Mixed Bag - A pound of thrill!

Alright folks, I am back after a long hiatus... What with the annual appraisals around the corner and targets to be chased and make the last mile connect, I just did not have time or inclination to write. It is like all my creative juices got dried up. I have told myself that I will make a come back in October, after the appraisals are over and done. But, the restlessness took over me and I have to write if I have to survive till the appraisals.

Okay, last time I closed off with the only ghost story of my life (not really true, also experienced something when I was doing my graduation at Hyderabad. I strongly suspect it is the landlord who was behind it, rather than a supernatural phenomenon, though). It is time for me to recount the "thrills" we experienced in this little home of ours in Cuttack. Most of these are limited to summer times, when our home got packed with uncles, aunts and cousins. Mummy and Daddy were very warm and welcoming hosts and enjoyed having people at home. I don't ever remember a time not having someone living at our home - an uncle, an aunt, a cousin or a friend - though we never ever lived in a joint family.

I remember one summer when we had a posse of them descending on us - Rashakka, Sirakka, Bharati atta, Jhansi atta and Ajji - short for Ajay. He is my first cousin, born to Nirmala (Peddatta) and Krishna mamu. I used to call him Bondu mamu, as a kid, a nick name I gave him as he was on the fatter side. Ajji was quite an energetic kid and was always upto some mischief or the other. Though, he was 4 years older to me and a lot younger than the others, he was the ring leader to our gang.

Daddy and Mummy were constantly making plans to take us around the city every day. One day it was to walk on the banks of Mahanadi, it was to a park the other day, and then we also went on day-long trips to Konark and Puri. I don't remember when and how, but we picked up a stalker. Till date it remains a puzzle to me, as to who was he stalking - as all of us were kids, the eldest among us being 15, wearing a pavada and blouse. I, wonder, was it Mummy he was stalking? Hmmm...

Anyways, the stalker followed us everywhere on his bicycle - to the walk on the banks of the river, to the parks, to the movies, even to Konark and Puri. He knew where we lived as he would follow to our home and wait outside it, till very late in the night. We would stand on the porch and make threatening gestures at him, against my parents' advice and without their knowledge. We would punch and kick in the air, made angry faces, and Ajii with a rope in his hands would make groovy stunt moves. And all of a sudden, the stalker disappeared! When I look back now, I find it both funny and scary, too. You do not understand the seriousness or consequences of such behavior, when you are an innocent child.

And then the incident that scarred me for the rest of my life happened! It was a Sunday and Daddy was expecting guests at home - a Telugu family, who were distantly related to us. We were told by Mummy to go out and play, as she found it difficult to manage seven kids at once inside the home. It was around 3-4 in the afternoon and unusual for Mummy to allow us to play outside at that time of the day. We decided to make the most of this freedom and raced out. Ajji and Rashakka decided that we play "I spy" and that too on the terrace of the building next to our two-storied home. For the life of me, I cannot comprehend how did we ever think of playing hide and seek on a terrace, beats me till date. Round one was over and it was Rashakka's time to be the "den". She started counting the numbers till hundred and the rest of us ran to hide whatever secret places the terrace could offer us. Rashakka started searching for us and I was giggling in my hiding place, enjoying the fact that it is unplottable. And then I heard a row and peeped out of my hide-out. Rashakka was screaming at Ajji, "I spy", and he was arguing with her saying that he is not out. While arguing, he started walking back and hit the one-foot parapet wall of the terrace. While I stood there and watched in horror, I saw him disappear over the terrace - he was there one moment and gone the next!

All of us started screaming and ran down the stairs. The family which lived in the house, on whose terrace we were playing came running out. Daddy and the male guests rushed to the boundary wall that divided the property and the adjacent banana plantation, into which Ajji fell. That was the first and last time I saw how athletic Daddy was - he jumped over the wall in his lungi. The guests and the neighbours followed suit. Few minutes later, the limp form of Ajji was handed over the boundary wall. Daddy carried him in his arms and I have noticed that his eyes were open and he appeared to be conscious. A rickshaw was called into which my parents jumped in. Ajji was laid gently across their laps and he was rushed to the hospital.

Ammamma herded all the wailing children into the house, she herself was sniffing loudly into the palau of her saree. Rashakka wiped her tears and asked all of us to troop into the puja room. She made us all stand in the order of our heights and asked us to start praying, which we complied immediately. We sat there weeping and praying, all worried what kind of news we were likely to receive. After a while, ammamma asked us to come out and wait in the verandah. As the time ticked away, our hearts grew heavy with worry. We all sat huddled there on the verandah, all seven pairs of eyes glued to the corner of the street, watching the nigh fall. The neighbours came to enquire about Ajji, every now and then, and turned back when they knew that there was no news.

An hour later we spotted a rickshaw at the street corner and we all sat up. From the distant I could make out two people, who looked like Mummy and Daddy in the rickshaw. There was a boy, who looked like Ajji, running along side the rickshaw. As the entourage came closer, we found that it was without doubt, Mummy and Daddy in the rickshaw, with Ajji galloping next to it. He was grinning ear to ear, though he was gasping for breathe. I could also make out Mummy trying to convince him not to run so much after such terrible fall, but in vain.

It was truly a miracle that Ajji survived that fall hardly a scratch on his body. Thanks to the banana plantation, his fall was broken by a banana leaf! It was more the shock of it that made him limp than anything else, I suppose. There were two consequences for this incident - one short-term and another long-term. The short-term one was that Ajji was sent back immediately along with Bharti atta and Jhansi atta. The long-term one is that I suffer a great fear of heights! When I see people lean on the balcony railings or on the parapet of the terrace, I become hysterical.

Mixed bag - An ounce of horror

When people talk to me about ghosts, I rubbish them. You see, I do not believe that such things exist. Oh, I love horror and supernatural movies and stories! There is absolutely, no doubt about that. They make great thrillers and captivating reads, not to mention, edge of the seat kind of movies. The other day, I started watching a so called horror movie on Tata Sky – 1920. A very pathetic take-off on exorcist! It was around midnight when I started watching it and Gautam, my husband, was trying to discourage me saying that I may not be able to sleep afterwards. So, I made a confession to him – told him that I would watch a horror movie, only if he is next to me, even though he is blissfully asleep.

Oh yes, though I do not believe in ghosts and do love watching horror movies, I lack the courage to watch them, when I do not have company. Reading is another matter, I would still read horror stories, whether or not I have company. But, do I really believe in the existence of supernatural? No, I do not and I am not very convinced about the arguments that others have for me on this topic, for the simple reason, I have never experienced any paranormal experiences in my life. I believe, there is a perfectly normal and rational explanation to all that people say is “supernatural”, like the way I do about the story I am about to recount. However, if I give that explanation here on this blog, I do believe that I would be disowned by almost all my relatives, hence I will leave up to my readers, as to how they would like to interpret. For the believers, it is a ghost story and to the non-believers, brush up on Freud!

Ammamma was a beautiful lady, fair, but a bit plump. She wore a red vermilion (sindhuram) bindi on her forehead that used to enhance her round face further more. Her kohl laden eyes cannot be classified as doe-shaped, but they were intelligent and sharp. Nothing escaped those eyes! She got married very young and I was told that by the time she was 14, she had her first child and by the time she was 29, her first grandchild. My guess was when we were at Cuttack, she would be in her late forties or early fifties.

From what I can make from the stories in circulation among the family, her life was not exactly a bed of roses, with tatagaru. He was a health inspector and was always away from home, touring the villages and back waters of Andhra Pradesh. He was very fond of hunting game and extremely partial to the zamindaari ways. The rajahs and zamindaars of East, West Godavari , Visakhapatnam and Vijayanagraram districts were always inviting him to go along with them on hunting expeditions. He was a handsome man, with light eyes and I guess women found him irresistible. There was even a story that he had a mistress tucked away in Vijayanagaram, and ignored ammamma during her last years.

When they were young, it was left for ammamma to look out after the children, educate them and ensure that they got married. It was no easy task, getting eight daughters married off, especially, when there was taboo around the community to which they belong to – Kalavanthulu. I do not know a nicer way of explaining this, but my mother’s family belongs to, in what was known in the olden days as descendants of prostitutes. No, they are distinctly different from Devadasis. This is a community of artisans who are groomed to entertain men, much like the courtesans of the Victorian era and the geishas of Japan.

