The Silver Tea Set

A little family history I penned quite a few years ago, when I first heard it from my mother.

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My maternal grandmother’s father was an excise officer. This meant that he would go around to all the coconut and toddy plantations and check up on how much toddy had been extracted from the trees and how much had been sold and, of course, attend to the all important job of collecting the taxes. He was paid by the British in the large one hundred rupee note of those days (“Bigger than a postcard” vowed my mum) and actual gold coins. All his savings (the notes and coins) were in a box, the key of which hung around his wife’s neck.

My grandmother was married, at the hardened age of sixteen! She was chosen as the most suitable bride because of her lovely straight black hair, and fair complexion, her education upto standard 7 at the famous Vidyodaya High School and her violin playing skills (!) though her family was not as affluent. The horoscopes had matched and indicated that she would mother several children (eventually she had 7 children, the youngest being my mum).

The groom was the youngest of eight of an orthodox and select family, devout devotees (as my mum says) of the Lord of the Seven Hills of Thirumala, Venkateshwara. This family had the exclusive right of having their family name inscribed on one of the steps of Thirumala and also the honour of being swayamacharya purushas.

The moderate seeru varisai (dowry, in other words) for her wedding included odiyanam (waist band), wanki (arm band), kasi malai (coin chain), rettai vadam chengali (chain with two strings), ezukal vaira thodu (diamond earrings with 7 stones), raakudi (head ornament), kutthu velaku (silver lamps), kodam (large pot), thattu (plate), chombu (small pot for drinking water), and the puja items - pancha pathiram, shesa sayanam and others. Her father, who mixed often with the British, had a novel addition to make to all the silverware made for her marriage – he ordered a silver tea set to be made, too.

The silver tea set – it had a tray, six cups, six saucers, six tea spoons, a sugar bowl, a teapot and a milk jug, all made out of pure silver, half a centimetre thick, with no engravings save a double line on the rims (to show off its gleaming beauty). It was exquisitely English, the best that could be got in 1937. Each individual piece was wrapped away yellow tissue paper, double layered to make sure that the silver would not tarnish.

But this story has a twist of tragedy. While the fear of the Second World War loomed large, the young bride’s father died with the marriage a few months away.  His unexpected death complicated matters. The box of savings was opened more frequently, for my great grandmother could not stand the thought of debt. At the time of the marriage, my grandmother received all the pieces of her seeru varisai – except the silver tea set, whose value equalled all the rest put together. Her mother realised the orthodox family of the groom would not mind the absence of a tea set as much as they would mind any other missing item, and so it was sacrificed.

About twenty years later, both mother and daughter had gone their separate ways. My grandmother was now in Bangalore, well settled with a large family of her own – which included not only children but cows, innumerable dogs, and many more relatives (as well as the sparrows, who had a nest in the middle hall and chirped cheerily all day long). Her husband had the best roses, the best cows and the best dogs, which won all the shows. He also had the most gleaming Ambassador car in town.

Great grandmother indicated a desire to visit her daughter and son in law, and the brood of children. This was conveyed on a nondescript postcard costing 10 paise, written by her eldest son in impeccable English. In Bangalore, the card was conquered by the son of the house, who raced around declaring ‘Patiamma is coming!’ She arrived by train from Chennai, and was met at the Cantonment station by her son in law, as instructed by the postcard, though Bangalore City Station was barely five minutes away from the house.

She was a short lady, very fair, with hair so white that it looked bleached. In dress, she had a penchant for white blouses, and always wore the traditional nine yard sari. Her only luggage consisted of one small trunk, a small Rexene pillow, and a black bag consisting of food stuffs such as adursam, home made biscuits which rivalled the ones in the bakery, and the inevitable jar of avakkai pickle.

She was treated royally at her daughter’s house – she was given her own place to cook, for she was very orthodox, water was served to her in a silver tumbler and she reserved a small place in the back hall where she slept using only her Rexene pillow and a wet towel. After a refreshing sleep, she awoke precisely at three thirty, drank her coffee and called her daughter. Opening her trunk, she took out the only remaining piece of the tea set – a silver milk jug – and handed it to her daughter. Her daughter received it and found an original use for it.

Devotees of the Lord Venkateshwara saved up all their offerings to the hundi in their houses. The usual receptacle was a navy blue string cloth bag, which could be obtained at Thirupathi. This particular one was adorned with tiny yellow dots. These coin collections were deposited in the main hundi when they visited Thirupathi. My grandmother stuffed the little purse into the milk jug and from then on all offerings went into that little silver milk jug, which had pride of place in a wall cupboard along with all the silverware of the family. The ‘modern’ Godrej almirah was pushed into place against the wall cupboard and the silver milk jug was locked away from the eyes of the world.