Yours Whimsically - Part 5: "Happy birthday to you..."

“Happy birthday” I wrote on his wall before switching off the phone and boarding the flight.  He was my classmate till Class 10. In the five years since then, there had been no more correspondence between us, apart from wishing each other on our birthdays, without fail.

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My birthday being in the month of May, I never got to celebrate it in school. But then, I saw my friends who had birthdays during summer vacations celebrate on the first day of the new session. After much pondering and deliberation, I decided to do the same. This was in Class 4. Queerly though, none of my friends celebrated their birthdays that year! I stood there - in front of the class in a cream-colored kurta-pyjama and a maroon overcoat, grinning sheepishly as they sang for me. I never celebrated my birthday in school ever again.

However, I eagerly awaited others birthdays. Free chocolates were reason enough. Moreover, all the singing and clapping easily took ten minutes of a forty-minute period! He (or she) stood in front of the class, scanning our faces and smiling while we sang for him. The most important part came after this – distribution of chocolates. Alpenliebe was standard. Eclairs was a little higher. If, by chance, anybody distributed 5 Star or Dairy Milk, he was talked about and praised until the last possible remnant of the chocolate was out of the system! We anxiously waited to hear who he chose to accompany him for distributing chocolates to other teachers. My face would light up and chest puff up whenever my name was called. He had just acknowledged our friendship over others! Moreover it gave me the authorization to ‘bunk’ class (though the word was not familiar then). I would go across the school, peeping into other classes and show off in front of my friends. Even if he and I weren’t close friends, it made sense to stay close to him, at least that day. For at the end of the day, it gave me better claim over the chocolates that were remaining!

Enter high school, the routine saw some variations. Singing of “Happy birthday…” was now accompanied by giggles and nudges at his crush. At the end of the day, some chocolates were reserved for his crush in the hope of receiving that wish with a personal touch. More often than not, that did not happen and those chocolates were distributed among us friends. The hope remained, though!

Now, hundreds of kilometers away from home, in college, birthday celebrations have assumed a new avatar - birthday bumps accompanied by cutting the cake at midnight, followed by wishes from all those around, ending in a token treat. Celebrations are incomplete without a high-class dinner for close friends at posh restaurants along with beverages of choice. Very few friends call up to wish while the rest of them end up wishing over social media. All of us have been guilty of doing the same, no doubt.

The next day is spent replying to all those posts on the wall, trying to derive a sense of satisfaction at our prominence in peer groups, validating ourselves based on the number of people who cared to wish on our birthday over social media. At the same time, we end up thinking of hashtags and editing selfies to be uploaded on Instagram, subjecting ourselves to yet another round of validation. At the risk of being labelled a ‘hopeless romantic’, I believe that birthdays were more meaningful before social media took control of our lives – when wishes were only from those who really cared (for chocolates at least) and there was no necessity of fiddling with the phone every few minutes to check how many more had wished….

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The chain of thoughts was broken by the landing of the flight. Switching on the phone, a notification said that my friend had commented on my post. I ‘like’d it. 

Yours Whimsically - Part 4: Of music classes and more

As far as I have seen, it is still considered fashionable in South Indian Brahmin households (at least in Bengaluru) to have their children trained in either classical music or dance. (God bless them, for it is because of them that there is still a popular base for these art forms – in times when the audience is dwindling elsewhere.) Our family is no different. Almost all my cousins have dabbled with classical music at one point of time or another. A couple of my sisters are trained dancers. However, I find the case of one of my cousins very interesting. He trained as a percussionist for several years. Today, the instrument sits safely in the attic, brought down only during the time of Ayudha Pooja, perhaps. Now follows the irony: his wife and her mother are both performing artists!

My brother was made to train under a music teacher when he was in Class Five, if I remember right. Two years later, someone hit upon this brilliant idea: if the elder can do it, why not the younger?! Thus, when I was in Class One, much before I could actually work out what exactly was happening, it was decided that I would join the class with my brother. May be, it was because I would hum the songs which my brother was taught. I can actually imagine some elderly person sitting with a thoughtful expression on his/her face, saying ‘He has got potential. Why don't you find him a teacher?’ (Damn the reality shows for corrupting the imagination!)

Now came the difficult bit – of deciding the tutor. The instructor under who my brother trained was found to be ‘not satisfactory’ or not the one who could unleash my brother’s true potential. He had no option but to switch. One of our uncles suggested someone who he knew personally. That someone had name and fame as an acclaimed artist. It was probably his imposing personality that made us chicken out. Moreover, I do not think anybody in the family thought that either my brother or I had a career in music. Hence, there was no reason to train under a performing artist, was there? A family friend suggested a lady under who he had been training for several years. The tutor’s house was close by. She had good voice & knowledge and was quite gentle (With due respect, I am not sure if timid is the right word here). That sealed the deal.

