(Loud Voice)… “That is fine. I won’t talk to you.”

(Angry Voice)… “Not talk? You have to talk.”

(Angry Voice)… “When ever this subject comes up, you always yell at me.”

(Very disturbed voice)… “Shut up!”

(Very angry voice) “NO, I HAVE to talk.”

(Anger continued)… “I know that you will. Now shut up!”

(Anger continued)… “But why don’t you allow me to?”

“……”

(Anger at the top)… “I took your permission.”

“…………”

(Pleading anger)… ”I even came for this play.”

(Anger once more)… “The subject is closed!”

(Loud Submission)… “You can’t do that.”

(Anger victorious)… “SHUT UP!”

(Anger rejuvenated)… “I can not.”

(Limit of decibels)… “SHUT up NOW!”

“……..”

(Anger again)… “YOU KNOW NOTHING.”

“……..”

(Listen to this anger)… “I am OLDER than you are.”

“………”

(She is not listening!)… “I am your MOTHER. I know it BETTER.”

“……..”

(She is still not listening)… “This subject is closed now”

(With all the left over anger)… “NO. It is NOT!”

I heard somebody getting up from her seat and then finding way to a vacant seat and dumping herself there angrily.

A few moments later, there were uncontrolled giggles: three or four feminine voices behind my seat. The play started and the voices started hushed conversations.

Although I wanted to very much, I did not turn or look back to see who was this group. I just kept guessing what must be the ‘subject’, what might be the age of the mother and daughter, who else were in the group, who was  this uncompromising mother, who was the brat; mother or daughter, why this sudden flash point, why they had to choose the public place and audience for the showdown…. and finally, Who left the group? Mother or daughter?

These and similar such questions ruined my dramatic state of mind. I could not enjoy the play. After the play was over, I could not help but glance at the possible seats these people must have occupied. But, all the rear seats had gone empty before I turned back. I did not get any answers to my curious, prying mind.

If I knew these girls or women, probably the conversation would not have meant anything to me. Now, it has a lot to offer.

I met my performer friends backstage. When they quizzed, I told them that the play was wonderful and I must watch it one more time to fully understand it!!

Image Courtsey - Google Images - Painter : Iatras

The next day, she took me to a make-shift auditorium created for the purpose. A few children performed; some grown-ups too. Without notice, she and her friends took me to the stage, the curtains were raised and I was told to recite the poem. I could not start… although I was putting in all the effort in to my vocal chords. A minute, two, five….the curtain came down and I started in a loud voice….the curtain was raised…..the voice again left me….curtain down….and I started the recital confidently.

‘Enough, enough” somebody said and took me away from the stage to my mother.

‘Next year perhaps?’ She inquired in a voice that understood.

‘But I was doing my job’ I said.

‘I know. When the lights come on and curtain is raised, you lose your voice. That is why I sing playback. I too am afraid of stage and lights.’

My father did not like this stage fright story. In a stern voice, he asked her not to encourage me ever.

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I came back from vacations, firmly concluding that the stage was quite exciting provided you worked at the back. During the next Ganesha festival, I decided that Drama it will be – but from backstage. We friends discussed this in detail.

‘Where will we find a script? And what play will it be?’

‘Let us try Robin,’ That was our favorite character.

‘Making bows and arrows should not be difficult.’

‘I have a felt hat. All we have to find is a feather.’

‘I have two swords’ I said, leaving everybody drenched in excitement. These I had found in our Delivery Room Boxes. ( http://rajeevne.wordpress.com/2010/09/13/theatre-of-my-own/ )

So, Rob-in-Hood it was. We created a stage in our verandah, the arms were collected and we went straight to the final rehearsals. We started collective scripting in our heads from the story we had heard here and there and were narrating the actions as they came to our mind. By the end of the day every other character was finalized, except for Rob’s fiancé and wife. After discussion, we decided to delete her part altogether when somebody said,

‘Who needs women in battles anyway?’

Nobody was ready to play Rob either.

‘Rob would need to ride a horse, and nobody knows how to’

‘And who will spare a horse for the play? And how many horses are there in our village? There is only one Tonga!’

‘Why not tell Robin’s story instead, without any acting? That will save us from the horse’

All except me decided that Robin was no piece of horse. My unwritten script fizzled in a day. Notwithstanding, I tried my best with the one and only horse-cart owner to spare us the horse for the play. All he did was laugh uncontrollably.

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Our fifth standard class was shifted to the old(est) school building without any fan fare. This was rusty, leaky, aged building. Next to my bench near the window, the paint had peeled and I could count at least twenty five coats of paint, white over blue over green and repeat. Outside, there were hedges and a nondescript playground. Laborers were removing overgrowth and erecting a stage.  Watching them was interesting pastime in between the lessons. The rain showers had stopped pouring a few days ago and the festive season was in the vogue. The stage completed, the laborers started creating a stadium like structure out of the bamboos they had brought in cartloads.

“Drama, Drama” Somebody yelled in the class, “Our Teachers’ Drama.”

As if on cue, all of us went to supervise the structures erected. Some climbed onto the stage and started acting. Some became mock-spectators. I remembered my first day on stage and quickly went back stage only to find many of our teachers gathered there and having a heated discussion between their biddies and cigarettes. They hooted me out as soon as they saw me. Teachers smoking, yelling at each other with choice abuses! What a play can corrupt a man into!

Interested as I was, I kept listening to them, albeit from a safe distance. The main area of their concern was the drapery of characters called Hiroji and Shivaji. It had not arrived.

Shivaji? They will also need horses! They did not discuss horses, though, but other trivia like head gear, the decorative robes, swords and all that.

Next day I asked our class teacher as to what they had decided about the horses? He did not understand a thing, and said, ‘What horses’. This was not well taken by us. Shivaji and his army without horsees was impossible to enact, same as Robin. We then pleaded with the Teacher playing the character. He also dismissed us summarily. What a letdown!

Then I offered my swords and they leapt at them. These were indeed used by Shivaji and Hiroji…or may be others. In bargain, the swords were polished smooth.

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The play ‘Kareen Tee Poorva” was staged thrice. Once – for Men only – late hours, Once – for Women only – afternoon and lastly on Saturday afternoon, for us school going children.

All we did was waited for a horse hoping that at least one of our teachers had a brain to listen to us. But none had. Slowly we got absorbed in the play, not that we had much to absorb but for two comedian soldiers, the heroin who spoke like men do and the hero who spoke in a feminine voice. Shivaji came on stage without horse and our small community demanded in loud voice for a horse. This was promptly noticed by the Head Master who came walking to us and inquired if we knew the difference between a play and reality.

He left only when we promised that we will not ask for a horse.

14^th chapter was the subject matter. Aabajee let us recite the whole chapter, and as soon as I thought I had finished the exam, he started quizzing by reciting a stanza at random and I had to complete. Then he started reciting the second line of a random stanza and I had to recite the first. Then he started giving one word clue and let me complete the rest. It was interesting (for him), I completed everything well and Aabajee declared that I stood first.  Sudheer was second, who eventually became a good friend.

I came back home tired. Anna came after some time and inquired if I did well. I said I had secured the first rank. Pleased, he said there would be big function and I shall be felicitated that evening. The function was fine, but the prize was not. Because I was presented with a copy of Bhagwadgeeta, of which I already had two copies. I cribbed a lot about it. Anna simply said, “You do not need any prize than that”.

The next year, Sudheer stood first, and I was second, with first chapter as the subject. Aabajee however declared that this year there were Prizes galore, in addition to the Geeta copies. He fiddled with his dhotee, came up with one rupee coin and said,

“Go to the market, buy any books you like and bring those to me. These will be handed over to you in the evening function.”

Sudheer had also received the grant and we proceeded to the market. The book shop was by the street and the books were exhibited on military cots outside the shop. To this day, I did not have any books other than those in the curriculum. Looking at these, I was astounded. How can these be called ‘books’ when they have Kings and Queens and mythological figures on their cover pages? How can they be in a large, readable font than those we read in the class? How can a book have so many artworks when the books were supposed to have only one or two? How can they have attractive covers but unreadable titles?

I must have spent an hour or so in just awe. Sudheer, in between had selected his and had already disappeared.  I was really perplexed as to what to choose and how many to choose. The shop keeper came to the rescue.

“How much money you have?”

“One rupee.”

“Stole it from somewhere? Let me see it.”

I showed him the coin, but did not let it go. He inquired as to what was my name, who was my father, where did I live and a barrage of such questions. When he was satisfied that I had not stolen the Rupee, he selected some books of his choice and dumped them in front of me. Naturally, I was not satisfied. He amassed a second choice bunch, which was also not to my liking. Tired, he said “Choose whatever you want” and went behind his desk.

I had some solitude once more, and I started selecting the books, based on cover colours, that is, discarding.

The final list had Panch Tantra, Aesop’s stories and a book on astronomy.

“Why do you need that blue book with stars? You will not understand a thing there. I also do not.”

“But this is what I want.”

The shop keeper gave me a tired look, and said, “You can have a few more. One Rupee is not yet over.”

Back to square one. I then selected Sim Bonga and Bhilla Veer Kalinga.

“That is it.” The shopkeeper said, “You can have one volume of Kalinga, not all.”

“Fine, I will buy all of these with green and black cover, man with a dagger”

“One volume of Tarzan!”

“But you said a few more”

“You have exceeded one Rupee now”

I handed over my precious one Rupee to him, and he handed me the bundle. “Come again for Tarzan,” he said. I did not need this invitation. I was already hooked.

The transaction over, I remembered that I did not know the way back to home. Sudheer had brought me here and he had gone a long time ago. Crying at my ancestors, the shopkeeper closed the shop and escorted me first to Aabajee and then my house. He did not forget to ask if I indeed belonged to this house, and I was not a thief.

Back home and when the smell of the new books had withered, I understood that buying a book you had liked did not necessarily mean that you will read it immediately. Further, you may not be able to read a book which you have received as a present and that even if you did not understand a word, a picture tells a story better. You have your imagination running wild without the help of words.

I started really reading/ comprehending most of these books, including the blue book, in Standard five or Six. Aunts were enthusiastic earlier on, but got fed up of reading to me the books I had purchased, particularly when I started buying books with every paisa I received or saved and I had mugged up all the stories by listening and still wanted somebody to Read these to me. When the words finally came to me, they were better than pictures, sometimes worse.

I encroached upon Grandpa’s book cabinet and declared one of the shelves as ‘my library’. This included Garibaldi, Agarkar, Tilak, Kalidas, Gandhi, five or six different sized Geeta and even a book called Shrusht Shakti Shastra (Physics- in short). There was also a book on Physiology, with funny pictures, which was promptly removed by somebody and I did not find it afterwards. None the less, I had leafed through it all before it vanished.

The blue book was a revelation. That was when I started deciphering it bit by bit, simultaneously gazing at stars while alone and imagining beyond the drawings and the written word.

As it was, Saturdays used to be enjoyable. There would be a prolonged and relaxed Physical Training session, Head Master’s address and then our P Competition. There was an old Behda (Terminalia Belerica) tree in the playground, which had thick snaky exposed roots spanning several feet and with several holes due to years of use. If you aimed for one the P would travel underground and appear several feet away from you. Depending upon discharge, it could emanate five feet away or twelve. Nice subject to compete for! After this session, there would be a crafts class and then a period which usually featured magicians, acrobats, bicycle travelers, sketch artists and similar such who had trotted the whole country and wished to share their experiences.

As a custom. we used to be seated in rows, but not today. We were made to seat in a circle and the acrobats were to perform in the center. Unlike other troupes, this troupe had a number of members – Male and Female. They were all said to be from China, a friendly neighboring country that was discussing Panch Sheel (five principles for good living) from our book and were travelling from village to village, school to school presenting their skills. However, they were in no mood of playing at length the acrobatic show. Instead, they took out Tops from their gunny bag and started spinning them one by one. In the beginning, the size of Tops was about my fist, then my head. Finally, they reached a size of full-grown red Pumpkin. The spinning chords graduated to ropes. The elder troupe member started placing the spinning tops on to our palms, then a taut string held by two of the performers, on the head of one of their girls who brought them down one by one via her forehead, nose, neck, chest, stomach, legs and finally toes. The tops on the string were thrown about, afloat and around and caught back to rest on the string while still spinning. In all, there must have been about thirty odd Tops of all sizes, shapes and colors, spinning at a time, every top immersed in its own separate world. We were speechless. ‘This is what the Top Spin is!’ – we all thought.

The troupe disappeared in the thin  air and nobody saw them in the town after that performance.

Naturally, everybody of us started dreaming of becoming a Top-Master, or Spin-Master. The only top I had was of a size of a ground nut. This was a scale model of a Top some relative had gifted.  It could well have been a drawing pin. Unquestionably, it was useless for any of the tricks I saw that day.

I started my mission alone. I surveyed the shops to find if they sold a Top. None had any.  “It is not the season or vacation time” was the explanation. I started begging with the senior friends if they had any. One of them spared one which was battered on one side, of a very soft wood, but had a good steel pin. I had no idea then that this Top would eventually become my trade mark and a surefire instrument for pulling my leg in any verbal quarrel.

Next Sunday, I started very early and went to the newly opened timber mill which had a section for fixing steel rims over timber cart wheels. It was an amazing experience to watch steel rims being hammered from steel ingots, then heating them in coal and cow dung cakes, the manual work in preparing hard timber spokes of cart-wheel section, meticulous assembling of these sections, covering the perimeter of assembled cart-wheel with white-hot steel rim, dipping it immediately in a temporary water puddle and whoosh … steam volcano.

