Fall Of Heroes
Mohanachandran was my first hero. He was a couple of years senior to me, tall dark and well built. We had never talked before until one day he bumped against me in full speed. He was running with a toy-wheel, a stripped cycle rim steered with a stick while I was carrying rice from the ration-shop in my cane-basket. I fell down and the rice was strewn all over. Mohanachandran helped me salvage the rice. Then he asked me,
Would your mother mind?
I shook my head in negation.
My hero left the place in no time. In fact I was scared. My mother would blow her top if she knew that the rice is irretrievably lost. Sure enough, she didn’t take it kindly. I was beaten up with her both hands.
The next encounter with my hero was during the temple festival. Ottanthullal was being performed underneath a grand banyan tree. The audience consisted mainly of children and there was a beautiful girl sitting at a distance. Mohanachandran approached me with a specific request.
Have you seen that girl?
I nodded. She was in fact my school-leader.
Just throw a stone at her.
I found myself honoured, but I was a little hesitant too.
Come on, do it
My hero persisted. The small pebble was on the target. The girl was furious and Mohanachandran got immensely interested.
Come on, one more…
The girl’s father accosted me the next evening at the same venue. He caught hold of my hand and dragged me to a corner.
Did you throw stones at my daughter?
Er….No…
I wanted to tell the truth but couldn’t. I was scared.
Going “Mental”
That year we had a new teacher, Susy Sir. (Everybody, male or female was addressed as ‘Sir’.) She was young, unmarried and always pleasant. We liked her. Suddenly she stopped coming to school. We missed her terribly. Then one day I overheard my mother’s conversation,
Susy Sir has gone mental
“What does that mean?” I enquired.
That is. …someone is going mad
I was thoroughly confused. None of us could imagine our teacher as mad. We had seen lunatics who crossed the village once in a while,..unkempt hair…long beard…dirty rags and desperately needing a shower. Children followed them wherever they went and sometimes even threw stones at them.
How can Susy Sir be one among them? Impossible.
One day as my mother was preparing lunch Susy Sir abruptly dropped in. She was all smiles like a lighted sparkler. She talked to my mother about her long absence from work, rejoining duty and of the imminent marriage. She talked non-stop in a voice that resembled the ringing of Jal Tarang. She was very happy but my mother looked crestfallen and gloomy. I didn’t know why.
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| "No argument on this matter"-acrylic on canvas by Ramesh Chandra |
The Bus With A Nose
It was Rajaram, the bus. It had a nose-like front portion resembling that of a lorry. Behind the nose there were two cabins, one for the driver and the other for the passengers. VIPs and first-among-equals were accommodated in the driver’s cabin. Whenever I traveled with my father, I was given a seat near to the bus-driver. After placing me comfortably, my father would disappear for circulating among the crowds. He was a social worker and had many friends.
“Achah……Achah... (Father…father)…” I would call out. Obviously I felt nervous.
One day the driver jumped in and started the engine without even giving me a glance. I was not quite used to his ways.
“Achah……Achah...” I yelled at my peak. Suddenly Pankajakshi Amma, the Head Mistress of my school appeared in front of me. I had a sigh of relief.
See, your father doesn’t have any love left, but don’t worry, I shall take care of you.
I hanged my head in shame. As the bus got moving, my father turned up as if from nowhere, sat beside me in a rush and never said sorry.
Mid-day Blues
Times were really bad. The recession was having its rounds like a fire-eating dragon. Even the essential items were in short supply. The ration shop run by my father downed its shutters. There was nothing under the Public Distribution System to distribute. We had an inkling of the hard times ahead when we changed to a predominantly wheat based diet. We could afford rice only once a day. I had the first taste of poverty during those days. The saddest part of it was my reluctant entry into the mid-day meal scheme in my school supported by CARE, a US sponsored project. I was under the impression that it was below my dignity to sit on the floor with my poor schoolmates and wait for two morsels of Upma and a glass of milk. We were using lotus leaves in place of plates. The food was certainly not bad. But the thought that I was being counted as a commoner, poor as anybody else hurt me.