There was an interesting story around how the family became Kalavanthulu, but will talk about it some other time. However, what is relevant at this point of time was that, the family decided to move away from tradition and was focused on getting the daughters married off to give them a respectable standing in the society. My grandparents were first cousins and in those days, consanguineous marriages seem to be the way out of the situation that the family was in. But to get respectable alliances for eight daughters was like climbing the Mount Everest, given the social standing that their community had. Yet, ammamma did it single-handedly, while tatagaru was busy enjoying the patronage of zamindaars, hunting tigers and cavorting women.

Coming back to Cuttack, ammamma came back to be with us and help mummy while Susi is recuperating. I was glad that I get to hear a new bed time story every night and by now, Bobby also started competing with me for her stories. Susi replaced Bobby in my parents’ bedroom.

Things started happening then. It was Susi, who started it all! (So says Bobby! Honestly, I do not remember this part...) Apparently, she was playing on the bed and fell off it, and cut her lip real bad. Since then, she started complaining that she could see an old woman, whom no one else could see. She started saying that the old woman is staring at her, making faces, etc.

And then Ammamma started complaining about a woman she started seeing and hearing in the night. A woman she said stood outside the bedroom window beckoning her. She asked daddy to spray vibhuti on the windows, so that the woman would not haunt her during the nights. He complied and it became a ritual in the night for daddy to carry the vibhuti in his hand and move from room to room, sprinkling the white powder on the windows and doors. Ammamma told us that this white powder is so powerful that it would keep away all the ghosts and banshees away from the home. Daddy would also smear our foreheads with vibhuti to take care of any nightmares that we were likely to have. Years later, when I realized that daddy was an atheist, I asked him about this ritual. Why would he do something that he never believed? He told me that he did because the rest of us believed in it and gave us a feeling of safety and security.

One night ammamma woke me up and gesticulated wildly towards the window. She demanded if I can see a woman in a white sari standing under the seethphal tree, beckoning her. With my eyes full of sleep and head all groggy, I tried peering into the dark of the night. I did not see anything except the seethaphal tree, but don’t know why, did not have the heart to tell her the truth. I said I did! She immediately, started chanting some mantras and sprinkling the vibhuti that was kept at the bedside, on the window. After a while, she asked me to go back to sleep, as the “ghost” disappeared unable to withstand the chanting and the vibhuti.

One day when I woke, I found my parents all worried and going about talking in whispers. Ammamma was still in bed, which was highly unusual. Mummy took me away from the room in which ammamma was sleeping, into the corridor that ran alongside the rooms. There at the end of the corridor, close to the bathroom, I saw a pile of wet clothes. They all belong to ammamma and I immediately recalled that she wore them to bed last night.

Mummy recounted to me what happened last night after I went off to sleep. She was also fast asleep, while daddy was reading, as was his habit. While the connecting door between our bedroom and parents’ bedroom was closed, the door leading to the corridor from their bedroom was kept open. Daddy sensed someone walking past the door and assumed that it was ammamma going to the toilet. Confirming his suspicion, he heard the bathroom door closing and water running. There was something amiss, as the water continued to run and it stopped as abruptly as it started. He continued to read his book all through and when he thought that ammamma returned to the room, he got up and went into the bathroom. The bucket was empty and the bathroom was all wet. Surprised, he filled the bucket and came to back to the room, to resume his reading. Another 10 minutes passed and he again thought that someone walked by the door, again he heard the person entering the bathroom and this time he stopped reading.

Daddy heard the person lifting the bucket and pouring the water. He was flabbergasted, as he knew that it could not be ammamma. You see, she was constantly complaining of pain in her right hand and could not lift any heavy objects. So, it cannot be her who is lifting the bucket. Then, who could it possibly be? As daddy was trying to figure out the mysterious person, the person herself came and stood in front of him. It was, in fact, ammamma! And she was dripping wet, her hair all undone and spread across her back. Her vermillion bindi was running down her forehead onto her nose. Her nostrils were all flared and her chest was heaving heavily. She was glaring at daddy, as though she was about to murder him.

Daddy tapped mummy on her shoulder to wake her. And when she did, both of them handled her. What have they done to bring her back to normal, was never made clear to me. I was convinced about their explanation, but as I grew up, it was too fantastic for me to believe. Mummy said, they smeared vibhuti on ammamma’s forehead and she calmed down.

We were warned not to discuss the night’s events with ammamma. And, for once, I managed to keep my curiosity under control and tried to behave as though nothing transpired. As the day came to an end, and night fall dark and thick, the evening vibhuti ritual was underway. Daddy was sprinkling it all over the windows and doors and he started it with their own bedroom. The three of us were busy playing in our parents’ bedroom, while mummy was busy setting the mosquito net on the bed. Ammamma was in our room. Daddy finished sprinkling Vibhuti and was headed towards our room, when ammamma appeared in the doorway. She was not her usual self, angry and totally not in control of her senses. First thing, she did was knock the vibhuti out of daddy’s hand. She then proceeded to grab daddy’s hair in her left hand and slapped him right across his face with her right hand. And she went on slapping him!

Bobby started crying and Susi, though did not understand what was going on, seeing her brother, started wailing. I was too stunned and scared to cry and sat frozen on the bed. Mummy gained her senses and ran towards them, quickly scooped the vibhuti from the floor and smeared on ammamma’s forehead. The minute vibhuti touched her, ammamma’s eyes rolled up and she fainted. Daddy quickly caught her before she hit the floor and between them both my parents lifted her and laced her gently on the bed. While daddy was busy trying to revive ammamma, mummy came to us to pacify us.

Ammamma decided she would not stay for a minute in the house, after this incident. She was convinced that there was a ghost in the house, who possessed her. So was mummy! While ammamma took the train back to Vijayanagaram, where tatagaru lived, mummy gave daddy ultimatum to look out for another house. And daddy was left with no choice but to search for another house. While the rest of the family is convinced that ammamma was truly possessed by a ghost, I am not convinced that there must be a perfectly rational explanation for this phenomenon. The reason why I believe that it was not the work of supernatural, lies in the fact that when ammamma saw a woman at the window, I did not!

But before we move to the last and final abode for us in Cuttack, there is still so much I have to share with you that happened in this house. However, those incidents precede this little ghost story!

Mixed bag - A scoop of action!

In this house, I have experienced my first war and cyclone! Like I said, this was the early 70s and India went to war with Pakistan to liberate Bangladesh. Cuttack was close to the warring neighbourhood and there was night curfew and blackout declared in the city. I would not understand why was it that my parents closed all the doors and windows, and also covered them with thick black curtains, by nightfall. It was not just my parents who did it, but the entire neighbourhood, too. Equally puzzling was the fact that by 6 PM, no one was allowed into the street, not even were we allowed to play on the verandah.

I have also noticed that the streets of Cuttack were flooded with people with lots of luggage and everyone was talking about refugee camps. Mummy got involved fund-raising drives, while ammamma looked after us at home. Atta could not handle all this and Daddy put her on the train back to Kakinada. One such family from Bangladesh moved into our complex, into a tiled roof house across the passage. I cannot remember exactly how many were there, but I do remember that the eldest member of the family was close to 70, while the youngest was an infant. It was a huge family that lived in a two-room house, which appeared to be bursting at the seams. When they moved in to the neighbourhood, they hardly had any furniture and baggage with them, just enough clothing for the family. I remember Mummy befriending them while the rest of the neighbours were eyeing them warily. Once the neighbours so an “officer” and his wife becoming friends with this “foreign” family, the acceptance levels grew. So, within no time, this Bangladeshi family became part of the Indian diaspora!

This also happened to be my first lesson in welcoming strangers to our fold and accepting them as family. It was also representative of how truly secular was Indian psyche – the operative word here is “was”! It saddens my heart to see that we do not even say “hi” to an Indian family moving into our neighbourhood, any more. It takes at least half year before we throw a smile in their direction. God forbid, if it is someone belonging to a different religion, Muslim, to be specific, there are suspicions galore! Our imaginations run wild and the family is convicted even without a trial! More on this, later, let us return to the action!