“Want a cart-wheel?” Somebody in a scarlet coloured beard and moustache asked.

I blushed and said, “No, a simple toy Top.”

“No chance when we have enough cart-wheel orders. It is racing season. Don’t you know? Go buy it in a shop. Or bring a chord strong enough to spin the cart-wheel and I shall give you one of these free”

“There are none in the shops!”

“Is it?…. Let me see…. Do one thing. Get you wooden top fabricated from ‘That person’. I shall then fix for you the steel pin.”

‘That person’ was a carpenter who was turning wooden cots and tables. He was squatting, holding his manual lathe between his feet and his wife operated it with her hands. I watched him for a few minutes. He had also crafted a rice pounder, a shallow utensil, a big spoon and a doll.

“Want a cot?”

“No, just a simple toy Top” I said.

“No chance. Too busy; since the snake breeding season is on and people want cots pronto. But you can do one thing…See that timber stall there? Bring a cube of the size you want your Top and I shall make one for you”

‘That timber stall’ was a giant timber depot, not a baby stall. It had huge piles of logs and neatly sawn blocks that nobody could have held in his grip. I wandered and wandered around, hiding from the watchman and looking for a small cube. The watchman caught me eventually.

“Want a log?” He made fun.

“No. Just a cube about this size for my Top,” I showed him my fist.

“Ha, Ha. Not here kid, this is a teak wood depot. Not Top-Wood depot”

“So, what wood do I need for my Top?”

“Any jungle wood, which is hard and dark.. almost black…Acasia, Khair, Tamarind. Not this expensive variety meant for furniture and roofing…. Go to a fire wood depot. You can have waste wood there”

“And where is that?”

“Vegetable market! Where else?….Why don’t you try with ‘That’ cart wheel factory?  They always have cut pieces.”

“But he told me to come here”

“Naaa….Go there.” He closed the subject.

I went back to the cart-wheel factory, this time however hiding from the red beard. Indeed there were blocks of size I wanted and of dark colour. I picked one when the red beard came running.

“Drop that. That is for the wheel centre… What did I tell you? Go there!”

I recited to him the lathe-man and depot-man story.

“Is it?” He said thoughtfully. Then said, “You were told to search it in the fire-wood shop, right?”

“Yes”

“And where can you find the fire wood?”

“In the vegetable market!”

“Wrong! Go to your house. You use fire wood for your stove or not? You will find it there. No need to go to vegetable market.”

Perplexed with all the confusing reasoning, I must have made a stupid or sad or both face. Because the red beard picked up a piece of red wood, threw it while hollering to the lathe-man asking him ‘to do what I was telling him to do’ and smiled at me.

“Get it turned. Bring the top here to fix the Pin”.

Lathe-man was now compelled to turn out my Top. He did it, after all his pending work was over, constantly complaining that his turning tool will need double sharpening tomorrow because the wood was too hard. Once completed, I held the top in my hand, not believing my luck. It had such beautiful red and brown grains spanning the periphery and a bitter scent of freshly turned wood. Must be Acacia. I would need the rope to spin it, not chord, I thought. It was a good two pounder Top.

“Cant make any smaller with this lathe…What are you looking at?…. You got the best top in the world without paying a single paisa!“ said the lathe-man.

This payment part I had not accounted for until now.

The Red Beard gave the top to his assistant for fixing the Pin and then told me to hold his finger. He took me to the back of his workshop where a kid smaller than me was playing with five or six Tops. None had any Pins. He asked me to wait there until he fixed my Top. I went near to the kid but he took no notice. Immersed in his own thoughts he was crudely spinning the Tops one by one and making circles with his fingers replicating the motion. I clapped, started imitating him, but he did not even look at me.

“Dumb and deaf; but fond of Tops just like you. He can play for a whole day like this” Red Beard said watching me.

“He should go to school?”

“School? He can not speak!”

“So what? Let him come”

“That would be too much for him. He does not recognize we parents, leave aside others”

I tried to touch the kid in a friendly way. He promptly retracted himself.

“You can come and play with him, when you have time. He is Rehman….. I suppose you are not paying me anything for you Top.”

He handed over my Top. I thanked him and inquired about the price as if I had money in my pocket.

“Leave it, leave it” He said.

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The household was on fire when I returned back. Nobody knew about this errand. My friends had told Grandma Tai that they had seen me near the Behda tree in the morning, but not after that. Nana Uncle was searching for me the entire day but had no premonition that I would be around Red Beard’s workshop. Most of Tai’s friends had concluded that I had been abducted by the infamous “ghost of the Behda tree”.

Nobody wanted to look at my precious Top. Nobody had any interest in my project; not even the fact that I had not eaten anything for the entire day. Instead, as a punishment, I was banned from visiting the Behda tree; on school days as also on holidays and during vacation! Quite a sacrifice!

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I carried the Top in my bag the next day to school. The pin was so sharp, it tore my bag at more than a few places. Friends were wonderstruck by the sheer size of the Top. They immediately banned this Top from all competitive games.

I was proud of the Top eventhough it became a museum piece. I had to use for competitions the borrowed, weathered Top which soon became a laughing stock, because either it would not spin or spin according to its whim like a drunkard and would lose each and every competition.

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I did not forget my promise to Red Beard and visited Rehman when ever I went that side. He never showed any signs of recognition until after he was some fifteen years old. He had by now acquired a perpetual saintly smile.

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The India-China war broke out not much after the Chinese Top Spinners had visited our school. Naturally, people remembered them in every heated discussion. Some called them spies, some said they could have come from Indian North East Frontier region and not from across the Chinese side. Nobody talked about their spinning skills.

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Image Credit : Google Images

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(Readers are encouraged to read about Autism. I am now convinced Rehman was Autistic.)

Just try to increase the hue setting by +/- 5 at a time and see what results you get. Happy editing!!

My entire childhood until then was spent running in thorns, nails, mud, water, grass, stones, creatures and insects. Nobody around me- my relatives or friends – really cared for the look of my body parts called feet.  When alone, or when the classes were boring, our favorite pastime used to be picking out from feet those foreign objects or the scales that looked like a second rhino skin. Winters used to be horrible. Although I was forced to dip the feet in lukewarm Sol (Amsul/Goa butter), the next day the feet would be full of scale again and full of blood oozing out of the cracks. But I did not care. Footwear was an expensive luxury. Not that I did not try at Grandpa’s pump shoes, but they must have been a size twelve, difficult to even carry for single step.

Along with the fourth standard exam we had appeared for a surprise scholarship exam. Grandpa Anna and Granny Tai were a touch too confident that I would bag the scholarship. They had also hatched a plan to buy a rubber slipper for me, which was a novelty and fashion those days, so that I look presentable at the function. I had overheard their open door conference, wherein the tempo was being built around the possible prize I might secure.

On a sunny Sunday, I set out with Anna, holding his walking stick, in search of suitable footwear. We stopped innumerable times. Whoever met us came to know that I was going to have new footwear. Most of them pleaded to Anna that it was really not necessary. My heart bits skipped during every such discussion, because it revolved around the result of scholarship exams. I inquired as to why we could not postpone the purchase until the results were out. But he wanted me to look good at any cost. We scavenged through a number of road side leather shops. Nobody had a tailor made kids’ footwear. All the artisans promised that if we order, they can deliver a made-to-order one. But the price was prohibitive. Finally we arrived at a lane of Sindhi shops that had come up recently where the rubber slippers were hanging from the ropes everywhere.  Thankfully, these slippers also were above size seven, one and a half times oversized. We ended up buying potatoes and came back home with a sack on my shoulders hung over Anna’s walking stick.

Next day, Anna took me to my Parent’s town where a fare was on. Anna requested my father to urgently find footwear for me…. Repeat of the same story. I accompany my father, he tells everybody why I needed footwear, I skip beats, we do not find anything and finally return home with a sack of onions on my shoulder.

My mother viewed the proceedings for a day and then requested my father to let go the purchase, since I was getting nervous. My father then said that I should not worry about the cost and announced that he had already placed an order for a chappal with a vendor and I should go and give measurements. So, I went.

Looking at me, the vendor said,

“Chappal is no good. I shall sew a belt at the back so that the chappals do not slip when you walk”

I shrugged and said, “Uncle, you are free to do whatever you think is fine for me.”

He looked quizzically at me, took measurement on a paper and said,

“Lighten up, this is your first chappal, right? I am going to use the best quality leather. What color do you want your chappals? Sandals?”

I did not lighten up, but said, “Red should be fine.”

“Men’s sandals do not look good in red. I don’t have red leather.”

“But I need red.”

“As you please.” He closed the topic.

He had not committed a date for delivery. I was on vacation, had no other business; therefore I visited this leather shop every day. When there was no progress for a few days, first my father and then Grandfather accompanied me to the shop. As if by magic, the next day, he showed me the rough cut. But that was all. Anna had to visit a few more times and tell the sandal-smith the urgency involved before the final trial piece was ready. It was around size Seven, one and a half times oversized.  When I complained, the vendor said,

“That is not for you to decide. Your father has ordered this size, so that you can wear it for a year more… And there is this belt at the back. What difference it makes?”

It was red, but inked red on black. Funny red! But it was my choice and I could not protest. For added value, it had horse shoe on its heel and another steel piece at the toe.

“This will stretch its life further.” He said.

I tried it. Neither I could walk straight, nor could I walk in one plane. The Sandals were biting the feet at several places and the leather was extremely stiff. They were terribly noisy because of the horse shoes. The heavy duty horse shoe nails had pierced the sole right through and were worse than thorns. In all, my feet, gait and walk appeared funnier with the sandals than they actually were.

“You want them or no?”

“Definitely not,” I said and ran home.

But in the evening, my father paid the dues, collected them and brought home the packet while returning from duty. He promptly informed Anna that his responsibility was over.

“Try it,” he said, “And what is this stupid color you have selected? We will have to paint them black ones the function is over.”

“I have tried and they are fine,” I had to say, bowing to him and to the fate.

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The function was in Hindi school. This was the first time I was visiting this building. The auditorium was quite oppressive with all the students filled to the brim. I was glad that the function was on a working day and none of my family members could attend it. I was escorted by Anna’s friend.

“What is that you are holding on to your chest?” He asked.

“My sandals,” I said.

“Sandals? Let me have a look.”

I had to wear those and parade in front of him.

“What a fine craftsmanship and antique design…Not from our town, definitely…. How I have longed for such footwear.”

He introduced me to his son Kanti, who was in the same boat as I was. He was from Hindi school, same fourth standard as I was. We established an instant rapport when we both insisted to his father that we sit at the very back. Here was a huge gathering from all schools, ours the Marathi, the Urdu and the Hindi; also the co-ed schools and the girls’ school.

The results were announced. As expected, I did not receive any mention in the list. The scholarship went to a girl student from Girl’s school. Further she got a prize for bagging 100/100 in maths. In the end, we were called to receive a bouquet for we had topped the Marathi the Hindi school respectively. We went, collected the bouquets and were happy that something came our way.

The function over, we started walking back and then I remembered about my sandals. I had deposited them with Kanti’s father while I went to collect the bouquet. He did not remember any such a thing.

We went back and waited until every boy and girl left the premises and then took a thorough look at every nook and corner. Kanti’s father then went to the organizers and told them about my sandals. They said they will spread the news, it was a small town and nobody can hide a new sandal. Kanti’s father asked us to go home and said he would wait a little longer to see if somebody was honest and returned the sandals.

On our way back, I and Kanti were worriedly discussing the Girl who had scored more than us. We were sure that she will be in our class in the intermediate school, since there was only one school in town. We decided then and there that we will not allow her to top once she is in our school. Still, if she tops, then?….well, we had no answer.

Although they were obscene and therefore distinguishable, the thief did hide those Sandals well. They could not be traced. Although I prayed inwardly that the Sandals may never be found, I, Kanti and his father kept a strict vigil on each and every walking and parked footwear in the town for a year or so, but to no avail.

Anna was quite flustered when he knew about the lost sandals, not so much about my performance, but he took it well in the end, when Tai said that they were utterly unlucky for me and it was good riddance.

Anna did not force me to wear footwear afterwards. Later on, I myself requested for it when I was ready for high school. There was no problem having thick skin over delicate skin or some thorns embedded for spice; actually it was better than constantly worrying about the price of the Sandals.

There were a couple of traditions.

First, all the children would complete the elementary, primary and middle schooling at our place no matter what their relation was with my grandfather Anna. Those desirous of high schooling would go to the district place Yavatmal, with another grandfather. If the pupil survived this phase, first two college years (Inter as the exam was called then) would be completed at Nagpur at yet another grandfather. If you wanted still more, you would be shipped to Varanasi. My grandfather himself as also his brothers were all from Benares School. So was in the next generation. This tradition ended with my generation, around 1950’s since there were a few high schools and colleges opening at various towns, one started by my own grandfather. Girls in the family usually did not survive beyond Yavatmal phase and declared eligible for marriage. I see such a bonding between my uncles and aunts because of this tradition. Such closeness is seldom seen in the other families. When they meet, they quickly go back to the memories of their school days, just stop thinking about the present tense or what is happening around them this very moment. What a camaraderie!

The second tradition was that all the pregnancies and deliveries, at least the first few of all the newly weds, would take place under supervision of my grandmother Tai, in our house. We had a special delivery room reserved for this purpose, may be because Tai herself had nine living children and her husband had fourteen brothers and sisters all together. Like it was common in other households too, sometimes the delivery room had two beds – one for the earlier generation and one for the next, mother and daughter or daughter in law and mother in law at the same time.