We did make significant progress. For quite a few years, my brother and I would be the “trophies” at all family gatherings, asked to sing – together – in front of the guests (Who said that it is only chinaware which is displayed when guests come home?!). However, in hindsight, I believe my brother and I never realized the significance of being classically trained as long as we were under her tutelage. We are guilty of having faked ulcers in the mouth, sore throat, guests-at-home and a few other excuses because, that way, the class would last just one-fifth of the usual time, sometimes lesser. For nearly eight long years, I trained under her, getting the basics right but never fully comprehending the value of what I was learning. My brother changed the tutor midway, quite unceremoniously, and it was left to me to handle the situation. Eventually, she realized that my brother would not come back to her music class again, though she was kind enough not to question me on that.

When my turn came, it was Class Ten to the rescue. Since that year was a “game changer”, I could not devote time to attend music classes. Thus, I too quit her class, only to join my brother. It was there that I understood what had gone wrong for the past eight years. I had never been serious (except, perhaps, during the time I was preparing for the junior level certification exam) but had always been passable. Hence, there was no chance of a reprimand by the teacher. However, under the instructor I had just joined, merely being passable was not enough. Also, with other students being very competent, you had to be competent too to be in business. Excuses like ulcers wouldn’t work here! A much needed jerk now provided, I began to look at music classes in a different light.

Two years later, I had quit the classes since they clashed with my tuitions for 2^nd PUC (Tuitions are the biggest scams, in my opinion. Not 2G. Not coal blocks allocation. These). This time, though, I wasn’t lying. I never got to resume training for, after 2^nd PUC, I moved into a hostel in a faraway land. The instructor offered to conduct classes over Skype. Not feasible enough, though.

I very vividly remember one thing that the lady teacher said. She said she never taught anybody compositions in Raga Varali. She believed that if taught, that composition would be the last ever composition taught and the guru-shishya relationship would end. It was a belief she had cultivated under her teacher. Believe it or not, the last ever composition I learnt completely before I quit classes in 2^nd PUC was in Varali!

Everytime I go home, there is a strange urge to go and check if the teacher – whose class we quit so unceremoniously – is still around. If she is, maybe my brother & I could go, talk to her. Thank her, perhaps. However, I have never gathered the guts to do it. 

Yours Whimsically – Part 3: Of malls and restaurants

The first mall opened in Bengaluru – Bangalore it was, back then – when I was in Class 4 or 5. My dad being a bit laidback and the mall being out of the comfort zone of places we frequented, it would have taken me years had it not been for my uncle, to first visit it. The sheer enormity of the place and the variety it housed held the Class 5 kid in wonder. The next day, in school, I “casually” mentioned it in a conversation with my friends. I had been waiting to see that expression of awe and childish jealousy on their faces and I was not disappointed.  Going to the only mall in the city was a status symbol and having achieved it in Class 5 was no mean feat. During lunch, I told them about all that I had seen in the mall, not without adding the creative inputs I was capable of back then! In a bid to appear knowledgeable, I interspersed the narrative with tidbits of information I had overheard during the conversation between my uncle and aunt. One of my friends added his inputs and both of us nodded wisely, without either of us comprehending what was being said. The rest of the group looked at us with amazement and placed the two of us on a higher pedestal – for that moment. We had had our moment in the sun! [I was bought a t-shirt. A red, round-collared t-shirt, I remember. Here is the weird bit – that shirt seemed to grow with me! It was bought in Class 5 and it served me till 9 or 10, god knows how!]

Years passed. Malls, fancy restaurants & eateries, McDs and CCDs began to dot the landscape of Bengaluru. My tryst with fancy restaurants began in P.U College (the equivalent of 11^th – 12^th). It was the time when ‘exploring’ new restaurants became the trend and ‘trying out new cuisines’ became the catchphrase. The group I was part of was keen on experimenting – Italian this time, Chinese the next and what not. (I totally appreciate their spirit!) Much as I would be amazed with the ambiance at each of these different restaurants, the menu full of fancy names would still mean naught! At those times, I would let others take the initiative and would (un)willingly be part of the ‘experiment’. I must say, though, that I seem to have caught on a bit of their ‘spirit of experimentation’ now. Being a vegetarian, I try to ‘experiment’ within the limited choice I have everytime we friends go out to eat. I have failed sometimes, quite disastrously even, much to my embarrassment!