At nights, Daddy used to turn on the radio and listened to the news avidly, with ammamma and Mummy. There used to be a lot of animated discussion between them, mostly between Daddy and ammamma. Some nights we could hear the drone of air planes moving across the skies and tried to imagine them as belonging to the enemies. But, in reality, I doubt if they ever were. We were trained at school to recognize the air raid signal and how do we run to a bunker and what needed to be done until the clear signal was heard.

At nights, while we had our dinner and we were in bed, Daddy used to recount his childhood adventures during the WW II. He was 9 years old, studying in the 5th standard, when the Japanese bombed Kakinada. Daddy’s elder brother, Padmanabha Rao peddananagaru was 11years old and was in the 7th standard. They were trained as we were about air raids and the difference between us and them was that there were real bunkers dug up in the town, where they were expected to hide. Daddy told us that they were even told how to hide under the school benches, in case, there was not enough time to make it to the bunkers.

It was a bright spring morning, sometime in March or April, just before the final exams, when the children were all at school. Around 11 AM, the air raid siren went off and they were told that it was not a mock drill, but a real air raid was underway. The kids all ran into the bunker under the supervision of the teachers and hid there. We laughed so hard, when Dad told us how one of his classmates, dirtied his pants, when the bombs started falling. The Japanese bombed the petrol tankers lined up on the beach road and a non-functional goods shed, which they mistook for army installation. The raid went on for 30 mins and it was another 15 mins, before the all clear siren was given.

The teachers at the school instructed the children to run home immediately and not to hang around on the roads. Also, the teachers divided the children among themselves, based on the route they would take, and took personal charge on delivering them home. Daddy was always fascinated by the army and recalls that the beaches of Kakinada were lined up with the Allied Forces for about 20 kms stretch. They were about 100, 000 French and British soldiers, protecting the Bay of Bengal waters from Hitler’s armies. The tents were camouflaged by wild creepers and an aerial view of the beach would show the blue oceans, lined with pristine beaches that had wild creepers growing all over them.

Daddy often used to go down to the beach to say “hello” to the soldiers and collect cigarette tins and chocolates from time to time. He was a naturally curious and adventurous kid and was always up to some mischief or the other. His curiosity was aroused, when he heard that there was real bombing and few things got destroyed. The minute the teachers were out of earshot, he announced his intention of going on a recon mission to check the damage. He also egged some of the kids to come along with him and extended the invitation to peddananagaru, too. Now, Daddy’s elder brother was quite the opposite to him and would do his best to keep Daddy out of trouble. He made a sincere attempt at convincing him not to go out on such a dangerous excursion, but Daddy was not the type to give up, once he had made up his mind. Moreover, he threatened peddananagaru not to reveal his whereabouts at home.

So, Daddy set off with 2, maybe 3, of his friends to check out the damage that happened due to Japanese bombing. He investigated the petrol tankers (fortunately, empty) that got blasted and as he moved along the beach, he also admired the disintegrated goods shed. As he and his friends approached the beach, they found the soldiers shouting at them and frantically gesticulating to go back. And that is when the kids heard the drone of the air planes and when Daddy lifted his head, he found a swarm flying from the sea into the mainland. Daddy also noticed the soldiers diving back into the camouflaged tents and it was time for the children to implement the training that was given to them at school. Daddy and his friends laid themselves flat on the ground, covering their heads. Fortunately, the Japanese were on a recon to check the damage their bombing did on the town and not to do any further bombing. Once the airplanes went back into the sea, the children got up and ran as fast as they could into the town.

Meanwhile, the entire household was in an uproar about the missing child and peddananagaru decided to spill the beans. Naturally, the panic had now transcended into terror and people were dispatched in all directions in search of Daddy. While people were searching for Daddy, his grandfather (Bullepammamama’s husband) made a decision to shift the family from Kakinada to further inland. Tallarevu was 15-18 kms from Kakinada and had an ancestral home. It was decided that the family would shift there until the war clouds disperse from over Kakinada skies.

Bullock carts were commissioned and readied and that was when Daddy turned up at the house, at around 2:30 PM. He was quickly fed and was loaded into the first bullock cart along with his pregnant mother. Nanamma was expecting Nalla babai and it was decided she would be the first person to be ferried to safety and Daddy for the obvious reasons. Daddy always ended this story with a twinkle in his eyes, by saying that sending him to Tallarevu, to keep him out of trouble never really worked.

In the backyard of the ancestral home there were huge banyan trees under which they were snake pits. Daddy and his friends would play “bombing” by swinging from one tree to another, with bricks in hand. They would bomb the snake pits with the bricks and destroy the “enemy” installations!

No, I never got an opportunity to put into practice neither what I heard from the Japanese bombing stories nor what I learnt at school. Even before, we could completely comprehend the repercussions of war, Bangladesh got liberated and we were back to our little games near the pond.

It was not long after the war, we were hit by a cyclone. The family woke up to a grey morning, which was drizzling, but definitely had the promise of turning into a down pour. Daddy informed Mummy about the cyclonic warning that was issued on the radio. Immediately, she decided that I should not be sent to the school, much to my despair. We were given a hot water bath (Mummy would always give us a bath, even if we were freezing!) and were bundled in warm sweaters and monkey caps. I was given a strict warning about not stepping out of the house, the boundaries being the verandah. All the while, I kept wondering what the big deal was about a bit of rain. Mummy also tried convincing Daddy not to go to his office (he used to ride a bicycle), but in vain.

As the day progressed, the weather got progressively worst and we could see from the verandah, the road getting water logged. Despite the terrible consequences I had to face if I breached the boundaries, I decided to do a bit of cheating. I quickly stripped myself of the sweater and monkey cap, bull dozed my protesting brother to keep his blubbering mouth shut and quickly devised a silly game. I would nimbly run down the steps, stand on the last one to dip my bare leg into the raising water, squeal out loudly at the coldness before running out of the rain. Long before, even Bobby joined me and we kept ourselves busy, until the water level reached the last step. We had decided it is time to inform Mummy about the “flood” situation and put on our sweaters and monkey caps, so that she would not know how wet our clothes were. Mission accomplished, we ran inside to give her the bad news!

Mummy hit the panic button and was all set to go upstairs to the Anglo-Indian family, to make a phone call to my Daddy’s office. Daddy appeared at the end of the street wading through the water along with the bicycle. Bobby and me were hanging in the window looking at the thick sheets of rain and the raising water in the street, and were thrilled to spot him. We called out to Mummy and ammamma, announcing the arrival of our super hero! He definitely looked like a caped superhero, in his raincoat! Daddy told us that he was forced to close the office, as the cyclone worsened and did not want people to strand in the office for the night. We were thrilled to have him at home in the middle of the day and it began to feel like a Sunday, with everyone at home.

Post lunch, Bobby and me clambered to the windows to watch some more rain, as the verandah became out of bounds to us, once Mummy found how soaking wet we were beneath the sweaters and monkey caps. Fortunately, we did not get spanked or whacked, as she was very happy that Daddy was back home safely. We were all excited watching the torrential rain and all the more fascinated by the trees that swung wildly to the increasing wind speed. After a while, we saw a coconut tree coming crashing down and we gleefully yelled, drawing the rest of the family to the windows. Before long the branches of the seethaphal tree next to our bedroom window started crashing into the passage and that is when Mummy decided to pull us from the harm’s way by firmly bolting all the windows that faced the outside world.

As the wind howled outside and the skies opened up, our only source of entertainment remained the radio and ammamma’s wonderful stories. It was the first time, I realized how yummy it is to have muddapappu with hot rice and ghee, on a chilly rainy day. I was also introduced to the pleasure of having piping hot curd rice with nimmakaya pacchadi. Along with this sumptuous meal, I was treated to one of ammamma’s story and I was in seventh heaven.

There were no signs of respite the next day either and Bobby the ever inquisitive one asked Daddy about why cyclones happen, after breakfast. Thankfully, Mummy decided not to give us a bath, more due to pressure from Daddy and ammamma. So, Daddy decided to give us a practical demonstration (he has to keep himself engaged, too, in the weather, right?). He filled a bucket with water and called us to stand close to it. He dipped his hand into the bucket and started twirling the water rigorously. This created a vortex in the centre of the bucket and Daddy proceeded to explain us how such a vortex while on sea gathers strength. He also told us that this will weaken as soon as it reaches the land and we were likely to see this weakening sometime in the afternoon, according to the weathercast on the radio.

