My Life....Chapter 3, Adolescent Antics

Chapter 3,  Adolescent Antics

Lunch box was a must to school. It was to be kept in the lunchroom. Like birds of the same feather flock together, boys of the same class kept their lunch boxes together so that they could sit, chat and eat in a group.

My lunch box and that of Raghu (Mridangam luminary, late Palghat Mani Iyer’s son) looked alike. One day he went ahead of me to the lunchroom and had almost emptied the contents of the lunchbox when he realized it was not his, but mine. So he opened his own box and began to gobble when I went in.

“Sorry Sundaram, I ate your lunch by mistake.” 

“Doesn’t matter. I will taste your mother’s preparation today,” I said, really looking forward to a change.

“No, that is what I am engaged in right now,” he said with a feeling of guilt.

In those days pocket-money system was non-existent that I could have bought something for myself. Fortunately Raghu had some money, and he bought me a popsicle, a big one, from the vendor – a permanent fixture in front of any school. Though not filling, it was a welcome compensation.

Football and cricket were our favourite games in the village. For cricket, fortunately our senior cousins were members of the school and college teams. So they donated their discarded sets. The only problem was that the bats were a little large for us. But we never lacked the basic courtesy not to look at a gift horse’s mouth.  Although we played with tennis ball, we proudly sported the leg-pad handed down to us, before we walked up to the crease to bat. From their doorsteps ladies and girls watched us play the game, no less the subsequent heated arguments over umpiring decisions or stopping play due to bad light, denying some to bat.

Often we used to invite the neighbouring village for a match. A formal letter was a must. That day it fell on me to draft the letter.

“We wish to play a match with your team, with your ball, with your bat and with your stumps, and in your ground. Ball go, no ball.”  The last sentence was supposed to be a protective clause. Their ground was an open area surrounded by paddy fields. There was every chance that a huge hit might land the ball irretrievably somewhere in the paddy fields, and we didn’t want to be held responsible for the loss.

For football we had no donor. We had to contribute, ranging from a quarter-anna to four annas (twenty-five paise). The collection fell short of the cost of a football. First we decided that each boy would approach his father for the shortfall. We knew it wouldn’t work. Better sense prevailed. We approached each parent in groups of seven or eight, deliberately omitting his own son, to forestall a possible later admonition of scheming it. Fearing that a refusal could attract adverse publicity, each parent obliged and we were left with some surplus money - just enough to take care of puncture and wear and tear expenses, but not to buy a pump to fill it up every other day. But we had a kindly soul in Aamu (Ramu Anna) who had a cycle, and a pump. Elders watched us play and supported enthusiastically. But, with a window or two getting relieved of its glass-panes, and the ball smashing the head-load of oranges of the village’s blue-eyed hawker, we were directed to shift the venue to the field outside the village. That robbed the charm of the game, for players wanted spectators. 

As children we always looked forward to summer vacation. That was when the mangoes in everyone’s backyard would be in full bloom. Most of the houses had mango trees – not just one but, two or three. Some grew luscious mangoes, others good, bad and indifferent varieties. Some were useful for instant pickle, others for long-lasting pickles, yet others juicy ones suited for pachhadi or sambar. But we were attracted to the ones that were ready to eat and were sweet. At two in the afternoon when ladies would enjoy a post-lunch siesta, we would enter their backyard. The bamboo fences having outlived their survival period were mostly on the verge of collapse at the slightest touch. We would enter their backyard, climb the tree and pluck mangoes. Where the trunk was too high, hefty and straight, we would aim small pieces of stones. Sometimes they hit the target, on other occasions the owner’s roof. Fearing damage to the roof tiles and leak during following monsoon the aunties would shout us away - and one particular aunty for a longer duration.

We had one boy in our group in whose backyard there was a mango tree which yielded a delicious North Indian variety. Undoubtedly its counterpart grown in the Gangetic fertile belt must have been still sweeter, but this was only a shade less. There was no question of stealing from his backyard. He would give us now and then, but on condition that we should leave behind the seeds in his backyard. In other words he didn’t want any other house in the village to grow this variety. But Balan and I had already set our eyes on it. So on one occasion we got the better of our friend and managed to smuggle the seeds out. Both of us sowed the seeds at our backyard. Luckily, for Balan, the soil picked it up in his house, and not in mine. He began to enjoy the benefits of his action in four to six years.

Of course these escapades cannot be attributed to ‘stealing’ in the strict sense of the word, as most of the ladies knew the children who were plucking a few mangoes. My real litmus test was when I was directed to shoplift ‘cigarette mittai’ (the long one that would melt once in the mouth) from a shop at the entrance to the village.  Only then would I be inducted into the seniors’ group (my two elder brothers and uncle of the age of my eldest brother). The shop belonged to Chitta, a noble old soul.  He would doze off on his seat in the afternoon as he waited for customers.

Driven by the urge to get into the group I mustered courage, got close to the shop window.  I made a mental measurement of the distance I needed to stretch my hand to land on the item in question. It was in a bottle, tightly closed. As expected, Chitta uncle was dozing off, with snores to comfort him. I stretched my hand exactly on my target, opened it. No luck. Tried once again. Still no luck. Saw someone passing by. Guessed he must be coming to the shop – guilty conscience. ‘No time to waste,’ I said to myself, just lifted the bottle, and made good my escape. I think we got four pieces each, instead of just one expected. 

As is wont in village life, a week later Chitta uncle came to know who the culprit was, and requested me to return justthe empty bottle, and no questions asked.  But I was so stuck with a mortal fear that if I returned the bottle, he would be fully armed to go and report it to my grandfather, a strict disciplinarian.

My grandfather was an advocate in the Palghat Sessions Court. When we had our school annual vacation, the court too closed for summer vacation. Thus, vacation was not fun all the way for us as compared to other boys in the village. In the afternoons, after his nap, my grandfather would ask the six of us (five grandchildren, and his own last son) for an elaborate sloka session. “Dharma Kshetrey Kurukshetrey…” (Mahabharata); “Kalaabhyaam Chudaalankrita Sashi Kalabhyam…” (Sivananda Lahari); or “Arey Kwasow, Kwasow…” (Narayaneeyam); or “Sreemata, Sreemahalakshmy, Sreemat Simhasaneswary” (Lalitha Sahasranam); or “Viswam Vishnur Vashat Kaaro” (Vishnu Sahasranam). In addition he also taught us Lingashtakam, and a few other ones. In all it was a two and a half hour session, day after day. Any error in pronunciation, diction meant repeating the correct version five times. There were times when we felt why there was a summer break at all, more so when all the other children in the village were having a gay time. The only occasions we didn’t have a class was when he had cold or  cough. Of course we didn’t wish for it, but when he did have it, we were elated. 

As if these were not enough, he organized with the village Purohit to teach all the boys Rudram, Chamakam, Purushasooktam, in a regular evening class, with Attendance Register, random recital tests and marks. 

In retrospect, it is a pity that I have lost touch with most of what I had learned, and my recitation is now confined to just Vishnu Sahasranamam, at horse-race speed - in 20 minutes from Shuklaam Bharataram… to Kaayena Vaacha... Here too a surgery a decade ago had to intervene to trigger resumption.

(To be continued)