No wonder Tai was bent upon training me as a Delivery Boy. As if the school exams were not sufficient, this additional training and responsibility was simply too much when entrusted to me. Not that I could complain, because nobody could complain when Tai requested with a sweet in her hand and a sweet in her phonetics.

The aunt in question was to deliver in June-July. For that matter, most of the marriages and deliveries those days took place in this June-July season for the obvious reasons that I would understand later in my life. This aunt was dear to me. Instead of arriving a month in advance of the D-Day, she wrote a letter to my grandpa that she would arrive a good three months before.

“Why so early?” was my immediate question to Tai. “While she went with her husband, did I not tell you that she would not stay there? Why did you send her in the first place?”

“This is not in your hands, dear. Only Gods decide when she will deliver.”

“I had told you not to send her. Did I not cry that time? And did you not? You would not listen. Now, when I have settled with myself that she is not ‘from this house’, here she comes again in seven eight months to stay for six months? You people are insane.”

“Guard your voice and language.  There is nobody in this house except you and me. I do not even talk to anybody for days on. What difference it makes to you if she stays for a few months or years? You have your room to yourself and keep quiet.”

“But I am learning to ride a bicycle. She always laughs at my mistakes. She always sends me to marketplace again and again.”

“Now, not us, but YOU are insane… I shall tell her not to tease or trouble you. Go pick her up from the bus stand.”

My guess was correct. As soon as she arrived, she put her bags in my room and threw me out with all of my belongings. This was her room before she went with her husband. So what?

I tried not to come back from school in time that day. But with the onset of the darkness, my courage failed and I had to return. What I saw was normal. Both Tai and her daughter were crying together. They had started crying in the morning as I remembered, and the scene was still not over.

“Food.” I yelled.

“Under the steel basket, in the kitchen.” Aunt replied. She was taking charge of our house?

But what a snack! The same I had missed for seven-eight months. Aunty’s favourite too, but never cooked by Tai after aunty went to her husband. At least one plus mark for her arrival.

Come evening the next day, my friend Nana arrived to teach me the bicycle. This was everyday routine these days. Many of my friends had learnt to ride bicycles on their own. However, Tai had not liked the idea in the first place, although I had advocated a several advantages to her. She had agreed on a few conditions only when I had told her how I felt inferior in comparison to other friends. These were agreed as follows:

- Thou shall not learn or ride it unless I supervise you.

- Thou shall not fall down or get injured.

- Thou shall learn under an accomplished teacher.

- Thou shall not ask for a new bicycle as soon as you learn to ride.

I agreed to everything, because none had bicycles those days and they were available on rent any way. Tai would sit out and curse her destiny the whole hour when I was practicing. She now handed this responsibility to Aunty. Aunty had no pastime anyway and was whiling her time away in gossip with Tai or her or Tai’s friends. Nana had instructed me not to look at her and concentrate on learning. He would be holding the cycle carrier while I treaded on Half Pedal. One day, however, Aunty started calling me loudly to stop, while I was riding. I did but fell down, injured my knee and got angry as to why she stopped me. She beckoned me to her and handed out a one paisa coin. When I enquired why, she said that I had successfully passed bicycle rider’s test. Nana came then from a distance laughing and said that I was riding on my own the whole evening and he was just pretending to help me as he was told by Aunty. The paisa was my prize for the graduation. “I was carrying it with me all these days. You took a long time. But that is fair, because even I do not know how to ride a bicycle” Indicating her fat stomach, she said, “Now I am relieved. You can rush to the hospital on bicycle if there is an emergency.”

The emergency arrived like other emergencies in early rainy season, riding on a dark night, when it was raining and lightening cats and dogs. In the beginning, Tai asked me to go and call neighboring women. Nobody came – not even opened their doors for me. This done, she started with the usual stuff that I am a grown up, responsible person and it is time to show my true character. I knew when she uttered such words. I told her to just speak out my sentence. Aunty had started to whimper by now. Simultaneously, she was trying to laugh in between and her eyes were as if pleading with me. I had no escape.

My umbrella was not functional, as usual. Tai readied the lantern. When she saw the state of the umbrella, she quickly brought a folded blanket for me to done, covering my head and back. ‘Ask for Kamal. Ask for Kamal there, the nurse. Tell her the utensil has broken.’

I started my long journey to the hospital. I was cursing all the Aunts who came to trouble their nephews, all the husbands who married wives, all the husbands who dumped their wives at their in-laws, the rain god, the mud god, my family for not providing me chappals or sandals, the people who thrust unnecessary responsibilities on kids like me, the neighboring lady who always came to us in the morning and never went unless she had downed cups of Tai’s tea, the lady who always said that my Aunty was her daughter, not Tai’s, their husbands who were hiding in their houses when I, a little, helpless, poor and what not kid was trotting to the godforsaken hospital.

Thanks to the anger and my loud cursing, I reached the hospital quickly than I had expected. It was totally deserted. I wondered if anybody except ghosts occupies that building at all. But there on the floor, was a man sleeping soundly under his rug. I had to create a lot of noise and throw stones that were hard to find in the mud before the watchman in the verandah finally woke up.

I asked for Kamal, he said ‘She is in Nurses’ Quarters, not here’ and quickly covered his face again. This time I increased the size of stones and he had to oblige, but not before telling me that I am the devil incarnate’s son. So be it.

We went to Kamal’s quarter. The watchman knocked the door only once when she came out running as if she had telepathically understood what the scene was.  She inquired what was the ‘mother’s name’ while packing her case, to which I blurted out my mother’s, then Tai’s. She laughed and said she knows who the ‘mother’ was any way since she knew the dates by heart. She requested the watchman to go with us. He promptly refused.

So it was me, the lantern and Kamal walking, back to house in that idiotic rain and thunder. She was saying something soothing and assuring that I did not understand. It was an alien language. But it felt good. She said she knew me, had seen me in the house when she had come to check up Aunty earlier on. Then she said that I shall have to work throughout the night and help her. I said I am already sleepy.

But I had to help.

Warm water cold water towels towels jug scissors this that grace of god light a lamp sit outside old clothes coal at least call somebody else ginger turmeric difficult difficult telegram tomorrow write the correct time but where is sweater ok now muffler sweets medicines dispose rubbish and chord god is great nice kid tea now…..

It went on and on with background music from Aunty. I did not know when I slept of exhaustion, but it was daybreak. Tai woke me up quite late in the morning.

“What?”

“Get up Dada, you have a little brother now,” Said Tai.

“I hate him and Aunty and You.”

‘That’s fine, but why not have a look first?”

I opened my eyes. Tai had held a bundle very close to my face. Must have been sleeping, this thing, because it had it’s eyes permanently closed and like old men.

“This is the ugliest of my brothers.” I said, “And why so red-faced?” Aunty laughed heartily in the distance.

By afternoon, cables were sent to relatives. Neighbors started arriving to greet. People praised Aunty for her grit, patience, courage and so many things that were and were not required in delivering the baby.

I inquired if I can have a few days off from school. Tai refused. In the days to come, the house was full of relatives. Aunty’s husband had come, so had Grandpa. They kept coming, there were a lot of helping hands and most of them conveniently forgot that I was also a member of the house. I was convinced that Kamal was the one who was the real hero and not Aunty and we two smiled at each other when somebody praised Aunty in our presence.

The after-months were not bad because then the ‘bundle’ started to look like a human incarnate, started recognizing me, and because Tai cooked a different sweet almost every day.

Aunty departed at last with her husband. Like others, he also did not recognize anybody else’s efforts in delivering the baby. Further he asked what we were to present to the new kid on the block. I handed over to him my only saving, the one paisa coin that Aunty had given to me on my graduation. ‘That is all?’ he asked cynically.

Aunty presented a nice Saree to Kamal and offered a hug for me while promising to come back at the earliest opportunity. I kept distance. Who would welcome the annual, mandatory responsibility?

Kamal  and I went  along well until she was in our town. Why we would not? Because we quickly understood that rainy seasons and this delivery business was not the exceptional but a regular feature. I had lost interest from the very first, once I knew the labour involved in it, but Kamal and Tai used to be enthusiastic every year for the new arrival as if it was their first.

If you went to her house, the scene used to be a contrast. Everybody used to keep mum most of the times or speak only in hushed tones. Giggle and laughter was out of question. Her grandfather was in late seventies and a bit off-center. He used to beg for charcoals from us. Ones he had one, he used to find a wall or any flat surface and start writing that ‘My wife is not faithful. I am bonded in my house. Please Help Me.’ Whenever you went to their house the first question somebody would ask was ‘Who gave him the charcoal today?’ My friends and I were sane and nobody helped him with writing material. But he would find somebody, a passerby to lend him something to write. As days passed he went out of control, used to slip out of the house and find public places to write his graffiti. He learnt to draw pictures with his messages. But he was alright with us kids, always smiled happily at anybody, watched us play and ate food in any house that came in his way, that is, until Pama’s father sent somebody and he was dragged home.

Her grandmother, why, the entire house, would therefore always be on edge. My grandma Tai had told me that her grandfather did not like moving to our town, that is why he had chosen this method of harassing the relatives. But there must have been something else too, otherwise why Pama was a pampered girl in our house?

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It was a summer morning.

I was loitering around rooms when I heard Pama’s pretty noises.

‘Are you through with your morning chores?’

‘Not yet,’ I said.

She caught me by shoulders. Giggling, she told my grandma that she is taking me to the well for a good bath. I tried to escape, but was not successful. Laughing, we went to the well. She undressed me totally, said, ‘Oh, big man now’ and started to lift the water by pail.

‘You too,’ I said and she hurled a handful of water. I shivered. The water was quite cold but pleasing.

No sooner than she lifted a pail, she was emptying it on me, saying in loud laughter wash this now, wash that. In between, when she was busy lifting, I was smudging my body with mud. After a few buckets she noticed this, stood there with fists on her waist and gave me a stare of mock anger. I chuckled and she said that the bath is over, emptying the last bucket.

Once we were in the house, she dried me and said ‘You know something, we have fresh guavas on my tree. Let us go get them’

She took permission from Tai and off we went.

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Their house was quiet as usual. Her parents were not visible. I climbed up their guava tree and picked one. Her grandmother gave us a studied look, told her not to share the fruit and finish the Guava quickly.

‘It is vacation time, Grandma.’ She said, but obeyed her.

‘Have your bath now,’ Grandma said, ‘You have to go search your grandfather. He has disappeared again.’

‘You have not taken bath yet?’ I was amused. ‘Now my turn, to pail water. shall we go to the well?’

‘Shut up brute.’ She said, collected her clothes from the house and came out with untied hair. Her Grandma followed, against Pama’s tantrums made her tie a bun, and went back in. Their bamboo lattice bath was slightly away from the house. It had a big earthen water storage pot.

She gave me the clothes, asked me to stand guard and went in. Only minutes passed when she called me, asked me to come inside and pass a bucket of water from the pot. She had lathered her entire body and was standing there, in expectation, with closed eyes. I emptied a few buckets onto her and both laughed nervously but uncontrollably.

The noise was too much I think, because her grandmother came running from the house straight to the bath room, pushed me out and asked Pama to lock the door from inside. Then she took a good look at me and suddenly held my arm, grabbed a batten lying nearby and started beating me, shouting hoarsely ‘Stupid fellow, Stupid fellow’. Pama was crying loudly in the bath but did not come out. My pleas to stop beating went unheard.

Then something unexpected happened. Pama’s Grandfather appeared on the scene. As soon as he saw what was taking place, he came straight to his wife, took the batten from her hand and freed me. Then he lifted the batten like a sword and uttered just two words, ‘Should I?’

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I came back home dazed. I did not know what wrong I had committed. Tai asked me what was the matter, but I did not divulge. Pama was not allowed to wander around much after that day, particularly to our house. Pama’s parents did not know about this incidence as she told me.

Since our’s was a small town, I could not avoid visiting Pama’s home. I used to insist that I would go only if somebody elderly accompanied me. Her parents greeted me normally. But her grandma would always look at me with this chili gaze, even when I had elderly escorts and I would return exactly the same. Later, I would actually practice that stare before visiting their house. We exchanged no words.

Pama’s Grandfather was extra courteous to me that day onwards and I was only too happy to collect and lend him charcoals and colored chalk.

Both of these Grandparents died unceremoniously a few months after. No one grieved about their loss. Pity Pama’s giggles died permanently and she was not the same ever after.

Before that, one had to get accustomed to the domestic lizards bungee jumping without cord straight in to your bed during wee hour of night, straight from the 30 feet high tiled roof. They would lie flat on the blanket or on their (and/or your) stomach with amused eyes as if nothing special had happened. While you watched with bated breath if it was dead or faking death, slowly they would start crawling to where your face was. If you were smart, you had already covered your face with the blanket. If you were not, you would shake the blanket like a Shakespearean actor throwing his robe. If you were aunts, you would bring the house down with your petrified cries. If you were grandma, you would just shoo the lizard off.

These were really annoying creatures with impeccable ability to surprise you consistently, real horror movie stuff. If you were in a mood to use study table, one of them would suddenly materialize to inspect if you were really serious about your studies- more often, there would be two of them chasing each other for your fun. If you were happy that they had gone to sleep; they would start crawling on your bare feet and continue upward journey; making you wonder what was their destination. And that cold, pin-ny, soapy feel…best not experienced.

If I was serious about my home work, I would sit away from all the walls, in the middle of the hall, not under the wooden trusses, not very near the lantern and not without a stick in hand. Near the lantern would flock the insects, and to catch them, the lizards. Even then, you would hear Grandma saying, ‘So, what is today’s game? Home-work or lizard chase?’

