TEXT BY NAVDHA MALHOTRA
PHOTOGRAPHS BY AANCHAL MALHOTRA
New Delhi, India
“Born on tika day (the day when Hindu mythological hero Shri Ram Chandra was coronated after the exile of 14 years), my parents chose to call me Tilak Raj. Being the first male child, they were quite naturally happy about it. In this land of Hindus, a son is not only a material asset but a spiritual one to extend the lineage and to present ceremonial offerings to the departed souls of the ancestors.”
This is an excerpt from a journal entry written by my paternal grandfather, Tilak Raj Malhotra. I have known about them for quite a few years now. It was probably in 2017 while writing an earlier piece about my grandfather’s briefcase for the Museum that I really understood what they were.
Born on 9 November, 1924 in Bhalwal, Pakistan, my grandfather worked as a government officer in the Department of Industries and Labour and retired as Joint Chief Labour Commissioner in the Ministry of Labour. He was a man of avid interests as demonstrated by him pursuing a Master of Arts in Economics, a Bachelor of Laws, a Diploma in Social Work, reading philosophy and practicing meditation on the side.
His journal entries span from December 1949 to December 1982. Most are written at midnight of the 31st of each year. Some pause and are continued over the next few days. While a few are written with pencil, most are in blue and black ink, and revisions are evident in different colors. They are not in any notebook but a collection of loose sheets, bunched together with staples or all pins, with some written on his official letterheads. Over the years, I can see his handwriting change and I wonder if it has to do with the onset of his Parkinson’s disease. Early entries feature large, slanted script, while later ones are markedly smaller, almost unrecognizable. The unruled sheets generally display straight lines, with a single 1976 entry sloping downwards, perhaps reflecting that year’s events. The aged papers are yellow, torn and show ink-bleed through. Considering the entries are more than 70 years old, they need to be handled delicately. Most are in pretty decent condition with only one or two torn apart. They are usually encased in a plastic folder and kept inside his old briefcase. I am not sure if we found them like that or they were arranged like that by another family member.
Reading these feels like an intrusion to me, given their deeply personal nature and my lack of explicit permission. Yet, years ago, I resolved to document them on this Archive. Not only to preserve them for future generations but also to capture a unique historical perspective – insights into a newly independent India, rebuilding one’s life after Partition, labour disputes between 1950s-70s, the 1963 Chinese attack on the Himalayas and his desire to put on the uniform and handle a gun, and the birth of Bangladesh. “By all standards, it has been an eventful and rewarding year for me, India and Indira (the Prime Minister- a Scorpio). It has seen emergence of a new country of Bangla Desh on the eastern horizon. To people of Bangla Desh, the year was most cruel. Although one of fulfillment, full of sweat and tears yet with a silver lining of hope- it appears their miseries and woes have come to an end once and for all. Sonar Bangla Desh will be really ‘sonar’ now onwards.” 100 minutes to 1972
I asked my aunt and father if I could share these online, while resolving to exclude the more intimate details. The process hasn’t been easy. Each rereading evokes a range of feelings: tears, smiles, anger, and overwhelming sadness that I never truly knew him. My grandfather was an extremely articulate and well-read man. This is obvious in the manner he writes. He comes across as emotional, often writing things on a whim and then reflecting on them the next year, expressing regret and changing his mind. This makes me smile. It almost makes him seem more real and more human- because isn’t that what we all do? Learn and evolve? He documents occurrences of the years gone by, deaths of close family and friends, new unions being formed, career milestones and everyday frustrations.
Through these, I learn about the family’s move to Chennai and a lovely day spent at the beach. “The visit to the sea on 10th October 1965 was a rewarding experience as it happened to be a near full moon day but all the same washing away of Bitu’s shoes by the first wave was an unfortunate portent. Surprisingly enough, Sunanda’s one chappal which was also carried away was recovered and brought back.”
I learn that his work took him to Mumbai, Asansol and Bokaro; And that in the year 1960 he finished writing a book, “This was also the year of my completion (so far as I am concerned) of the venture in book writing. The manuscript of ‘Worker Participation in Management’ was completed and approved by the Ministry of labour and submitted to MP Orient Longmans for publication.
The entries offer glimpses into other family members. I learn about my grandmother’s stoicism, marital compromises, and grief over the loss of their son at 13. I read about the birth of my aunt and my father, their education journeys and their marriages being fixed. He recounts his first experience of drinking whisky in the year 1965, and how one bottle amongst 12 people would hardly soar the ‘spirit of his high’.
I am in awe of how matter of factly he writes his deepest fears and happiest memories, casually referring to life’s ups and downs as credits and debits. His strong sense of duty, evident in his accounts of caring for siblings and arranging their marriages, is striking. He writes about the meaning of life and mortality a lot, more than any 51 year old should. Most entries are contemplative, enquiring into achieving one’s goals. “All of us are to go- sooner or later. This fact is too obvious yet the needs of this body- physical and mental- are so strong that they overshadow our thinking of soul.” – 3rd January, 1976
It is through these that I learn that his first attack of epilepsy-parkinsons occurred in March 1977, about his enquiries into Hinduism and later on finding peace and solace at the Gurudwara and that received six promotions and did ten different placements during his career. I learn that his love for the country came from possibly reading Rajput stories and about Napoleon’s life during his childhood and the habit of regularly studying the newspaper made him politically conscious. “The idea of gaining historic importance, to be associated with the historic events has been very alluring to all men and so it has been with me. To have lived in the present times but not taken part in it would have pained me for all times to come. Here was an opportunity to be associated with the past and I did not let it go.”
My grandfather passed away in Delhi on 11th March 1999. As I read the last entry dated December 1982, I wonder if he was preparing for death. His words are heartbreaking. “Another year is going by. I am approaching the end of my sojourn on this earth. My body will definitely dissolve itself but what will happen to my soul is not known. In fact the remaining years are likely to be the worst period physically- I must mentally prepare for the same. That way lies salvation. God has taken away partly my power of speech, affected my writing and diluted my will. I had expected to read and write extensively after my retirement but God has willed it otherwise.” – 31st December, 1982
I’m intrigued by his dedication to yearly entries. Was it discipline or a deeper motivation? I wonder if he wrote for himself or a future audience. Did he ever think that anyone would find them, let alone his grandchild? Reading his words is confronting but also fills me with gratitude. As someone who didn’t truly know him and must now piece together his life, and in turn, my own, through memories, his written entries offer a unique opportunity to understand him through his own words.
They reveal a complex man- one who was intelligent, vulnerable, ambitious and had a quiet determination to live a meaningful life. The entries are a poignant reminder that even the most ordinary lives are extraordinary when viewed through the lens of time.