The Kattu-Kada-kattu granduncle

The obituary of the Kattu-kada-kattu granduncle the century old iconic telegraphic service that was stopped by the Government of India has been widely written all over the print and electronic media. So, one more would seem needless to the larger public. I have been seeing many a celebrity (and even lesser mortals) grabbing a piece of this moment of history (?*#$) by registering their tryst with the grand-old-man of the communication world. And, I felt strongly that I have a much greater privilege and in fact an indisputable right to tell the story of my four decade old relationship with KKK granduncle. For those who dont know (which I guess is the majority), my father was a passionate and committed postmaster and as a family we moved from town to town, living in the quarters attached to the post office. One common feature of all those dingy post offices was the little piece of iron attached to the bench that I came to know as a telegraphic machine. There might have been days when we didnt get to hear the lullabies of my mother (did she sing much of it?), but, the postal babies grew up to the constant sound of kattu -kada-kattu the machine made. KKK brings me volumes of memories of Appa. He was a consummate postal officer, who worked diligently, sincerely and passionately on a 7X24 basis to help people communicate with each other. I was personally convinced that the postal department paid him peanuts and didnt deserve such high quality service in return. He was hugely over qualified for the job, having done his B.A (Physics) in pre-independence days in the Govt. Arts College, Kumbakonam (which some called the Oxford of South India). He was a scholar in English and Sanskrit, widely read in a huge breadth of subjects and mastery in carnatic music and various forms of astrology. That he got a stroke in his early forties that permanently paralyzed his left side, did slow him down in many fronts, but, not his commitment to the cause of postal excellence. Well, let me use another opportunity to write more about him and get back to the story in hand. Appa was one of the great masters of the telegraphy. He spent six months in 1946 in Madras to go through rigorous telegraphic training. He cleared all levels of skills with top honors. He told me that he had a great time with the training in day time and kutcheris of legends most evenings. He picked up friends (some of them lifelong) in this period. Given his high skills, he was always in-charge of the telegraphic function, in addition to running all functions of a town post office. He was lightning fast in sending the long ones. He could spot the mistake a junior telegraphic clerk would make, even when he is working on something else. He would listen to the cracking sound of KKK even in the middle of the night and make my mother open the post office to receive an urgent telegram.

My own contact with the KKK came in a rather shocking way at an early age of ten. Given my fathers status as the CEO of the small office, I used to put my hand into every function of the postal system. And, I touched the piece of iron that has a pivot going and hitting the base of a metal and got a sharp electric shock. Thinking that I broke something, I scooted out of the office only to return late that evening. I was relieved to see the machine working the following day. My fascination for the machine grew by the day, making me watch / hear the messages being sent and received day in and day out. When I was 14, I picked up the Morse code sheet and tried my hand in telegraphy, often infuriating the clerk at the other end of the cable. And, when I was bored (which was a large part of my early life), I enjoyed putting my finger on the pivot to get those lovable shocks. The telegram was a vital piece of communication that brought good and sometimes, bad news to people, especially in small towns. Moreover, it made sure that postman was so much a part of the society, almost like a family member. His telegrams brought exam results, interview calls, arrival of (sometimes unwanted) guests, birth of babies and the most dreaded news of death. The small town postman not only delivered (often he needed to read the message out), but also was part of the joy or sorrow. There have been times when I have been pushed by Appa to deliver, in the absence of a postman, a telegram late in the night. Once, a lady broke down hearing that I have brought a telegram (vaguely remember it was a good news) and refused to touch it. It took some bit of selling skills (it all started there) to providentially deliver it to her and rush home. I have had received a few telegrams myself. The first was a telegram from NIT informing of my admission to the engineering course, I read it many times over. Another one was calling me for a meeting with Gopal Srinivasan to interview for TVSE. They had sent a letter to me in Delhi, where I was working, that never reached me. Finding that I did not turn up for the meeting, they sent a telegram and I can say, in many ways that changed my life. I would not have met my friends and business partners, but for that piece of telegram. On a hot afternoon in 1986, I got one that said Amma got a hemorrhage and in less than a week she left this world in great hurry. I still have that one framed up for memory.

They say, KKK is too old to cope and compete with the SMSs and emails in this fast moving world. They say, he is financially unviable and decided to lay him to rest. I find this argument heartless and even thoughtless. How can you judge someone who has been so much emotionally connected to the society, in mere financial terms? Isnt there a place for sentiments good and bad in this materialistic world? He may not be able to run as fast his junior heirs, yet, could we not find a corner room for him in the grand palace of communication. It gives me shivers to think that I too could possibly be evaluated for my usefulness and viability in my twilight years and may face the fate that my dear KKK granduncle did. My heart sinks at this thought. The world is cruel and takes refuge under the clichd expression change is the only constantI beg to disagree loudly, as KKK would chatter, anyone listening??

Ranga July 2013