Kaaluru Kronicles - 3: Best Kept Secret (Part 2)

We gathered in the Kaaluru High School premises by the time the Clock Tower on M G Road struck nine every night. Master was very particular that we do some stretching as well as voice exercises before beginning with our blocking for the night. ‘On the day of the play, even the last person in the field should be able to distinctly hear our lines – without using the mic’, Master said. I was amazed at the enthusiasm displayed by the elders of our village. They did almost anything Master asked them to. With time, I almost became the assistant director. Hence, I never missed a rehearsal. 

There was another reason as well. Kamala, Krishnegowda’s daughter, and a couple of her friends came to watch the rehearsals every now and then. Kamala was a couple of years younger to me. She had beautiful eyes and long flowing hair. During discussions, my friends in Kaaluru always rated her as the most beautiful girl in the village. Yet, fearing Krishnegowda’s wrath and more so, his henchmen’s muscle, nobody had dared to approach her directly. Even though I never actively partook in these discussions, I agreed with them; and nursed a secret crush as well, though I knew it would remain a fantasy. After all, I was a Brahmin and my parents would never agree. Neither would Krishnegowda or his wife.

Though she said it was to watch her father act, I caught her looking towards me a couple of times. Having been unable to impress any girl in college in Bengaluru, I secretly enjoyed the attention I was getting – that too, without making any effort; and from the most beautiful girl in our village! Kamala also frequently brought coffee and snacks whenever Master and I were discussing the script in his room, in Krishnegowda’s house. I became conscious around her and fumbled a few times during rehearsals. Master seemed to enjoy my predicament and often joked about it. In fact, he deliberately called for her during rehearsals – even if there was no work – just to embarrass me. 

A week before the play, it was decided that a puja be performed at the site where the stage was to be erected. It was a grand affair, with almost the entirety of Kaaluru gathering in the high school grounds. Master, through Krishnegowda, had arranged for lights and sceneries to be brought from Mysuru. By this time, since the play was almost under control, Master said I should be in the grounds to supervise the construction of the stage and the green room. I thought Kamala and her friends would follow me there as well and I would muster the courage to actually speak to her. Sadly, they didn’t.

A couple of days before the play, my friends from Bengaluru arrived. I had invited them to watch me act in a production that was unlike any of the plays we had been part of in college.

On the day of the play, I was in the green room by sunset. Since our play was to begin by nine in the night and stretch upto two in the morning, I had to arrange for sufficient refreshments for all actors (including beedis and arrack for some). I was a little nervous, for it had almost become a family affair now. I was introduced by my grandfather and father’s names instead of mine. My grandfather was a brilliant actor, they say. Comparisons were inevitable. I had the responsibility to live upto his name. Besides, being Sutradhara, my lines would set the tone for the entire play. ‘Half the battle is won when you engage your audience in the first five minutes’ Master said. The same advice was given by our director in Bengaluru. Also, my friends – and the girl I wanted to impress, for the last four years – had come all the way to watch me. To cap it all, there was Kamala. I saw her to talking to Master outside the greenroom. They both turned towards me and laughed, making me even more nervous.

The play went along smoothly. I enjoyed my time on stage, improvising to crack some politically incorrect punches. Krishnegowda, Shastri and others were on top of their game. The money Krishnegowda and others in the village had spent on the stage properties, costumes and lights was worth every rupee, for it made them look grand. Twice, Krishnegowda was requested by the audience to sing his lines multiple times. I don’t know if he had arranged for it to boost his image in front of the local MLA and Chairmen of neighboring village panchayats, who he had invited.  By the time the play ended, the crowd was nearly one thousand-strong. It was the largest audience I had ever performed to. It was nearly four in the morning when I finally went to sleep – after removing my make-up and spending some time discussing with my friends.

It must have been around eight in the morning when Amma rudely woke me up. I was about to get into an argument with her when she said Kamala was missing and so was Srinivas Master. I switched on data on my phone and ‘Kaaluru Kiladis’, a WhatsApp group of my friends in Kaaluru, already had hundreds of messages. One of them said he saw them talking after the play was over. Another said, he had seen both of them separately this morning, going towards the bus stand. There were messages of heartbreak as well. I quickly freshened up and went with my parents to Krishnegowda’s house, like the rest of the village.

Krishnegowda was furiously pacing up and down the hall. His wife was being comforted by other women. All others sat there discussing what could be done next. Krishnegowda was against going to the police, for it would then appear in the papers. Who would, then, vote for him? Nagesh, who owned the buses which connected Kaaluru to the highway, asked for the driver and conductor to come to Krishnegowda’s house.

