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Life is Jouneys
Days of Life "A history.
I had to go. I had to go visit my beginnings. It was decades since he had seen the city in the foothills of the Sahyadri mountain range. I remembered a lot of love, the small tank filled with water which was also the meeting place of women in the city. The steps of the tank that reaches the water is full of women with jugs copper and brass. Some would wash the glasses in a corner with a handful of ashes from wood stoves in their kitchens and a bit of tamarind to give a shine vessel. After washing the vessels that go to the other end of the steps and fill the jars with water, the trees at the waist and walk back to their homes in small groups. Brahmin Street was about half a kilometer away. The younger women would be talking about their mothers in law, or laughing at a joke that was obscene made one or more of its plans for the next festival, either Sankranti or Ugadi or Ganesh Puja. That image of groups of women walking with her sari pallus wet clothes wet by that carried on their shoulders had remained in my mind for decades. That memory haunted me all these years whenever I was gone, what I had done.
It was really a very small town. There was a high school, a local hospital with a medical background I had to come from somewhere else and could not enter into the life of the city. The director of the College was perhaps the most educated person as the Tehsildar and the School Inspector. They were all outside and had their own group. The highest point of the day was to go to the small railway station at one end of town and watch the arrival Bangalore train. They know if a senior official would be traveling on the train en route to district headquarters. They gathered in front of the first compartment train class as soon as he stopped and pay their respects to the officer, who descend from the train and talk to them. They are in search of him with respect until he was on the train. The train only move after he ascended. Then talk to the stationmaster and go to the home of one of them, play cards until the time of dinner, all the while commenting that the staff on the train or some news that they had given the government's headquarters in Bangalore.
My father was one of these officials. He was removed from a small town to another every three years or less. When he reached this place, we did not expect to stay here for over three years. I was attending a government girls' school was across the street. Because the father was in the same department school teachers were very friendly and had no problems in my studies. Then one morning my mother discovered she could sing and arranged for the school music teacher to teach me music. So it was all night I went to the teacher's house near the tank, to learn music for an hour, visit the nearby temple and home to come.
My friends were all school. They thought I was peculiar, because I wore clothes that would father of Bangalore, when he was there in his official work. I had relatives in the capital. Sometimes they would come visit us. Ogle The whole city with them because they were very "modern clothing." Some of them even speak English!
We friends enjoyed talking to each other what was happening every day at school or a new teacher or something happening in the city. We knew there was a big bad world outside of the city, but rarely knew what was happening there from the day of Bangalore came the next day and we, the children came to see him after adults. Anyway, the stories in the newspapers were so strange to us that we never believed. Only half of the population had electricity. The Kerosin achieved with other lamps. The radio was only the doctor's house and if there was any special news on the radio, the doctor will tell their friends when they met at night.
As the thought, the father was transferred to a smaller place, after three years. This new place was deep in the humid region of the Western Ghats and the city's population increased by a thousand when our family got there! It was the beginning of the monsoon when we there in the old bus, rickety. The bus was open to all parties, and the windows were secured by tarp to keep rain. The incessant rain fell to lead on the bus. The country road mud and all I could see out of the canvas was the water flowing and wet green leaves of the trees in the roadside brush face if I lifted the edge of the canvas. Mother had prepared a basket with all sorts of fried foods to keep me and my three brothers busy during the bus trip. She opened the basket and passed around. They had lost their freshness and taste like cardboard, but ate them anyway. The memory of that cardboard tasting chakli haunted me when I was walking in the forest by man outside Frankfurt in Germany about thirty-five years later. It does so even today!
This new place had no train service and Father all he could do for the evening was going to play badminton for a while and then sit in the clubhouse and play cards. The city had no electricity and official pawns used to go to the clubhouse with flashlights and bring back the heads of their houses! Here, too, had friends high school I attended. Kamala came from a village on the outskirts of town and not available in the evenings. But she could depend on us to win an argument with children about any subject. Her voice and vocabulary that one of the most hardy villagers feared. Nagarathna came from a farming family and had to milk the cows and distribute it to some clients and had no time to be with me. She can tell us stories of ghosts in the forest, or flowers and fruits peculiar that we have found in the forest during the holidays. Savitri was, like me, a stranger and could be trusted to spend some time with me until her grandmother called her home. There were some boys like Fernandes, and Nagaraj Srinivas who played with me, or took part in the debates and discussions in school. Some of them come and talk about books we read or a plan play or a Saraswati puja at school.
Three years in this small town and we had to move again. I said goodbye dearest promised to write to everyone and got on the bus to come to the capital city. College was a revelation. Everyone spoke English! There were so many girls, many teachers, both happening in the city that my letter writing became increasingly rare over the years and stopped completely. Even then, all I needed back memories for me was a downpour that soaked, the smell of flowers champaca, the sight of people eating out of the leaves as those used to collect from the forest or even a someone sang folk songs at a function in the university.
