Travels to Town
Catching a bus was too much of a bother for us. We had to cross canals and innumerable bridges spanned only by tree-trunks to reach the nearest bus stop. On the other hand, getting into a motorized boat was relatively easy. There was a boat jetty by the bend in the river, not very far from our house. The boat service which always ran behind time by several hours connected the two towns, Kollam and Alappuzha, hundred kilometres apart. The sound of the engine through the quiet of the village in the night was a lullaby in itself. It was the time when I was slipping into slumber after the prayers, studies and food. The reverberation reassured me like my mother’s lap.
We travelled to the nearest town Alappuzha whenever a villager was admitted to the district hospital. Or on summons from the relatives settled there. I spent a couple of days in the town with my rich cousins during the summer vacation. I felt entrapped as there was a ban in force which prevented us from playing outside. Several children were already playing in the open making boats out of empty cigarette cases and floating it on rainwater. I went on to make a tiny road on the verandah of the house and plied firewood log as bus.
“Athoo…” the lady of the house called out for me in her voice resembling a tuned harmonium. She reprimanded me softly. Afterall, I was not supposed to make her house dirty. Still, I enjoyed the high points of the stay like taking bath under the shower and sipping cool-drink with a straw. The extremely repulsive experience was of using the latrine. I was already given detailed instructions. But the stench was unbearable. A container was kept beneath to collect the human waste. There did arrive a man to collect the night soil and nobody talked to him. The servant collected a bucketful of water from the well and poured it over those despised hands.
During weekend, a family visited us. They came in a huge, black car beaming with joy and intermittently breaking into laughter. The feelings were reciprocated in equal measures. It appeared to me as a strange kind of behaviour. I was not introduced to the visitors and I watched them awestruck.
For All We Know
I was in the fifth standard and my friend Shaji brought a bunch of photographs to class. He flashed it under the Rajamally tree located at a stone-throw from the school building which was one of our favorite haunts. A stark naked woman armed only with a pillow posing in various ways. She was a foreigner. We weren’t taken aback. We were not at an age to get titillated. Still we got baffled considerably, thinking of the smart guy who intruded into the lady’s privacy and took the snaps without her knowledge. We couldn’t think of anybody willingly undressing before the camera. It must have been a con job, we were pretty sure. Finally, the expert opinion was given by Subhash. When the Madamma was traveling in a hired motorboat somebody clicked her on the sly while she was changing.
We couldn’t agree more.
Moving Pictures
We had a movie house located in the next village. I saw my first film, “Bhakta Kuchela” there with my parents. Lord Krishna was harassing a blind man with his tricky ways and the poor fellow was still begging for his mercy. The Lord was getting on my nerves. At last everything ended well and Bhagwan went up skywards with his impoverished bhakta in tow. Movies in those days revolved around gods and mythical heroes who conversed mainly through songs. Celestial dancing girls showing off their navels made special appearances. Later on, socials took the centre-stage ebbing out the mythical icons. Movies were so packed with events that one lost track of the plot halfway through. In one of them, the hero shot his angelic wife after a lengthy dialogue. I was dead scared to watch the killing scene. A few minutes before pressing the trigger, the husband and wife were singing a duet while the children cheered them. The family was taking a boat ride through the river.
“See, you have got to be like those kids”, my mother advised me. I felt jealous. Children of my age holidaying with their parents with good clothes and songs. I felt bogged down.
Several years later, “Chemmeen”, a blockbuster on the lives of fishermen was running to packed houses and we decided to go. The Cinema-Kottaka was situated several villages away and we hired a covered boat with its man for transportation purpose. The setting of the movie was familiar to us. The sea was within our earshot. We set out with all accessories, food, lantern, mats, pillows et al. We were a big group comprising of several children, parents, uncles and aunties. The young women were particular that they changed into better clothes before getting out of the boat. The boat was parked by the bank where the thick growth of bamboo trees provided adequate cover for the girls.
The movie had literally bowled me over. I made a few sketches in my copybook. My father thought I was scrawling nonsense and twisted my earlobes.
One Among The Audience
I saw a minister for the first time when he came to our neighbouring village to switch on a newly acquired radio. The upper primary school located there had collected money from students, teachers and well-wishers to purchase a radio. None lesser than the minister of education was invited to switch on the enviable possession. Students from the neighbouring schools also participated in the ceremony.
