The Price You Gotta Pay

It was five in the morning. It was a balmy October day and the trees stood still. The town of Chittoor was pregnant with expectation. Chiranjeevi's Raakshasudu was releasing that day. The Chiru fans' association had arranged for a special show. Quite a few people I knew were going for the special show. I wished I knew someone that would get me inside MSR movie hall for that show but I wasn't lucky. But, that didn't dampen my spirit. Srinivas and I were ready with our star: a bamboo and cardboard affair with an assortment of Chiranjeevi's pictures stuck on it. That was the tradition then. If you were a real fan, you installed a star (no matter how small) in the movie hall. On day one of the release.


I have to tell you about movie stars and their fans in Andhra Pradesh. Guys were fanatical about their heroes. In 1984, fans of Superstar Krishna created a record of sorts by erecting the biggest star for the release of Kanchu Kagada, outside Srinivasa movie hall. The imposing star made of bamboo and gray paper stood more than 25 ft tall. I don't think that record was ever broken. If that wasn't crazy enough, they showered rose petals, money, and what not when their beloved star appeared on screen. The movie hall would erupt and explode what with hundreds of fans screaming. I know of people that were injured when a one-rupee coin hit them. Fans would take over the balcony, the high price ticket area, days on end. It was easy to shower flowers and coins from the balcony. If you were one of those budget types that chose to sit in 'First Class,' well, a coin or a coconut just might hit you.
Altercations broke out between fans of different stars quite often. Chiru vs Balayya was the most debated topic. All fans had the numbers on their fingertips. How many centers recorded 100 days? Fuck the 100 days, what were the collections? Oh! Balayya's fans forced the movie hall to run the movie for 100 days! He can't dance! Chiru is dark! Balayya wears high heels to hide his short stature. And so on. I know a guy that broke his nose because he forgot Balayya�s fans outnumbered us and yet, he commented on Balayya. Pow! Came the punch. We kids called it 'Mukku Pachhadi' (Nose Salad) in Chittoor.

Srinivas and I biked it to MSR Movie Land, on his dad's ancient Hercules bicycle. He sat in the 'Carrier' behind the rider's seat, holding to our 'Star'. And I pedaled hard. By the time we reached the movie hall, it was already six. There were a million stars occupying every nook and corner of the movie hall's facade. We ran like our lives depended on it. The special show crowd was already there. The show was about to start.
'We'll get tickets for the evening show. Don't worry.' Srini said. I was disappointed nevertheless. What kind of fans were we! But what can a couple of 12 year olds do? We had trouble finding a nice spot for our tiny star. It appeared tiny now. There were bigger, better stars. Some even had serial electric bulbs that blinked as if mocking us.

Just as we were climbing a wall to reach the massive billboard that faced the road, a security guard screamed 'Get the fuck down you bastards!' And he pointed a stone at us. As I slid down the wall, I slipped, and hurt my leg. The skin on my knee peeled. It was white one moment and in the next, it filled up all crimson. I bit my lip and faced the security guy and said, "Fans...fans association. They asked us to put this star."
"Of course, why don't you convince me you are Chiranjeevi himself? And, what star are you talking about!?" He said and laughed. I hadn't noticed, but Srini had dropped the star and it was crushed beyond recognition. The special show crowd had trampled it. I stared at Srini for a moment that lasted forever. He was devastated. He adjusted his spectacles a million times. And we both broke down. The tears broke free, washed my face. The special show started. It was just the two of us. We were about to leave when we heard the security guy screaming at us.
"Park your cycle. Do you have money?" He said.
We were perplexed.
"Don't just stand there like idiots. Get in. Sit on the floor in front of the front row. All for two bucks! Now!"