During the first rains, the entire house would be full of the newly born flying insects with disproportionate wings and a horde of lizards savoring them with mechanically opening and closing mouths. An entire inch by inch moth would disappear in a matter of seconds in those perennially hungry tiny jaws. If the menace became too much, and usually it did, Nana uncle before  dinner would take all the lanterns in the verandah, keep them side by side, let all the insects and lizards gather there and then methodically slaughter them one by one. This was yearly ritual. And it had to be done. If not, snakes would be the next, chasing after the lizards and… dhup…. in your bed.

There was a saying those days that if one killed a cat or a lizard, you had to pay back a cat or lizard made of gold to a deity in Benares. Nana uncle usually said that he will have to gather his weight in gold if he were to repay all those killings in Gold.

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There was demise in the family. Visitors were served the porridge on the 10^th day ritual. The hosts thought that the guests will disperse the next day. They did not. Most of them stayed back for the 14^th day ritual. To cope up with the situation, the woman of the house kept on stove the other day’s leftover porridge for warming. A lizard was seen swimming in it. She did not care. She just fished (or lizarded) out the lizard and served the porridge to guests. Most of them went sick for two days, since there was no medical help in our small town. They blamed the stale porridge, not the woman. After a period, out of guilt, the Lady of the house confessed about the lizard business and invited silent wrath of the clan. But she did not forget to add that the guests should not have overstayed in the first place. The lizards and the anecdote gained a cult status in our family because of this incident.

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When I graduated from engineering school, I had to register my name in ‘Employment Exchange’ so that I could get job offers from government establishments. The employment office then was a rickety old unkempt building. On my first day at the exchange, I had the standard questionnaire in my hand. At a particular query I stumbled and looked up to think about the answer. Surprise!! I saw a massive-massive congregation of lizards; on the walls, under the tiled roof, in the corners. There must have been close to five or six hundred of them, climbing over each other. The office staff was working right under them oblivious to their presence. It was no wonder there was not a single woman officer in the building.

I had to go there a several times to take calls (one at a time). Invariably I had to wait for my turn. I started using this spare time to sketch the lizards  with ball point pen– with open and closed jaws, resting, leaning, running, baiting, biting, heaping. Their colors varied between glistening pale green to muddy grey to striped to grossly ugly brown or black, textures transparent to opaque.  How they were living in harmony was truly awe-inspiring. May be during day time they discriminated their duties towards the staff and visitors and in the nights they showed their true character.

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Marriage brought to me my wife, in addition her fears about lizards and the horrified shrieks when you were least expecting these.

On a Sunday, I removed by bike from under the staircase, felt something on my back, but overlooked it because of the rush. I went to the laundry, my back was now having a good amount of exercise because there was something slithering inside the tucked in shirt. I requested the launderer to have a look. He did, jumped back but said there was nothing special and I should immediately go straight to home and change the clothes. I went home and requested my wife to have a look. Her shrieks confirmed my doubt. I hurriedly removed the shirt and there it was – a full-grown green one who had taken free ride on my back. Later on, the launderer told me that the lizard was peeping out all the time from the collar.

The other saying about lizards is that if they fell on the clothes you were wearing, you got new clothes to wear in near future. As expected, nobody gifted to me a shirt.

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Recently, our permanent residence was closed for five years. When we returned, it was not our home but to a colony of lizards. They had even distributed rooms between themselves. We spared no efforts to throw them out; even pest controlled the entire house many a times. But they promptly returned to their respective rooms.  I had an all obsessive growing feeling that this was not our house any more. It was theirs and we were guests in it at their mercy. How best can you describe? You want to sleep and there is this couple resting above the head-board. You wished to write and the table would be already occupied by one of them. You wanted to wash utensils and there was one picking at us in the sink. The kitchen platform, couches, TV cabinet, nothing was beyond their reach. And that element of surprise! We spent sleepless nights just to make sure where their abode was today so that you were not surprised the next day if it came out of your coat hanger. But they always foxed you and appeared at different places every day, and night. One particular bedroom was their pet. So I plugged all the holes there, but to no result.

Painting done, when I was shifting a couch, 30 kgs held high on my head, wife spotted one roaming around the entire surface area of the couch. A big one. Imagine. I am holding the couch high and the lizard making an F1 circuit over it. I am worried that it will come down my arms. Wife is screaming behind you in most horrified soprano….I just dropped the couch on the newly laid tiles and damaged a few… and the Lizard vanished as if nothing had happened, to reappear the next day promptly. My wife now was confidently telling every visitor that she is indeed more courageous and I was more afraid of the lizards than she was.

Come pest control guy, sprays the whole house with liquid of nasty odor that brings about bouts of wife’s asthma. He disappears. The painter has painted the house with plastic luster paint.  The lizards are not killed but temporarily paralyzed behind the furniture. They come out and cannot climb the walls because the walls are too smooth for their nightly activities. Frustrated, they start racing all over the house on floor tiles. With them my wife, and because of her sound effects, I. Days pass, lizards take their rightful places, we name them by looks and beauty and we keep watch throughout the night with their horoscopes in hand wondering where they will probably rise the next morning.

I had to kill a few. The tools? The floor duster, grossly inadequate. They would just bear the blow and start moving ones again. Then we tried the domestic insect killer spray. The lizards would faint but start moving ones we were sure that they were dead. Wife would ask to throw them as soon as they fainted. As soon as I went to collect, it would start moving and before that would start her shrieks behind my back making it an impossible task. Finally, she said that I am coward and if  I killed one – means really killed one – she would herself throw it out. One did die. However she waited until the house-maid arrived the next day and asked her to dispose it off. When the house-maid went to collect it, it started to move. But our housemaid was braver. She eventually caught and disposed it off.

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The battle has not stopped. We listen to advises and read articles about how best the lizards control pests and insects, how they are afraid of us and we should not be of them, but do wish in the end that they do not surprise us at least.

National Geographic channel these days showcased a person who fed the wild lizards rice from his palms. He even had a whistle language to announce to them the lunch time. One of my “Friends of Snakes” nephew routinely caught lizards with bare hands to feed his snakes; so was a tiny girl who was not afraid of befriending and taking them outside her house in her palm. My salutes to such brave-hearts/hands. But caution! Once you get married, you can be made to lose your courage.

After all, when I was a kid, the lizards used to be called the Laxmi of the house, the deity that brings in prosperity and not the deity that brings in bravado.

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One of them was a 2×1 feet timber box securely latched. I brought it out in the open from the dark delivery room, cleaned it and showed it sunlight. After ample washes of kerosene, the latches became pry-able. But I had to take permission from Grandma Tai to force open it. She said, ‘This belonged to Dada. Why don’t you ask him?’ So I asked Dada Grandpa. He just curled down his lips, which I conveniently took to be his permission.

Open Sesame! I forced open the latches. Inside was an old Charkha.  This was totally different from the one my real Grandpa Anna used daily to spin yarn. The flywheel was mounted inside the lid of the box, and the second, smaller wheel as also the spindle holder were all neatly mounted inside the other half. The Charkha looked unused. I tried to make out how it could become functional.  It looked like the flywheel and the smaller wheel had a common belt which was missing. I tried a woolen rope, but it did not work. I ran to Dada. He said that the belt used to be of leather, as he remembered. The one and only shoe repair fellow in the town said that nobody made such belts anymore, that is, after Gandhiji died. The matter rested there, but not my thought process.

On the weekend when Anna was spinning the yarn on his charkha, I asked him why those belts were not available. He said he will check out at Sevagram, Gandhiji’s ashram if they kept any spares. He did write a letter, the reply of which came in a fortnight. The letter said that these Peti (Box) Charkhas are not made anymore.

Anna then tried to dissuade me. ‘Instead, use my normal charkha’ he said, ‘But on one condition that you will make your own Peloo’s (the cotton roll outs from which the yarn would be spun). We had a Peloo plate and press in the house. When they used to be free from household chores, Tai and Anna’s sister Jiji used to press out the Peloo’s in the afternoon while gossiping. The Peloo plate was a slant timber board and the press a smaller timber board with handle. The Peloo- making was a simple procedure. Just take the spun cotton, roll it lightly around a steel pin and roll press. They both tried to train me in hilarious sessions, laughing and naming my Peloo’s. If my Peloo’s came out hollow and soft, they said it is Gokhale Peloo. If it was too tight, they said it was Savarkar Peloo. If I questioned why, they would say that I shall understand when grown up. To simplify, they would also name some in a way I understood – Birbal Peloo, Hanuman Peloo, Gandhari Peloo… and what not. Everybody got fed up with the quality and quantity I produced in a few sessions.

‘Why don’t you ask Anna if you can help him in sifting the cotton instead? That would be easy.’

Cleaning and de-seeding cotton manually was not an easy job either. I could produce only a handful every day. Sifting it with a bow was interesting and I could gain some mastery over it. This graduated me to touch Anna’s charkha. Spinning was of course out of question, and it took a good year for him to permit me, and me to start spinning a reasonably fine yarn.

Anna would bundle the spun yarn every now and then. It disappeared very often.

“What do we do with the yarn?”

“Well, we exchange it for Khadi cloth. Finer the yarn we spin, finer the cloth we get. We have to send it to Sevagram, the Gandhiji’s ashram.”

We sent yarn, the cloth kept coming and Anna wore only those clothes made of ‘our’ Khadi, till his last day. He even washed his clothes himself because he knew how much wet Khadi becomes heavy, and how it was hard for womenfolks to wash the wet Khadi clothes. Even I had to develop muscles before I could attempt to wash a Khadi dhoti or Jacket.

I developed an understanding for why he had only a few pairs of clothes and why he always wore white or black.

Those days, in summer, the water-man used to bring water from the well in buffalo-leather sacks. Once when he was mending his leather sack, I brought out my box charkha and placed it in front of him. I asked him if he could make a belt. He made it in only a few minutes, paid obeisance to the Charkha and asked me to try. It worked. I had my own Charkha now and vehemently fought battles to spin a yarn.

No sooner than Dada heard that the Peti Charkha was up and running, he took it back saying it was touched once by Gandhiji. Since my project of making the Charkha run was over and I received a few accolades for my efforts from Dada, I gladly handed it back to him.

However, I was bitten by the Charkha and spinning yarn for good. It was coveted qualification during our time.

As for forward integration, I chose ‘spinning and weaving’ as an elective hobby in school, and learnt to weave cloth too.

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Anna lived the Gandhian ideology without making a fuss about it. Charkha and Khadi were just one of the visible disciplines. Anna had quit politics after the freedom struggle. He refused offers to contest for the elections for the very first government of the republic and thereafter. But not Khadi.

Simultaneously, he must have been a Tilak follower when it came to starting a school (and then colleges in the name of Tilak) in a backward area.

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It took many days, sometime months to get the Khadi in exchange of yarn, since the cloth would be always in short supply. But Anna would not use imported, light, colourful fabric.

Many of his contemporaries made fun of him for wearing Khadi. But he stuck to his vow.

One of my grandmothers recently recalled an incident. Anna was to go to court to defend a case, when his friend told him that his Khadi Dhoti was torn. Anna said it did not matter. The friend said, it was torn at an awful place and things are visible from the hole. Anna simply said “It is not my body part that is going to defend the case in the court. ‘I’ am going to.”

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(Image curtsey..Google Images)

I am so frustrated because I have no time to post anything, I feel like shouting at the top of my voice, if I have any voice left.

I am sure you have felt the same way some day.

Be patient! - this is to me and to my frequent visitors.

The third bench-mate was Vishwas, who was in the front seat because he could not be at the back. Agreed, he was the shortest among the class, but the primary cause of his being there was because when it came to teasing teachers, particularly the lady types, nobody could beat him. Whenever lady teachers told us to take down something, Vishwas would sit back, relax and look at them with mischievous smile.

Paikya took down notes starting from the very top of the page, without losing any space in the top margin. This was during the first month. During second month, he started using the left margins also. Later on, he made use of the spaces between the printed lines, and finally all the edges of the page turning the book three times. The teachers – the same teachers who lectured us to write clean alphabets, using spaces – did not seem to mind Paikya’s exercise book. When we exhausted a third of our books, Paikya had used only a few pages. I noticed that he had only one exercise book, while we all had a separate one for every subject. That also teachers did not bother about. ‘It is easier carrying one book than ten, in rainy season’ was his explanation. But even after rainy season, he brought only one.

As if this was not enough, the size of Paikya’s lettering started to reduce. The class room norm was something like 16 point size. But Paikya had started at 10. Over a couple of months, he had successfully reached 4 point size. With the crow-quills and nibs we had, I think, that was the smallest point size he could reach.

Itching fruit (Khaj Koyari) was an amusement, provided you handled it wisely and did not touch it. If you kept even a small piece of it hidden in the desk, whoever touched it would start dancing like angry donkey. The itch would not stop unless you were sent home for bathing. Every term, at least two or three times, this incidence would take place, particularly on girl’s benches and we were sure there would be Vishwas behind it. For Vishwas, Paikya’s note-book was a sure-fire instrument for harassment, because if you misplaced his only note book, he would do anything for you, bring wild cherries, gum, honey or even itching fruit.

We had a three days holiday. When Paikya returned, his point size reduced to 2, possibly 1. We were all stunned. While we were trying to use a calligraphic effect with our nibs by grinding them slant, here was Paikya, who was trying to miniaturize by grinding the nibs from all sides, top and bottom too. Most of us tried, but the nib would crack while grinding. Writing would become impossible, because the nib would eat paper. The secret was revealed by Paikya. ‘For grinding, you needed a best quality nib like those the elders used. These can be found only in dust bins and refuge yards.’ He showed his nib. His was stainless, semicylindrical one, not like the brass, thin nibs we used. After we heard this, most of us could be found on evenings or Sundays scavenging and excavating for thrown away nibs near the municipal building or the civil court, where you could find some. The friends living near these building achieved a ‘most valuable friend’ status.