As Mummy and ammamma became busy with lunch preparations, we were left in the custody of Daddy. He kept telling us stories from his childhood about the kind of cyclonic weather he experienced. Particularly, amusing was the story of how he sneaked out of the house on a rainy night to watch a film. After the movie, when he started walking back home, he realized that the roads were all water logged with waist deep water. Furthermore, there was power failure and it was so dark, that he could not see his own hand, when he placed it in front of his eyes. While wading through the water, he spotted a huge boulder in the middle of the water and decided to step on it, to catch his breath. It turned out that the boulder was, in fact, a huge buffalo, which did not take kindly to a human being trying to stand on it. He immediately jumped to his four feet and started galloping down the road, with Daddy clinging to his dear life on its back. You can imagine the peels of laughter one could have heard at this point of time!

It took sometime for the man and beast to come to an understanding that neither meant harm. And when they understood each other, the buffalo stopped galloping to allow Daddy to dismount him. What would have otherwise been a 20 mins walk for Daddy to reach home, he told us it took an hour and half. Finally, when he reached home, he was grateful that his father (tatagaru) was not wide awake to welcome him with a cane.

As the wind intensity slowed down and the torrent became rain again, later in the evening, we were allowed near the windows. Since it was almost dark, we could hardly see what was happening outside. The destructive nature of the cyclone was completely evident the next day, when it was only drizzling. From the windows, we could see a lot of the coconut trees around the pond were missing. We also saw that some of the thatched roof huts did not have any roof at all. We later came to know that the unfortunate families were provided shelter in the tiled roof houses. Our concrete buildings were too far to be traversed through a rough weather.

Come to think of it, the same is true for socioeconomic scenario too! While the poor can move, albeit with great difficulty, into the middle class, it is always too far a distance to close between the poor and the rich!

Mixed bag - A dash of romance!

When we moved from the YMCA house, Shankar babai too moved on, as Mummy made sure he successfully finished his school final, after flunking it once. He went back to Kakinada and then came the tall, statuesque beauty with a captivating face – Chantammalu atta! With her, she brought a whiff of romance and I got to experience my life’s first real love story. She was already engaged to be married to her cousin – Kalyan Ram, more popularly known as Babu to the adults in the family and mamu to us. He was studying medicine at Visakhapatnam and was a frequent visitor to our home at Cuttack, as long as atta lived with us.

This was also the time that ammamma came for her annual visit or maybe to help us with the shifting or to be with Susi, during her recuperation. She was so captivated by atta’s beauty that she was forever giving her home made remedies and tips on how to enhance it further. Atta was an apt pupil and used to make note of all that ammamma said and religiously followed them. The women of the house were constantly going out shopping and visiting various temples and places, dragging us kids, all around the place. This essentially meant me being away from my explorations and games and I hated this.

I used to look forward to Babu mamu’s visits, as much as atta would. Because, when he visited us, she would invariably excuse herself from the trips into the town and I would be left behind with them. Imagine 5-year old me, chaperoning 20 something couple! I would hang around atta and mamu, while they would sit next to each other with their hands wrapped around each other, whispering sweet nothings. I did my best to listen in to what was being said and unfortunately could not make head or tail of it. Once my attempt at eavesdropping became unsuccessfully, eventually bored, I used to move out onto the verandah to play with my friends. The minute I spot Mummy and ammamma returning from whatever errand they were on, I used to dash inside to alert the romancing couple. No one asked me to do so, but I did it, anyway, as I sensed that the elders would not be thrilled to find them both so engrossed in each other. Not that they did anything that would scandalize the family, but we are talking about the 1970s and families like ours were not so liberated to accept this kind of courtship.

When mamu was not around, atta used to write long letters to him and they were reciprocated by equally lengthier notes. The post man used to come for the deliver of the letters during the afternoon and one would invariably find atta waiting on the verandah for him. I used to find it strange that she would post a letter today and starting waiting for mamu’s reply from the very next day. You see, even I knew that it would take 3-4 days for a letter from AP to reach us in Orissa!

Yes, unlike the current times, where all it takes a click on the mouse button to send a message to your dear one, we were so dependent on the Indian Postal Service for messages to be delivered.
Every major street had a monstrous looking red tin contraption called the “post box”, which also served the purpose of a landmark. The post boxes had small display boards with the clearing timings. There always used to be race to ensure that we beat the postman before he cleared the box. The more adventurous of the lot running down just as he was closing the box and thrust the letter in his hands. Once he accepted the letter, we would return with a massive grin, chests puffed out and strutting like a super hero! Nothing can beat these simple pleasures of childhood, not all the gold equivalent to my weight :-)

The day she received the letter from mamu, atta looked radiant and her happiness knew no bounds. She would run into our bedroom, and read the letter for hours together, behind closed doors. I used to wonder why should she read it with the doors so tightly bolted from the inside and pester Mummy and ammama to help me understand the logic behind this strange behavior. All I received was knowing smiles and glances from the adults, when they were in an indulgent mood, which was rare. Else I would be subjected to angry glares and worse, to a whack on my head by Mummy, accompanied by an angry remark on how precocious I am!

You can imagine how devastated I was, when it was time for atta to leave. It seemed that a page in my life, which started documenting the interesting dynamics of human behavior during courtship, remained incomplete. Yes, this little romance that I witnessed at such tender age made me worldly wise, no doubt. I played cupid for several couples in the years to come - some of them had a fairy tale happily ever after ending, while others ended up in tragedies (some did not even reach the wedding altar!). However, I earnestly wish I saw this particular love story to its logical completion. In a way I did, when I saw them get married couple of years later, but there were so many pages missing in between. True, I got bits and pieces here and there, mostly, from my cousin, Ajji short for Ajay. He once told me how he used open the letters that mamu wrote to atta, and read them secretly and found them extremely romantic. Poor unsuspecting mamu never could imagine that his 9-10 year old nephew was up to no good, when he asked him to post the letters he wrote to his beloved!

Life – A mixed bag…

We moved into a new home at Cuttack! The home is actually a residential complex, not that kind you would see in today’s world though – towers of concrete and cement with pigeon holes for homes! There is a main building which is two-storied, with us occupying the ground floor and the first floor by an Anglo-Indian family. This is the front of the “complex”!

The front of the house had a huge semi-circular verandah with an entrance to our home and a staircase in the corner leading to the first floor. Upon entering the house through the front door, we get into the living area, where the sofa set was placed, along with a wrought iron cot. To the left of the hall there is door that would lead to a long corridor. Along the corridor, right behind the hall was a row of three interconnected rooms, the first one for miscellaneous purposes, with an easy chair and my study table. The next one was our (children’s bedroom), with two cots and the last one my parents bedroom. Each room had two doors – one leading to the corridor and another one to the room next to it. At the end of the long corridor, away from the hall and three rooms, were the kitchen and the store room. Next to them was an alcove, for utility purposes, and next to the alcove were the bathroom and the toilet. Between the main portion and the utility area was a narrow passage that led to a small door that opened into the inside of the rest of the complex.

There was a passage, next to the building leading into the interior of the complex, which was a narrow cement road, where two people can walk at the same time. The passage was next to our bedrooms windows and the neighbors walking by, would find me hanging out of any one of them. They would invariably stop to have a chat with me, for I knew everyone who lived there. Immediately, after the main building ended, there was another small building, which was a two-room tenement that had a terrace with a parapet wall that would come up to the ankle. This terrace was out of boundaries to us, given that the parapet wall was dangerously low! Of course, that never prevented me from sneaking up the stairs and play there on hot summer afternoons, while Mommy was having her siesta.

The passage turned left at this small house and continued further until it ended at a small pond. Around the ponds were several houses – some with tiled roofs and some with thatched roofs. You can see various economic strata of India inhabiting those houses and the kind of house you live in represented your per capita income. Needless to say, I was strictly prohibited from going anywhere near the pond and as usual, I did what I was not supposed to do, albeit, without my parents knowledge. The pond and the surroundings were something out of a beautiful landscape painting. The pond was green with water plants, in the centre, while closer to bank, it was more bluer in color. There were white and red lotus flowers at the deeper end of the pond. If we did not jeer the people trying to catch fish in the pond, they would be nice enough to pluck some of the flowers and present them to us. The pond bank had luscious green grass growing with coconut trees breaking the monotony of a flat land.


