Muthulakshmi

I first saw Muthulakshmi about a decade ago as a lean but an active woman in her early seventies, trying to eke out a living by running errands for people who temporarily employed her or by resorting to odd jobs in the vicinity of her hut, masonry being one of them.

During those times when the economy was driven by recessionary trends, I had identified a piece of land measuring about 8 cents by a village road, not far from another piece of half-an acre farmland, both of which had come up for sale in the rural district of Tiruvallur, about 50 kms from "Singara Chennai". Having not much to do in the city after the devastation in the markets, I decided to 'do' what I had wished to do for a long time ever since I had had enough of city life. I decided to move to the rural countryside and do 'nothing' in the guise of 'looking after my farm' and 'taking care of my aged mother'. I could fancy myself enjoying a siesta after a sumptuous meal on a jute woven cot under the shade of a neem or a peepal tree at a corner of a paddy field on a hot sunny day! This, I thought is bliss one could die for!

Having purchased the land, I proceeded to build a small house by the forlorn road, overlooking the paddy fields. Within a week of commencement of construction,  Muthulakshmi accosted me as I was about to leave the site in my car and bade me to get down to talk to her on some "serious business".

She took me on by asking, "I come from my place that is across and beyond those paddy fields. How can you employ non-locals for a civil construction in our locality when we people from this village hardly have any means of livelihood?" I retorted, "Pious lady, I need more people for the job, please bring a half a dozen of your tribe for the odd masonry work." Muthu blinked and looked at me in the eye, "What do you think of me? Don't you see that I am fit enough to help build great homes? Look at the double storey construction opposite to the Panchayat office...I was the most  indispensable person responsible for the cool comfort that this corrupt Sarpanch has been basking in for a good time now." I then asked my contracted engineer to accommodate her and left.

On an occasion when I had once come on a weekend visit to monitor the progress of my new home under construction, I found Muthu haggling with the contractor over wages payable to her for the week. On enquiry, I surmised that her demands were legitimate and that the contractor was trying to stick to a shoestring budget by squeezing work out of her and trying to make a fat margin from the project. I promised Muthu that I would compensate her for such shortages at the end of the project and brought peace with her.

The house was soon completed and was nestling beautifully amidst the coconut and neem trees and overlooking the paddy fields which brought in fresh paddy scented air into the parking area and the tiny garden.

As is the custom in rural TN, all workers were presented with new clothes during the house warming ceremony and I did not forget to get a nice saree for Muthu. She took it gleefully but reminded me of my offer to compensate her work, notwithstanding this gift, considering the fact that all and sundry were given such gifts by default on such occasions.

Thereafter, every time I visited my countryside house, Muthu, if she spotted me, would come running after my car and ask for the promised gift, and I would get away by making some excuse and that I would get it done during Diwali. Diwali came and went  and then it was promised for Pongal but all I did was forget my promise, yet Muthu very optimistically but tirelessly kept reminding me about my unfulfilled obligation.

A few years later when I had shifted lock, stock and barrel to the village, I found Muthu squatting in front of my house in a pitiable condition. She looked frail, sick and weak, fighting for breath, holding on to a twig of a walking stick with tattered clothes and tears welling down her cheeks that told a thousand words about her agony. Her son and daughter-in-law had reportedly driven her out of her native home!

I asked my cook to give her some food and satisfy her hunger. I also pushed some money into her palms. She then left bidding me, "Mavarasana iru Raja, Ne nalla irukkanum" (Approximate translation: I bless you a king's life, you will do well). She then made her way to a nearby free medical dispensary run by a Hindu religious mission.

The next time when I saw Muthu, she was begging for alms at the Sarpanch's house where she was rudely turned away by the women folk of the house. She turned around and on seeing me, tears welling down her eyes, rushed to my car and beseeched me for some money or to buy her food. I sent her to the local restaurant and called up the cashier to do the needful. From then on it was a common sight to see her languishing hither and thither on Vinayak Temple Street, begging for alms. I had given standing instructions to my cook to feed Muthu whenever she knocked at our door.