We paid the security chap and parked the cycle. We flew through the tiny opening in the Iron grill gate. I almost tripped and fell again. That's when I noticed that the cut on my knee was bleeding profusely. The security guy signaled to the usher guarding the Entry door. And, we walked in and squatted on the ground, right under the huge screen, next to a bunch of gypsies. They were smoking beedies. Some were chewing scented tobacco and spitting all over the place. One gypsy woman was trying to feed her wailing baby. We didn't care. My knee hurt a lot. But as the lights went off, and the screen came alive, I felt no pain. We didn't let our hero down. That's what mattered then.

When we were riding back home, I asked Srini
'Do you think all this trouble was worth it?' I was sitting at the back and he was riding.
He mulled over it for a moment and said,
'There's a price for every experience. And what you get is a priceless memory.'

I honestly don't know what the heck he meant, I mean, not too many 12 year olds spoke like that. But that line stuck with me.

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Aandal Part 2

Read the first part

It was a Sunday afternoon and Aandal was squatting outside our grand ma's. She was telling my granny about this mentally challenged kid in one of the homes on Alwarpet street. She was talking about how that kid was always screaming for food. "Maami andha payyan eppo paaru bun kaapi bun kaapi nu Katheenu irukkum" (that kid screams bun n coffee bun n coffee all the time). So Suren started imitating her and she lost her temper. "Ayyy chinnadhu, Koluppaa? Pichi puduven!" (something to the effect hey you small one watch it!).

Now in all the years and all the maids that passed through our home no one has ever dared to mock us. It was us! Suren and I! Whatever hesitation we had about ragging Aandal was blown away and we stretched and cracked our knuckles, sighed, and said 'here we go!'

The next day Suren proposed to Aandal. "Aandal I - I love you... will you scrub my back?" She laughed baring her remaining, tobacco stained teeth. She was illiterate but who doesn't understand 'I love you' ? She referred to 'Love' as 'Labzu' and she complained to my mom "Maami idha paaru maami Chinnadhu Labzu pannudhu!' (Maami, see your younger son is doing 'Labzu')

Aandal worked in many homes in Alwarpet street and she was on a tight schedule every day. So she could ill afford any delays. We knew it and exploited it. When she came in the mornings to do the dishes and mop the house, Suren took his own time in the shower. Aandal started with gentle knocks on the bathroom door but she realised she was dealing with assholes, so the gentle knocks became explosive thumps, which were always echoed by Suren's devilish laughter.

When we bumped into her on the street, we always blew kisses and she would spit on the ground and mutter some unprintable stuff. Within a few months Aandal was quite famous among the boys, the shopkeepers in the neighbourhood, and the jobless adults that hung about the street.

I vividly remember Aandal giving one of those guys her piece of mind.
As she was walking by to 'Bhai's' provision store, the gang of boys sitting outside the store went 'hoo hooo Aandal I love you!' Aandal stopped in her tracks, surveyed the gang and picked one guy and said 'Thevdyaa payya, Why don't you go do labzu to your mother? I will chop it off!' A roar of laughter erupted and Aandal's voice became shrill as she started abusing that guy, but now she included his aunts, grand mom, uncles, wife... she also asked him 'dey! do you know who fathered you? I bet your mom doesn't know too...go fuck a dog!'

She never used such choicest abuses on us. She loved us I think and she knew we were harmless. She became quite a friend to my grand ma, probably because they were of the same age. When Suren made fun of my granny he attracted Aandal's attention too.

The days chugged on and Aandal got used to the ass holes that we were. Actually when Suren or me went out of town and were missing, Aandal gave us a rousing welcome when we returned. 'Take off your Saagunu! And put if for wash... take bath and eat... you need rest!' (Saagunu meant socks in Aandalese).

She hated the girl friends that visited home. Especially those that wore shorts. "Ayyyaaa! Ennaadhu idhu! Payyanaa ponnaa!? Ippidi thodaya kaattudhu!" ("Is this a guy or girl? And why is she exposing her thighs like this?")

