Konkani Kesari

The following article is meant to encourage the younger generation to research and write about their own family history. As families become more diverse and dispersed all over the planet, it becomes even more important that children (and even adults) know about their ancestors.

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A Tribute to My Role Models by Nimmu Bangalore (nee Koppikar)

Every day should be Mothers’ Day and Fathers’ Day. This Mothers’ Day (May 11), I started to pen some thoughts regarding my parents (Dr. Vasant R. and Mrs. Uma Koppikar), but life intruded and I did not complete my piece to honor them. One awful summer in 1978, we were devastated by my father’s fatal heart attack on July 2. Within a couple of months (Sept. 3) my mother lost her brave fight against leukemia. Doubly mourning, numb with shock, we could barely function. All 5 sisters (I am the second) consoled each other, drew strength from our spouses, and managed to live through bereavement. Sadly, the third of the daughters, Padmini Rao, succumbed to multiple myeloma in Sept. 2006. This article is dedicated to her memory, with thanks to her husband, B. Udayanand Rao for being such a dedicated care-giver.

In the preface to “Manache Shloka” (24 Feb. 2000), His Holiness Sadyojat Shankarashram Swamiji writes “Our Parama Guru, Swami Anandashram used to speak of three Shankars in our community. They were Justice K. Shankarnarayan Rao, HSR (H Shankar Rau) and A.V. Shankar Rao.” I am proud to call the first-named Shankar my maternal grandfather. He bequeathed to us a precious legacy of caring and sharing which we hope to pass on to future generations. My parents were karma-yogis and are my role models. They touched many lives and helped make this world a better place. Even after 30 years, people remember my parents and speak respectfully of them. They express gratitude for their kindnesses: e.g., being surrogate parents to homesick young brides, assisting families over rough patches, lending a helping hand in financial crises, and simply being there when needed. All this was done quietly, unobtrusively, and with no strings attached. We grew up surrounded by warmth and affection, compassion for the less fortunate, and kindness and consideration for all. Our household was the opposite of the “himTee” (miserly, penny-pinching) reputation attached to Koppikars.  Indeed my parents were generous almost to a fault. Hardly a day went by when they were no guests. Doors were open and no alms-seekers were turned away. Midway between Mumbai/Pune and southern destinations such as Shirali, Mangalore, Bangalore, travelers would halt in Belgaum and were treated as part of the family. If there were people travelling with no stops, my mother brought tiffin carriers full of home-made food to them. Rather than purchasing a railway platform ticket each time, she would buy a season pass for convenience. On the off chance that someone may come in on a late bus etc., extra food was put aside. She followed the tradition of her parents’ home (nicknamed “Liberty Hall”) where many young men from smaller places lived to complete their education, and generosity was the byword. My paternal grandparents also created a haven. A well-known ophthalmic surgeon, Dr. Ramdas Koppikar was also a reputed dentist, and patented and manufactured affordable medicines.

My parents’ house was “KuLaar” (Parents’ place) for everybody, regardless of gender or age. Entire families would come over if one person had eye surgery. My father was the official opthalmologist to our revered Swamijis. Rich and poor alike were treated with equal care. Patients with modest incomes sometimes voluntarily paid in kind. He was one of the few to treat inmates of the missionary leper colony. He set up one of the first eye banks in that part of the world and participated in the Lions Club, cooperating in vaccination drives, fundraisers, eyeglasses for the needy, etc. Even after death he kept on giving the gift of sight via organ donation. His corneas have been successfully implanted in 2 individuals.

My mother was his partner in all ways, from helping him at his clinic to working side-by-side for deserving causes. She taught Hindi to poor children, found homes for neglected kids, helped unwed mothers, and volunteered for the Red Cross. Many a bride was given a mangal-sutra and a sari for her wedding if the parents could not afford these marriage must-haves. It was a warm and jolly household, filled with laughter, brimming with art projects in various stages of completion, observation of festivals, etc. Along with good food and fragrant filter coffee, classical music and dancing, books in various languages, Winsor and Newton paints, easels, beads, embroidery hoops and colorful yarns were part and parcel of our lives. Encouraging our hobbies, tolerant and non-judgmental, forgiving our childish transgressions, my mother let each of us pursue our interests in our own fashion with no pressures. She was ahead of her time and was a true feminist. The best advice she gave us was that we should be self-sufficient, see the bright side of everything, that every individual has something they excel at and can share, and that we should walk in another’s shoes before criticizing.

We grew up believing that beauty is skin-deep and actions speak louder than words. “Handsome is as handsome does” is a motto we still strive to live by. Though he brought us up with firm discipline, my father advised us not to take ourselves too seriously and find humor in everyday situations. “Even if everyone around you is goofing off, do your work diligently and do the right thing. Remember good actions as well as bad ones have consequences, so behave accordingly.” We got an education for life, one which no school or university can ever offer. They taught us by example as well as precept. I can never forget how, even during her terminal illness, my mother treated the visiting Ranisahebs of Kurundwad and Sawantwadi with the same courtesy as the humble “bhaajiwalis” (vegetable sellers) whose produce she bought. Nor can I forget how, on the heels of my marriage expenses, my father emptied out his savings account so I could join my husband in the U.S. after the rupee was devalued and my own tiny savings as a college lecturer got swallowed up. These were lessons in grace under fire.

My father was born in Karwar. Educated in Karwar, Dharwar, Mumbai and London, he got married to K[undapur] Uma Rao. After a distinguished career in the Indian Army Medical Corps, he worked for the government touring seven districts with a mobile unit. He settled down in Belgaum and made a name for himself in his profession as well as social work. Born in Shimoga, brought up in Bangalore, my mother married at the tender age of 14. She was yanked away from her loving home and parents (K. Shakarrnarayan and Mrs. K. Shyambhavi Rao). The sheltered teenage bride had to cope with the vagaries of being an Army wife. Together my parents accomplished the tough job of bringing up 5 daughters, educating them, finding husbands for each and marrying them off. My father used to joke that they only got the “Pancha kanya” portion of the traditional marriage blessing and ignored the “Ashta-putra” part! (After a Hindu wedding, the priest blesses the newlyweds and prays that they will have healthy kids: 8 sons and 5 daughters and have a happy married life) Though they had no sons, they gained 5 great sons-in-law. Today, scattered over 3 continents, they have 9 accomplished grandchildren and 6 great-grandchildren.

My second son (Dr. Samir Bangalore) met and married a brilliant corporate lawyer, Sheila, granddaughter of my father’s friend and fellow ophthalmic surgeon, Dr. (M.) Ramanath Bhandari. Among all the eligible matches, he chose this gem of a young woman to join our family. What an amazing coincidence!

I thank God for this and all His Blessings. If we can pass on even a minuscule portion of the values they brought us up with, we will truly honor the memory of my parents. May their souls rest in peace!

Filed under: Family, Karnataka, Konkani Tagged: | Belgaum, Koppikar, Swami