They said that indeed Master and Kamala had taken the bus to the highway early that morning. However, they sat separately. Master had said his mother was ill in Hassan and hence he had to leave so early. ‘Bastard! Both his parents have been dead for years’ Krishnegowda fumed. It had been planned well. Master had packed his stuff even before he came to the play. After all, he didn’t carry much. Kamala had been smuggling some of her stuff into his room for some days now. Even that was packed in his bags so that Kamala need not carry any luggage on the bus, which might lead to questions. She had told the conductor that she was going for her friend’s wedding in Mysuru. They had left their phones in the house to prevent anyone from tracking them.  

It then came to me in a flash – Kamala had been ogling at Master all the while. She brought coffee and snacks to talk to him. Master did not call her to rehearsals to make me uncomfortable. It was for him to draw comfort. I had been a fool, believing that I was the centre of Kamala’s attention. I had not even stopped to think how I had been able to achieve so much in such a short while I had failed at this very game for the last four years. I could still visualize them laughing at me, near the green room. It assumed a different colour now. 

After much discussion, it was decided that Krishnegowda would send his henchmen to Bengaluru, Mysuru, Hassan and Hubli to enquire about Srinivas Master from people who he was working with earlier: whether he had been in touch with any of them or asked for any help. Meanwhile, some responsible citizens, like Nagesh, my father and others, would try talking to their contacts in those cities and carry out a ‘covert’ operation, not disclosing much details. It proved to be a futile exercise. A few days later, Krishnegowda’s henchmen returned. People got back to their livelihoods. Kaaluru returned to its normal routine.

A couple of days ago, nearly three months after all this drama, my phone started buzzing early in the morning with messages. I cursed myself for having forgotten to turn mobile data off before sleeping. It was Kaaluru Kiladis again. Kamala had returned late previous night. It was my turn to wake my parents up. We, again, rushed to Krishnegowda’s house, with the rest of the village. Versions were flying thick and fast. Some said Srinivas Master and Kamala married after they left Kaaluru but he deserted her for another woman in a troupe he had recently joined. Others said Kamala left him after she found out he was cheating on her. Yet another one said there was no marriage between them; Srinivas had tried to smuggle her off to some foreign country, before she escaped. Krishnegowda was visibly annoyed at the crowd. He thanked us all for our support and locked the door of his house. I returned – a little disappointed with the lack of action.

Yesterday, Krishnegowda came to our house and invite us to Kamala’s wedding – in a week’s time. The groom is the son of a sugar-factory owner, somewhere in north Karnataka. Krishnegowda was frustrated with all the gossip that was going around. He wanted to be done with this marriage as quickly as possible. When Appa tried to comfort him, he rose dramatically and said ‘Oh, don’t worry. I have asked my men to take ‘good care’ of anyone who is spreading such gossip’. Placing the invitation card on the table, Krishnegowda left to attend to other responsibilities. 

Kaaluru Kronicles - 3: Best Kept Secret (Part 1)

I am not supposed to be talking about this. If anybody gets to know that I am going around telling this to people, the Chairman’s henchmen will take ‘good care’ of me. Yet, I am incapable of holding secrets. I have never been good at it. Technically speaking, what I am about to tell you isn’t even a secret. Even Kaaluru’s kids speak about it. There has been very little of anything else which has been spoken of in Kaaluru in the last three – four months. But then, telling an outsider is an entirely different ballgame, isn’t it?  When I am telling you this, I am binding you to an oath of secrecy. It stays between the two of us. (Sadly, I have used this line with multiple people already. Now, don’t go asking around who I’ve told this to!)

Let me begin from the beginning…

I had just finished my degree from a college in Bengaluru. Since there was some time before joining my company, I came home to spend a few weeks with family – away from the city-rush. Life slowed down considerably in Kaaluru. Even internet speeds! A few of my friends and I were first-generation Bengaluru educated people. This made us a class-apart in Kaaluru. Some of the high-school goers came to us asking for guidance, prodded by their parents. Though we couldn’t tell them all that we did in Bengaluru (I am not telling you either), we did our best to provide some sort of career counselling. In fact, when I came back for a vacation after my first semester, our headmaster in Kaaluru’s high school invited me as a guest to provide students with some ‘inspiration’. Oh! I tend to talk too much. Pull me back on track the next time I digress.

With Holi nearly a month away, all village elders and a few responsible citizens decided to meet in the Panchayat office to discuss the modalities of celebration. Some of the elders asked my father to take me along as well. Perhaps they were seeking ‘validation’. I was a little surprised about why the meeting was being convened – for as long as I can remember, there had been hardly any change in the celebrations. It is the same set of people who perform the puja year after year. The same set of people enacts the death and burning of Kama, with Rati beating her chest over her husband’s body. That is the one night I never miss. One hears the crassest and crudest of expletives thrown around by Rati, accusing all and sundry for Kama’s death. They update their lines every year depending on the latest gossip. I had invited some of my friends from college one year for the celebrations. Suffice to say some of them, the girls specially, were scandalized! I decided to accompany my father to the meeting, wondering what was in the offing.