But she hated drunks. She got extra ballistic on any drunk that crossed her path, including Ginny, my uncle. [...to be contd]

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Aandal

You knew Aandal was in the vicinity when the atrocious stench of her chewing tobacco (called Panneer Pugailai in Tamil) assaulted your nose. It'd normally be early in the morning, around eight, when she would turn up to perform her duties as our maid. No one really knew how she ended up in the neighbourhood. When we moved to Chennai, mom was on the lookout for a maid and she hired the services of Aandal who was already working in our grand ma's. When I first saw Aandal I was petrified. She looked like the vampire version of Miss Grundy. A million wrinkles creased her face and that nose protruded at a right angle to her face. And, her teeth, whatever little that was left of them I mean, were a deep, dark brown. The most petrifying thing about though was not her looks. She served up whiplashes when she spoke.

Now, Suren, my younger bro and I had a tacit agreement right from when we were in prep school. It was more of a mission statement than an agreement really: we would bully the shit out of the maid. Any maid. No, no, it was not a result of some traumatic experience or something. We just love bullying people. The maid was the perfect target. They wouldn't dare retaliate and even if they did, it'd be at best a complaint to mom.

When Aandal came on the scene, Suren and I were suffering from withdrawal symptoms. There had a been a long hiatus, of almost ten years since we had bullied a maid. We were not kids any longer all right. I had started working as a salesman and Suren had started college at the New College in Chennai. We let Aandal be for a while. I mean she was as old as grand ma and we were not sure if we should really be bullying her. Our apprehensions were blasted to pieces one day. [To be contd...]

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'Pitchi' Rammurthy

The bogeyman of Pagadamanu street in Greamspet, during the early 80s, was none other than 'Pitchi' Rammurthy. Pithchi means mad in Telugu and no prizes for guessing, our bogeyman was as mad as mad can get. He strutted about, perennially clad in a dirty white shirt with no buttons and a dirtier white dhoti, drawn up and tied up at knee level. His yellow, front teet jutted out and rested outside his mouth; you could drive a car through the gaps between his teeth. He was half bald. The remaining grey, frazzled hair clung to the back and sides of his head. He looked the part but that's not what made our hearts skip beats. It was his war cry.

He walked up and down the street around lunch hour, when the sun tried in vain to fry the town. And he would scream at passers by. "Narikey. Lanjakodukuni narikkeyy!" (Hack that bastard down!). That was his war cry. But he never stopped and troubled anyone. He just walked about cursing. No one knew who or what he was cursing. But new comers peed in their pants during their first encounter with Rammurthy. Funny thing was no one had ever heard Rammurthy say anything other than the war cry. Not a single word!

I have heard young mothers tell their kids that refused to eat or do their homework "If you don't... well, I'll hand you over to Pitchi Rammurthy!" It worked like a charm.

The teens in the neighbourhood teased him albeit from a safe distance. The adults steered clear, for I am sure they were scared of him but their pride didn't allow them to admit it.

Rammurthy survived on the left-over food that the folks gave him. He never begged mind you. He was too proud I guess. He'd just make an appearance and the generous, kind hearted housewives offered him food. He retired for the night in two or three houses. By that I mean, he'd sleep outside in the verandah or on the granite benches ("dhinna"). He was the bogeyman for the kids all right but folks knew that he was quite harmless.

Mom gave him food on and off, and I stared at him from behind the window in the bedroom. Though he never spoke a word to anyone but he expressed his gratitude with his body language. He'd nod or offer a slight bow, eat his food, and depart.

One morning, I think it was a Sunday, I got up around seven and opened the heavy wooden door only to find Rammurthy sleeping. He got up with a start and glared at me for what seemed like ages. He had dark circles around his brown eyes. Just for a moment I thought I saw an incendiary rage in his eyes. Just for a fleeting moment. But it instantly changed to a kinder look. He clucked his tongue, adjusted his dhoti as he stood up, and said "DheergaAyushmaan bhava!" Sanskrit for 'wish you a long life.' Of course, no one believed me when I told them that Rammurthy spoke to me.

