A Promise to Write - Part 1

 

It was during the summer of 1976 that Ambi first noticed the boy: a thin, lanky figure, smiling benignly at all and sundry, walking solely on his phalanges and metatarsals, eyes glued to the road as if he were in desperate search of something lost along the way to his intended destination. There was nothing more about him that Ambi registered, nor did the boy stir the slightest fancy in him.

Folks in class took note of his peculiar mannerisms, and he soon became the butt of jokes for most students. Shivakumar, aka Shivdu, alias Dandi, was written off as a half-wit, his conduct bordering on the deranged. Ambi, for his part, was an obstinate lad who rarely saw eye to eye with his parents and teachers alike, and who deemed himself a cut above the rest, though he had achieved nothing in school to write home about.

Ambi took pity on Dandi, with an avowed objective of scoring some points and making an impression upon the folks in school. He set about befriending the hitherto isolated Dandi, to display a show of solidarity that others could not fail to notice. All Ambi wanted was to grab attention through feigned acts of kindness and bonhomie towards a strange character newly admitted to the class.

Soon Ambi learnt that the boy came from L Zone, a pocket tucked away from the main township towards its southern fringes, so secluded that few ventured into it during those early days when the staff quarters were newly built there. The road leading to it was scantily lit and lay steeped in pitch darkness on most nights. Ambi also learnt that the boy’s father served as a postmaster in a sub-post office in far-away NAC, en route Koraput.

Dandi was not particularly proficient in studies, nor was Ambi, though Ambi fared better. Dandi came from a rural background. He owed his origins to a village by name, Mullakalanka, on the banks of the Godavari, not far from Rajamahendravaram (erstwhile Rajahmundry), and spent his early years in a place called Donkarayi, where his Nana ji was employed in the Hydro-electric Project. (Donkarayi, in AP, lies in the lower reaches of the Sileru river, which flows down from Machkund in Odisha.)

Ambi accompanied him home from school on many occasions and gradually became acquainted with his family. He discerned many similarities between his home and Dandi’s: love and affection were never on display, and conversations carried a distinctly business-like air. Ambi could relate completely to Dandi’s life, so closely did it mirror his own. With little else to occupy him after school (Ambi was a mediocre student), he took it upon himself to tutor Dandi and take him under his wing. Dandi meekly submitted to Ambi’s whims. That marked the beginning of a long and seemingly perpetual relationship.

Dandi had a natural flair for hilarity, in action at first and in words later on. Probably after he had mustered the support of Ambi and a few others in class, he grew emboldened. From a docile and hesitant creature, he began to indulge in small acts of mischief while classes were in session. Dandi was often to be seen on his knees beneath another’s desk, up to some antic, while a class was in earnest progress. A giggle from the back benches would give him a fillip to indulge in more. The boys did not mind and were rather amused by his comical capers, though some teachers did not tolerate Dandi. Dandi knew exactly which teachers were unenthused by his antics.

Ambi’s fondness for cinema soon catapulted Dandi into the township’s celluloid world at Bhanja Mandap. When movies like “Dream Girl” came to Bhanja Mandap, it was a literal mara-mari for tickets, and Hemamalini was a heartthrob for many. Ambi found in Dandi a receptacle for his innate longings and fancies, without the fear of being judged. When “Noorie” was released, Ambi literally fell in love with Poonam Dhillon and expressed this freely to Dandi. Dandi was aghast. “Will this really work out?” he asked. All Ambi said was, “Imaginations can run wild. It gives me happiness.” The innocent Dandi was thus ushered into the world of silver-screen fantasies, as Ambi seemed to grant a licence to Dandi’s mind to run riot too.

In course of time, Ambi and Dandi became the proverbial Siamese cats. Ambi latched on to Dandi, and Dandi to Ambi. Ambi often took Dandi home, much to the amusement of Raman, his father, who even rebuked Ambi for such needless bonhomie with anyone. On one occasion, when Dandi came looking for Ambi at his place, Raman accosted him, and the conversation ran thus:

Dandi: “Uncle, is Ambi there?”

Raman: “No, that fellow has gone to the library near the cinema.”

Dandi: “Shall I wait until he returns?”

Raman: “That would be futile. I never know when he will return. He roams around the township like a temple bull allowed to graze every field he sees.”

Raman: “Why are you always seeking the company of this useless fellow? He is as unreliable and unstable as a wild beast let loose in a civilised world.”

Dandi (fidgeting, uncomfortable, and shitting bricks): “Ok… uncle, I will go home.”

By then, Dandi’s father had been assigned a sub-post office in a G Zone quarter, and the family had moved from L Zone to GZ. Dandi literally fled from PZ to GZ, as though his life depended on how soon he could reach home. Shit-scared, he did not speak to Ambi for a couple of days thereafter. Hurt and bewildered, Ambi accosted him and asked what the matter was. Dandi recounted, word for word, what had transpired between Raman and him. Ambi realised that Raman had pulled a fast one on Dandi and bade him relax. Dandi heaved a sigh of relief, though he remained scared out of his wits at the thought of Raman. What Raman did not know, or chose not to know, was that the “library near the cinema” was more often than not the cinema itself. Raman’s bark, as Ambi knew only too well, was far bigger than his bite.

Back from school, Ambi waited for Raman to return from the factory. Raman parked his bicycle near the steps and came into the house, noticing Ambi morose and annoyed about something. The conversation ran thus:

Raman: “What’s wrong with you, Ambi?”

Ambi (looking up at the ceiling): [No response]

Raman: “Have you filled your mouth with a kozhukattai (Modak)?”

Ambi: “What’s wrong with you? Who gave you the right to chase away my friends from here when I am not around?”

Raman: “I haven’t done anything like that.”

Ambi: “Then why did you chase Dandi away about a week back, when I wasn’t here?”

Raman: “I never did that. I only cautioned that Postmaster’s son. I know you better than anyone else. You are adept at fixing people and making the most of their proximity.”

Ambi: “Next time you do this, I will run away from home. Beware!”

Raman (laughing): “I am waiting for that day of relief.”

It was sometime in 1980, when Ambi and Dandi had just finished their 8th Std, that Raman decided to leave the township for good. Ambi bade Dandi an emotional farewell and promised to write to him periodically.

In 1980, a schoolboy promised to write to the friend he was leaving behind. Forty-six years on, that friend is gone, and the promise has returned to me in another form, made this time to the classmates who loved him, and to Dandi himself.

The Ambi of these pages was no saint. He befriended a lonely boy for show, and he was seen through at once by a father who knew him better than anyone. What neither of them could have guessed, in those dark evenings between L Zone and the cinema, was that the pretence would outlast every motive behind it.

The rest of the story, from the letters that followed Ambi’s departure to a telephone call at 10:39 pm on 11 October 2026, will follow next weekend.