably thriving, bound by strings of affection. Few can bear the burden his parents do, with the loss of two children in quick succession at the peak of their lives. After he passed away I realise how little I really knew of him of his later years, from what I gather from stray conversations with others who worked with him. The hundreds who thronged to pay respects bears much consolation that he touched so many lives in ways that he never imagined with his love, and legacy. It embarrasses me to say he was my best friend, not that he isn’t, but that I don’t know if I knew him entirely (I know not who really did). He left a hole in my heart that will forever remain vacant, filled with memories of travels, conversations, arguments, drinking binges, affection and camaraderie and above all love. He was this amazing bundle of contradictions that only he could bear impress to, served up with such panache that made him fascinating at all times and as a man for all seasons. “He dies young, who the gods love” cries the Greek chorus possibly in a Tamil lamentation in Oppari style. He is I believe at the holy hill of Arunachala, the axis mundi of the Tamil world, if not among the crows i feed in this dark fortnight of Bhadrapada, as the Manes. He is irreplaceable and at least to me privately in my sparsely populated world, I believe the world is the poorer with his absence and inconsolably quiet. How much more his family must feel so.