Years later, after we moved out of Chittoor, I heard from a friend that Rammurthy passed away. Somehow, I felt sad. After all he was probably the only benign bogeyman in the world.

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The Tailors of Chittoor Part 2

Continued from Part 1:
Diwali was on November 2nd. They were dismantling the huge shelter, at the entrance of our colony, they'd built for the Dasarra festivities. Strangely, the weather was cold. It was seven in the morning. I was walking down to the entrance where I had to catch a town-bus to school. The cold air caressed my legs. Balaji Tailors were open early that day. On an impulse, I walked into the shop and found Balaji and his assistant laboring away. Balaji was probably 27 or 28. A tall, lanky chap with soft hair and naughty eyes. I did not like his mooch though. That was probably because I was not able to grow one. There was a huge teak-wood table at the entrance and under its glasstop, Balaji's collection of all those newspaper cuttings and ads from magazines stared at me. I stared at those models wearing those trousers cut by angels. Oh those pleats and the baggy cut! I was not sure if Balaji could make a trouser like those in the ads. I have heard of guys complaining about crotch-smothering trousers and about how Balaji always defended "That's what you asked for! I followed your instructions." I thought of hiring the services of Hi-fashion Tailors or MegaStar Tailors in the town. But, they were expensive and they won't take my order in the first place: they were too busy during Diwali time. I sighed and looked at Raju, the assistant stitching buttons on a flouroscent orange shirt. Whoever the owner of that shirt was, he was definitely brave. Raju bit the loose ends of the thread and spat out.

"Ennadaa Madras, when are you giving your clothes for stitching? I am busy already. If you want yours by Diwali, hurry up. Tell your dad." Balaji said. The 'Takai' Tape Recorder was playing some shitty song. Any song on that thing would sound awful, that's another thing.

"Get yourself some Spun material. I will make a nice baggy trouser for you." He said and pointed to a model under the glass on the table. "That's the one I am talking about." 'Yeah. Yeah. Sure!' I thought.

He was a smooth operator all right. Rumor had it that he had moved to our colony because he was thrown out from the center of town: he was getting naughty with the girls . He was a good looker and definitely had the charm. I had seen so many girls spend hours standing outside, behind the glass-top table and laugh even when Balaji sneezed.

"How is your girl friend da?" Balaji asked. A big grin creased his otherwise flawless face. This was his favorite theme to tease me.

"Get lost!" I said. How the hell do these guys figure out these secrets I wondered. I had feelings for her but I hadn't told anyone. Not even to my close friends!

"She is not my girl friend okay anna? Don't say such things again." I said.

"Okay! But she asked about you. You are not in the same section I see? She is in 8th A? Yeah, she was asking me if you gave your clothes..."
I jumped on it. "When? When? When? What did she ask? Was she alone..." and he started laughing. The retard Raju was also laughing unmindful of the spittle spraying on that orange shirt.
"Get lost nnaa!" I said and ran from there.
"Give your clothes fast da!" He yelled out.

I reached the arch at the entrance of the colony and No. 4 'Vedam' arrived with it musical horn. 'Paapa-peen-peen-pa. PaBaaaan!' I jumped into the bus from the driver's end and waved at Qadir behind the wheel. He had a permanent smile creasing his awkward face and the pronounced, firm jaw added a steely aura to his demeanor. He nodded and winked. I settled down in one of the front seats and rummaged through my pockets for change to buy the ticket. I was wondering why Qadir had winked.
"Ah, rey-rey" the conductor gave his signal and banged that bell. I took the money out. The bus had not moved. Probably someone was coming. I turned towards the colony and found her running.
The sun caressed her golden face. She looked stunning even in that stupid Green and white uniform. I looked at Qadir and was surprised that he was looking at me with a knowing smile. Why was the world being so nice to me, I wondered.

