Part 2: Stories from Chittoor

Read the earlier episode

I was in 12th standard I guess when this happened. We went for a night show that day. The movie was dubbed from Malayalam to Telugu and was a cop-basher. I slept off a few minutes after the second half started. The lights came on signaling the end of the movie. Ramesh, Imthiyaz, and I stepped out of Raghava, the movie hall. We lit a smoke and shared it. None of the auto guys were ready to ride to our colony. So, Imthy decided to go sleep in his grand ma�s house which was close by. Ramesh and I had no choice but walk home. We walked in the by-lanes to avoid the main road; we did not want to bump into a patrol jeep. Sounds weird I know, but the situation was such that the edgy cops did not lend an ear to logic or reason. Any one found on the roads in the middle of the night was some kind of a suspect for them I guess. I was really psyched back then (even now I guess). So, I used to make it a point to avoid cops in the nights. Ramesh was boring me to death with his concept of love (that the consummation of love is not marriage. It is sacrifice). As I had discussed earlier, it was the season of love in Chittoor. Every guy was in love. Some guys were in love with two or three girls at a time. I used to write love letters for a few guys. They liked my work I guess, for I would not write a line without studying the audience. What does she want to do in life? Who is her favorite actor? Does she wear jeans? Does she talk to boys? Is she outgoing or withdrawn? You know? So, my letters had high success-rates. I know some proactive guys who used to roam around with a bunch of love letters. Only, the name field was empty.  �You never know when love can strike you machaan.� One of the true-blue lover boys justified the template-driven approach. But Ramesh was in a different league you see. He was the �emotional� type. He believed that true love means no touching. No one would argue with that concept in those days. Sex was a bad word. Those prophets that went around preaching that divine love (or pure love) was devoid of physical desires impressed the girls, but not a single girl fell for them. On the other hand, pragmatic guys were surely, but silently making a lot of progress. You know what I am saying? They were �getting some� in other words. Divine love is like communism I guess. It looks beautiful and poignant on paper. But no one wanted it. And people wanted to get some. Let�s exploit the metaphor a bit more: we had a lot of closet capitalists. That said, love was the season, religion, hobby, center of the universe for almost all Chittoor boys during the late eighties and early nineties. Sadly, the girls were smart. They would have none of the bull-crap we wrote in our gripping, moving love letters or proposals. Only one in ten boys got the girl to say yes. So we were a bunch of sad, love-sick boys and we had to support each other. So we had our meetings where we analyzed, cribbed, cried, and blew our noses over how unfair the girl was. How she failed to see the power of true love. How the other day she was caught looking at him in school; that was irrefutable proof that the girl is in love with you: a casual glance. I used to quietly think �If I walk into class with my hair painted brown with Fem, all the girls will look at me�, but I never used to voice it, for it killed the authenticity of the only proof and the only thread of hope for the guy. Ramesh was ten levels higher. He thought he was born to fall in love, much to the grief of his parents and utter delight of the gang. Think about it, if three of us told him �prove us that you really lover her by chopping your left arm?� He would! I mean we got him to cut his forearm with a shaving blade didn�t we?
So, you can imagine my plight as we were walking towards home. Even the street dogs gave us a wide berth, thanks to Ramesh and his incessant love-talk. �Love is the light that leads my ship of life� �She is the oil; I am the wick, in the lamp of life.� �Sacrifice!� And I had heard each and every line at least a 1000 times. He went on and on, sucking on cigarettes like a maniac. Sometimes, the filter of the cigarette would fly into his mouth. He was such a sucker I tell you. So as he paused for breath in Greamspet I quickened my pace. Home was another ten minutes away. My head was reeling as if a million, miniature aircraft were running sorties in my head. And, I saw the stationary Jeep, with red letters �Police� on a white patch, right under the windshield. My hand dove into my trouser pocket and got the movie ticket counterfoil. Ramesh joined me. We did not want to look abnormal. So I urged Ramesh to keep talking. And I pretended that I was talking to, uttering some nonsense. As we were crossing the Jeep, I felt a few pairs of eyes on us. We crossed the Jeep. My heart was banging against my ribcage and beads of sweat trickled down my back, making my shirt stick to my back. We thought we were out of danger. I heaved a sigh of relief just when the voice roared, �Hey, stop there ******ds.� We slammed our brakes. I held the tickets over my head. I wanted to impress upon them that we were moviegoers. An inspector and four cops surrounded us. The constables stood like heroes; legs wide apart, slapping the lathi on their palms.
�Where are you going?� The inspector asked.
�Home, sir. We went for a movie.� I said. Ramesh was too shit scared to talk I guess.
�Why? Can�t you go for the evening show, ******ds?� the cop shouted.
Probably, if you were one of the libertarians you may have told him �That�s my choice. Not yours.� Or, say, �who the ****k are you? My entertainment manager?� But I didn�t utter anything, for I knew they wanted submission and not resistance. I wanted to go home. All intact. And the Bhupathi incident was afresh in my memory, though it had happened a few years back.
�What movie was it?� the inspector persisted.
We told him the movie name. The cops then discussed among themselves about how the movie portrayed cops and about how ***k all the movie was. We just stood there, bathed in sweat, shaky, and desperately in need of a leak and a smoke. Suddenly one of the cops stepped forward, breaking the circle and shouted, �What are you waiting for?�
We were stunned. And I saw the lathi rise and I ran, but not before getting a whack on the back of my right thigh. It hurt like hell. Ramesh, the slow-coach, did not get it. By the time he got the hint, a dozen lathi blows had landed on him. I ran as fast as my legs could carry. I did not stop even when I heard Ramesh screaming from behind me. I knew he too got away, but was a bit late. I reached home and headed for the terrace, where I usually slept because it� never mind. I lit a smoke. My thigh had already swollen. And I cried. Because it was against all that we were taught. Because I did not comprehend why going to a movie is such a crime. I did not meet Ramesh the next day. I bumped into Imthy though and his words said it all about Ramesh�s misery: �Swami, I have been working out and pumping iron. What took me a year, Ramesh did it in a night. He is bloated like mad!� (Note: my colony friends still call me Swami.)
[�Will be continued]

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