Kizhekepat Krishna Menon who lived over a century ago, during the middle of the 19th century. He is still remembered with reverence and awe by the family members. Here is a glimpse of the man he was.
Once the young, yet unlettered boy, Krishnan, happened to accompany his older brother Raman Menon to see the King of Travancore. Raman Menon used to be in the payroll of the King keeping accounts for the Maharaja.
When the King saw the boy, he at once recognized a rare sparkle in the little fellow that he ordered that he be sent to school – all expenses to be met by the Kingdom!
Krishnan passed the school exams with flying colours and went on to became a man who changed the destiny of the entire family. He competed ably with British judicial officers to become, it is said, the first Indian judge in the then Madras Province.
Krishna Menon must have been a person who promoted art and artists. Once the celebrated artist, Ravi Varma, was returning from Mukambika temple in Dakshina Kannada after seeking the Goddess’s intermediation on whether he should become a professional artiste or not. On his way back to Thiruvanantapuram, the artist returned via Calicut (Kozhikode) and met Krishna Menon, who himself was a devotee of the great Goddess. Menon commissioned the artist to do a family portrait; something like a four feet by three feet oil from what it looks today. There is recorded evidence that this was Ravi Varma’s first commercial work.
Ravi Varma was, of course, an imaginative man. The portrait he painted had one embellishment that was not there in reality – an additional gold necklace over Mrs. Menon's beautiful neck. Menon wouldn’t say a word. He understood what it meant for the dreamer-artist to take that kind of liberty. But he was not be outwitted. Much later in life, Menon got a necklace for his wife – an exact relica of the one that the artiste had faked!
Saturday, June 09, 2007
My Father, My Hero
It was only in adult life that I had come to understand that certain addresses were considered more prestigious than others. But as a young boy I knew that certain names were more prestigious than others and foremost among them was his, KPS Menon.
His colleagues in the Police Service called him KPS. Those vintage friends still call him KPS. When their infirm voices ask over the phone for KPS, their digital voice, carried aseptically over fibre optic cables, belies the seriousness his name carried in the days of yore. I remember, to me as a boy it meant a no-nonsense reserve, dignity, discipline and courage.
What must have his name represented in his earlier years? A die-hard athlete? A stoic friend? I don’t know. Much later in his life, in a lighter moment, he narrated to me how he was described; the year 1942, “Who’s Who” in Maharaja’s College Magazine.
“Left-in of the team, clever at his passes, powerful shots, never mind the direction, philosopher of the team”
I asked mother whether she had heard of this description. Never. Never had he mentioned this to her in their fifty years of companionship.
Only in adult life did I understand the depth of his silence and unruffled stoicism. Earlier, in my boyhood, his manliness had different associations and symbols, …and I too liked to carry them. I had a cane with which I would march up and down the verandah of our police quarters like a soldier imitating his actions at important national day parades. Other days I longed to have my toes have the same kind of corn that he had over both his small toes after years of wearing heavy boots! I still recall many occasions returning home in the evening with my father, mother and sisters, removing my shoes and socks in a hurry, and looking for that thick dark skin over my tender toes!
Nearly a year after I wrote this, on 21st November 2005, my father passed away. He had just completed his 89th birthday in October when we had modestly celebrated his birthday. On the morning of his death he had shown breathing discomfort and was rushed to the hospital. He was put on a ventilator and it seemed as if he had regained his unfailing composure. Despite all the medical efforts his pulse started ebbing, and by late noon, he had bid us the final adieu. As usual, fortitude and dignity shone on his face… even later, until his face was covered, amidst chants, to be taken away for offer to that fierce cleanser of all, agni.
His colleagues in the Police Service called him KPS. Those vintage friends still call him KPS. When their infirm voices ask over the phone for KPS, their digital voice, carried aseptically over fibre optic cables, belies the seriousness his name carried in the days of yore. I remember, to me as a boy it meant a no-nonsense reserve, dignity, discipline and courage.
What must have his name represented in his earlier years? A die-hard athlete? A stoic friend? I don’t know. Much later in his life, in a lighter moment, he narrated to me how he was described; the year 1942, “Who’s Who” in Maharaja’s College Magazine.
“Left-in of the team, clever at his passes, powerful shots, never mind the direction, philosopher of the team”
I asked mother whether she had heard of this description. Never. Never had he mentioned this to her in their fifty years of companionship.
Only in adult life did I understand the depth of his silence and unruffled stoicism. Earlier, in my boyhood, his manliness had different associations and symbols, …and I too liked to carry them. I had a cane with which I would march up and down the verandah of our police quarters like a soldier imitating his actions at important national day parades. Other days I longed to have my toes have the same kind of corn that he had over both his small toes after years of wearing heavy boots! I still recall many occasions returning home in the evening with my father, mother and sisters, removing my shoes and socks in a hurry, and looking for that thick dark skin over my tender toes!
Nearly a year after I wrote this, on 21st November 2005, my father passed away. He had just completed his 89th birthday in October when we had modestly celebrated his birthday. On the morning of his death he had shown breathing discomfort and was rushed to the hospital. He was put on a ventilator and it seemed as if he had regained his unfailing composure. Despite all the medical efforts his pulse started ebbing, and by late noon, he had bid us the final adieu. As usual, fortitude and dignity shone on his face… even later, until his face was covered, amidst chants, to be taken away for offer to that fierce cleanser of all, agni.