She jumped in, saw me, and sat next to me. She was gasping for breath. The bus moved.
"Thank you da!" She said. She thought I'd stopped the bus. I did not tell her the truth. When the world was being nice to you, you enjoy the ride. Her arm was grazing against mine. Her hair was neatly combed back. Two really cute clips stood proud at the front. A dash of ash (Vibuthi) right beneath the black bindi, in some weird way made her look hot. The fragrance of Gokul Santol Talcum powder filled my lungs. Vasanthi a.k.a Vachi was a beautiful girl.

I knew her from sixth standard. We were family friends apparently. The moms met often. When my mom made a special dish, my mom would send a portion of it to them. Her mom too reciprocated but not as often. I hated the way her mom looted our Curry leaves tree. The tree was bald now, thanks to Vachi's mom. I was planning to give the first bloom from our new Rose plant to Vachi. I wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do.
[...to be contd]

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The Tailors of Chittoor Part 1

Winter was just around the corner and my folks finally agreed to get me full pants (or trousers as they are known now). My dad found it inconceivable that an 8th standard kid should be wearing trousers.

'I wore half pants in PUC!' He exclaimed every time I raised the topic. I am sure your dad wore loin-cloth in college I used to think. Almost all the boys (but for Koya I think) had graduated to trousers. The peer pressure was tremendous. Stonewash Jeans. Classic Denim. Baggy trousers. And I was the odd boy out. The sore thumb. The front bencher.

A trouser those days (new clothes in general) was a costly affair and it was indeed a luxury for us. Readymade branded wear had yet to make a splash in Chittoor. Shobha Paradise had just started advertising their ready-wear in Gurunadha Talkies I think. Before Diwali though, Shobha Paradise intensified their marketing promos. They hired auto-rickshaws fitted with those loudspeakers (those cone-shaped monsters, yeah) and sent the auto around. The ad man sat in the back, next to the PA equipment and between stanzas of Chiranjeevi songs, shouted out the script: "Shoba Paradise! Visit today! Shoba Paradise, sirrrr!" I suspected that it was the same guy that hawked Ginger confectionery at the bus stand (Inji maraabbbbbbbbbaa!, sirrr!). Every time the promo auto passed our street, I used to stare at the display hoardings stuck to the auto on the sides; at those kids clad in with a million pleats and imagined myself walking into my class, clad in those trousers and a baggy t-shirt.

I gave up on my dad and started pestering mom. It took me a week to convince her to try convincing dad. A few days later, my dad summoned me after dinner. He was sitting in the Verandah, drowned in the old wooden chair that creaked everytime you moved. Mohd Rafi was singing a soul stirring melody (Ab kya Misaal dhoon...) in the Philips radio. Despite the static, Rafi sounded like God. A couple of moths were flying around in the Verandah. A dirty 60W filament lamp was struggling to keep the dark at bay. And I could hear the strains of Ghantasala's Bhagavadgita from afar; the Durga temple at the entrance of our colony was playing it. Some over enthusiastic kids were already bursting crackers. Diwali was still a week away.
'This Diwali we'll get you trousers along with half-pants da.' Dad said.

I was confused.
'Daddy, I don't want to wear half-pants anymore. I am only growing older if you didn't notice? Even Koya has decided to quit half-pants... It will be very embarrassing for me, no?'

My father grunted and sighed and mumbled something under his breath. He looked up at the noisy fan and told my mom 'We need to clean the blades, borrow the ladder from the landlord.'

I bit my lip and started slapping my sides. Dad finally cleared his throat and said,
'What I meant was, we'll buy you new half-pants and I wanted you to alter one of my old trousers and start using it...'
I shot a glance to my mom and she shrugged hinting her helplessness. I wanted to scream.
'So I guess that is fine then?' dad asked.
'....'
'What?'
'No dad, I don't want the half-pants. I want a new trouser.'

His head rose from the newspaper and through his thick-glass spectacles his eyes started drilling holes on me.
'It will cost you only a little more... come on, please.' I pleaded.