Chairman Krishnegowda started the proceedings. ‘Respected gentlemen of Kaaluru; also, the Bengaluru-educated young man who is with us today’ he said, smiling at me. I returned the smile with folded hands, uncomfortable at the attention. Krishnegowda continued ‘Holi is fast approaching. For the last several years, we have been having the same set of rituals and games for the festival. I am sure all of us enjoy it afresh everytime. Yet, I, as your Chairman, want to do something more. Let us stand out among all the other surrounding villages. I want Kaaluru’s name to be mentioned in the newspapers for its celebrations. It is time for change.’ He paused, assessing the mood of those who had gathered in the office. People began murmuring and whispering, trying to guess what the Chairman had to offer. Some even commented that Krishnegowda was harboring plans of standing in the Assembly elections, which were fast approaching and hence was taking this effort to ‘stand out’.

‘Gentleman,’ Krishnegowda said ‘for the last several years, Kaaluru has not seen a good play. Gone are the days when we would erect a stage in the school grounds around Sankranti. Gone are the days when our own people – Nagesh, Muniswamy, Achar or Ahmed – went on stage and performed to whistles and applause. I don’t think this Bengaluru-educated young man even remembers those days.’

 

‘All that is fine, Chairman sir. What is your point?’ my father asked, tired of this campaign-style speech.

‘I am coming to the point. I suggest that we perform a play this year for Holi. Let us build a stage. Get the sceneries and lights. Let us raise the curtain once again and recreate those days. What do you people suggest?’ the Chairman paused, having placed the idea in front of the people. People began talking to each other, nodding their heads in agreement.

Even before anyone could express their opinion, Krishnegowda started again. ‘Let me introduce to you: Srinivas Master’ he said, pointing to the person sitting in the corner of the room. None of us had noticed the stranger sitting there until then. Srinivas Master was renowned in the village theatre circuit, he said. Hence, he had arranged for him to come to Kaaluru all the way from Hassan. His stay would be arranged in Krishnegowda’s house until the play was performed. Krishnegowda was going the extra mile.

Master was a handsome looking man, in his forties. Tall, lean, he had the personality suited for a hero. His shoulder-length curly hair was well-oiled. He wore a stud in his left ear. A thin moustache outlined his upper lip. Wearing a white dhoti and kurta along with a black overcoat, he sat there chewing paan. After Krishnegowda’s introduction, Master stood up, folded his hands in a dramatic fashion and began to speak. Ah! What a voice it was! Years of training had gone into honing that baritone.

Since it had been a long time since we had last performed a play, we would choose a well-known script, Master said. That would be easy to follow for the actors as well as the audience. We would enact episodes from the Mahabharata – slaying of Kichaka, Kauravas’ bid to capture Virata’s cattle, followed by Krishna’s peace mission. Casting would take place over the next week. Master sat down and Krishnegowda stood up to speak again. ‘I request Srinivas Master to make one provision: please include our Bengaluru boy in the cast as the Sutradhara. He has seen and performed plays in the city. Let him also get a taste of how village theatre is.’ I stood up to protest. Not that I did not want to act. I was just a little embarrassed by how things had turned out. ‘Don’t worry, son. Your grandfather gave me a chance to act in plays when I was your age. I am only returning the favor’ Krishnegowda said, putting an end to all discussion.

Overnight, Srinivas Master became the talk of the town. People kept streaming in and out of Krishnegowda’s house to spend a few minutes with Master. Women – married and unmarried – found some pretext to come and talk to Krishnegowda’s wife or his daughter, just to catch a glimpse of him. I too was under his spell and spent most of the day with him. He had a well-tuned harmonium and would break into a song every now and then. I assisted him in editing the script he had brought along. Besides, we had to write new lines, with contemporary punches for the Sutradhara. This way, even I got a chance to meet with the womenfolk of the village.

Master was under an obligation and hence, cast Krishnegowda as Krishna in the play. Our neighbor Shastri was cast as Draupadi, given his fair complexion and thin body. Achar, Narayana, Muniswamy, Babu and several others were cast as well. Krishnegowda also asked Master to maintain some representation from the Muslim community. He wanted to show that in Kaaluru, Muslims could act as Hindu mythological characters without hesitation. Thus, it was decided that Muneer and Pasha would play Nakula and Sahadeva. 

To be continued...