Strangely, for an interval of time lasting about six months, Muthu seemed to have disappeared. I was wondering whatever has happened of her...had she abruptly left the village for an old age home run by the Hindu religious mission?  or had she left for the local taluk headquarters where one of her brothers had a vehicle repair and maintenance shop? or Was she..?

Then finally last week, she made a sudden reappearance at my door,  squatted as usual and was trying to communicate with me in sign language as I was removing the car from the portico. This time she was on all fours and had seemingly crawled all the way to my door. The emaciated lady had noticeably lost her speech. I did not respond as I was in a hurry to reach a place where I couldn't afford to be late or so I thought. She was desperately trying to communicate something to me (as I reckoned after the episode) It did not seem to be about alms or food. I had ignored her, but called up my cook and asked her to feed Muthu.

The next day morning, a bright Sunday (20th March), I got up to the sounds of drum beats and "Oppari" * coming from a distance from across the paddy fields.

(* Oppari...Google...)

The OCC Market & Beyond : Games Unheard of.

Scene: A group of 5 boys aged about 8 to 12 years.

Circa 1974
Time: About 11 in the morning

Venue: G Zone – the triangular piece of land within the intersection of three roads...1. The perpendicular arterial road from the rear gate of the HAL hospital going down to H Zone, the primary vernacular school via G Zone, 2. The road adjacent to the Nursery (later the deer park) winding in to the G Zone to merge with the former, 3.  The ‘blind-end’ road from the type IV quarters (that then housed the Tiwaris, the Singhs, the Sahas, the Madhava Rao’s, the Kadagatturs, the Heatons et al) converging into a kutcha path cutting across the ‘Hospital road’ and the ‘Nursery Road’…….(uff..! identifying the venue is good as writing an entire episode, wonder why the roads were never named in the township!....on the flip side this at least necessitates the need to rekindle one’s memory, thereby drawing interest from some of the named constituents!)


The smell of the rain-soaked earth after a bountiful downpour is typical of a hill region. I loiter barefoot around surveying the triangular piece of land. My olfactory nerves seemed to be overworking on my cerebellum so much so that my salivary glands adamantly reciprocates back to the brain. I stop short of picking up a handful from the ground, thanks to the prying eyes of Mahinder who just descends on the scene. Mahi is the unquestioned leader and a “proclaimed” dada of the mohalla. Mahi and I show up in front of G-125 and yell out for Madura Venu to join us. Venu, ignoring a frown from his mom, gladly jumps out of his verandah again ignoring his mom’s warning, “Orey donga, vellu..vellu..malli ikkada vachina tarvata champestanu". While Mahi enjoyed an unbridled freedom to roam around the neighbourhood like a sacred temple bull, I found it generally convenient to slip out noiselessly without anyone noticing at home. We then go further down the road in the direction of the nursery and stand in front of Ravi’s place like carol singers, pull him out and walk back. We soon meet Ashish, a thin lanky bhadralok neighbor, who pleads company for whatever the gang was planning to do.


The boys gang up and arrive at the scene. One could notices the boys trying to pound something to shreds on the flat ground, each of them religiously taking turns to decimate it using a sharp slender iron rod by flinging it on the damp surface. Drawing oneself closer to the boys, one notices that there is no specimen of any insect or any reptile for that matter. The boys, one after another, seemed to be merely trying to deeply embed the sharp weapon within a circle marked for the purpose into the ground with all their might. One of them, Venu, fails to secure a hold on the ground as the rod falls flat on the ground, much to his chagrin. The others in the gang yell out victoriously and rejoice by dancing around the poor guy whose face turns pale on the prospect of undergoing something not very pleasant. Venu, a short stocky boy of 9, nevertheless looked sporty enough to take up an unseen challenge.