The stage was decorated with flowers and garlands. The master of the ceremony - the radio - waited on a pedestal kept at the centre. The minister did arrive in style in an imported car sandwiched between police escort jeeps followed by a motorcade. Teenaged girls carrying lighted lamps in a plate containing flowers and rice welcomed the VIP. The minister was ushered through a specially built arch, heavily decorated with fructified plantains, tender coconuts and palm tree leaves. Fireworks added to the grandeur. A student named Bhadran was assigned to give the bouquet to the minister and to read out the report. Wearing a well-pressed full-sleeved shirt and knickers, Bhadran circulated all around. He had shoes on his feet, bigger in size, complete with white socks. I turned green with envy. The minister gave him a handshake too, which literally broke my heart.
Sure enough, I also had my day. The venue was the block headquarters where another minister was to give away prizes to students. I got one in an essay competition. The place was a bit far away and my father arranged an escort. Mother gave me a fifty paise coin as present and we set out late in the afternoon. The function was slated for the evening. A public meeting to be followed by a few entertainment programs. We reached sufficiently early and a sizable crowd had already gathered. Unfortunately the weather-gods were not all that pleased and it began to pour heavily as if the clouds above wanted to spoil the show. The whole stage was drenched in water. The little girls who were all made up for the dance recital came out of the green room and wept. The rains went away. There was still time for the minister’s arrival and the waiting had begun. After a seemingly endless wait, news spread that he cancelled the visit. The little children were still asked to perform. They were very tired and not exactly in a mood to make it to the stage. Haridasan the escort and I stood there on the wet ground. There were huge sheets of water spread unevenly on the earth. I was feeling hungry and Haridasan bought me snacks. On our return, I stayed at his place for the night. The next morning much before daybreak, I was on my feet again. The red-faced sun was going to cast its spell. Walking all alone through the long strip of land lined with coconut trees and enclosed by vast expanse of water on both sides, the sunrise was an absolutely riveting sight.
After reaching home, I searched my trouser pocket for the fifty paise coin. I wanted to return it to my mother intact. It was lost. This was the second time I was losing a present from mother. She had given me a ten paise coin on another occasion which too I wanted to return but couldn’t.
Scenes From The Market
The village market was a happening place. The fish-sellers exhibited their wares at the far end in a row followed by vegetable vendors and fruit merchants. The market had its characteristic smell which always buoyed one up. Vegetables and fruits had its distinct aroma mixed with the stench of fish. We had a high tech store- Murali Sounds Service- with a couple of mikes and amplifiers, relentlessly testing their gadgets and adding to the frenzy. The most important area was the business zone where coir, the common produce of the village, was sold at a bargain. Coir was brought to market by women in neat bundles. They carried it over their heads, balancing the load with their left-hand. A hemispherical cane basket intended for shopping was kept at the right hand. A local Muthalali or his son would be presiding over the makeshift counter, a table usually, displaying notes and coins in neat bundles. A spring balance was hung from a tripod. The village women would submit their produce and wait anxiously for the declaration of weighment. If it’s a beautiful girl, obviously the readings would be lenient. And if the leniency recurs for a couple of times, the inference was that the Muthalali had a crush over the girl. She can either take it or leave it. If she takes, the Muthalali with his shining wrist-watch, specs and gold chain would be slipping into her hut in the dead of the night, unnoticed.
The market also had a space for traveling salesmen. Vagabonds and tramps sold their goods with the help of music, magic and dance. Peacock-fat or tiger nails were available at any given time. Miracle medicines always had buyers among the village folk. A drop of the wonder-drug was put into a glass of water turning it into a milky stuff. The rejuvenator was sold on the spot. Children were generally unwelcome in such a gathering but I stood there wonderstruck. An old woman who passed by flicked a large tapioca from my basket and vanished into the crowd. I saw her doing the act but couldn’t react.
