A BLOCKED WRITER

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.