During the half-yearly exam, some tried to write like Paikya and were failed. Teachers did not understand what was going on and why everybody had started micro-writing. Paikya wrote papers in 12 points and cleared it with flying colors. Paikya was happy about the exam, because he took five supplementary answer papers for every question paper, but attached only one. With the rest, he made a booklet for the next six months. This was noticed by the teachers and he was reminded not to do it again. Watching this, I gave him all my last year’s exercise-books that had empty pages.

Paikya used to bring many an items for me. The honey, cherries and all. He always had many questions about ‘moneyed people’ and I used to answer them to my best ability. He would ask

‘Why rich people wear four clothes, when Paikya can do away with one, or none?’ or

‘Why people wore sweaters when a brisk run does the same job for him?’ or

‘Why people travel on bus or train when the legs do the same job for Paikya?’ or

‘Why there are so many sweetmeat shops when hot bread tastes even better?’

However when I asked about him and his family, he would not say anything.

Taking cue from Paikya, one of the artistic types drew a miniature caricature of Mahatma Gandhi in just one by one inch size, when a class was on. He lied that this was Paikya’s idea and both got bashing from teachers. However, this art form surfed on like a wave in other classes too. Most of us were attempting miniatures during the school time. Soon Nehru, Bhagat Singh, Azad, Patel, Shivaji, Netaji and Rana Pratap  adorned our books or floated on our paper-planes.

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Paikya invited me to his house. He came to pick me up early in the morning. We walked and walked until I was tired and reached an open plateau. In distance I could see our town, just like a pack of card board houses. Paikya stopped. Perplexed, I said,

“What?”

“This is it.” He said.

“The home?”

“Yes. There.” He indicated to a folded tent. “That is my mother.”

She was watching us. We went near and she touched my face with her coarse palm.

“So, this is Paikya’s best friend! We are moving tomorrow,” She said, “there is not enough fodder for sheep left in this part of the jungle. There is also a wolf pack around.”

 I had not heard of any wolves. I said,

“Let Paikya stay, he has been in school for hardly four months.”

“We move every now and then, this place to that. It was my idea to get him into school, but it is not working. We cannot afford.”

“But I like this town. Please tell father.” Paikya said.

“Yes, you have to. Let him be with me, we have a big house, you can go elsewhere.”

“What is the use? He will tend to sheep when grown up.”

“No. No. We can be moneyed people. I will be true Paikya.” 

I spent some time with them. In the end, Paikya tried crying to convince his mother. She showed her stone face and said, it would not be possible.

Vishwas came to know I had visited Paikya’s house.

“You looked at her carefully?”

“What for?”

“She is something.” He blinked one eye.

“That was stupid of you to say. She is Paikya’s mother… ” I said.

“She never wears her saree properly, never covers herself fully. Paikya’s father is number one boozard and does not do anything. Look at her with eyes wide open next time you visit. People visit her place with only one intention.”

“Not for a moment I thought of her any different than other women.” I warned Vishwas, ”If you utter this one more time, I will tell the head master. He will bundle you up and throw you out of the school.”

Other friends intercepted our quarrel. Vishwas kept smiling wryly.

That was the only visit I paid to Paikya’s home. Our friendship continued, but Paikya and Vishwas had started fighting every day. 

While others thought big and crafted tender bamboo crow-quills for bigger and still bigger letters, Paikya went in opposite direction and miniaturized his needs. Inadvertantly, deep down, he had influenced us to reconsider ours.

Paikya became irregular, stayed on for that year, but did not arrive the next year. He must have moved on the path to becoming ‘moneyed man’.

“You are fond of peacocks and tigers?” The new drawing teacher clad in stark white pajama and bush shirt asked.

“Not really; just trying to finish my ochre and turquoise.” I replied.

“You have a good feel of the form” he said, leafing through the entire book. So what?

He must have told Grandpa about it, because I was cajoled to stay back every day after the school to attend his special drawing class. The new teacher was turning out to be a headache.

“What is your aim in life?” The drawing teacher asked the special class of five. Two of us five were asleep after the day’s hard work and three were clapping at the cricket match that was in progress outside. Our teacher tried to get the answer, but nobody really cared about life.

“If you wish to become a Drawing Teacher when you grow up, you must pass the two basic drawing exams; Elementary and Intermediate… We will be preparing for the Elementary, this year.”

“This year?”

“Yes, the class will run for a year.”

I stopped going to the class the very next day.

However, upon his arrival on the weekend, Grandpa intervened and told me to try out the drawing class for a few days. I did not agree.

“What is your aim in life?” Grandpa inquired.

“What aim in life? I have none.” I said.

Hearing my answer, he became a bit serious, and I was more than sure that my evenings were going to be spoilt by the drawing class. I complained to Grandma. She, instead of supporting me, spread the gossip everywhere that I was appearing for the drawing exam.

“How is the new teacher?” Our neighbor Nilootai asked. She was a school dropout, waiting to get married, was excellent at embroidery and had a number of wall-pieces, pillow covers and blouses to her credit. “I hear he is Muslim.”

I was surprised. There were no Muslim teachers in our school as yet.

“I don’t know, but I will find out…he has no beard though..”

“Find out. And ask if outsiders also can attend his class.” She said.

I found out. His name was Rustom Pathan, and he had cleared the Drawing Teachers’ diploma along with Intermediate exam recently.

Nilootai then visited the class, said she had an ‘aim in life’ to become a Drawing Teacher, and if Rustom Guruji would help her. He said he had no problem. It looked like Nilootai had developed an instant fascination with the Teacher’s art. She came to our house a few times, discussed with Grandma, gathered courage and started attending the class. We were six now. To my disgust, Nilootai remained by my side full-time. I could not understand if she was keeping a watch on me or was taking shelter from Rustom Guruji.

We practiced symmetrical figures for a month. Rustom Guruji would give us the left half and we had to complete the other. He said if you are Righty, drawing the right side is difficult than left. This was true for others. For me, even the left side was a nightmare. For Nilootai, both brains seemed to work seamlessly. She came out to be extra-ordinarily gifted and became Rustom Guruji’s pet student in no time.

Out of six, three were driven out by the teacher the next month on the pretext of the sticky fingers and their asymmetric brains. Now we were three. Walmik was the third. He was from the nearby village, had come from his village only to attend the class and was even better than Nilootai. Rustom Guruji started paying less and less attention to me. Whatever flair with form I had, started to lose form. On the other hand I was becoming overjoyed with the thought that I may also be dropped in a few days. But I had an added value as Nilootai’s escort and I remained.

The progress reports started reaching the Grandparents via Nilootai. Grandma said,

“Once you finish your charcoal and erasers, you can drop out…No need to venture into colors…Who will spend for those?”

“I joined the class to learn coloring, not sketching funny shapes.”

“See what happens and we can decide later.” Grandpa said.

The lessons started coming at brisk pace since Nilootai and Walmik would learn the skill instantly. We started the nature drawing. These were not the usual landscapes of sun, the hills, a path, a hut, a lotus and swan, but the painting of a twig – a Custard Apple or Oleander twig.

The coloring part finally arrived. To Grandma’s annoyance, I was asked to buy a box of tubes. The old tablet box was useless for Elementary Grade coloring, according to Rustom Guruji. And who used those tubes in our town? And for that matter who in the town painted or appeared for exams or wanted to become Drawing Teacher? None! Rustom Guruji therefore imported three boxes, one for each of us. The lessons in primary colors, contrasts and mixing started. Rustom Guruji’s skill was such that he did not need to sketch anything. Lines, curves, leaves, stem and the eyelets on the twig would just flow from his hands. My interest in the class started flowering at last. However, the teacher had given us strict instructions not to attempt flowers in exam.

Guruji used to paint with such thick and opaque water-color layers that his painting would appear just like oils, albeit replica of life. In contradiction, Walmik would paint very transparent. Guruji was not very happy with this, but did not stop him, because Walmik’s paintings sometimes turned out appealing than the Teacher’s. Further Walmik started painting the backgrounds which was not the requirement, as per Guruji. Walmik also had discovered a trick. He used to polish his painting with a conch shell after coloring. This polish would give a terrific glaze to his paintings.

All of a sudden, we were sent for exams at the district place. Nilootai accompanied me in Hapton bus (http://rajeevne.wordpress.com/2010/05/30/half-ton-to-st/) . All the three of us had our relatives there and we camped at our respective ones. Further Nilootai convinced me that it was my responsibility to take her to the exam venue. I had to oblige.

The Symmetry question paper was alright. In nature drawing, I tried to polish the painting of my Oleander twig with a Conch Shell forgetting to check if the painting was dry. The paint was wet, spread everywhere, I had to throw away the completed drawing and hurriedly paint a second one, just before the time ran out.

The Still Life paper was also fine and I could complete the shapes and shading of the deliberately disarranged cones, cylinders and a jug to my satisfaction and in time.

The fourth paper was a bolt from the blue. Just before the paper started, Rustom Guruji apologized that there was a new exam format and a paper on human figures and groups had been introduced. He said he was sorry he did not teach us the complete syllabus. It was now up to us to use our memory and imagination. That was the title of the paper any way – Memory Drawing. I selected ‘Market Place’ as my subject and drew whatever vegetables I could with a lone vendor’s human-like figure. I had no practice in anatomy and the vegetables and the human figure were indistinguishable from each other. In disgust, I handed over my paper when there was a good one hour left for submission. I glanced at my mates. Walmik had drawn a colorful market place and Nilootai a marriage ceremony complete with fireworks, brass band and all.

I bundled my clothes, did not inform my relative of my departure and came back to our town alone. There was mayhem because of my disappearance. Grandpa had to go to the post office and wire to our relative that I had reached home safely.

Nilootai and Rustom Guruji arrived in the bus the next day. Walmik went straight to his village. I totally shelved my drawings, color tubes, the box and my painting abilities as soon as the exams were over and concentrated on field games. Although she tried on several occasions, I stopped talking to Nilootai altogether. She was an accomplished painter by birth. What business a novice like me can have with her?

The results came straight to our Head Master. He came to our class room and announced that the only student that appeared from our school has cleared the Elementary Grade exam in first attempt, albeit in C, the lowest grade. I had no emotion. I knew what I had drawn and wondered why somebody was so lenient as to pass a pitiable painter like me.

Rustom Guruji came to my Grandfather and told him the news, saying triumphantly, “Indeed the boy can become a Drawing Teacher if he wishes to.” Grandpa smiled and brought sweets.

Nilootai was married off immediately by her parents, without much fanfare. The news of her travelling on bus in company of our drawing teacher was getting undue attention. Nobody paid heed to the news that she had scored A Grade, neither to her request to let her complete the second exam. Before she left for good, she came and told me not to dislike art, because I had scored C grade. She also said that she felt so happy painting, she felt so good and safe in my company, cherished the last year, and finally, there were reasons for which she will one day become a Drawing Teacher, come what may. Her husband had no employment.

Walmik came to our school the next year. He had scored a B. He said, “It was wrong on my part to color all my drawings, The Symmetry, The Still Life, The Nature and Memory, everything. I should have painted only the Nature, as the examiners would have expected. Rest should have been in Charcoal. It was fun, anyway, to paint and fool the examiners.”

We both were experienced campaigners now. The next year, we had freedom from the Guruji and all we did was draw whatever we liked and paint whatever we drew. We painted hoardings for the school, decorated the school notice boards and also beautified the blackboards. For still life, we used the buckets, mugs, cups and saucers in the house. The majority of the drawings we did were of Zinnia and Periwinkle twigs and flowers which was the subject matter for the Nature Drawing. And yes, we bought us each a new box of tubes. We did not attend the class, although it had now a sizeable population and popularity. We inquired with Rustom Guruji what the subjects and lessons were, took his summary guidelines and went straight to exams. Walmik this year stuck to the basics of the exam, did not color everything and scored a high A. I scored a moderate B, because the Memory drawing ditched me once more. Nobody, including myself or my Grandparents had any concerns with my B score. I guess they were happy and relieved that they did not have to supervise me twenty-four hours and I spent most of the spare time of those two years in solitude with the colors.

Rustom Guruji never tired of asking whether I had any aim in life and I kept saying ‘no, I don’t’. He must have expected to hear from me at least once that I would like to become a Drawing Teacher. In retrospect, I feel I should have said so. Guruji also used to say that it was a pleasure he had his first students like us, especially Nilootai, because he himself had to appear for the Intermediate Exam a couple of times to get a respectable grade. But that must not be true. He was simply great as a teacher and a class apart, just like Nilootai and Walmik were.

Grandpa Anna was not much disturbed and things were normal in our house. But other children received strict instructions that they should not cross any Sutra or the rice portions, otherwise it will attract bad omen for the house and invite skin boils. The Bhanamati or stone pelting incidence was taken seriously and a group of townspeople was formed to investigate and stay on guard duty in the night. During his courtsey visit, doctor Grandpa said it is Tetanus that is causing fatalities in children and everybody should avoid injuries caused by rusted iron. Anna took a vow from me to follow doctor Grandpa’s instructions. In rainy season, it was the habit of the barbed wires, nails and tin roof sheets to hide under stagnant water or mud. How can one refrain from these while playing? But care was necessary, since a promise was a promise.

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Slowly, the needle of doubt started pointing towards three women.