Embarrassment had turned me into a silent victim.
 |
| Bitter Lessons - T.V.Santhosh, Oil on Canvas |
Catching a bus was too much of a bother for us. We had to cross canals and innumerable bridges spanned only by tree-trunks to reach the nearest bus stop. On the other hand, getting into a motorized boat was relatively easy. There was a boat jetty by the bend in the river, not very far from our house. The boat service which always ran behind time by several hours connected the two towns, Kollam and Alappuzha, hundred kilometres apart. The sound of the engine through the quiet of the village in the night was a lullaby in itself. It was the time when I was slipping into slumber after the prayers, studies and food. The reverberation reassured me like my mother’s lap.
We travelled to the nearest town Alappuzha whenever a villager was admitted to the district hospital. Or on summons from the relatives settled there. I spent a couple of days in the town with my rich cousins during the summer vacation. I felt entrapped as there was a ban in force which prevented us from playing outside. Several children were already playing in the open making boats out of empty cigarette cases and floating it on rainwater. I went on to make a tiny road on the verandah of the house and plied firewood log as bus.
“Athoo…” the lady of the house called out for me in her voice resembling a tuned harmonium. She reprimanded me softly. Afterall, I was not supposed to make her house dirty. Still, I enjoyed the high points of the stay like taking bath under the shower and sipping cool-drink with a straw. The extremely repulsive experience was of using the latrine. I was already given detailed instructions. But the stench was unbearable. A container was kept beneath to collect the human waste. There did arrive a man to collect the night soil and nobody talked to him. The servant collected a bucketful of water from the well and poured it over those despised hands.
During weekend, a family visited us. They came in a huge, black car beaming with joy and intermittently breaking into laughter. The feelings were reciprocated in equal measures. It appeared to me as a strange kind of behaviour. I was not introduced to the visitors and I watched them awestruck.
For All We Know
I was in the fifth standard and my friend Shaji brought a bunch of photographs to class. He flashed it under the Rajamally tree located at a stone-throw from the school building which was one of our favorite haunts. A stark naked woman armed only with a pillow posing in various ways. She was a foreigner. We weren’t taken aback. We were not at an age to get titillated. Still we got baffled considerably, thinking of the smart guy who intruded into the lady’s privacy and took the snaps without her knowledge. We couldn’t think of anybody willingly undressing before the camera. It must have been a con job, we were pretty sure. Finally, the expert opinion was given by Subhash. When the Madamma was traveling in a hired motorboat somebody clicked her on the sly while she was changing.
We couldn’t agree more.
 |
| Hundred Sq. Ft. of Curses - T.V.Santhosh - Oil on Canvas |
Moving Pictures
We had a movie house located in the next village. I saw my first film, “Bhakta Kuchela” there with my parents. Lord Krishna was harassing a blind man with his tricky ways and the poor fellow was still begging for his mercy. The Lord was getting on my nerves. At last everything ended well and Bhagwan went up skywards with his impoverished bhakta in tow. Movies in those days revolved around gods and mythical heroes who conversed mainly through songs. Celestial dancing girls showing off their navels made special appearances. Later on, socials took the centre-stage ebbing out the mythical icons. Movies were so packed with events that one lost track of the plot halfway through. In one of them, the hero shot his angelic wife after a lengthy dialogue. I was dead scared to watch the killing scene. A few minutes before pressing the trigger, the husband and wife were singing a duet while the children cheered them. The family was taking a boat ride through the river.
“See, you have got to be like those kids”, my mother advised me. I felt jealous. Children of my age holidaying with their parents with good clothes and songs. I felt bogged down.
Several years later, “Chemmeen”, a blockbuster on the lives of fishermen was running to packed houses and we decided to go. The Cinema-Kottaka was situated several villages away and we hired a covered boat with its man for transportation purpose. The setting of the movie was familiar to us. The sea was within our earshot. We set out with all accessories, food, lantern, mats, pillows et al. We were a big group comprising of several children, parents, uncles and aunties. The young women were particular that they changed into better clothes before getting out of the boat. The boat was parked by the bank where the thick growth of bamboo trees provided adequate cover for the girls.
The movie had literally bowled me over. I made a few sketches in my copybook. My father thought I was scrawling nonsense and twisted my earlobes.
