HARI TATYA PDF

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Genealogy for Hari Tatya kharait (deceased) family tree on Geni, with over million profiles of ancestors and living relatives. Hari Tatya is on Facebook. Join Facebook to connect with Hari Tatya and others you may know. Facebook gives people the power to share and makes the world. Jog’s elder brother Balaji Naik was the gomashta of a leading Malwa sahukar, Hari Pant Jog. The head office of Hari Pant’s firm was at Maheswar. Tatya Jog.

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It’s been a couple of years since I translated anything by PuLa. While considering different options about what to translate next, Hari Tatya stood out as a particular appealing candidate. He is so universally identifiable. Hari Tatya – the eccentric but genial family friend with one foot firmly in the distant past that all kids have encountered growing up.

Your Hari Tatya might not have been interested in history. Maybe he was into politics, or science, or even astrology.

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But that does not take away from the HariTatyaness of all Hari Tatyas. Usual caveats apply – I cannot even pretend to be a good enough translator to keep most of PuLa’s magic intact.

But even a fraction of the essence of the character sketch should make it readable. And I have changed or omitted some references to make the essay accessible. And used contemporary phrases and expressions. A couple of days ago, I heard someone use the phrase “irrefutable proof”, and I was suddenly reminded of Hari Tatya.

I had heard him say “I have irrefutable proof of this!! So had everyone else who knew him. So much so, that my grandma’s nickname for Hari Tatya was “Mr. There was nothing surprising about his penchant for that phrase, because he is always making claims that can’t be justified without irrefutable proof.

The guy refuses to inhabit the present. And describes the past as if he can see it unfolding in front of his eyes. He’s been like that for as long as I can remember. Obviously, Attya can’t remember the first time Ttya saw him. But I am sure he remembers it vividly. How can you not remember?

It was ahri Saturday. Late in the afternoon. The remarkable thing about Hari Tatya was how informally he addressed everyone, be they younger or older than him. He is the only person Tayya ever knew who spoke to my generally feared and respected grandpa like an old chum. Of course, we knew him as grandpa’s friend. But he was obviously several years hxri.

Because he generally treated grandpa with respect and veneration. In his own way. He never used the respectful pronoun as is the norm when speaking to elders in India. Maybe because grandpa gave him some pocket money to tide him over every month. And often provided him tztya seed funding for his latest entrepreneurial venture.

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No one in the family can remember exactly when this tarya named Hari Tatya became a part of our extended household. My grandfather was a very generous man, and a friend to anyone who tried to be his friend. So it was difficult to predict exactly how many people he’d bring home any given evening to have dinner with the family. Of course, in those days of the big joint family, the occasional dinner guest or two didn’t really bother those minding the kitchen. In those days, rice, dal, and flour for a meal were hatya not by cupfuls, but by fistfuls.

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The dinner table was populated by not just immediate family, but also uncles, aunts, nephews, nieces, and cousins once, twice, several times removed. There was also the occasional son or daughter of a family friend studying in the city, in addition to ABC’s brother-in-law and XYZ’s neighbor’s son-in-law.

So at pretty much any meal, there were always a few unexpected guests present. I don’t recall many evenings when our joint family of 12 had less than 25 plates laid out for dinner. My grandma seemed to me like Annapoorna the goddess of nourishment reincarnated.

Her hands were blessed with some magical touch that imparted rich flavor even on a glass of water she served. So you can imagine how tasty and welcoming any dinner table she laid out was. Hari Tatya joined our family by turning up at one hri dinner table. After that, he kept ttya up. He was there with us at joyous occasions. He was with us at sad moments.

But all those years, even as I grew up and looked different every year, Hari Tatya always looked the same. A simple cotton shirt, modest tqtya, and a rarely-washed Gandhi cap.

We kids referred to his style of wearing the cap as “Compass Fashion”. If his nose pointed east, then the two ends of his cap seemed to align with the North-South axis, like a compass needle.

Tafya never had any idea what Hari Tatya did for a living. I only knew that grandpa kept helping him start some “promising new business” every few months. Grandpa had always had a dream of owning and running his own business. But his stable and respected position in society, the steady income his job brought him, and the large family depending on that income, made taking any big risks all but impossible. So he lived his entrepreneurial dream vicariously through Hari Tatya by funding Hari Tatya’s ambitious albeit modestly scaled business ideas.

I remember one monsoon season when grandpa gave Hari Tatya money to start a business selling umbrellas. For the next couple of years, everyone in the family got a new umbrella for free in the first week of June.

But I doubt Hari Tatya’s umbrella business was profitable any longer than an umbrella mushroom’s lifespan. It seemed like grandpa was more devoted to making the umbrella business succeed. I remember he would come home from work in the evening every day and hand Hari Tatya a sheet of paper, “Here are orders for some umbrellas.

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Be sure to deliver them to these addresses right away. We kids usually didn’t move a muscle for anyone else. We’d disappear if anyone else tried to give us a chore. But for Hari Tatya, we didn’t mind looking ridiculous walking the streets with those umbrellas on our heads.

We loved his company so much, we’d have walked on coals with umbrellas on our heads if he had asked us to. Hari Tatya told us absorbing stories and taught us fascinating poems and shlokas as we accompanied him.

That too at the top of his voice while walking on the street without any regard to passers by. I remember an anecdote from one of our umbrella sorties. We were all walking with those umbrellas stacked on our heads. Hari Tatya told us to put the umbrellas down, and join him on a stone bench on a street square, and regaled us with the story of Sant Ramdas.

He had a truly unique narrative style. Because no matter how far back in the past the event he was narrating had occurred, he effortlessly injected himself into the proceedings. The way he recounted those stories convinced us that he had seen it all unfold in front of his eyes. He would run away and hide somewhere. We’d keep searching, keep seeking, but couldn’t find him! His mother would ask us – have you seen my little Narayan anywhere?

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We’d say, sorry ma’am, we have no idea. Poor woman, she’d keep looking for him all over the village. The village chief had the habit of pouncing on any opportunity to be arrogant. He said – Narayan? There are hundreds of Narayans in this village! Mother said – Please help me, sir. Have you seen him? There were tears in her eyes. And with good reason. Tell me Purushottam, if you txtya missing some day. And your mother is looking for you everywhere.

Won’t she tear up? Then we’d start walking again to make sure the umbrellas were delivered on time. But as our hands held the umbrellas on our heads, our shirt sleeves would be busy wiping our tearful eyes as Hari Tatya continued with Sant Ramdas a. Fair good-looking little boy. I tell you guys, this Narayan looked so beautiful as a child.

Plus he’d just had his threading ceremony, and wore a pearl earring. She was aghast – did those Muslim invaders kidnap him to convert him to Islam??? Maybe it’s because of these expletives he let loose so readily, but to our pre-pubescent minds, Hari Tatya seemed like the epitome of valor and courage. And soon it ratya afternoon.