To my utter surprise, one was Bhiku’s Aunt. She was elderly caring woman in her forties and used to come to our place sometimes to ask for buttermilk. She was a witch? Something was wrong. People gossiped in hushed voices that she visited the cremation grounds at odd hours.

On a Sunday, I was given responsibility for the first time to shop for vegetables. I was in the weekly wholesale market when I saw her crossing. She did not notice me. The crematorium was beyond the weekly market. I thought for a moment and started to follow her from a safe distance. She kept walking in her own thoughts, without looking around. There was not a soul on that dirt road except us and I had to take special precautions to keep myself, lest she might notice I was following her. The crematorium neared and I was in total frenzy. This was a prohibited area. But she kept walking at brisk pace and went past it. I was relieved that she did not go there. She went further to a desolate household which had a sizeable dairy farm. She went inside and came out after sometime carrying a big container. She started walking back, and caught me while I was bitten by a thorn and had to bend down to remove it.

“What are you doing here?” she said in concerned tone, “Children should not venture here. Do you know this is crematorium?…..Were you following me?”

“Yes.”

“And why?” She said, while removing the thorn in my toe.

I had to tell her the truth.

“Did you also believe in all that nonsense?”

“Of course not…..That is why I wanted to make sure where you went.” This was half truth.

Her container was without handle and must have been heavy. She had trouble holding it on her head. I offered help. She settled down in her pace and started muttering.

“These people have no sympathy for a widow, neither they have courage to charge me in public…..you will not understand the difficulties a widow living at the mercy of her relatives has to undergo….All this gossiping behind my back is killing me, really.”

“You should tell them.”

“Why should I offer justification?…..I don’t need to.”

“Then take the flak.”

“That I am very much taking….. But one doesn’t feel like carrying on for long alone, you know.” She started crying.

“What is in the container?”

“What else? Buttermilk. At least this gentleman obliges. All other households have closed their doors for me.”

We had reached the market place. I handed back the container, she thanked me and left. The market was on the verge of closure. I got a good deal on a leafy vegetable and came back with a bagful of only that. Grandma looked at the vegetables and said,

“Are we a family of buffalos or what? This is buffalo fodder, not a leafy vegetable for human consumption.” But she cooked it and everybody had to eat it. “Next time when you go to the market, take somebody knowledgeable with you.”

Then she inquired as to why I took so much time to return back. I explained. She said,

“What Bhiku’s Aunt said is so correct. Widows have no place to hide, although they want to….If you see her, ask her to collect buttermilk from our house; she does not need to go so far away…..But if I hear from you once more that you went near to the crematorium, I will teach a lesson, for sure. ”

I gave enough mouth publicity of my errand and findings within my friends. People dropped Bhiku’s Aunt from Witch-List. Grandma said that was purely because of me; although I knew that it must have been Grandma’s doing.

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Dhurpada was the second in the list. Her very young son, who was a master footballer of our school, had suddenly died. People said she was paying the price for her bad deeds. Doctor Grandpa kept telling everybody that it was Tetanus. But the rumors about her were growing day by day.

We had a playground beyond our school. It was late evening, the moon had just started shining and I was somehow left behind by my friends. Tired as I was, I was treading the path to my house, singing aloud, at a leisurely pace.

I stopped dead because of what I saw in the twilight a few feet ahead of me.

Dhurpada, and her neighbor! Both were giggling and wrestling. Dhurpada had lost sense of her clothes and it did not seem to matter to her.  Both were so engaged in each other, they did not seem to notice me at all, not even my singing. Ashamed, I took diversion and came home running.

Dhurpada was indeed a witch! Her son had expired only days before and she was giggling and wrestling with somebody. And the man was not even her husband. I publicized the account of that evening everywhere. Somehow, this news reached Anna. He summoned me, admonished me in strong words not to say anything further to anybody about this matter.

I had no mercy for Dhurpada, neither the townsfolk had any. She remained on the list.

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Keka, the third one, definitely could not be a witch! Grandma had sent me to her house last month with a message that she should come and visit us. I knew; Keka was very young, sweet, in late teens, had a rough marriage, expelled by her husband and had returned to her parents only a month ago. When the rumors of her black craft started gaining ground, I urged Grandma that we should call her.

After three or four messages, she came. No sooner than she entered the kitchen, where Grandma was, she started crying.  She kept crying for for a long time, Grandma also joining her in between. It was a rainy afternoon. I was at the front of the house with Anna and we both speechlessly listened to the sounds of her crying; loud, heart-rending in the beginning and sobs later. I could not bear anymore, went inside and sat beside her. She hugged me tightly and a new tidal wave of her sobs engulfed me. I looked at Grandma and she called Anna. I was asked to go out. After another hour or so, she was composed and went away, after hugging me again.

I overheard Grandma telling her friends that Keka’s husband had been brutal to her and she still had bruises on her body everywhere.

Her name was summarily struck out from the list after the womenfolks were convinced.

The rainy season ended and so did the rumors. The bhanamati turned out to be a miscreant’s deed and the stone pelting stopped as soon as the culprit was caught.

On Grandma’s persistence, Grandpa Anna called Keka’s husband, gave him legal scare and he agreed to take her back. But the marriage did not last, neither she was divorced. She came back, this time with a miscarriage and also disability in her leg. Anna engaged a criminal lawyer this time on her behalf, although Keka was not ready, and lodged an offence with a petition for divorce. It was a long battle to get her separated.

I waited for the next year’s rainy season and further interesting rumors.

One fine Sunday he came to my house in the early morning and announced that he has his own movie theatre and he would be showing a movie that afternoon. I dismissed him. However, he was a talk of the town the next day and most of my friends had gone crazy with what he had shown to them. I could not keep a lid on my curiosity for long and visited his house in earnest.

Everything was normal in his house, his mother milking the sheep, father was about to bark at me, and his brother was stacking firewood in the lean-to shed next to his house. There was no trace of a movie theatre. I was convinced that it was some sort of prank, but the friends were all praise throughout the week speaking about his theatre.

The next show was planned for the coming Sunday. I ran to Bhiku’s place just after I got up, ignoring Grandma who had guessed that something was cooking and was trying to persuade me to have at least milk before vanishing.

Bhiku’s place was normal as always. I scurried past his father and brother. Bhiku was still in bed and I caught up with him there.

“No show today,” he said in a hushed voice, “No show if my father is in town”.

That was an acceptable explanation. I told him to tell me when there would be a show.

“This time everybody has to bring two brand new marbles. I have decided to collect ticket fees. Last Sunday, there was unmanageable rush.”

Hearing this, my excitement had no bounds. Theatre must be a good business.

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The Sunday arrived when Bhiku’s father went out of town. Bhiku sent his mother to my Grandma in the afternoon to gossip, with a message for me to come as quickly as possible ‘to play’. I understood the code word and ran to his house. A few friends had already gathered there ahead of me. Bhiku was collecting marbles from them. I had not carried any. As such he said I had to help him in setting up the theatre.

We agreed. The lean-to shed was evacuated of fire wood. Bhiku brought a black blanket from the house, which had a hole. This was tied to the only opening. He then brought a mirror, set it up on a chair quite far away from the lean-to and adjusted the reflected beam such that it pierced the hole in the blanket. Another friend who had not brought marbles was stationed there permanently to make sure that the beam remained in its place. Bhiku now brought a box from his house, on one side of which was a lens and on the other a slot to take a single cut piece of film.

The set up was now ready, Bhiku became door keeper, spectators were seated, the room was already dark, Bhiku became operator, adjusted focus by moving the box here and there and started showing piece by piece, the ‘movie’. First frame was a woman, next one again the same woman, third the same woman and so on.

The frames had indeed come alive on the wall, although there was no motion-picture.

“Is it the same in theatres?” Somebody questioned towards the end of the five-minute show.

“No, duffer, the pictures move. My father has told me. Just like this. ” One who answered danced in the air.

“Then why two marbles?” Taking charge of Bhiku’s box the first one started jostling.

Others pacified him, and the quarrel ended when Bhiku returned one marble to him.

“There are no advertisements either in Bhiku’s movie.” Another complained. Bhiku returned his marble as well.

“Your screen is a foot wide. In theatre it is this much” Third one said showing the expanse with his outstretched hands and dislodging the blanket at the same time. His marble was also promptly returned.

The show ended on a mixed note. We were discussing the movie with Bhiku when suddenly Bhiku’s not-very-friendly elder brother came home. He got angry as soon as he saw the fire wood lying outside the shed and warned us of grave consequences if the fire wood was not rearranged in next ten minutes. Others ran away, but I and Bhiku carried and arranged the wood for the next half an hour.

Bhiku’s mother complained to his father about his mischief of sending her to my Grandma. His brother joined in and informed his father of Bhiku’s extra-curricular activities when he was away. Not surprisingly, Bhiku’s theatre was closed down the same day with violent means. Where one’s hard work will take him; you cannot predict.

Before I left, he handed over his marble collection and the cine-box to me for safe keeping and said he will meet me on Saturday.

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Bhiku came on Saturday. We discussed the fate of Bhiku’s theatre. He said it had no future. None the less, he was ready to partner with me if I provided the real estate and he the technical know-how. I applied to Grandpa through proper channel and Grandpa said he had no problem if we used the “Women’s Delivery Room” at the back for whatever I wanted to do. In return, I had to clean it thoroughly and keep up the rank in the class.

It was fine because this room had only one window, the room was very dark and no family members ever ventured that side. I readily agreed for the later part of the arrangement, because there was one more reason. I wanted to take stock of this room anyway. It was stuffed with heavy wooden boxes, a permanently locked cupboard and so many sundries.

What I had not thought out was how to bring the sunbeam in. The room was purposely set in the middle of the house. With a single mirror, it was impossible to bring the sun in. In the end, I had to resort to two mirrors, a big one in the backyard and a small one in verandah to have the beam entering our theatre at the proper place.

Then I discussed with Bhiku the shortcomings of his theatre.

One – People wanted advertisements. With thought, we collected cut pieces of glass, blackened them with soot and carved out the ads of the barber shop, the sugar cane juice stall, the circus then in town and such others. We tried them and they worked fine, only problem being that you had to remember to hold it upside down, just like the cut films. You also had to take care your fingers did not blacken while inadvertently smothering the soot.

Another of my ideas was also implemented. Brown papers pierced with burning incense sticks! The holes made lines, dots and therefore characters and pictures in the ads.

Two – People wanted big screen. The room was big and Grandma had white Sarees. This problem could be solved.

Three – People wanted moving pictures. There was no chance to have those. This will have to be bartered with something else. We decided that we can allow two shows in one ticket.

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The theatre opened without a bang. Although I knew that Grandpa and Grandma never watched a movie, our first show was only for them and compulsory.

They said the room is not clean enough and Grandma’s white saree screen had become dirty. As such, all the further shows were cancelled by them until the room was clean enough to their liking.

That done, I called my fast friend to attend the promo. He came, he saw and he said that the intensity of the beam is not enough to illuminate the films and ads properly. We tried a few adjustments, but it did not work out. He said our theatre would not be successful.

He went home and opened his own theatre with all the changes we had done to Bhiku’s invention; that too, ahead of us.

We had no takers when we were commercially ready to open ours. On the day of the opening, and thereafter also, I and Bhiku were the only spectators for the shows. Business had gone fut. Bhiku left me alone.

In my own theatre, I had to bring the sunbeam in, work as an operator and as the only spectator.

My friends apologized for their not visiting. They had heard from my fast friend that our theatre was not up to the mark and also because my elders always kept a watch over proceedings.

After a few days of fuming and fretting, I handed over all my raw material to my fast friend for use in his theatre. He had done a good job. He had pasted posters, set up a tent in the open air, made up of two cots covered with all the blankets in the house he could lay his hands on. There were so many family members in his home; nobody really cared what the others did. As such, his theatre ran alright for some time. I had a free pass. Bhiku would not go there. He turned to cricket and had the same treatment from his family as when he was in theatre.

Grandma was ecstatic with my theatre business since she had achieved her purpose.

Come Ganapati festival season and I would start making rounds of the studio of Sambashiv Painter. He used to make and sell the clay idols for the festival. Every household in the community would have his idol ordered. It is bold to say it was his studio, because he had barely 150 square feet of space. Since he had no mechanical means for molding and painting, maybe it did not bother him that his space was cramped. It would, during these days turn into a number of tiers made up from wooden planks. The unfinished and finished Ganapati idols in clay would be seated there; as if they were smiling silent spectators in a stadium watching the world pass by.

Invariably during these days I would develop a fad for clay molding. I had tried to prepare a clay mix for idol sculpting several times in the house, but mine would always break. If I used the black cotton soil, the idol would crack in a day. It would be the same result if I used red mud, but the result would be known couple of days later. The Elephant God’s four arms would just slither down the next day, the trunk would become straight from the curled one or the ears would just fold. Tough job! I needed a teacher. Who better than Sambashiv himself?

When he saw me bending over the idols many a times, he tried to chase me out first. When I would not budge for days together, he said,

“Mister, do you want to ruin the idols?”

“No, I just wanted to learn to sculpt.”

“Even my own son does not want to learn from me! Why would you? Do you want to spoil my business?”

I could not answer, but I stayed put. In due course, he warmed up and said,

“If you really want to learn, start coming to the studio in summer. No use brooding over the clay-mix in rainy season. The clay needs to be prepared in summer!”

“I cannot spare that much time from school!”