Goes without saying, within a short time, I explored the entire “complex” - every nook and corner – introduced myself to all the neighborhood adults and made friends.

My memories of this place are no longer hazier and I remember everything that happened in this house – Boy, did they happen? Life here, as I remember, was like a Bollywood flick! A dash of romance, a scoop of action, an ounce of horror, a pound of thrill and a ton of mischief!

Miracle at YMCA!

Before I move out of the YMCA home, there is one incident I have to share with you all – Susi’s (my little sis’) illness. My childhood stories are incomplete without narrating this episode in my life. I do not remember how old she was when she became really sick and I had to check with Daddy. He tells me that she was 6 months old and before I share the adult version of the story, let me share a 4-year old’s perspective.

Like I mentioned in my earlier blog, ammamma was there when Susi was born and after Mummy got a hang of handling two kids and an infant, simultaneously, she moved to take care of some other daughter’s need. As far as I can recollect, ammamma’s only mission in life was to get her eight daughters married and take care of their childbirths and growing up children, while tatagaru was having a blast elsewhere. One more thing I have to talk about was how my little sister got named after Suseela pinni. Just before Susi was born, pinni died during childbirth! Mummy and Susi pinni were very close, they were more friends than sisters. Both of them were classmates, even though Mummy was two years older than her. They even got married at the same time, with about 2-3 days gap. (Daddy almost misled me on this one, when I have called him to verify the facts. He very confidently told me that Pinni got married almost a year after they have been married. Good that I called a cousin of mine who remembers all the weddings in the family as a child to confirm this info). Pinni was married to her cousin, much against the family wishes, while Mummy got married to the “boy” the family decided.

While Mummy had a happy married life (Oh! She did face harassment with her in-laws, but Daddy was always there for her), Pinni’s married life was a tragedy. The family stories are replete with mental and emotional torture by her husband. She was very unhappy during her pregnancy, and always used to talk about not surviving the childbirth. There was also talk about domestic violence, but there is not much evidence to support it. She gave birth to a girl child at Niloufer Hospital, Hyderabad, and had to undergo blood transfusion. Apparently, she was given the wrong blood group, which resulted in her death and the family was devastated. What followed was nothing short of drama – a battle for custody of the child. Mummy’s side of the family volunteered to take care of her. Mummy wrote a letter pleading Pinni’s husband saying that she wanted to adopt her. Navi Pinni said she would remain unmarried and dedicate her life to bringing up the child. Sakuntala ammakayi and Prabha ammakayi also begged him to leave the child with the family, I was told. He was adamant and did not let go of her; and what is more, he severed all ties with the family. He remarried within a year and had a large brood of children. Years later, when I was a teen ager, we heard that she was in a place very close to where we were and begged Daddy to take us to her. Mummy refused to come, while the three of us travelled with Daddy, when he went on a day-long official trip to the village she was living with her parents. Vani was her name and she was about 9-10 years old! Daddy dropped us off at the door step and went away to tend to his official business, while it was left to the three of us to introduce who we are and why we came. We spent the whole day with her, waited until Pinni’s husband came home, surprised him and then Daddy came to pick us up. When we returned, we were subjected to the third degree interrogation by Mummy. She grilled us with so many questions that we got vexed and told her that it would have been better, if she came along with us!

Alright, let us come to the main track, to the reason I started writing this episode! Given the fact that Mummy loved her younger sister so much and that my little sister was born after Pinni’s death, she was named Suseela, after Pinni. But we always called her Susi at home and she hated the full form of her name – Suseela. When the time for her school admission came in Kakinada, she insisted that her name be entered as Susi Chekka in the school records and till date, she goes by that name.

Coming back to the day, she fell sick, I recollect my parents rushing to the hospital, leaving Bobby and me, in the care of 16-year old Shankar Babai and the watchman’s family. Apparently, Daddy came home, after we were put to bed and left promptly, after picking up overnight stuff for Mummy and himself. When we woke up the next day, we were told that our little sister was very sick and telegrams were dispatched to the family members in various parts of the world. In my usual stubborn way, I demanded that I be taken to the hospital to see Mummy and Susi. Before the demand became a full-blown tantrum, Daddy came home and one look at his face told me that this is one time I better be quiet.

Daddy was the kind of person who would treat a child as an adult and this becomes very evident when I see him with his grandchildren. He sat me down and told me that Susi has to be in the hospital for a long time and that I cannot visit her inside the hospital. He, however, assured me that we will be taken to the hospital and have to wait outside in the lawn, while Mummy can see us. Once we got ready, we were taken the hospital, as promised, where we met Mummy briefly and then bundled back home. Before we left for home, Daddy instructed Shankar babai to go to the station next day, to receive Shankuntala ammakayi arriving from Vijayanagaram. I was to be taken to the station to identify her and an office peon would accompany us.

So, off we went to the station the next day, to receive ammakayi and I was so pleased to see her that I clung to her like a baby monkey does to its mother. And remained attached to her until we reached home and Bobby dislodged me to cling to her. Ammakayi’s arrival to support my parents through this traumatic time meant we got to see more of Mummy at home. Moreover, we had a loving adult to take care of us, while my parents were away at the hospital taking care of my baby sister.

After 10 days, when Susi was brought home, it was celebration time. One thing I noticed about her was that her round behind and her plump arms were all bandaged. Every morning, the doors of my parents’ bedroom were closed for changing her “bandages” and we could hear her painful wails coming from behind the closed doors. I was curious as the cat and demanded to know what was happening with my little sister. It was time for my Daddy to explain what actually used to happen behind the closed doors. He told me that Susi was given many injections at the hospital – about 16 a day – that resulted in abscess formation on her bums and arms. The abscess needs to be cleaned every day and since it was an unbecoming sight for children like us, it needs to be done behind the close doors.

Mummy was a dramatic story teller, especially, when it comes to real life incidents (Was there any doubt that this talent runs in the family?). Any visitor who would come to our home, any relative who would be kind enough to enquire how Susi is doing now, would be subjected to a gripping, edge of the seat kind of thriller by Mummy. And this was how it went…

My playmate (the watchman’s daughter) was trusted with the responsibility of watching over Susi when Mummy was in kitchen. One day while, Mummy was in kitchen, Susi rolled over and fell off the bed, but the little girl quietly placed her back on the bed, afraid of consequences for not keeping a keen eye on the baby. During feed time, Mummy noticed a slight bulge on her head and questioned the girl, who admitted that Susi rolled off the bed. By now, Susi’s reflexes have become slow and sluggish and her eyes were all defocused. She was rushed to the family physician Dr. Patnaik, who realized that something was seriously wrong with the child. She had asked my parents to take Susi to the pediatrics’ hospital in Cuttack, “Sishu Bhavan”, where she was attended by a young intern (kurra doctor, said Mummy), who made all kinds of discouraging noises and hopeless gestures. She was admitted into the hospital, without actually being told what was wrong with her. Sometime in the evening, a senior doctor, Dr. Sangram Kesari Behari, walked in for his regular rounds and examined Susi. Upon examination, he asked the nurse to shift Susi into intensive care and took Daddy aside for a discussion.

It was then my parents were informed that Susi was suffering from a meningeal inflammation with some kind of unpronounceable type of fever. In a nut shell, there is accumulation of pus between the meningeal membranes, on a particular part of the brain. The consequences of this fever, while are not life-threatening, it may result in permanent damage to the brain part where the pus had formed. This will result in effecting the organ that the part of the brain controls, and in rare cases, mental retardation could also be seen. He prescribed the standard protocol of medicines and said he would do the best he could under the circumstances. Daddy asked him to give a synopsis of the diagnosis and the treatment protocol, so that he can cable Meera Khan peddananagaru in The Netherlands, to get his opinion. Peddanangaru was a medical doctor and opted to move into the field of research, to pursue his scientific aspirations. He became well known in the field of Genetics and then Cancer Molecular Biology. Dr. Behara obliged Daddy with what he had asked for and Daddy promptly sent a cable to Holland. Fortunately, peddananagaru was at an International Medical conference at Amsterdam at that time and happened to consult renowned pediatricians, who were present there. As a result, Daddy received a cable from peddananagaru, informing him that this is the standard treatment across the world and we just have to hope and pray for the best.