There was a long pause. An irritating pause. He knew I was restless and anxious, yet he chose to mind-hump me by pausing for an eternity and talking about cleaning the ceiling fan. I was staring at the alarm clock in the hall . It tick-tocked away, while mom was cutting Spinach. My dad snapped the newspaper straight for the 34000th time and did his grunting routine again. Every penny counted for him. Every extra penny meant compromise. The festival advance that the government gave its non-gazetted officers wouldn't buy all the boys (we were three) loin cloth. I was feeling guilty but I chose to ignore it, for exposing your hairy legs brought with it something even worse: ridicule. And I was ready to go on the guilt trip. I wanted my trousers, for my knickers were in a twist.

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The hunt for the Bison - 1

"My uncle saw the Bison. Mother promise!" Prabhu said. I stared at him for a good minute and said, "Let's go camp then. Tonight?" The late winter morning had a deceiving chill to it. Prabhu pulled his hands into his sweater sleeves and shook his head and said "Not today. Probably next Sunday?"
He was two years junior to me and was still considered a kid: he was in 7th class after all. So were Suri and Viju. But they all showed a maturity that defied their age: they lied like their lives depended on it. We stood outside the door of Anita Tutorials, the education hub of Durga colony. It drew teachers from all across Chittoor and was absolutely hopeless when it came to punctuality, for all the teachers were final year college students from the PVKN Arts college and none of them ever came on time.
We were waiting for Suresh (Suresh sir to be precise), our psychotic science tutor. I was sure that this piece of news about the Bison would excite him. I was sure he'd go camping with us to the hills around Iruvaram, Prabhu's village. Iruvaram was on the Bangalore by-pass, a quiet, insignificant settlement away from the buzz of the Chittoor town. Facing Iruvaram, on the other side of the by-pass were the hills and the arid home of the Bison. A part of me wanted to buy the Bison story. I mean it was so romantic and exciting but the other side of me refused to buy it: what will the Bison survive on? There was absolutely no vegetation other than the Cactus with the plum red fruit or those long thorny shrubs with thick trunks; we used to cut the trunk, dry it, and use it for flotation while learning how to swim in the irrigation wells. I was quite certain that the Bison can't reach the leaves or fruit of the occasional Palm that dotted the area. If the Bison did exist, why was it alone? How did it get here in the first place and why? I had read about the man eating tigers: I knew these were old tigers that were looking for easy prey and that was why they moved closer to human settlements. But why the Bison? It is a herbivore? Right? The story just didn't stick. But I did not share my apprehensions with Suri and Viju. I wanted to go camp, Bison or not. (...to be contd)

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Blast from the past: B M Reddy

On November 11 1990, the PVKN Arts College Cricket team created history. We won the inter-college tounrament for the first time in the history of the college. I don't think the college repeated the feat.
Our captain was B.M. 'Chilka' Reddy. A drill master, leader, and one of the finest batsmen that the town produced. He played for the state but was not lucky enough to break in to the big league. During the run up to the inter-collegiate, we practiced twice every day. Practice included fitness training and the notorious fielding training, in which each player (all alone) would pick the ball that Reddy would hit, and shoot an accurate throw into the irreverent 'Kombu' our keeper. If you misfielded or if the throw was wayward you had to do a lap on the ground.

Looking back, I think the only reason I can think of why we won the tourney against the mighty SGS College (Tirupati) was discipline and B M Reddy. After winning the inter-collegiate, we went on to win the inter-districts in Tirupati. That evening, a really drunk B M Reddy tried to kill me with a Mysore Bonda. I refused to go buy smokes or something, and he wanted to teach me a lesson. And, all that he could find was a cold, oily, sorry ass Bonda. He hurled it at a hungry me and I dove to my right and caught it and ate it before he could say 'hic!' I choose to believe that we are still good cricketers because of him. Hats off B M 'Chilka' Reddy.

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