One Among The Audience
I saw a minister for the first time when he came to our neighbouring village to switch on a newly acquired radio. The upper primary school located there had collected money from students, teachers and well-wishers to purchase a radio. None lesser than the minister of education was invited to switch on the enviable possession. Students from the neighbouring schools also participated in the ceremony.
The stage was decorated with flowers and garlands. The master of the ceremony - the radio - waited on a pedestal kept at the centre. The minister did arrive in style in an imported car sandwiched between police escort jeeps followed by a motorcade. Teenaged girls carrying lighted lamps in a plate containing flowers and rice welcomed the VIP. The minister was ushered through a specially built arch, heavily decorated with fructified plantains, tender coconuts and palm tree leaves. Fireworks added to the grandeur. A student named Bhadran was assigned to give the bouquet to the minister and to read out the report. Wearing a well-pressed full-sleeved shirt and knickers, Bhadran circulated all around. He had shoes on his feet, bigger in size, complete with white socks. I turned green with envy. The minister gave him a handshake too, which literally broke my heart.
Sure enough, I also had my day. The venue was the block headquarters where another minister was to give away prizes to students. I got one in an essay competition. The place was a bit far away and my father arranged an escort. Mother gave me a fifty paise coin as present and we set out late in the afternoon. The function was slated for the evening. A public meeting to be followed by a few entertainment programs. We reached sufficiently early and a sizable crowd had already gathered. Unfortunately the weather-gods were not all that pleased and it began to pour heavily as if the clouds above wanted to spoil the show. The whole stage was drenched in water. The little girls who were all made up for the dance recital came out of the green room and wept. The rains went away. There was still time for the minister’s arrival and the waiting had begun. After a seemingly endless wait, news spread that he cancelled the visit. The little children were still asked to perform. They were very tired and not exactly in a mood to make it to the stage. Haridasan the escort and I stood there on the wet ground. There were huge sheets of water spread unevenly on the earth. I was feeling hungry and Haridasan bought me snacks. On our return, I stayed at his place for the night. The next morning much before daybreak, I was on my feet again. The red-faced sun was going to cast its spell. Walking all alone through the long strip of land lined with coconut trees and enclosed by vast expanse of water on both sides, the sunrise was an absolutely riveting sight.
After reaching home, I searched my trouser pocket for the fifty paise coin. I wanted to return it to my mother intact. It was lost. This was the second time I was losing a present from mother. She had given me a ten paise coin on another occasion which too I wanted to return but couldn’t.
 |
| Whose War Is It - T.V.Santhosh - 2005- Oil on Canvas |
Scenes From The Market
The village market was a happening place. The fish-sellers exhibited their wares at the far end in a row followed by vegetable vendors and fruit merchants. The market had its characteristic smell which always buoyed one up. Vegetables and fruits had its distinct aroma mixed with the stench of fish. We had a high tech store- Murali Sounds Service- with a couple of mikes and amplifiers, relentlessly testing their gadgets and adding to the frenzy. The most important area was the business zone where coir, the common produce of the village, was sold at a bargain. Coir was brought to market by women in neat bundles. They carried it over their heads, balancing the load with their left-hand. A hemispherical cane basket intended for shopping was kept at the right hand. A local Muthalali or his son would be presiding over the makeshift counter, a table usually, displaying notes and coins in neat bundles. A spring balance was hung from a tripod. The village women would submit their produce and wait anxiously for the declaration of weighment. If it’s a beautiful girl, obviously the readings would be lenient. And if the leniency recurs for a couple of times, the inference was that the Muthalali had a crush over the girl. She can either take it or leave it. If she takes, the Muthalali with his shining wrist-watch, specs and gold chain would be slipping into her hut in the dead of the night, unnoticed.
The market also had a space for traveling salesmen. Vagabonds and tramps sold their goods with the help of music, magic and dance. Peacock-fat or tiger nails were available at any given time. Miracle medicines always had buyers among the village folk. A drop of the wonder-drug was put into a glass of water turning it into a milky stuff. The rejuvenator was sold on the spot. Children were generally unwelcome in such a gathering but I stood there wonderstruck. An old woman who passed by flicked a large tapioca from my basket and vanished into the crowd. I saw her doing the act but couldn’t react.
Embarrassment had turned me into a silent victim.
 |
| Confessions - T.V.Santhosh |