Mahi, the well built and muscular 'Punjabi Puttar' instantly took charge, picked up the rod from the ground, looked menacingly at Venu, bullying him, “Ab ayega mazaa, dekthe raho…tu aaj ghar nahin lautega”. Venu: “Abe chal chal…mere paanv mein utna hi dam hai jitney tere haath mein”. Mahi now goes about his job seriously, pricking away with the rod into the earth as he walks mechanically in the direction of the OCC market. All others follow him hurriedly in awe, struggling to keep pace with him until they are confronted with a road running up to the sub post office. The gang advises him to take the footpath running to the post office to avoid the macadam road. But Mahi is not the one to step back…he first issues a stony glance at the gang then turns around, sets his sight on the sparse grassland across the width of the road, and takes aim. Hurling his body into the air, he releases the rod mid-air with all his might, falls about three feet short on the road, slightly injuring his knee in the process. But Lo and behold…the rod stuck deep into terra firma about two feet from the edge of the road at a saving gradient of 20 degrees from the surface. Hurrah!, exclaimed the gang, giving a well deserved pat to Mahi, who held his head high despite the injury. Mahi, now, brimming with over-confidence, speeds away his way to the road overlooking the K Zone. He stops here at the next obstacle, does a repeat of his earlier stunt…..but fails miserably this time!

The ferrous weapon landed on the road a little short of the footpath and pathetically rolled back bringing a couple of speeding cyclists to a sudden halt. They gave a strange look at the boys, gesturing warnings by waving their forefingers in air and cycled away.
Now Ravi, a sober guy of few words, picked up the relay rod, walked back to the edge of the road from where Mahi flung it, and took position. He surveyed the earth across the road, held the rod at its edge and unassumingly flung it across the road. Hey presto! The weapon stuck on the ground across the road like a javelin at a 45 degree angle from the surface. Shabbash Ravi….all of them jumped and yelled in chorus. Now Mahi was acutely embarrassed, but hid his emotions and instructed the boys to get going with the marathon. Nobody dare compare this feat with his long jump stunt for fear of being thrashed by the bully!

Ravi went about his work mechanically, much to the dismay and panic of Venu, worked along the nursery border, took a detour from OCC market and set his sights in the direction of the factory siding. But as luck would have it, he faltered in his next step, fell flat on the ground but not before releasing the rod. It rolled down after hitting a stone.

It is now my turn to work the baton away. Venu heaved a sigh of relief, now that the stalwarts of the game are out. I am not a known expert in the game nor had I a physique like Mahi to boast of. All the same, I trudged about 300 metres before I slipped on a marshy land with the baton being unable to secure ground in the process.

Ashish, a slim and lanky tailender, finally took charge of the relay. He sped away in the direction of the sukku railroad.  Surprisingly, he emerged a dark horse as he worked his way professionally for a good distance. Worry was writ large in Venu’s countenance when he started to plead with Ashish to stop and declare!  But Mahi intervened and refused to relent and ordered Ashish to carry on, all the while holding Venu by the scuff, lest he runs away! Finally Venu begs of Mahi to stop the process with tears welling up in his eyes! The noon siren then blows out from the distant Sunabeda HAL factory premises, signaling the obvious!

Mahi, after all, had a soft heart hidden within a tough and cantankerous outer demeanour. The leader calls off the onslaught finally at an approximate distance of a kilometer and a half from the “G Zone Capital”.

Venu now was faced the onerous challenge of literally hopping back all the way to the “Circle” whence the onward journey commenced. Embarking on the hop-trot, he initially covers a distance of about 300 metres before he tires himself out and pleads for a few minutes of rest. “ok”, says, Mahi, “but don’t ever dare to rest your other feet on the ground until we reach the game circle”.  The poor victim meekly agrees.

After a few minutes, Venu is back on track, Mahi leading “responsibly” from the front and with the rest of the gang bringing up the rear. Shortly before reaching the “OCC market bend”, the burly husk of Mahinder panics all of a sudden and retraces his steps towards the gang!

