Chennai is not the right place to
place your thoughts on to the paper. The frequent honking of the innumerable
vehicle and the choking smoke let out by these motor beasts, the horrible heat
and the headache it gives has been a major setback for me as a writer. So I have decided to leave this place for the
sake of my debut novel. I bet this could be a classic and could run into major
international book fests and awards because I have the confidence in its
characters and the basic premise. It’s unique and like none other which I
believe could win not only the hearts of the ordinary readers but the most
critical critics as well. But my only worry is in penning it down, which badly
requires a calm atmosphere and peace of mind. So I’ve decided to ask my manager
for five days off which I had to beg him for and finally had to be content for
unpaid leave. Let my book get published and become a top contender of all
literary fests, I’ll resign in style and he will regret being mean to me.
Now where
could be the best place to write my story was the next thing lingering in my
mind. A resort in a hill station somewhere in Himalayas or in Ooty is out of my
mind because affordability is a huge issue and travelling could lose my
precious time as well. Goa and Pondicherry did cross my mind but I wish I write
sober. So I needed a place where I feel my own and where I don’t have to spend
a lot of money and where else could be it other than my home. But being home
has its disadvantages too. Once if my buddies get to know I am home, then that
is enough for my novel to stay as an idea forever. Then I zeroed in my mother’s
house which lies adjacent the calm backwater surrounded by lush green trees and
paddy fields. The house clad with old
roof tiles and wooden pillars gave a constant chillness that is seldom found in
the modern day houses. The balcony which
overlooked the slow paced backwater could be the ultimate place to write my
saga of romance. I decided to pack my bags and leave to my grandmother’s abode.
I was welcomed
with a light drizzle and the crying of crickets on a cool dark evening. Ammamma (Grandmother) was worried and
was expecting me to come long before than I said I would come. She welcomed my
home coming with a platter of kanji
(rice porridge), coconut chamanthi (chutney),
chutta papadam, kanni maanga achar (mango pickle) and mathi
(sardine) fry. I didn’t tell her I ate poratta
and chicken curry on the way as it could disappoint her and anyway I don’t want
to reject the feast from the world’s greatest cook. I ate to my heart’s content.
Ah! Welcome home. Now I can write well. I went to the room upstairs through the
creaking stairs and changed my clothes to fit into a lungi. The room had
belonged to my uncle who had long left the place long back for a career abroad.
But his presence inside is hard to ignore. All his books, magazines, framed
photographs, medals and trophies were all intact and displayed an era of sporty
young generation which gave way to useless apple, android generation like ours.
I picked up
one of his 1983 edition of ‘illustrated weekly’ that had a scantily clad, mesmerizing actress on the cover page. Well, it was the enchanting Rekha
displaying a cover story of her tete-a-tete with Mahesh Bhatt. I briefed
through the yellowish moth eaten pages looking at the celebrities of yesteryear's who do not even appear in any of the hundreds of weeklies produced
in India now. Beautiful remnants of a bygone era. By the time I ended the weekly, my eyes
started feeling weak and desperately wanted to shut off fighting against my
mind’s wish. I needed to begin my story somehow. I voluntarily stood up
neglecting the sleep and opened up my bag to get a pen and paper, only to realize I haven’t bought any of them here from Chennai. Anyway it was late
night and I was tired of all that travelling and heavy dinner so I gave myself
to the call of sleep.
That could
have been one of the best sleep I've had after a long time. Reluctant to get
out of my bed, I found that my legs were cold and realized I have lost my lungi
I was wearing. I found it underneath the bed, made a blanket out if it, tried
going back to sleep and didn't bother to find out how it went under the bed. I
woke up a minute later only to find the aroma of vegetable stew from the
kitchen downstairs. It could be either puttu
or velaappam today. The windows to my
room were open and I could see the overcast sky. It’s going to rain again
today. I took a deep breath and finally decided to step out from the bed. I
need to go to the local market, angadi
as we call it here to get a pen and a book. But there was no hurry and that
could be done after the breakfast as well.
I went to the
kitchen to see what was cooking. As I guessed, it was puttu. Ammmamma handed me
over a black coffee and ordered me to brush my teeth before I have any of the
breakfast. I had forgotten to take my brush from Chennai, thus I had to pick up
a young leaf fallen from a mango tree, folded it and bite it to make bristles
at the end. This leaf I dipped it in the tooth paste and brushed in minutes to
attend the holy breakfast. The yummy hot food was in my table now. The
vegetable stew cooked with pure coconut milk and pinch of pepper had already
watered my mouth. I grabbed the puttu
and crushed it with my full hands, poured the vegetable stew dominated by
potatoes. Papadoms were also on the
way. This was bliss! After consuming around two kutti puttu I thought
about retiring from today’s breakfast. Not because I was full, but I felt like
leaving some for my ammamma and also
I had a lot to write today. A full stomach may interrupt the flow of my
thoughts.
