Molding Clay

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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Movies Movies

One:

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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Custard Apples

 

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)