As part of the treatment, Susi would not only be given injections – 16 a day – she is also required to go through lumbar puncture daily. The way Mummy described the puncture was as follows: the doctors would bend Susi, until her head would touch her feet and then with a needle that is as thick as you can imagine, her spine would be punctured. Then they would withdraw the plunger in the syringe, so that the pus accumulating in the brain would be drained out.

Mummy would also tell anyone, how wonderfully playful Susi used to be in the hospital, always smiling, gurgling and seemed to be very active. However, the minute she used to see someone in white uniform appear beside her bedside, her playfulness would turn into terror! She just hated them doctors and their syringes! And these continued for quite sometime in her life and I strongly suspect it still does. When she was doing her graduation studies, she fell off the scooty and had to be taken for a tetanus shot and the responsibility fell on me. The minute the doctor took the syringe for administering the injection, she started crying and shouting and managed to embarrass me thoroughly!

And then Mummy would continue with her story of how all those injections caused abscess formation on her hips and arms, how they had perform minor surgery to drain the abscess. She would then proceed to hold Susi in her lap face down and slide her diaper off her rounded bottom, to expose the scars on her hips. Taking a cue from Mummy, I would also repeat the same story to my friends and playmates. The story would inevitably end with Susi’s behind being exposed to the listeners. This “exposure” continued until the day of Susi’s admission into the nursery school at Kakinada. And to the best of my knowledge, that was the last time that Susi’s behind got exposed to the world. For after that humiliating experience, Susi put her foot down and did not allow Mummy or me to ever take her pants off.

Susi was under Dr. Behara’s medical supervision for 6 months to come, being observed for any kind of after effects and developmental delays. Thankfully, she grew into a perfectly healthy and normal woman! When I have asked Daddy to refresh my memory on this incident, he ended the account with a blessing to Dr. Behara and Dr. Subbarao, two doctors who saved the lives of two children in my family, with a gap of 27 years in between. Dr. Behara saved Susi in 1969 and Dr. Subbarao saved Saaransh (my younger son) in 1996. Hmmm… 69 and 96, isn’t that strange? Never though of this coincidence before! What’s more strange is that both the doctors left this country, in 6-8 months, after making a difference to our lives. Dr. Behara left for Australia and Dr. Subbarao left for Middle East!

Shakuntala ammakayi stayed with us until Susi was brought home and recovered sufficiently. It was decided that to help Mummy concentrate on Susi, without the hassle of Bobby hanging to her pallau and keeping me away from trouble, we would both be bundled off to Vijayanagaram, along with ammakayi. The adventurous me loved the idea, especially so, because I get to be with my favorite cousins – Sirakka (Sirusha) and Rashakka (Rashida). Bobby did not like it at all, since this would mean he would be away from Mummy. However, he was equally fond of ammakayi and with a promise that Mummy would come to fetch us as soon as possible; we boarded the train with ammakayi.

I do not much remember the train journey, but vividly recollect the time I had in Vijayanagaram. Shakuntala ammakayi was married to Dharmaiah peddananagaru and they have four daughters – Nalini, Jamuna, Sirusha and Rashida. Nalini akka and Jamun akka were too grown up for me to play with them. In any case, I was terrified of Nalini akka, as she used to be very strict with us. Jamun akka was a goof ball, with all kinds of funny retorts and comic stories up her sleeve. She and Mummy were a great combination, with them bringing down the house with their jokes. The youngest of them all, Rashakka, was 6 six years older to me and I would tag her wherever she would go. She was the tomboy of the family. She rode a bike, went to the bazaar to fetch vegetables, ran errands and all that. The kind of outdoor person I was, I loved riding on her bike and imitate her doing all kinds of boyish stuff. What I also recollect from the visit to Vijayanagaram was that I was taken to their school and was displayed to all as their little cousin from Cuttack. The amount of attention I got from their classmates and teachers was firmly etched in my mind. I preened like a peacock, when I got an invitation to attend their annual day function, where both Sirakka and Rashakka were performing. I was so looking forward to go to their school, along with Rashakka, but for some reason, she refused to take me. I guess, she had to go early to the school or something like that and she did not want a pest like me hanging around. So, it was ever so sweet and demure Sirakka, who took me to their annual day function, sat with me and brought me back home.

This family has a very special place in our lives, for as far as I can remember, theirs was the place we spent most of our summer vacations. Ammakayi took ammamma’s place, when ammamma passed away. It was great fun to be at ammakayi’s place, as she would pamper us – Bobby mostly, since he was the only ‘boy’ among six girls! I used to wait for peddananagaru to come from office and talk to him about movies and nonsense. I had the freedom to run wild and not bother about being disciplined and put to sleep during the afternoons, whether or not I liked it. I could play in the yard as much as I want, as long as I come home to have my meals on time. By the way, this was one part, where no one had to remind me or force me.

While I ran wild, Bobby would hang around ammakayi asking her a million questions about this and that and every thing underneath the sun. The bliss continued until the day Mummy came down to Vijayanagaram to fetch us back home and she told us we will be moving away from YMCA home. Daddy’s office had shifted to a busy commercial locality. There was no provision for residential accommodation there, and hence we are to shift to a different house, close to the new office. This was also when I was told that it is time for me to start school!

The Family Tree

Before I proceed any further, I will pause to introduce the family to you! This is not just an introduction but also a commentary on the definition of family in those days, as exemplified by many from my parents’ generation. As a child grew up surrounded by hordes of aunties, uncles and cousins – some from the immediate family and mostly from the extended family. The consequences of so many uncles and aunties flitting in and out of my parents’ place had some consequences. You guys have to be patient until I come to that part!

I will start with my Mom’s side of the family. Ammamma (Rama Devi) and Tatagaru (Shiv Rao) had in all 10 children, the eldest being Balakrishna mamayya, followed by eight girls and the last one being a boy again, Deena mamayya. Of the eight girls, the eldest was Satyavathy ammakayi, followed by Prabha ammakayi, Shakunthala ammakayi, Nirmala ammakayi, Shantha ammakayi, my Mom (Sri Lakshmi), Suseela (Susi) Pinni and Navi Pinni. Phew! Off these two – Nirmala ammakayi and Deena mamayya did not survive childhood. In those days, a child who passes away was considered to become a “god”. Hence the family came to believe that Deena mamayya had become Veerabhadrudu and all the boys in the family were named after him – Dayal. So you have Deen Dayal bava, my Balakrishna mamayya’s son, Shankar Dayal, my Shantha ammakayi’s son, Narayana (Naren) Dayal, my very own brother, Saahil Dayal and Saaransh Dayal, my sons. We also have two Nirmalas in the family – Nimmi akka and Nimmi vadina!

If you became breathless and confused reading about my Mom’s family, brace yourself for my Dad’s family. We very fondly refer to them as the “cricket team”! They were in all 13 children born to my nanamma (Satyavathy) and tatagaru (Narayana). Just want to assure my blog followers that my nanamma Satyavathy is different from my Satyavathy ammakayi! The eldest son is Padmanabha Rao peddananagaru, followed by my Dad (Jagannadha Rao), Madhav babai, Subhadra, later named Nirmala atta (we call her Peddatta), Lalitha (Chinnatta), Mohan Lakshmi Narayana (Nalla babai), Murali babai, Udayani (Chantammalatta), Srinivas Rao (Chanti babai), Satyanarayana (Murthy babai), Bharathi atta, Shankar babai and Jhansi atta. It was not easy putting up the names and the sequence. You see, I don’t even know many of their birth names. While I knew Peddatta’s original name, because of the interesting story associated with it, I could not remember chinnatta’s name. I had to call up my Dad couple of times to get the birth names and most important the sequence. I strongly suspect that my Dad may be wrong at least in one instance. I recall my Mom always teasing him by asking him to give her the sequence and she used to take great pleasure in correcting him, when he used to go wrong, which is most often the case.

Cruel as it may sound, Nalla babai, is very dark-skinned and hence the household started referring to him as Nalla (Black in Telugu). My grandparents had a consanguineous marriage; hence the family had its share of congenital birth defects – Madhav babai, Nalla babai, Chantammalatta, Chanti babai, Bharathi atta and Shankar babai, were born with varied degrees of hearing impairment. My Mom was so petrified that her children would inherit this defect that she used to check our auditory function, quite often by snapping her fingers. She used to heave a sigh of relief the minute we responded.