“Then go study! Why become an idol maker? …. Anyway, start collecting clay in summer from the ruins of the small fortress (Gadhee) we have on the outskirts of the town or from the river-bed. Next year, I shall show to you the places where you can find it. One has to meticulously grind the clay, strain it from a fine cloth and keep the dry fine clay in bags packed until June-July”

“You have some secret mix. My idols break every now and then.”

“What is the secret? Just clay, water, cotton or jute fiber, a very little tree oil and gum….. You need to pound the mix hard. This step is very important, because it would decide if the idols will dry fast, last during transportation and how they will receive colors. If good, the dried idols will have a reddish grey appearance on drying and they can be polished smooth with sandpaper.”

It was dawning upon me that it was not as easy as I had anticipated. Looking at my face, Sambashiv said,

“If you are serious, you have to spare time! …..If you have no time, I can understand….. This year, take a lump of clay from my lot and try molding.”

That was a good idea. I came back with a handful. I had to do something before it dried. So, I prepared an idol remaining awake all night. There were no electric bulbs those days and I had to work like a half blind person ferociously.

I was watching my creation in the morning when I sensed Grandma’s presence behind me.

“What is that?” She said.

“Ganapati – prepared in dark” I said.

“Oh! ….. It looks nice, but I thought it was a lotus flower with leaves…”

“This is Lord Ganapati….Where is the lotus? And leaves?”

“Well, I used my imagination…It is not exactly lotus and leaves….”

Before she said anything further, I destroyed my creation, although she was trying to stop me.

“I have to do it on Sunday,” I said, “So that I have a full day and daylight to mold.”

On Sunday morning, I went to Sambashiv. He was busy sanding and white-washing the unfinished idols. He heard my ‘Lotus-Leaves’ story and said,

“Ordinary people cannot understand how little artists suffer….Take some more clay if you want…but not anymore. This is the last installment …… And on your way back, visit the new studio that has come up this year.”

I went there. It was the studio one of our teachers had opened! I never knew he was an artist; he taught us mathematics! I looked at his creations and immediately knew why Sambashiv had sent me there. The idols indeed resembled mathematical symbols instead of God. Sambashiv’s were real statues, with affable faces and perfectly proportioned body parts. If Gods were there, they would look like his creations…. But these? …. Our teacher’s creations were worse than mine. Not even a remote chance to come anywhere near to Sambashiv’s talent … It was only that the idols were already painted and  appeared passable although garish. These were ready for sale, ahead of Sambashiv and half priced. Paint and Price makes the difference, not the clay! I was relieved.

I spent the Sunday crafting the idol. It was better than ‘Lotus-Leaves’ this time. Further, it was ‘mine’ and as I had wanted. My Lord was sitting on a snake that had five heads.

Since it was Sunday, I did not have to bother much about Grandma, except for keeping the meal timings. She however kept a close watch and did not comment this time.

Once finished, I kept the idol aside for drying. In few days, it started developing cracks here and there, but not as serious as with my own clay-mix. ‘Keep Mending!’ was the advice I received from Sambashiv.

I had to fight with Grandma to get me the water colors.

“What a waste,” She said, “The statue looks just as good without paint!”

“Once the idol is painted, I shall use the remaining colors for painting something else. It will not go waste. Promise.” I said, and she obliged.

What I had not anticipated was the amount of white color the idol would need to receive full wash. In a matter of minutes, I had finished all the white and 3/4th of the idol was still in grey.

I knew that there was no point in telling Grandma about the new demand. I went straight to Sambashiv.

“No, No. No colors. These are expensive ones,” he said and summarily dismissed me.

A few days went in hunting. Somebody informed me that a building contractor had erected a lime stone mortar mill in the town. I went there and brought the lime, burnt my fingers, but completed the white-wash. The idol assumed a bit of a personality.

Then I remembered that I had not sanded the idol. Sand Papers! …. Furniture makers! ….. I scurried their bins and brought a number of used ones.

The sanding was now done. But the idol had now changed shape. The rough sand papers and my over skill had taken toll of all the white lime wash as also one elephant tooth.

Grandma said, “Ganapati has one broken tooth anyway, don’t fret too much…….How many more days you must? ….The festival is nearing and you are not helping me in any preparations….. I wanted to use your idol this time and save some money, but it is also not yet ready.”

“Don’t worry. It will be ready in time.” I said confidently.

But my confidence weaned quickly. Painting posed a big problem. As soon as you touched the lime with wet brush dipped in color, the dot would spread like wild-fire. Drawing lines was simply not possible. All you could paint were blobs and spheres. The Lord’s skin had grown snakelike with pox and freckles, very similar to that of the snake on which he was sitting; His clothes braved polka dots and His eyes – fat black holes with aura around. There were no partitions between fingers and toes, stomach and chest, the crown and the face, just a bubly confusion everywhere. I had not dared to paint eyebrows or lashes for the fear of them also becoming a series of dots and therefore a mess.

I got totally frustrated after a day’s work. I could not destroy the idol now, since a lot of effort had gone into it, neither could I appreciate what I had done with it. I just kept staring at it helplessly, a dry brush in hand. This continued for a couple of days.

“We have to keep the idol in our house for seven days only. Then it will be immersed in water. Why are you so disturbed?” Grandpa now joined the wagon.

“Look at it! Then say what you have to say.”

“But I did. It has come out well, for the first attempt. I notice it has not cracked this time…as such fit for rituals and worship.” He said. However, I was beyond consolations.

I went to Sambashiv, told him about my failure and ordered an idol for us. Then I just sat there for some time, watching him paint the green black eyes and gold ornaments, the last and most difficult part, and at those magnificent creations of his.

“How old are you?” He asked.

“Five…reaching six….”

“And how old am I?….Sixty!….. Zero over Six…..Start afresh next year…..next year it will be alright ….. Sometimes things go wrong .…even at my age…..look! I messed up the garland!”

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Sambashiv discounted the price for our idol that year by almost half. At Grandpa’s insistence, we installed both the idols – mine and Sambashiv’s – for worship.

During the final day procession, when we took both the idols for immersion, I could not hide my creation well enough from the prying eyes. People ridiculed it a lot, but also agreed that I was the only one who had competed with our teacher as also with Sambashiv- the- great.

I begged for clay next year and years after that from Sambashiv. He did not refuse. In two  years, my idols became recognizable as an Elephant God. I insisted that we should have Sambashiv’s idol also; every year, alongside mine. Nobody had any issues with that. Sambashiv was quite pleased that my idol making did not spoil his business in any way, but at the same time had started worrying about our teacher’s studio.

After my grand failures, I started admiring our mathematics teacher’s art. The news had spread in the school about me being Sambashiv’s disciple and the teacher started advancing special attention (!) to my math.

My clay molding fad went away as fast as it had developed, or I may say, as soon as I discovered my true potential. Sambashiv’s son must have been very similar to me. He restricted himself to sign-writing. 

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When all of my family members got fed up of my requests, tantrums and finally my silent non-cooperation movement, the maun-vrat, Grandpa agreed that I was old enough to watch a movie. Further he told Grandma that this freak needs to be silenced! The whole household discussed for a couple of days as to which was the movie that would most uncorrupt me. I was informed on a Saturday about the grand program that I would be taken to the movie theatre in the evening.

I publicized among all my friends that I would be watching a movie that day. Six PM Sharp.

Our town had but one theatre. It had a single row at the back, hidden behind a four feet parapet, which was called the ‘Box’. One third of the remaining theatre was for ‘Second class – Women’s', another third for ‘Second class – Men’s’ and the last third was “Pit” where you sat on the floor and if you liked a song, a God or a goddess or a fight sequence, you would throw a coin at the screen.

I was seated in the “Second Class – Women’s” along with my Aunt. I noticed that the theater that day was reserved completely for ladyships. Most in the Second class knew me and petted me. I also had a doubt that I saw faces very similar to my schoolmates here and there and started repenting about that ‘six PM sharp’ timing. 

I looked at my Aunt. She said just wait until he movie starts.

Eventually, the theatre grew dark, the projector started, the screen was awash with pure white. But, instead of showing a movie, two live girls came on stage, in front of the screen and started dancing to the tune of “Nain se nain nahee milao, Dekhat surat aawat laaj….Saiyyan….”

I looked at my Aunt. She was busy watching the live dance routine and kept telling me to ‘watch what happens next’. The projector was shut down after the Dance routine, and normal floods lit the stage and were not estinguished until the very last. There were speeches, a prize distribution ceremony and further dances. This continued for an hour, by which time I was very sure that I was foxed.

We came home.

Only saving grace was that I had actually visited a theatre. However, the opportunity to boast in the school was wasted, since I was sure many in my class had attended that ‘movie’. Many an aunt, mothers and sisters had apparently celebrated a ‘fool’s-day’ with my friends, similar to me.

My non-cooperation movement continued when I had time for that.

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Two:

With the advent of summer vacation, I went to my Parents’ town. When my mother inquired as to why I had grown dumb and mute this year, I had to tell her the movie story. She said she will see if she can arrange something.

The town fair was on. Every year there would be a number of Touring Talkies camping in the fair. The choice between incorruptible movies that were being screened was splendid.

One warm evening, I was told that I would be visiting the movie theatre today. I went along to the fair with an escort and two-three of my cousins. The escort took us to the Talky. The movie was “Jimbo”, a Tarzan clone. Our escort, instead of buying tickets, started talking to the doorkeeper. We were getting impatient as the theatre had already grown dark inside. After a few minutes, the doorkeeper allowed us to stand inside the door curtain, while he was talking to our escort. Just before I got accustomed to the dark interiors and Jimbo’s Chimp on the screen, all the children were brutally shoved out by the doorkeeper, saying “enough for one day”.

The escort was very wrestler-like and had a flowing double moustache that reached his double chin. As such, I kept mum.

“Movies? No!..Ice-creams are better!” He bellowed, and took us to an ice-cream parlor.

The rose cream was really good. I had no complaints about it. But Jimbo?

We came home. Mother thanked the escort. I told her the story of Jimbo and the Ice-cream. She said, ‘that person always messes things up’.

In the night when I was about to go to sleep, I could hear mother and father discussing this and laughing.

My efforts had to be continued further. Become dumber and muter!

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Three:

Then that golden day arrived. Mother told me that I would definitely; definitely watch a movie with her. Full length. And it also had a Chimp.

I accompanied her.

Some of these Touring Talkies used to have the screen set in the middle. On one side would sit men and on the other side, women. The Projection Cabin would be on men’s side. All the seating would be in the dust. As such, you had to carry your own carpets with you. Fine! Labour of love!!

We were on women’s side. The movie started. ‘Insaniyat’ is the name, Mother said. The movie was fine so was the hero Dilip Kumar. Yes. It had a chimp, but all the characters were left-handed, even the hero and the villain. Every man wielded his sword, fought fight, caressed horses and every woman pinned her clothes or hair-do, lighted lamps, presented helmet, armor or sword to her husband or whoever was in front of her with Left hand. Even the chimp ate banana with its Left hand. Strange world of movies!

But I had done it at last!!

Four:

We went to our maternal uncle’s town – Burhanpur - during this vacation. I had one full length movie to my credit and I would not tire of narrating my interpretation of humanity or the ‘Insaniyat’ to my maternal uncle several times a day, every time changing the story a bit to my convenience. He listened patiently for a few days and then said, ‘We are also human, Insan, please spare us sometimes.This is too much for my ears; I need to take you to another movie’.

We went to a proper theatre this time. The theatre manager greeted us and we spent a few minutes with him in his cabin.

I was about to view a real, three-hour movie now, in a theatre which actually had ‘Electric Fans’. The lights faded and the velvet curtains rolled up. The happiness was enveloping me so much that I fell asleep within first ten minutes; before the titles stopped scrolling.

‘Which was the movie?’ I asked my uncle on our way back to home. A name or two is useful! He cursed me left and right; shaking his head every now and then shouting that he will have to face the ‘Insaniyat’ ordeal once again tomorrow.

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Come rainy season and it would be custard apple downpour.

The hitherto unnoticed and not much cared for custard apple trees would become the most important part of my routine for the coming two-three months. No sooner than the back yard was free of stagnant rain water, the custard apple – Sitafal – trees would start budding with pastel green bloom. I would then start spending more time with these trees than with friends. We had a line of about ten custard apple trees, in addition to those that had grown wild along the compound.

Most of the buds would be eaten away when tender and pale white, but once they turned deep green, they would taste unpleasant. Not only I, my Grandma was also famous for her early morning tour of the back yard, which, in this season would last anywhere between fifteen minute to two hours and she would let everybody wait for brunch. My rounds would be in the afternoon after the school, when I had to ward off my friends and parrots who would be incessantly planning a bud party. While returning back from school the friends would try their hand at nipping the buds, eating those or pinch tender fruits to gauge if they could be used as marbles.

Towards their way to ripening, the fruits would start showing their pink partitions. The daily chore would then multiply many fold because I would be counting and writing down – how many buds, how many tender fruits, how many near ripening and opened up, how many near plucking and what not. The empty pages of the earlier year’s exercise books would be filled with this data. Grandma and I would take out the brass and tin containers and the emergency gunny bags for storing the fruits until they were ready to eat.

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That year, the yield was tremendous. People would gather just to see the trees, their flourish and comment that they had gone berserk. We had already filled all the storage containers with fruits, also the gunny bags and even borrowed a few boxes from neighbors. Every room was full of fruits lying here and there. Still, the trees were overflowing with the fruits. Every evening I would wonder as to where I could keep those that I would pluck the next day.

Then the whooping-cough epidemic struck. All the children in the school started making ghong… ghong…coughing noise while trying to speak or run. Every child in the town was promptly banned from eating custard apples. According to Ayurved and the home remedy experts in every house, custard apples were the worst and would aggravate the cough.