The Annual Rings
Every year we used to celebrate our lives twice. Miseries and deprivations were relegated to our backyard. We had new clothes and good food during these occasions. Onam came first as it was a harvest festival by the beginning of the spring season. People would come together in their respective tharavadus for the annual reunion. We had a rich relative who would invite all of us for food. Booze was also served which turned out to be a major draw among the males. The womenfolk were invariably busy in the kitchen. It was during one of those Onam days, they had the first glance at a pressure-cooker. The contraption failed to impress them. Nobody bothered to give it a second look.
We enjoyed the Onam ambience. The air was crystalline and flowers in full bloom. The village women, young and old, danced under the moonlit sky in a circle. Those who didn’t participate produced a sharp, high-pitched sound by rolling their tongues against the cheeks. Children would put on masks and change into their grandparent’s persona. It was their privilege to make digs at the elders. All jibes were well received and rewarded with money. Local performers would take rounds during the day visiting households enacting a skit. A couple of Chenda players provided the percussion support . The spoof was about an Englishman hunting down a tiger in the forest. The tiger would ‘lie in state’ until the troupe is paid adequately after the show. Afternoons were earmarked for the ubiquitous water sport- the Vallomkali. Specially made boats for the exclusive purpose of racing vied for honors while people gathered at the banks cheered their favourites. The more spirited among them jumped into the river and swarm across.
Roughly separated by six months, the temple festival was the next high point in our lives. It lasted for five days. The festival would be declared open when the poojari hoisted a flag atop the trunk of an arcanut tree. The tree itself was an offering to the deity and it would be brought to the temple in a procession accompanied by a percussion ensemble. All activities were dedicated to the Devi or Bhagavathi who was the never-ending source of strength for the villagers. The eternal yang. She was the primordial Mother who protected her siblings from all misfortunes. People unbundled their worries before her and sought her intervention in realizing a project. This could be employment, marriage, paying off debts, buying a cycle or whatever. They lit up oil lamps around the temple and in the sarpakkavu adjacent to it. The trees and plants were respected and treated in a plane almost on par with Gods.
Pulluvans – a tribe who made a living by singing songs eulogizing serpents were brought in to perform just for the occasion. They came in a three-member group, husband, wife and grandmother with their simple string instruments. The one for providing bass was assembled on the spot with an earthen pot at one end. As the festival progressed, the nights were so packed with programs that everybody brought home-made mattress to spread the children and the aged . A dance-drama based on Ramayana or Mahabharatha would be enacted on the stage. On some occasions it would be Kathaprasangam with the main artist holding the audience together for three hours with mime, songs and oratory. The backing vocals and music were provided a small group of three. The story could be a familiar love affair in the midst of social constraints which always moved the villagers. The programs continued till the wee hours of the morning. In the meantime, the men could visit the umpteen stalls put up at every nook and corner and loose all money in gambling. There were any number of joints serving tea and snacks and alcohol was available on request.
As I grew older, I mustered up enough courage and peeped through the thatched enclosure of the makeshift greenroom. The artists were changing inside. I couldn’t see a thing as I was nervous. What’s more, I was caught red handed by Gopi, the mike operator.
“You too have come of age, dear friend”, he said gleefully, “Now I shall ask your father to get you married.”
I was deflated.
As I grew further, I got a bit disinterested in the festivities. I preferred to watch the spectacle from a distance. I was standing at the boat-pier, away from the sights and sounds. The boat creaked, not very far. I waited. After some time, Malati emerged from it followed by a couple of her associates. She was a physically challenged person and unmarried. Always pleasant and friendly, she helped my mother in domestic chores once in a while.
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| M.Sasidharan - Untitled - acrylic on rice-paper |
I hid into the shadows. Fireworks had begun at the temple to mark the end of celebrations.
Ballet songs were still reverberating in my mind.
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