With the kind of large family, I had, it is no surprise that we always had at least one babai or atta living with us. In our YMCA house, Shankar babai came to live with us and I have already told that ammamma was also living with us for good part of the year. I have a vague recollection of Murthy babai also coming to live/ visit us. You see Murthy babai is the black sheep of the family, with him getting into some kind of trouble or the other, ranging from girls to street fights. The only person who seemed to have any kind of hope and faith about him in the family was my Mom and that was true until she passed away. Then, of course came Chantammalatha.

Tatagaru (paternal) was an ayurvedic/ homeopathic doctor at Kakinada. He was practicing medicine and had good number of patients consulting him. However, for some reason, the money was not enough to provide for the large brood. So, the eldest sons of the family had to support the family both in cash and kind. Apart from the monthly money orders to the family at Kakinada, my parents have also become the caretakers for the younger siblings. The caretaking thing did not really work out, due to my Mom’s discipline. She put the Babais to the grind, for the exams and though they loved their chinnavadina more than they did their own mother, her obsession with their studies made them run helter skelter. No amount of coaxing, cajoling and threatening worked with the boys in the Chekka family, as they are not cut out for academics. None of them – except for Peddananagaru, Chanti Babai, Bharathi atta and Jhansi atta – made it past Matriculation and this includes my Dad, too.

One person I have to mention is Bullepamamma, Dad’s grandmother. The only thing I remember about her is her petite frame and the white glaxo blouse. However, I have a vivid recollection of her love and how proud she was of Dad and me. Dad was her favorite grandson and the love automatically transferred to me, his first born. Her favorite play with me was to ask me my name. When I said “Nayana Chekka”, she used to grab me and pinch my cheeks hard and say, “It is not Nayana Chekka, you are Bangaru (golden) Chekka”! She gifted me a pair dolls, carved out of black wood. She taught me how to wrap a sari around the female doll and a dhoti around the male doll. She also told me stories of how the Chekka children used to perform doll marriage and the entire street was invited for a sumptious wedding meal. Sometimes, these doll weddings were conducted on a grand scale, just as real wedding, with family and friends joining the festivities. I guess, in those days, this could be a reason for people to get to gether and catch up. She used to show me off to the neighbors and relatives as “chinnabbayi’s daughter”. It was very sad that Dad could not make it to her funeral. I do remember my parents being very sad for weeks on end, since they could not be with her when she breathed last. I guess, this could be one of the reasons that my parents decided to move back to Andhra, after a long stint in Orissa. Hold on, I am not yet finished with my Cuttack stories! This is just the family…

First home!

I am back as promised with the list of people who made an impact on me and my life. Needless to say, my parents are the top of the list! Then comes ammamma (mother's mother), a mohhallawali daadi at Cuttack, nanammagaru who is a distant relative of my Dad's - great childhood inspirations for my aspiration to be a writer. Their stories of parees, raajkumars and raajkumaris, rakshasas and shaitans, were simply what they were supposed to be - simply fantastic and just that "out of the world". As far as I can remember and as told by my parents and relatives, who experienced me as a child, I would not go to bed, without listening to a story!

Come to think of it, have you ever wondered why are children so fascinated by stories? My guess, and this comes from my own thoughts and feelings when I used to listen to those stories, is that they are fertile grounds for the child's highly creative imagination. A child exists in a world that is extremely fascinating and fantastic and these naani-daadi stories cater to it. I usually used to find the climatic battles between the good and evil terribly exciting, what more, though I knew that good always wins at the end, I used to wait with bated breathe for it to be pronounced by the old ladies who used to recite the stories.

Ammama used to live with us almost 4-5 months in a year with us. Like I said my early childhood memories are from Cuttack, where my Dad was posted. We lived in 3 different houses and I vividly remember all of them. The first one was what my parents used to refer as "YMCA House". They were some kind of government quarters which had an office at the front of the house, where my father used to conduct his official affairs. The memory is a bit hazy here - am not sure if the house served both office and residential purposes. When I tried checking with my Dad, he does not remember it either. Immediately, beyond the office rooms, was a huge hall that had a sofa set, made of teak wood and a centre table made of rose wood. There were two bedrooms, next to each other - one for my parents and the other one for us - ammama, my little brother (one year younger to me) and me. The bedrooms were joined by an interconnecting bathroom. Though we were supposed to be sharing a room, my brother always used to run off into my parents bedroom every night. I had ammamma and her stories all for myself. I used to lie next to her, beneath a mosquito curtain, my limbs wrapped around her and escape into the wonderland that she used to paint for me. I became the raajkumari in the story and experience joys and sorrows - from being brought up as the pampered and only daughter, to the young adolescent who falls in love with a prince from the warring neighborhood princely state, to the tragedy queen who got abducted by the evil one, only to be rescued and married off to the Prince Charming. I used to make my ammamma repeat the story, so that I can become the raajkumar now and experience the story through his trials and tribulations. It is from my ammamma I have first heard the story of Paatalabhairavi, Jaisimha, Gulabekavali Katha, Jagadekaveerudu, and other Ramayaan and Mahabharat stories.

I recall my playmate in the house, the watchman's daughter, who used to live in the outhouse in the compound of the house. My brother, Bobby, as he is called at home, never played with us, as he was my Mom's pet and always used to hang to her pallau. I strongly suspect a role reversal, with me being the tomboy and my brother being the delicate one, who would never come out of the house. Bobby, if you reading this, you are free to post a comment and share your perspective that is if you remember our childhood at Cuttack.

There was a huge yard in the front and at the back, while the front was neatly maintained with crotons and rose bushes, the backyard was wild with all kinds of creepers that had berries - red and purple. It also used to have seemachintakayala tree (I dont know what is it called in English). Our favorite pastime is to play in the backyard, pick berries and seemachintakayalu, chase the kittens and puppies that wandered into the yard. I used to enact some of the stories I have heard, with my playmate and poor thing, she always used to play the "villain", who was vanquished by me. I was both the prince and princess in the story and I remember when I had to play out the scene where the two meet, she can get to play one of the roles, albeit temporarily.

There are plenty of reasons why I remember that house. The elderly Bengali couple who lived in the bungalow across the road is one reason. He was a retired police officer and all their children were grown up and flew the nest. I had not yet started school and spent the whole day playing in the yard. They have a taken a liking for the little girl who plays across the road and befriended my parents, so that I can come to their house to entertain them. A jawan used to come first thing in the morning, wait patiently until my Mom bathed me and dressed me. I was then whisked off to the bungalow across the road to have breakfast of rasgollahs and rotis, which was followed by me reciting rhymes and songs, taught by my Mom. I would hang around with the elderly couple, until the time I knew my playmate would have completed her chores for the day and call out my name. The jawan then would take me across the street and leave me inside the gate and my day would really start with the stories being played out.

Once the jawan was away on an errand and I could not wait for him to come back. I insisted that I walk across the street and started my sojourn. My Mom was waiting at the gate and guess she wanted me to grow up and learn how to cross the street. In any case, the road hardly had any traffic except for cycles and rickshaws and one odd scooter/ motorcycle. However, it is littered with cattle and that is exactly what I had to confront on my walk back home - a cow with sharp horns. My Mom was asking me to step aside and not walk in the line of the cow. Well, I am me and would not think why I should step aside for a cow and headed straight towards it. Next thing I remember is being stuck between the horns and flung few meters and landing on my round butt! My Mom ran towards me screaming at the top of her voice and Dad, along with a few of his office mates, came rushing out of the house. (Kinnera, if you are reading this, see the uncanny resemblance - you got goat butted and me cow butted. LOL!)

Another such adventure which I do not remember but was told by my Mom was how I got bitten by a "snake". I was playing in the bushes in the backyard, as usual, when I screamed and ran into the house holding the middle finger of my left hand. It had bite marks on them and blood was streaming from the marks. My parents were petrified and wanted to know what bit me and I tried to explain the creature that attacked me which fit the description of a snake. You can imagine their panic and they were bundling me to the doctor when my playmate who is couple of years older than me assured me that it was a cat and not a snake. Apparently, I was my mischievous self and decided to pull the cat's tail as I usually do for the meandering kittens. For once, the cat decided not to take it lying low, snarled and bit my hand.