Every day I would watch elders savoring the custard apples by hundreds, my dwindling stock and curse the ghong – ghong cough. It would not go. The digestion had gone awry because of the medicines and I was loosing weight fast. I waited and waited, took injection a day, cough syrups by bottles and powdered tablets by tens, which otherwise would have been near impossible for parents and doctors to administer.

Only a few of the custard apples now remained.

Then grandpa Dada arrived on the scene. He had come back from his tour of his farm land and took me to the veranda at the front of house. Yearly routine! We sat next to each other, he told me to just listen, don’t speak ghong-ghong and started telling tales about his trip. Grandma brought the best of the best fruits for him. It was her custom that the very best would be saved for him.

He offered one to me. He knew how I was fanatic about them. I took it, looked at the inviting sight, devoured the smell and returned it since Grandma was standing guard.  He asked Grandma why I was not eating.

“It’s the epidemic,” She said and explained in detail about the medicines I was taking and how I was being kept away from custard apples.

“When shall he be well? We shall eat together after he is well. I can wait.”

“Don’t know. The medicines are not working.”

“Do you know the principle? Severe the illness, stronger the dose?”

“Injections are also on. See how pathetic he has become. He is not eating anything.”

“Custard apple promotes cough? Let us try it as a medicine.”

Then he told me to eat as many as I wanted. “I take the full responsibility,” he said.

Although Grandma was persuading us not to eat, we finished whatever custard apples were in front of us…and those skinny ones left over on the trees….and those not so ripe…then those that would be ready tomorrow….and those that would be ready a week after.

Satisfied, I gave a big hug to Dada. Grandma was angry and worried and I could see her fear about what will happen to my health.

To everybody’s surprise, the cough went away in a couple of days. Doctor Grandpa said, this was because of his medicines. Dada laughed thunderously. Nonplussed; Doctor Grandpa said that I was possibly cured because my stomach was full and medicines were now working properly. Now Dada laughed roaringly.

“Dada’s remedy worked for me! Not medicines!” I said.

“But don’t run advertising that custard apples cure whooping-cough,” Doctor Grandpa said; shaking his head vigorously in disbelief and at our ignorance.

But I advertised. I advertise even now. However, I do not guarantee it.

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(Images curtsey – Google Images)

There was no break in their routine. Every single day they would sit on a bench. This bench was made of a squat boulder wall, which also served as a siding of a bridge. Both used to wear black oily jackets. In summer and rainy season, both would be sitting under umbrellas and in winter under mufflers.  That is all that was similar about them.

There is this myth that Saint Dnyaneshwar made a wall walk. The wall carried Dnyaneshwar, his brothers and sister to Saint Changdev who had arrived riding on a tiger. The townspeople used to say that these two will one day definitely make that wall walk.

Ajit used to wear a tall black Turki cap with tail, and Krishna a brown one. It was very difficult to make out the exact colors of their caps; just like their weathered jackets could not be called black.

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Ajit’s cap, his short pajamas and his chaste Urdu were the only indications of his antecedents. Otherwise, he was just Ajit for everybody, even we kids. The cine-star Ajit was not famous then. Everybody rightly wondered whether this was his real name or his nickname. Ajit was always adored by us kids. He had a handheld Bhonga or horn in the beginning and that he used to advertise the new release of movies. There was but one theater in the town and Ajit was its spokesperson. The way he advertised made a third-rate movie a super hit; and third grade movies only made it to the town. First grade movies used to be shown at district place, for which people used to hire taxis and would make it a two-day outing at the cost of relatives in district place. The heroes then were Mahipal, Ranjan, Kamran, villains Tiwari or K N Sing and heroines I can’t remember. I remember only the heroes and villains because that was the core stuff of Ajit’s advertisement. No sooner than we used to hear ‘Suniye, Suniye, Suniye…’ through Ajit’s horn, we used to dump whatever we had in our hands and run to join him. Not that we grasped everything of his flawless Urdu and Shairy, but he always made us float into the dreams along with him with his description of the mythology, the history, the jungles or the fight sequences. If the movie was (supposed to be) a super hit there would be a poster board carrier cart following him. Much later, he started distributing printed hand bills and sold the movie song booklets while advertising. The first color pamphlet he distributed was that of Dev Anand/ Guru Datt’s CID. This I had treasured for many years, keeping it hidden from elders.

We used to follow him throughout his kilometer long tour in our area. He used to enjoy our company and cheers but would be commercially least interested in us, because none of us would ever be allowed or actually make it to the theatre to watch a movie. Elders then watched movies covering their faces. He would distribute leaflets to elderly people, and personally ask them to watch the movie he was advertising without fail.

Once he was through with his routine, he would then sit with Krishna on the wall.

He had grown up sons, but he was not satisfied with what they had planned for the  future. 

The loud speakers arrived and Ajit had to advertise while riding in a Rikshaw. But one could see that he had lost interest in this changed way of working. May be he liked children, missed his fan-following and people contact more than the easy rickshaw ride.

He faded away from the advertising scene unannounced. Before that, succumbing to my pressure, he had taken me one day to movie operator’s cabin and handed me a number of cut pieces of films before he disappeared for good.

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Krishna used to sell Chivda. He had a cubical Chivda container with glass walls, the one and only such container in town and as such a matter of attention. He never went on selling sprees, but always used to sit at one place – the wall. People knew they could find him there and he knew people would come to him. I remember him for his meticulous onion, corriander and lime shredding, methodically preparing the paper cones and his concentration while assembling and delivering the final product.

The taste of his Chivda was awesome. We were not allowed to buy from him in retail and  many children used to loiter around his Chivda cube estimating how much he must have sold today. None the less, he would not leave until his cube was totally sold out. His pastime was smoking Bidi or making Chivda cones from waste newspapers, if there were no customers.

If I made a lot of noise about Krishna’s Chivda and how deprived and unhealthy I was without it, I would be allowed to buy it from his house directly when it was being prepared, if it did not reek of Bidi, but never from the street. As such, the rule was that if you wanted Chivda today, you should have made a fuss about it yesterday. It required a day’s planning.

Krishna had a home cum his industrial kitchen very near to our house. I clearly remember my first visit to his house. There was a big Lord Krishna’s calendar on one of the walls. I was quite wonderstruck at his specially handcrafted wood stove, an elaborate chimney, the enormous sizes of his frying pans and most importantly an Amla tree full of fruits that had coyly entered into his one room house. It was playfully touching and talking to me. Instead of buying Chivda, I had bought Amlas from him since the tree was too persuasive (and Grandma had said that this was stupid buy, because we had a fruiting and giant Amla tree in our own court-yard).

In his house, I would always be greeted by Krishna’s wife. Grandma knew her very well and had a soft corner towards her. Krishna had no children of his own. The Amla tree was so fascinating that I started visiting Krishna’s house quite often. However, this raised a doubt whether I went there for free issue Chivda or Amlas and was promptly stopped from visiting Krishna’s house. But Krishna’s wife had grown fond of me and started visiting our place if I did not. Flustered, Grandma allowed me to go there when I felt like. The difficulties she was facing in running the household were quite visible in her tattered clothes, the flimsy house devoid of any normal household goods and everything else. But the affection and friendliness she showed towards me was simply divine. I do not recollect what we talked, but we used to chat for long time. Grandma then started calling her as a guest in most of the gatherings or feasts our family had. When Grandma guessed that she was ashamed of her clothes, she started presenting her a Sari and clothes for Krishna at every such occasion on one pretext or other. Further all our old newspapers and magazines started finding their way to Krishna’s place.

Years later I learned that Krishna had a love marriage and his wife had eloped with him to get married. She never looked like an eloping person. She was very religious, frail, soft and child-like. Krishna’s in-laws were a wealthy family and Krishna was quite old compared to his wife. I always wonder from where she got this courage to run away and decide to spend life with this small time business person.

Because of his smoking, Krishna developed tuberculosis and died early. His wife went somewhere shortly after that.

Ajit stopped his errands sometime after Krishna expired

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What Krishna and Ajit shared on that wall is a mystery for me. Did they mutely discuss Work? Destiny? Family? Day to-day difficulties in living life? Movies? Their religions were different and there was no similarity in their vocations. I do not remember to have seen Ajit eating Chivda or sharing Bidi with Krishna. It was not the only resting place Ajit could have availed; there were so many others. Krishna could also have used another place. Why did they choose to share the wall?

May be they had deliberately and wisely chosen the place and made sure that they will always be remembered sitting on that wall – like the rhyming two green bottles that fell at a time.

I could not avoid it the next day. As usual, I made certain from Tai if she had dictated everything, nothing more was required. This added about ten additional items. Then I opened all brass and tin and china containers in the kitchen and store one by one and started asking her if she required this or that. That added fourteen or fifteen further items to the list. Satisfied, I stuffed the empty oil can and a few jute bags in another jute bag and left. No sooner than I reached the gate; Tai called me over and added the vegetables to the list.

That done, I first went to the Rickshaw stand, told Babu, our Rickshaw wallah that I would need him in about an hour’s time at the Grocer’s. He was okay with this.

The shop was in three parts. The owner had a mattress podium at the left, on which he would be reclining most of the time like Lord Vishnu. Sometimes his brother accompanied him in heady town gossip. Both would be playing with their black telephone instruments and taking calls on wholesale scene. There was a saying in the town that if the trade was good, they would smile. Otherwise they would go to ablutions. Usually their trade must have been good on the days I visited, because they always smiled at me. But not today.

The shop had timber doors. The door-stop was polished smooth by continuous use. This is where the customers would sit. At the right were the vegetable oil drums and cans. Just in front of them would be seated on a blue carpet, the grocer’s nephew, who was also my uncle’s classmate some time ago.

At the grocer’s, I took out the long list from my pocket. The method was simple. You would dictate your list to Grocer’s nephew, then go to the back yard store, check – or pretend to check – each individual item for quality i.e. that they did not contain stones, rodent droppings, mold or pests or flying insects. That done, you would check the weight of the grains and sugar and similar such items while the helper tried to steal whatever possible for his owner.

I completed all these steps. The Grocer’s nephew now started writing prices against the items. Here you had to show that you were smart by arguing and haggling about the price for each item. I started doing that. He looked up from the list. I was alarmed, because his stare was not uncle’s-classmate-like.

“Do you know how much all of this will cost?” He calculated, and then said, “Close to fifty Rupees.”

“How does that matter? I never pay you. My Grandpa pays. I was only making sure you don’t cheat.”

“Cheat?” The Grocer interrupted from his podium. “We never cheat. We are the best value Grocers in the town.”

“This sugar is all wet. You always add sand to rice. And the jaggery is fermented, and the grams are all half eaten by rodents.” I braved.

“In rainy season, the grocery is always like that.”

“This is no rainy season.”

“Son, pass his bill here.” He instructed his nephew. He did that. The grocer looked at the total, and then brought out a red book from behind his back. Reading through it he said,

“The last two month’s dues are not yet paid.”

‘’And how much is that?”

“Ninety One Rupees.”

“So what? We will pay.”

“Pay? Pay when?”

‘’Today.” I checked my pockets. I had few anna change.

“So leave your bags here, go home and bring the money.”

“But there is this festival. We need the grocery now, before the guests arrive.”

I cannot forget the feel of the polished timber I was sitting on, the smell of fermented jaggery, groundnut oil, turmeric and my own anger filling up my nostrils.

“Not my problem, pauper.” He said closing his red book, and told the helper to take everything packed for me indoors.

I was fuming red and started walking home. This was the first taste of insult I was facing in my life because I did not have any money. I never noticed that Babu’s Rickshaw was following me all the way to home and that he called me several times.

I dumped the vegetables in front of Tai, and went out. Lila Aunty hurriedly followed me and inquired where the grocery was. I did not answer, but Babu, who had also come after me, did explain in detail. Lila Aunty came to me and inquired if what Babu was telling was correct. When I said yes, she told me not to worry and if I would accompany her to the Grocer’s. I said yes.

In a short time, I was marching to the Grocer’s store again with Lila Aunty. It was not common for womenfolk, particularly unmarried, to go to this type of shops. People on the street were watching us. We reached. The grocer appeared surprised to see us. Lila aunty made the grocer repeat what had happened, if he had called me pauper and whether I had indeed promised that we will pay the dues today. He confirmed and then told me to beg pardon. I said I would not. But Lila Aunty insisted that he is my elder and if the grocer wanted an apology for his wrongdoing, I must ask for. I eventually did, controlling my sobs. She then told the Grocer that he would get his dues today as promised and we would not be dealing with him in future. He got up and tried to make up, and said we could take home the grocery; he would wait until Grandpa arrived. But she was firm, and said Grandpa would need his apology in return for how he behaved. We came back.

Lila Aunty and Tai went to the market in the evening and came back with half the grocery we required. I was informed that the Grocer’s dues have been paid off and I should be holding my head high when I went past Grocer’s shop. No need either to go to his shop from now on, since Aunty had found a cheaper store.

Grandpa and the guests arrived the next day. A particularly inquisitive relative inquired why Tai was not wearing her usual gold bangles lately. Tai said in plain voice that sometimes it is necessary to sell the possessions, if honor is at stake. The woman did not inquire further.

I did not enjoy the festival, the guests departed and I saw them off. While returning, I stopped and looked at our house. It had changed in last few days.

The Grocer finally came and apologized for his behavior towards us. Grandpa looked after his law suits anyway. The gifts he had brought were promptly returned by Tai, then and there.

However, Grandpa noticed the missing bangles only after a year or so.