We decided to celebrate one of our friends’ birthday in CCD. That was the first time I ever visited one. [Until then, it was my perception that only couples went to CCD. Since I didn’t have a girlfriend, it was out of bounds!] After having ceremoniously cut the cake and sharing a few clichéd ‘birthday jokes’ (selfies weren’t in vogue then!), it was time to place orders. I went with my friends to the counter with much swag. On looking at the menu, however, I fell silent. One, the items were overpriced. Two, I didn’t know what the difference was between an espresso and a cappuccino, not to mention the other items on the menu which made no sense! All I knew until then was coffee – “strong” and “light” being the only variants. Not wanting to make myself a fool in front of the few girls who were part of the celebrations, I stood there appearing to be studiously looking at the menu. Frankly, all I did was to listen very carefully to what my friends were ordering (they always seem to have more experience than me in these matters) and then place the same order, just playing around with the language a little bit (has been my strength always!) so that it didn’t appear like I had memorized their order. Some months later when I saw the movie ‘English Vinglish’, I was totally able to relate to the scene where Sridevi messes up while placing an order at a café.

Over the years, I have been to several fancy restaurants and quite often, situations like the ones I have just talked about have been replayed. I fail to understand the fuss over the ‘type of bread’ (what does it even mean?!) and ‘toppings’. I still cannot differentiate between a latte and a cappuccino. At some restaurants, I have even heard questions of ‘still’ and ‘sparkling’ water. I doubt if even those serving know the difference! Luckily, I have always had friends and other experienced people around to bail me out of such situations.

No. I do not hold anything against these fancy restaurants. In fact, I enjoy eating at these places. However, I find more joy in eating bhel puri or gol-gappa by the road than eating a 6-inch bread layered with stuff I hear for the first time at the counter! To me, telling the vendor if I want more spice or less spice is closer home than choosing ‘vegetables’ and ‘sauces’ that would go with my bread.

Visiting malls is now commonplace and no longer a status symbol. However, I find it more comfortable to go to shops in the bazaar close to my locality to buy clothes than to a fancy mall to buy ‘brands’. I find the bazaar more natural than the shine & gloss of the mall and I am referring to the people, not shops, in the two different settings! It is more fun to see people bargain over their purchase than to see them pay by card without a word.

One of the first things I do everytime I go back home is to go on a walk around the bazaar, listening to the crowds and taking in the sights. It gives me a kick of its own kind. Maybe I am attaching too much romance to such ‘old school’ settings. Maybe, it is just the way I am. 

Yours Whimsically... - Part 2

I am writing this while the idea and the event are still fresh in my mind. Some of this is a result of a very entertaining conversation with a junior of mine, who, for various reasons, has similar opinions on several issues.

I am a student in IISER-Kolkata (ironically, 50 km off Kolkata!). One of the few community - conducted celebrations is that of the “Basant Panchami” or “Saraswati Puja” as it is known here. One of my friends told me that this day is considered as the “Bengali Valentines’ Day” as well. May be, because it occurs close to Valentines’ Day. May be, because everybody is in their traditional best and (tries to) looks attractive! Naturally, the talks on the previous day centered on what one planned to wear and how to make the best impression. I bet that many dreamt of being complimented by their ‘crush’ and of a possible selfie as well that would make their day!

This is something I have observed during Ethnic Days over the years and I am sure you would agree. I am not talking of the selfies with pouts, duckfaces and a wide array of poses (and hashtags). The moment a saree is draped, girls with who we share classes look so different and mature (not to mention beautiful!). For a few seconds, it even becomes difficult to recognize them as the ones we have known for quite some time. (Accounting for the make-up applied is another story altogether!) While we men look pretty much the same in a tee-shirt & a traditional kurta, what magic a saree holds is difficult to fathom!

I was pleasantly surprised during lunch to see people who had not been involved in much apart from academic programs taking active part in serving and managing the crowd. (The food was awesome, by the way.) While a thought of volunteering to lend a hand did cross my mind, I decided against it as it might come in the way of the enthusiasm of those who were already there.  I derived as much pleasure in observing people as I did in eating, though.  

An amusing sight is to see some of the volunteers walk among people with an air of self-importance, appearing to do a lot of work while practically achieving naught, discounting the burning of a few calories! It is priceless to see tension & worry over nothing at all written on those faces. Unless that expression is assumed, how would you and I know that he/she is a ‘responsible’ figure in the entire team? Or maybe, it is all a ploy to capture the attention of the photographer or the ones higher up or, more importantly, the one(s) who they want to impress. To be frank, I too am guilty of having done this, while being at the lower end of the hierarchy! At some point during the entire day, all of them would have played ‘decision-makers’ and when they sleep that night, they will be proud of their deeds, even if it was something as ‘petty’ as having seated a single person on a chair that was waiting to be filled.