The nearest angadi was around 2 kilometres away and
it was a perfect day to take a walk. Starting from home, I strolled through the
muddy damp road amidst the drizzling. Unlike Chennai or other big cities the
water never get clogged in these villages even if it rains heavily for days, as
they have the huge paddy fields to accumulate all the rain that are poured to
them. As I was walking I came across
Damu chetan’s chaya kada (tea shop) where Bhaskaran chetan was sipping his podi chaya and reading Mathrubhumi. Hearing my footsteps he
took his head from the newspaper and stared at me moving his spectacles
slightly down to his nose. ‘HA! Achu’, he cried out. I stopped to acknowledge
him with a smile.
“inji eppa vanne?” (when did you come?)
“innale vaikuneram” (yesterday evening)
“inji madrasu thanne alleyoli? (You are in Madras only know?)
“athe, madrasil thanneya” (Yes in Madras, only)
“ayisheri. Ninaku innu paripaadi onnu illenkil ente kude pori. Nalla
nadan mullan pannine vayalinnu kittikki. Frying preparation nadannukonduirukua.
Ayinde kuda nalla ippo chethiya panamkallum” (Ok! If you do not have any
program today come with me. We have got a good porcupine from the field. The
preparation for frying is going on. Also nice palm toddy is on the way)
An offer I
can’t refuse. Bhaskaran chetan has
caught me at the right place. I didn’t leave my mind to wander for any second
thoughts and gave myself into this crime.
I couldn’t
help looking and feeling sorry for the poor animal getting fried. But curiosity
took over and I wanted to try how a porcupine tasted. Bhaskaran chetan’s friends were trying their best
to keep the open fire from rain with their umbrellas. The meat cut in small
pieces were getting fried in hot coconut oil. The toddy arrived in bottles which
were being distributed in tall glasses. Bhaskaran chetan was content drinking the white liquid from the bottle. After
few rounds and fully cooked porcupine, the party mood came up. Bhaskaran chetan
started talking about his old escapades during his army days. His adventure in
Kashmir during the post war days, where he came face to face with a
Lashkar-e-taiba cadre and missed the bullet in inches has been the story he
would have told us over and over. But still, his narration seems fresh every
time he recites on his bravery. After when I realized neither Bhaskaran chetan nor his friends were aware of
what is going around them, I made my escape from the camp. My head was spinning
because of the intoxication that the toddy gave. I should have stopped with one
single glass. Now, how am I going to write? I headed home where my ammamma would be wondering where her kid
had gone. I ran straight upstairs to my uncle’s room and made sure ammamma had got a glimpse of me but no
smell of my breath.
“Eda, ninakku choru vende?” (Don’t you want your lunch) she cried
from downstairs.
“Bhaskaran chetante aduthuninnu kazhichu” (I had from Bhaskaran chetan’s place).
I dried myself
with a towel and changed my wet clothes and fell flat on to the bed! Desperate
sleep was calling for a relief from the unpleasant intoxication the white milky
thing presented.
I woke up at 8
pm in the night, only to find darkness around. It took a while for me to
understand the power had gone and we were in dark. It was a heavy downpour
outside and floor was all wet as I had forgotten to close the windows. I remembered
I had missed my lunch that noon and I was terribly hungry now. Wondering what ammamma would have cooked for the supper
I struggled through the pitch dark way hitting my toes to the each half opened
doors I pass through. I saw the dim light of an illuminated candle from the
kitchen. Ammamma was silently doing
all her chores and saw me coming up with a face still asking for more sleep.
“Enthoru orakkado ?” (Look at your sleep!), She commented.
“Ammamme, thinnan enthinkilum thaa”(Please give me something to
eat), I ordered her in reply.
“Uchaketha chorum curryum baaki undu, eduthu thinno” (left over rice
and curry are there, eat them)
I helped
myself in serving the rice and curry. It was a simple tomato curry cooked with
butter milk that tasted heaven. After finishing the light supper I went to the veranda
of the old house to catch the rain more closely. Sitting in my late grandfather’s
king size wooden chair and looking out in to the oblivion where rain was
pouring was certainly the most beautiful of all things that our eyes can
witness. I closed my eyes slowly listening to the music made by the rain
falling on the mud tiles of our roofs and the screeching of crickets. I got
high and slept off.
Couple of days
more passed with no electricity in the entire village. Days spent on ammammas mouth-watering nadan delicacies, Bhaskaran chetan’s stories of bravery, Illustrated
weekly’s yesteryear's articles and pictures of enchanting actresses, Damu chetan’s podi chaayas and bondas and the
invincible rain of my mother’s village which bought me the joy and peace I had
craved for a long time but never knew where to find till then. My fingers didn't move to write a single word to the paper I bought from the angadi. It was the final day and I had my train in the evening to
go back to my monotonous routine life.
Oh! How unfortunate
would the world be to miss the classic that I was supposed to begin here? Anyway
I have got the right inspiration for the inception of the novel which I believe
I can easily do when I go back. Bidding bye to ammamma and her lovely village, I looked back at the days I spent
here. The days of euphoria which were my own possession that nobody could have taken
away from me which I left for the days of pressure, stress and isolation of a
mad crowd. Let my saga of romance hit the stores, I’ll resign in style.