Time, they say it does not stop for anyone. No, for me. I finished college, married, went to Delhi, took a job and I totally absorbed in a family and all that entails. But somewhere in the back of my mind was the image of Kamala, turning a rope around your house to call the cows, milk Nagarathna measure of copper jug and pour into glasses of another person or the annual festival of lights that was the highlight of our lives, Fernandes argued that industrialization was the best for the country and could easily live on bread and not grow rice or participate in agriculture of any kind! He and most of us had not seen the wheat and did not know that the bread was made of wheat! The rare occasions when I had to sing together and he always want to start singing and join me from the second note, how come Srinivas and ask me what book of stories I read, the way Nagaraj managed to Ganesha clay idols all collected from the quarry outside the city …… these were images that never left me.
I'm going back to that small people now. I had never even spoken of these images to anyone until now, not even my family. Now, just now, I've made this topic. Occurred after he came to Bangalore after forty years of staying away from home. Even Bangalore has changed beyond comprehension. I could not recognize our university or the street where I lived. The roads we used to walk from home to college and back had become so busy traffic streets scary. People dressed differently, spoke differently and the special feeling of the city can be found only in some pockets. He was speaking of all these changes I mentioned my desire to see my little town in the middle of the rainforest in the foothills of the Sahyadri mountains. My family was laughing at first and it was my nephew who said "Can not Go Back 'When I asked why, he said the small city that was engraved in my memory had grown and had been for work and there was nothing like what I had described. I was heart broken but still wanted to go.
Everyone wanted come with me. I had a difficult time telling them that this trip was something special, something very personal and unique that he could. I looked at the pictures of the train and found that the railroad had not come to my small town, even after fifty years! The bus ride, they said would be too tiring.
Rented a car with a reliable driver who also "care" of me and we started on a bright morning, fully prepared for the trip. I had fished out the addresses of my friends of old papers that did not even know I had saved and now looking again and again.
The trip was not very busy. We stopped for breakfast after a hundred miles and continue our journey through the National Highways. I kept looking out for a dense forest along the road, but my driver told me he had been traveling this way for a decade and all I saw was the social jungle developed by the government filled with eucalyptus trees. Oh, yes, also mentioned the great number of signs on the road. "There is a forest of them well, selling everything from building sites to televisions to cell phones, "he said. We stopped for lunch in a town that had happened long ago. Then it was a rickety bus that had brought me along with my mother the only hotel of the city where the mother and I asked to go to the kitchen to eat, because it was not expected to eat with the 'Janata. Today the place is transformed into a busy place, with medical school could see was an imposing building on top of the hill on the outskirts of the city. The driver told me that the city had eleven schools, attracting students across the country. There were banners advertising food by road from the north, especially for students. We stopped at a place and went to eat lunch. Me could have the same lunch chole, Batur, daal Palavas and anywhere in Delhi or Jaipur and Sonepat! Where was the ancient recipe of Mysore sambar and fragrant rice and Rasam and papad and goodness? The waiter was a lamiliar and he did not understand my Kannada at first and then said "no one eats this type of food here" I shut up and finished lunch and we got on the road again.
It was seven o'clock when we reached my little town. It was not a hotel near stop bus and had rooms for us. I took a bath and had dinner and rested my weary bones.
The next morning was bright and the TV on the ground floor lobby was tuned to BBC World, because some people wanted to watch the news at breakfast in the world! What a change from the days in the newspaper Bangalore Kannada we arrived the next day. Anyway, after breakfast we went to the post office and I spent some time with the teacher after trying to find out if the addresses were still valid. They were not. My car and may be my conversation with the postmaster has drawn attention some others waiting to buy their postcards, so one of them was an old man and I thought maybe I could help. It took some time to explain what he wanted. Once he realized what he agreed to help. He invited me to his house and started walking slowly along the main road, very pompously Mahatma Gandhi called Road. I looked around and found everything new. I remembered the talk of naming a street in memory of Mahatma when I was in school, but never given much attention because the main road was the main road where the buses stopped in front of the small family run hotel was stop Kamti bus and it used to be called the Kamti bus stand, like as if your property!
The old man was appointed and began RamaRao asking questions. I told her about the father, my being in school and my classmates and friends. Poor man, he could not connect the names and felt sad when I noticed a sign boards in front of a fairly large store selling electronic goods. Business RajendraPrasad said. I stopped and asked my guide if it was owned by the same family owned Vaishya, in my time, half the shops in the main street and all the people everything from buying them. My guide had also been arrested for now and said "yes, this family has been in the city government offices were transferred here from the old city one hundred years ago. I suddenly remembered visiting the large family with my mother during a naming ceremony of two sons, two daughters had delivered babies in the same week and had a big party and most women of the town had been invited to the function. I was, at that time, impressed by the patriotic fervor of the family in the naming of children and Babu Rajendra Prasad, Sardar Vallabhbhai. When I had posted about her, the mother had said how difficult it would be for children up to the names! Must Rajendraprasad be the same shop owner now, I thought and went to the store with my guide after me.