The gang then looks above their shoulders across the landscape and are shocked! Venu’s dad is seen walking down hurriedly from the OCC (with his eldest daughter in tow). This is a surefire promise of a disaster looming large in front of the gang! This short elderly no-nonsense person soon accosts the gang. Seeing the plight of his only son, he swiftly delivers a resounding slap on Mahi’s face with a reprimand marked by the madrasi-telugu slang…”tum kya samjta apne ko..tumara baap ko bolke aisa peetega…tum gar ka bahar kabi neiy ayenga”. Then turning towards me, he warns in tamil (slang) “unga appa ta solliduvaan, nalla adi vaangi taruvaan” (meaning…will tell your dad and ensure that you are adequately beaten up by him). He seemed to be unaware of Ravi’s identity. Ashish hid behind some bushes well in advance and hence escaped the wrath of the aggrieved father.

Pulling away Venu, catching hold of his large locks, he is dragged away with intermittent slaps and kicks all the way back home!

On a Bus Trail in the rural heartland of Tiruvallur

The board on the creaking red coloured vintage bus which almost blocked the driver’s view of the road ahead announced its incredible arrival into the taluk bus stand from a godforsaken village on the other side of the state border in AP.  Phew….the name, “Placepalayam” (that’s how the British rechristened the village for reasons best known to them!) made one wonder whether the driver was on a desperate trip to get into the Guinness Book of World Records. The “place” was surely about 50 kms from where I had planned to board the bus that had another 35 kms to cover to reach the intended destination.

The vehicle bending sideways holding itself precariously to the poor wheels on its left with the right wheels hardly having any work to do, made a screeching halt as the driver pulled up. Boys holding on to the metal pipes above the door opening (there was no sign of the door though) and the men threatening to pull the bus down on its side dropped on to the ground after letting go their hold on the vehicle. Pandemonium broke loose as women, children and men attempted to disembark against a large gathering trying to force their way into the bus. Shouts, screams, angry epithets flowed freely in the air for some time until some of them found a solution. Passengers near the windows began to exchange babies and children and baggage from across the window while the competition ran unabated at the door openings. The melee at the opening was also soon sorted out when a short plump lady hurled herself out of the bus, bringing with her a wave of half-nickered lilliputs and a few more plump specimens of her own tribe. Now there seemed to be a huge hollow in the vehicle which was instantly filled up by the boarders of all hues and shapes.

I managed to get through the front opening and stayed put near the gear box. After a plethora of calls, shouts, confirmations, ousters and then the final whistle from the harassed conductor, the driver put on the gear and pressed the accelerator as it was raring to go. The bus was packed with people like sardines, three sitting in seats meant for two, some of them on seat railings with their legs spread to the next railing across other torsos seated below. Those who couldn’t get a foothold did not regret putting all their weight upon those who did. And those who did had little option as this was a small price they had to pay for ‘standing on their own feet’. The unstated rule mandated every passenger either to carry another or be carried by another. Even the poor driver wasn’t spared. A boy of seven sat on his shoulders dangling his legs down attempting to assist his carrier by lending two ‘helping legs’ to steer the vehicle! As for the conductor, about a dozen people closed in upon him with a protection ring that even a 'Z' category wouldn't want. He occasionally thrust his hand out of the melee to ask for money in exchange for bits of paper that entitled one to disembark anywhere up to the destination!

The bus pulled itself, spraining its neck to the left, setting off a cloud of dust as the driver shifted the gear further. A cool breeze from across the paddy fields blew in through some escapable gaps in the windows and provided some relief to the commuters. The bus meandered its way through the fields and across a rivulet until it came to a halt near a teashop with a couple of lungi-clad youth idling on a slender bench. “ERNANKUPPAM”, announced the conductor making full use of his larynx not before blowing the whistle to silence the crowd! A craggy old woman with a basket of millet got down from the front, grumbling about the 50p change that she was denied by the “whistleblower”. A farm worker with a long sickle in hand boarded the bus sending shivers across those who noticed his weapon. Shouts and counter-shouts followed until it was resolved that the sickle was to be kept in the custody of the driver below the steering!

