 |
| Jyoti Basu - "Roof-Garden"-Oil on canvas-(2003-04) |
Where Cuckoos Sang And Spoonbills Listened
My grandmother Lakshmi Amma was a short, graceful lady who always took everything in her stride without complaining. The relatives called her Kurudiamma on account of her diminutive frame. Her younger sister was much more beautiful and had got married to a doctor. He impregnated Kurudiamma too and my mother was born. Life was difficult, but not for long; a tall, weather-beaten farmer came forward to hold the unwed’s hand. My grandmother respectfully called him Meenathan, which meant lord of the household. She bore three sons and a daughter to him. My mother was more or less looked after by her father along with his legitimate children. That was how distributive justice worked in those days. People did err but were made to correct the mistake for everyone’s benefit.
Grandmother used to visit us regularly with a bagful of eatables. Peeled jackfruit, fresh butter and cooked tapioca were all homemade stuff, painstakingly prepared for us. In return, she would want me to accompany and stay with her for a weekend. I followed her reluctantly as I was frightened of Meenethan’s steely gaze. Obviously he disliked everything that reminded of his wife’s earlier affair. To pep up my sagging spirits, she would present me odd gifts like watercolour, film posters, still photographs. One of her sons,Vijayappan alias Vijayakumar was working with the movies in Madras. He painted landscapes and various Hindu gods which were hung on the wall. Grandmother would put me to sleep telling stories of gods and kings. I heard the tale of Lord Ayyappa thus. I was at my wits end when the Lord as a young boy was sent to the forest by the scheming queen to fetch leopard’s milk. I was bowled over when he did it. My grandmother was illiterate. When she was taken to the eye-specialist, she confessed to the doctor that she didn’t know the alphabet. I was flabbergasted. In reality, the illiteracy mattered little. She had kept her heart a clean and well-lighted place. There was not even a speck of hatred anywhere.
After Meenathan’s death, she shared the booty among her children which literally left her at the mercy of others. She was sick and bed-ridden at the fag end of her life. Nobody cared. But none of this ingratitude would bog down my grandmother. She died gracefully in a summer night.
She had learnt to take everything including death with a cheerful humility.
 |
| Jyoti Basu- "The Chosen One"-Oil on Canvas-2004 |
An Eyeful Of Sky
John, the postmaster brought a curious looking box to his office. In no time his one- room post office was surrounded by people both young and old. The box was making music. Indran, my father’s younger brother was the postman. He was fascinated by the little machine and vowed to acquire one. He was staying with us and was single. The ambition got fulfilled in a year’s time when he purchased a transistor radio spending as much as twice his monthly salary. He covered its leather jacket with an additional cloth cover. The aerial too was given an extension with a lengthy plastic sheathed wire. One end of the wire was kept in touch with the aerial while the other was tied atop a tall tree. This might enhance the reception, he thought, just in case the device faced any difficulty in catching radio waves.
All of us were immensely impressed by the radio programs, especially the ones comprising film songs. There was an element of space in the lines.
Aakasagangayude karayil…(By the shore of the Milky Way…)
Aakasapoykayilundoru ponninthoni…(There is a golden boat at the sky-ferry…)
One of my uncles, Ramakrishnan who had an ear for classical music would walk in to listen to more serious stuff and we cursed him with all our might. Nevertheless, radio listening was limited to an hour or so. Battery was a costly affair. Transistor radio was in fact a luxury. Appappan finally got rid of his precious machine. He moved out too. A dry spell followed. We didn’t have a newspaper or a radio or anything to prop us up. Books came to my life much later.
I completed my primary education and joined a higher school seven kilometres away. It was during this time that our village got electricity. The shop at the village square installed a radio as a part of the sales strategy to sell more tea and snacks. I used to make a beeline for the shop late in the evening when the place was more or less deserted, put myself on a bench kept outside and listened to the programs. Rajan, the shop owner would be winding up for the day but he would do so in a less hurried pace. It was this way I got to know about the world outside. A turbulent and unequal world.
 |
| Jyoti Basu-"Farewell Party"-Oil on Canvas-2004 |
Of Christmas Cards and Naked Fishermen
The lunch breaks on Fridays were lengthy in order to facilitate the Muslim students to go for prayers. A few of us decided to visit a church located by the banks of the huge water-body, Kayamkulam Kayal. The other side of the lake was barely visible. The fisher folk in their tiny boats floated around almost naked. Immediately after lunch, we had a cross-country which ended at the vicar’s quarters. The area was quite tranquil in nature perturbed not even by the presence of a road. There in the middle of trees, the small church had survived the ravages of time. The tombs in the cemetery too had aged gracefully. Like the local fisher folk. No grave worries seemed to have troubled those people.
“Can we have a look at the altar?” we asked the vicar. He was taking a short nap but never showed any displeasure. We didn’t have anything to pray. The ambience inside was warm. Beyond the windows, the cemetery was visible where the deads were sleeping among crosses of varying sizes. An unequal sleep. The priest presented us with Christmas cards as a parting gift. He had gathered his mail to distribute among children. That was a reason enough to visit the place on forthcoming Fridays.
The Magician As Christ
The magician was on the stage. He didn’t have glittering gown or flowing headgear. Not even a hat. Somehow he managed a show at the school. He called for an assistant and one of my classmates volunteered to help. Perhaps the magician was not in a position to hire a sidekick. He started showing the stock items most of which we had already seen before. The jugglery round too failed to impress the crowd. Then he performed his magnum opus and went on to inflict wounds on his body with a blade. Blood was oozing out. The idea was to take out the string (from the wounds) which he had swallowed. Wounds were made on his chest and abdomen. Blood drops, a slender body and the endurance elevated him. Simultaneously I was being thrown into an obscure world of darkness. I didn’t have any idea. I fell into a thick growth of pandanus plants and cactus. I longed for a foothold but there was none. Strangers were closing in.
Water was splashed into my face. I regained consciousness Anxiety ridden faces around. A sexist comment was flung on me.
You are worse than a girl.
 |
| Jyoti Basu-"Healed Wounds"- Oil on canvas-2002 |