It took a while to explain my visit. The young in front of the store must have thought I was a little crazy, but then he said I should talk to his father in the back office. We entered and found a very successful looking man, dressed in a dhoti rings gold and bordered on all eight fingers. The office has had many pictures on the walls, some of the gods, some people. I had no difficulty in recognizing a person in the photos, Venkatachala, who was my classmate in school who always used to get loans my papers and I could talk to anyone on earth. Father had said he was ready to be a politician. It proved a political class that had become the mayor and served in various elected officials. RajendraPrasad wanted to go to meet this uncle. I was delighted. I remembered how Venkatachala used to do and undo the strap of his watch and keep watching the clock every three minutes. That, when I knew I knew he was the only one with a clock wrist in our school and how I envied him his money.
Venkatachala had changed. Naturally, it is fifty years since he had seen, and I could not wait to see the same arrogant, all knowing child of those days. It took some time to recognize me, but broke with its welcoming and genuinely happy to see me. My guide wanted me out of there and go, but Venkatachala him to stay, because my guide was about three years younger than us and knew most of the people of the city. We started asking questions, they were very impressed by my story. They said they were proud of me. I wanted to know about the friends he had left behind. Venkatachala began to tell stories ………
Fernandes, who wanted to leave town and join a merchant ship could, but was drowned at sea when the boat collided with a tanker in a distant ocean? Nagaraja was given his father's work when the father retired, no longer with beautiful images for him. He was only interested in making money, somehow or another and was captured by the authorities while accepting a bribe. He lost his job and when he left prison, nobody wanted to talk to him and he died a lonely death. Srinivas went to college at the headquarters of nearby district worked in a newspaper and now even considering the angry young (old?) the man in the city, questioning everything that happens. Kamala, the fear, the voice committed suicide when she was called a troublemaker by someone. Nagarathna married a distant relative and went to Bombay, where he has lived ever since. She comes home every two years shows his clothes and children of Mumbai not understand the local language and returns after calling the city a place back. Savithri used to be like a mouse is following the worlds oldest profession: the house is the city's red light area.
It took some time to digest the information. Kamala, I thought I could have in the world, but she gave in. Savitri was the soft, gentle soul who had difficulty talking to people, but now a shameless harlot. Fernandes was the guy who could go on forever, but not …..
When I said this, Venkatachala thought for a moment and said "who knows what will happen next? Remember that all your mother never talked about how getting married and taking care of children? Here, he traveled around the world, sophisticated, so sure of yourself. Who know what happens and when? Life's journey takes us everywhere. I remember thinking it was going to leave this place and never return. Twice I escaped. Once they caught me in Calcutta sleeping on the sidewalk, too poor to buy even one ticket back to this place. Once again, that rescued me from Benares, where he has become involved with a dancer and thought it was all I wanted in life. She cleaned me up and even wrote to my family to come and take me away, because it was hindering their business! Today, I am a respectable citizen of this city, a kind of leader, people come and ask me for my advice and opinion on all matters, whether the new sewer system or building a shelter for girls.
We went on for a while. My Guide said goodbye and left. We served the wife Venkatachala lunch in the dining room. Room was added to the old house built by his grandfather. I used to feed thirty-five or forty people at a time. Venkatachala said, with sadness, "I do not feel to eat. It makes me sad. I used to complain about all the cousins, distant relatives and people I knew even sit down to eat here.'s Grandfather never questioned the presence of anyone. Everyone was well received, everyone was tired, and it was not anyone asked how long they would stay. Today, I am alone in this house with my wife. This room echoes the sounds of yesterday. But people want to be alone, they want luxury homes, TV to play when they are eating, the tables are small Only six people can sit and not to encourage more people in their dining rooms ………. Life has changed, really changed.
As I said goodbye fifty years of my old friend, I felt sad, a little overwhelmed by the changes in the small town that had burned into my mind. I got into the cab and started the return journey to Bangalore. Venkatachala wife had prepared a basket with fruit, homemade papad and some chips. I had seen when I was in school. Her parents I wanted to go to school. The argument was that it would be difficult to get her married when she studied too. We, the friends had laughed that. Today, Sharada, with schooling only until the eighth class and never leave the small town that was born apparently so funny and full of peace and satisfaction. Knowing Venkatachala, I can imagine the kind of problems that must have faced in their married life. But nothing seems to have affected women and is a serene and happy. In fact, road of life "can take all kinds of twists and turns and leaves us where we least expected. Agree with me?
Indu Ramesh Flat 315, Block 30, "Jeevan Surabhi" ,10-B Cross, JPNagar Phase 1
Bangalore 560 078 Phone 080-26531646
Email indurames2000@yahoo.co.uk radiobuff@dataone.in
About the Author
Broadcaster, Radio producer, believe in Radio as atool for development
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