The vehicle resumed its incredible journey across a clear road and picked up speed to cruise at about 40 kmph! The driver now seemed destined to make up for the time lost until then and steered the vehicle confidently avoiding oncoming tractors and cyclists with a deft hand. And then all of a sudden the driver applied the brakes, raising an alarm of sorts across the entire bus. A flock of geese suddenly appeared from nowhere and trotted their way across the road, holding all their heads high with the 'god-given' right of passage. A boy of eleven, tending the flock walked across coolly, ignoring the bus. 

The scene inside the bus was a comic sight to behold. The boy perched on the driver's shoulders landed on the steering with his grip firmly held on to the driver’s matted locks, the driver looking down aghast! The carriers fell over the carried, transposing their earlier positions! Those on the seat railings surged forward to land on passengers seated in the rows ahead, those on the edge of the seats unseated to land on the carried and the carriers! But lo and behold, the conductor came into full view of the passengers as the protective ring around him decided to temporarily dismantle by blowing themselves to smithereens!

The driver restarted the engine and the drove for a while until a hamlet came into sight. A young dusky woman in her thirties yelled at the driver asking him to stop. The driver obliged…not before hearing rants from some passengers questioning his wisdom in attempting to make an unscheduled halt. The driver then drove on nonchalantly notwithstanding snide remarks from the naughty ones suggesting his motives! Soon the conversation among them drifted to the poor management of the transport corporation and the dire need of the hour for the Government to give away the passenger transport business to an enterprising individual like Ambani (who would be expected to sell tickets dead cheap like the mobile services! And yet maintain the best fleet with responsible employees). A small boy of nine hearing the conversation, quipped, “Ambani has better things to do than manage a horde of Tamil speaking drivers for you rotten brutes”. “True, true”, lamented an oldie, adding, “Only God can throw light on when we will be redeemed of our plight”. The little upstart, retorted again, “Not to worry grandpa, by the time that happens, you would have reached your heavenly abode!”

Winding its way further up on a gradient amidst paddy fields the bus soon headed towards what seemed a large expanse of water. Soon a large lake came into sight with pelicans and flamingos abounding on its sun-shone surface. A cool breeze wafted from across the water body into the bus as it neared the banks of the lake. Soon enough the conductor whistled, “VISHNUVAKKAM”, and then came the announcement, “Passengers for Kilanur, and Meyyur may also get down, Don’t expect the bus to go up to your godforsaken doorsteps”. At least a dozen disembarked here, one of them murmuring, “I know how many times you hijacked the public vehicle to your wretched doorstep!” Soon there was commotion at the rear end of the vehicle. A couple of cops had got into the bus with a hand-cuffed accused in tow. When the conductor looked askance at them, they said, “the jeep has broken down, we need to take this blackguard to the magistrate court.” He merely nodded his head sideways with anxiety writ large on his face and turned away. An old haggardly lady questioned authoritatively, looking at the accused, “What did you do?” The handcuffed one remained silent as one of the cops retorted, “You old one, shut up, otherwise this rotten guy will hack you the same way he did this morning at Sitanjeri.” The lady turned away in fear, casting furtive glances now and then at the accused.

In the meanwhile, I was lucky enough to 'perch' myself on a seat adjacent to the window on to my right. The trapeze acts for the last thirty minutes in the bus exhausted me enough to become drowsy, fanned by the fresh paddy-scented air coming in from the fields. I do not reckon how long I slept, but that should have been at least half an hour before the conductor woke me up, tapping me on my shoulders, “Saar Avadi....Would you mind getting down unless you want to travel back to Placepalayam again?”

A day in Winter Vacation

Taking a cue from Anne de plume's blog, "Iris", I am reminded of vacations we had during our days spent schooling in Sunabeda. Since this theme would not be out of place in the context of my blog, "Meadows-Reminiscences and Travelogues", I thought it relevant to put up a post on this caption.