But the most obvious reason I remember the house is for the birth of my little sister, Susi, who is three years eight months younger to me. Funny thing is that I don’t remember my Mom being pregnant, but remember my sister being born. What a day it was? And I was quite handful to manage on the day!

It was February 3rd 1969 and when I woke up I found ammamma missing in the room. She is usually the one to wake me up, and that day I woke up on my own. The house seemed to acquire a strange smell and there was lot of noise coming from the room next to me (my parent's bedroom). I can make out my Mom's painful cries from the din and I got scared and ran out of the room. I found my Dad sitting in the teakwood sofa, smoking a cigarette (Why do men smoke when the wife is in labor, by the way?), and holding my brother in his lap. Bobby was clinging to my Dad and crying softly (he always cried softly, as a child). I ran to my Dad terrified and he told me soon we will have a little brother or sister. And I asked him, "How soon?” He said as soon as the nurse came out of the room and gave us the news. My Dad held my hand and took me to the bathroom to have me brush my teeth and gave me a glass of milk which I found strange since it is usually ammamma or my Mom who did these things for me.

After I finished my milk, my Dad and brother continued their vigil in the hall, while I could make out the moans coming from the room have now become screams. I became restless and now curiosity overtook me and more than curiosity, I became anxious for my mother. By now, I was convinced that something was grossly wrong and I need to see her immediately. I started finding ways of getting into the room - first I tried making my way into the room through the bathroom. Ammamma caught sight of me and came out to talk to me. She told me that everything is going to be alright and I need not worry. She hugged me and kissed me and tried to do everything that she can to assure me that my Mom is fine. By now, the panic became fear and I started bawling my eyes out and demanded that I see my Mom right away. Dad joined ammamma to console me, but in vain. When I used to throw a tantrum, it was impossible for people to control me, as I would roll on the floor, scream at the top of my voice and kick and hit anyone who would come in the way of my flaying limbs. All the while I was doing my dramatics; my brother forgot all about his crying and was watching me with huge rounded eyes.

Finally, ammamma had to go into the room and talk to the nurse and I was allowed inside the room to peek at my Mom. She was covered in a bed sheet and was in a lot of pain. She tried to give me a weak smile and enquired if I had my breakfast. Even before I could respond, I was whisked away by ammamma saying that now that I know my Mom was alive, I can go and play in the yard. I went to the yard promptly, not to play but to climb the window to peek through the ventilator. My attempt was sabotaged by the watchman, who promptly plucked me off the window. The rest of the day was hazy and the only memory I have was that of trying various ways of getting back into the room.

As the day came to a close, late in the afternoon, my Mom stopped screaming and heard a lot of excitement in the hall. When I rushed into the hall, Dad told me that I have a little sister and now the mission for me was to see her before anyone does. Ammamma took me into the room and I got to see my little sister, all pink with a mop of dark curly hair, eyes closed and wrapped in a soft cloth which had pink and orange flowers. She looked like a doll and I fell instantly in love with her and wanted to hold her. Ammamma made me sit in her lap and asked the nurse to place the little one in my hands. I cannot describe the feelings I experienced, yes I do, remember feeling very protective towards her. I felt she belonged to me and me alone.

Susi, I always wanted to share this with you, but don't know why I have never got around it. Maybe this will explain a lot of things to you about me being the overbearing big sister that I have been and am!

There are other memories associated with this house - the savories that were made by ammamma, kajjikayalu, murukulu, gulabiguttulu,etc. They were kept in big steel containers and out of my reach. I used to sneak into the kitchen in the afternoon, when my Mom and ammamma were having their siesta and climb onto the shelf to steal the savories. I remember my Prabha ammakayi and Meera Khan peddanangaru visiting us with Azad and Ajit annalu, before leaving for The Netherlands. For some reason, ammakayi started saying that she will take me with them and I started believing that it was possible. I guess more than going with them out of the country; I wanted to get into the airplane. Until we went to the airport, I was under the impression that I am leaving along with them, only to come to the rude realization that I am not getting into the airplane. So, it was time for another of Nayana's famous tantrums! I kept crying and screaming, "Take me along with you, ammakayi!"

Years later, when ammakayi and peddananagaru facilitated my travel to Holland, we recollected the memory together. Ammakayi told me that my screams haunted her for days and she told me that the rotor blades of the airplane could not drown them.

Oh what a childhood in that home? More in my next post about the mohallawaali daadi!

To be or not to be!

I have always wanted to be a writer.. not just any writer, but someone the world would avidly read. I don't remember when I have started reading, however, what I do remember is that I always loved books. I remember my excitement on the first day of my school. My Mom accompanied me to the school, Cambridge High School in Cuttack (my Dad was posted there!) and spoke to the Mother Superior about my admission. The day is so vividly ingrained in my memory - a large room with a mahogany desk behind which the Mother Superior was seated. The desk was so huge that I actually stood on my toes to look at her. Or is it possible that I was so small that everything looked huge in perspective? Ah well, whatever it is, it seemed huge and I was desperate to look at the Mother.

I sat next to my Mom, while she had a very lengthy conversation (at least it seemed so!) with the Mother. Finally, I heard the magical words that I am admitted. Well, remember, I was too young to understand English, hence my Mom translated it for me in Telugu and she also told me that I can start school from the next day. Aw shucks, why cannot I not start today and that is exactly I asked the Mother in Oriya. She just threw her head back and laughed out loud and said something in English to my Mom, who in turn looked at me and translated for my benefit. Apparently, she said that she had never met a child who is so eager to start school.

An ayaah was promptly called and I was taken to "my classroom". When I stepped into the class, there were many curious eyes that turned towards me and I reacll feeling as though I was being appraised. I don't remember how many of those kids accpeted me and how many rejected, but it was my moment and I Iived it. What a living it was as it stayed with me till date and I am talking about my first day at school that happened 36 years ago! Tch.. Tch.. don't even try guessing my age. :-)

I remember sitting in the first bench and waiting eagerly for the teacher to give me my first book! Alas it did not happen!! I was too young to realize that my books need to be bought by my parents from the book store. They have to then cover them with brown covers and label them and only then would I get to hold them in my hands.

My dear friends, if you have not guessed by now, I better explain - the reason I was so eager to start school was so that I can get my own books! True, I did not get my books that day, not even the next day (it took about a week), but finally when I got them, I was thrilled beyond words. Though I could not make out the words, I simply loved the illustrations, the crispness of the paper, the smell and mostly the feel of the books in my hands. That night when I went to bed, I kept the books near my head and gone off to sleep looking at them. I distinctly recall the last thought before I slipped into the untroubled sleep of an innocent child - How wonderful to be a person who can create such books?

I have contemplated a lot of career options and in many instances did make those changes, but one constant factor in my life was the aspiration to be a writer. Ask the many unfinshed stories and some finished stories in my old notebooks! They stand testimonial to this unending spirit of an amateur novelist. Even my finished stories never saw the light of the day, essentially for the following reasons:

• They were the ramblings of a teen ager, who was shy to share her stories with anyone, for the fear of being made fun of


• Even if she picked up the ocurage to do share it with the rest of the world, did not know how to get them published

And then the rat race of life caught up with me, and never had the time to do any creative writing. Oh, I did dabble in feature articles, management fundas and all that is commercial...

Yes, I can no longer contain this constant urge to write, to express myself, to spread my wings and fly in the fascinating world of words. And what best place to start but on a blog to test my rusted literary skills. Experiment with those few who are willing to indulge in the musings of a middle-aged woman, who had led an ordinary life. But, let me tell you that I have met more than ordinary and extraordinary people. In some cases, I had the opportunity of living with them. Hope to introduce them to you in more postings to come.

Hmmm

Kinnera, this is for you! You have inspired the writer in me... While I have decided to start this blog, but am at loss as to what should I be writing here. There are many things I can write about - world hunger, poverty, global warming, crime and punishment, all the ugly things in life. Or the warmth of being surrounded by family and friends, splendour of nature, books, movies??? To be or not be, is the big question, here!

What the hell, who am I to comment on these things! I am not a politician, social worker or a celebrity for that matter. I am just an ordinary woman with very ordinary dreams and aspirations. What can be exciting about my point of view on matters and issues? Why should anyone read me?