During the seventies, our academic years coincided with the calendar year and hence schools used to close for "Winter" Vacations after the annual exams in Novembers. Winter vacations, when compared to its summer counterpart, were certainly more enjoyable and being looked forward to by students, teachers and parents alike. As kids, it afforded us the luxury of cozying up in bed at least until 9 am.(The township water supply system took its daily break half an hour thence!). It was also fun to roam in the much needed warmth of the overhead sun shining brightly down on us. One is hardly motivated to step out of home during summers today. Winter is also one of the best seasons to undertake long travels without undergoing its incumbent travails. As kids, we deemed home as one of the worst places on earth and always preferred to loiter out in the open spaces, be it the playground, the wide roads in the township, the picnic spots, the nursery, the hills, highways, the swimming pool or the bazaars.

If I happened to rise early by any chance, my first stop would be that unmistakable HMV, the valve radio that religiously performed its duty from 6 every morning till late evening, with intermittent breaks to cool off. The inimitable announcement from Radio Ceylon still keeps ringing in my ears to this day, “Yeh Shri lanka broadcasting corporation ka videsh vibhaag hai, pachees aur iktalees meter band par….aap sun rahen hai purane filmon ke sangeet…” Numbers from the vocal chords of yesteryear crooners, (Begum Akhtar, Shamshad Begum, Uma Devi, Pankaj Mullick, Talat, Mukesh….and the one and only Saigal), filled the room and one’s ears. It would be a relief to realize that Saigal’s “Gum Diye Mustakil…” or “Do Naina Matware tihare…” at 7.55 am need not any longer signal the commencement of my trot to the nearby school, at least for a month to come.

Demanding a cup of coffee over “The Hindu” of the previous day, (that’s the time the newspaper took to travel from Chennai to Orissa those days!), I would head straight to the penultimate page to read Rajan Bala’s reports on the latest match between India and West Indies. Around nine, a couple of heads would pop up across the window facing the road, whispering entreaties to tiptoe out for large scale “Scheming”. Barging into the bathroom for a crow’s bath and quickly gobbling up a few idlis or half a chapathi, I would be out into the open, hardly caring to lend ears to my harassed mom all through the process.

With the cool morning breeze wafting through the warm rays of the winter morning’s sun, it used to be a perfect time to loose oneself around the township and beyond it. Humming, “aaj mausam bada …beimaan hai bada”, we jumped and frolicked around to reach Bhanja Mandap, our first stop to check out the day’s celluloid entertainment for the evening. A Dharam-Hema starrer would on most ocassions, for sure, be the one to be exhibited. After ensuring with Punjappa, the theatre manager, if Hema was glamorous enough in the film to deserve our attention, we would ask him to “lock” a few tickets for the evening show. (There were no morning or matinee shows during week days…..wonder how it is now!). And we needed to do this, failing which we had to resort to mara-mari jhagda with the local high school bullies before the 95p counter. Even if one managed to get one ticket, it wasn’t before losing a few buttons from one’s shirt.  Crossing over across the path inside the theatre verandah to reach Ramu’s canteen, we would peek into his shop to see if any stuff  (Singada/lobongo latika….) carried over from the previous evening would by any chance be available for a deep discount!

Tramping down thence to the large playground (now housing the stadium) to notice that some known faces have ganged up for a game of cricket against the high school bullies, we also jump into the fray to ‘graciously’ help complete the elusive eleven. If we had the option to bat first, we would wait until our turns came, swished the bat to our heart’s content and then forthwith decamped citing some inexplicable reason (mom has sent word/the all familiar stomach ache…etc) with the poor captain cursing us swearing never to take vagabonds into the team thenceforth!

From here, scampering down in a group to the Central market with a keen eye on the pavement vendors’ stuff for tit bits, small eats and cheap novelty items, we were actually spoilt for choice. These included huge Rose coloured cotton candies that melts in your mouth in no time (then an inexplicable gap between perception and reality), the mixturewallah’s stuff with all known spices going into the  concoction with the mustard oil to lend that unique taste, small plastic whistles (our long distance ‘unicode’ walkie talkie),  mid-sized plastic balls (for our simple version of volleyball, though the ball would last only for a few hours to be finally decimated to grotesque shapes and then relegated to the status of a football), readymade katties (katapult- though intended to target cashew fruits and nuts in the bhalu pahad, we only ended up stoning each other before exhibiting swelled temples as souvenirs to remind us of the enemy act pending to be squared up!).

Stuffing all the buys into our shirt and trouser pockets, our next sojourn before lunch would be the unmistakable picnic spot near the main school premises and opposite to the “P” zone. Laying out all our newly acquired materials on the cement benches lined up amidst the shade of eucalyptus trees, it was time for redistribution/barter/trade off with each other before finally drawing up each of our personal balance sheets (receivable from, payable to, stock of assets , returnable ones etc…).. The siren at 11.50 am would throw a red alert as most of us had interim (home) login deadlines to be met and would run home from the picnic spot before our dads arrived from the HAL factory for lunch.

Heading straight to the bathroom to wash up the sun burnt muddy feet and hands, I would sit up innocently at the dining table not before switching on the HMV at exactly 12 noon. The SLBC’s announcer, the one and only Manohar Mahajan’s inimitable announcement would flow forth announcing the programme, “Aap hi ke geet”, with the signature bin (snake dance) music from the film “Dastaan”. On most occasions, one always heard this number from “Prem Parbat” , “Yeh dil aur unki nigahon ke saaye” and also “Pankh hoti to ud ati re” from Sehra. Listening to the Prem Parbat number, I would start planning the post-lunch “ghoom” schedule as pictures of the hills with the pleasant feel of the afternoon breeze and the small rivulets would conjure up in the mind. All this while hurriedly swallowing food and giving half-hearted answers to dad’s questions over the table.

The sound of siren at 1 pm would be music to my ears and herald the onset of yet another session of freedom. Its logout time again! Ignoring entreaties from mom to stay put and rest at home, I would soon be out on the streets and find my way to my buddy’s next block. Calling out from the road  (was never used to ringing the bell and request elders to let my buddy out for some “work”), I would often be greeted with a terse reprimand from his mom, “Dhoop me kya bada kaam rakha hai, chal niklo yahaan se….pata nahin kahaan se aa jaate hai yeh bekaar ladken….). Khallas! This guy is not going to come….lemme try the other buddy down the lane.

Then managing to get along a couple of juniors a few blocks away, we would set out for that hillock called Bhalu Pahaad. Coming to think of it, I always used to wonder why it was named thus. I could hardly sight any Bruin during a decade of my stay in the township and at least not on this hill where we used to spend time on many a sunny afternoon. It was said that bears used to come down from the hills on winter nights and wander around the township! The tailor at the Russian market swore he was a witness to one such incident. Seeing the bruin’s silhouette near his shop at around 12 at night, he panicked, pulled down the shutters and locked himself up in the 8”x 8” shop and didn’t dare open the shutter until 8 the next morning and not before human voices were heard outside who were tapping the shutter to investigate if he was alive yet!

Those were days when small paths into the hill were carved out by people walking up the hills from various points from the foothills. These paths used to merge and diverge in various directions so as to form a good network around the entire hill region which was infested with thorny bushes, mainly the lantana with a good number of cashew trees lining the hills to form a large plantation around the landscape. During a recent visit to the place, to my utter dismay, I found the Bhalu Pahad totally inaccessible with dense scrub jungle grown to forbidden heights all around with hardly any sight of the fruit trees.

Climbing up the hill, picking up a few unique leaves (we used them as bookmarks!), plucking some rare wild flowers (to gift them to girls in the neighbourhood!), we would finally reach mid-hill where the cashew plantations come into sight. It was fun climbing up the cashew trees to pluck the golden-red fruits along with the nuts and throw them down into the waiting hands of my buddies (they used to catch them with precision like professional cricket fielders borne out of sheer experience.). Climbing further up the hill, chewing the fruits all the way up, we would finally reach the water tank on a plateau on the top of the hill. This central water tank used to cater to the needs of the entire township in Sunabeda. With parched throats and sticky tongues (no wonder I don’t see cashew fruits sold anywhere in today’s departmental stores and malls), we would suck out a good quantity of water from the tap below the tank. Time for stock audit (!), we would religiously climb up the pipe ladder to reach a position of vantage to oversee the height of water in the tank, nod to each other as if things are all in order and then climb down and relax for some time.

Ambling downhill in the direction of the HAL guest house (taking the path less trodden!), one of us would soon be sighted by the lease contractors (the temporary owners of the plantation) who would swear on us with the choicest odiya epithets and chase us downhill to recover our pickings. More often than not, we would give them the slip and ultimately reach the highway (NH43), cross over and get into the guest house premises to check if we could dip into the swimming pool after the tired adventure. Dropping names at the security, we would ultimately get in and reach the swimming pool. Finding a couple of known faces popping out of the surface of the pool, we would authoritatively jump into the shallow reaches of the pool to immerse ourselves like buffaloes in a pond.  Very few of us knew swimming then!

Soaking in the pool for a couple of hours, we would then decide to leave, water dripping from our clothes all the way to the GH gate notwithstanding! The security would look askance at us as we scampered out of the protected premises.

Trotting barefoot all the way back (with slippers lost whilst being chased downhill) with our booty of fruits and nuts, we would head straight for the picnic spot. Lighting up a small fire with dried leaves and branches, all the cashew nuts would be offered as ‘oblation’ to the obliging fire. The task in the meanwhile, was to exhaust all the fruits….by ‘donating’ liberally to all the chotus who would come around watching. Lazily lying down on the cement benches, we would indulge in small gossip on “iskool’ and township politics, (the unusual chemistry between the physics master and the new English teacher!), the endangered species in our class who have left for their native homes and those who have stayed back, the romance between the Bong management trainee and the young lass in our alma mater…et al. Time for breaking open the nuts, we used sharp stones like the early Neanderthals (we later graduated to nutcrackers) to break them open and eat them, most being half roasted, but tasty all the same.

We then decide to temporarily show up at our homes (where else can you get a cup of coffee free?). This would also mark the onset of the 4.30 pm siren when the bread-winners would drive back/cycle back home. A meeting with this specie was best avoided for multiple reasons. While moms were darlings, dads seemed to have nothing better to do than keeping a tab on us poor young and simple folks! Gulping down a cup of hot coffee, I used to run down to the nearest field where a game of cricket was in progress.

At 5.45, when dusk fell, we were reminded about the tickets “locked” at Bhanja Mandapa for the Dharam-Hema starrer, “Dil ka Heera”. Hurrying back home, tiptoeing in through the rear garden door, I get into the kitchen and plead whisperingly with mom for a rupee and after a few minutes of haggling, she finally concedes. Therefrom, running down to the theatre, I catch a glimpse of Punjappa and yell out from the crowd before the 95p counter until he manages to notice me. In another 15 minutes, I find myself comfortably seated in the wooden bucket seat about 3 rows away from the screen. That, by itself, was an achievement!

Hema Malini was the “dreamgirl” to most of us. I remember having watched this film at least 4 times in the same theatre. The change-over of any Hema film in the theatre cast a gloomy spell on us as if we were personally parting with the heart-throb for good!

Coming back home at 9 in the evening to be pleasantly surprised to hear that dad’s gone out to the bazaar, was nothing short of a great relief likened to unfettering of chains around one’s legs. Quietly slipping into bed after a short grub, the day’s events were recounted and the thought process for the POA for the next day stoked my mind………………..