As a major in biological sciences, I have ecology & evolution as one of my courses. One of the core concepts in evolution is that of selection of mates. (Ask any bio-major and he or she can lecture you about this). The basic principle is that females choose the best males while males show-off & compete with each other. This principle is beautifully illustrated, like in no lecture, during the famed “dhunachi naach” (I hope I have spelt it right). Dancers perform holding earthen pots full of burning coconut husk. If performed well, it is a sight to behold! The dance begins slowly, with dancers warming up as well as the one on the beats. It gains momentum as the crowd builds up; more importantly, as ladies fill the arena. I have seen this for three years and am yet to figure out how this surge in energy occurs! The dance, hereafter, is punctuated with “aww!”s, flashes and increased heroics. While the number of earthen pots is limited, nothing prevents the crowd from breaking into an impromptu jig. It might seem too Bollywood-ish. All of a sudden, there is a ‘formation’ and everybody seems to know the steps. Whoever said that such things do not happen in real life was way off-the-mark! While I was in my first year, some of the seniors and batch mates did try to persuade me into one such ‘formation’, much to their embarrassment as well as mine. They have given up on me now, or so I would like to believe.

The celebrations have ended and even while sitting in the room, I could hear people cheering during photo sessions despite knowing well enough that the camera is only capturing photos and not recording! That only reminded me of the numerous times I have done the same while posing for photos in a group.

Many a fellow will go to bed tonight with a sense of satisfaction and achievement. I am sure that when they talk to their friends tomorrow and for days to come, they will have a fair amount of behind-the-scenes gossip to share and a chance to relive their moment in the sun. 

Kaaluru Kronicles: 1. The Swansong

Kaaluru Government Primary & High School was nearing its Golden Jubilee. The Chairman, President of the temple board, Headmaster and a few other eminent figures met in the Principal’s office to deliberate on the modalities of celebration – who would contribute how much, how much must be collected from the people, among others. “It is high time that we get a film star to one of our school functions. What better occasion than the Golden Jubilee?” suggested Nagesh, who owned all buses plying between Kaaluru & highway. Many people seconded his opinion and their parallel discussions created a din. Rising over it, Nagesh said “Whatever the expenditure be, do not worry Principal Sir. Let the people of Kaaluru be assured that I am still around”, placing his hands on the table, patronizingly. If anybody in the meeting had taken time off to notice his hands, he would have noticed that eight rings decorated with different precious stones adorned his fingers. The shirt, of which the top two buttons were unbuttoned, revealed a heavy gold chain with a pendent that resembled an elephant’s tusk. No doubt he could afford to bear any expenditure, not to mention the strings he could pull to ensure that the film star they chose would be gracing the function.

The meeting was about to be concluded when Headmaster Harish hit upon an ingenious idea. Harish was popular with students and faculty alike. His deep voice contradicted his lean frame. He always wore a khadi kurta, waistcoat and a dhoti. A teacher of history, it was believed that he had foregone an opportunity in one of the colleges in Mysuru to work in his hometown Kaaluru. The other teachers, including the Principal, were there because of the government order. All of them were quite amused at Harish’s choice. “I have to take care of the fields and ancestral property as well” he would answer with a smile whenever someone asked him. Not that he had much. All he had was about five acres of land and an ancestral house, whose backyard directly led to the Kaveri. He lived with his aged mother and wife. His children, upon his wife’s insistence, were studying in a private school in Bengaluru. If left to Harish, he would have educated his son & daughter in the government school, before sending them to college. His wife, though, more pragmatic, would have none of it. 

“If I am not mistaken,” Harish said in his rich, deep voice, “Karnataka’s former Ranji Captain Kumar is an alumnus of our school. I remember reading in one of his interviews about his formative years in Kaaluru. His family then migrated to Bengaluru. He was my batch mate till class seven or eight – until he shifted. Good for him, though. His talent was given an opportunity there. If he had continued here, probably, he would have ended up as a school teacher and would be sitting with us, discussing on who has to be invited.” There was slight laughter all around. Harish waited for the laughter to die down and people to concentrate on tea which had just arrived before he continued. “Why not we organize an exhibition match for our Golden Jubilee celebrations? We can have teams from universities in Mysuru or Bengaluru, where some of our children study and have Kumar in one of the teams. His celebrity status coupled with teams from Bengaluru & Mysuru provides enough reason for people to turn up for the game. We can charge an entry fee and say the proceeds will go to some ashram in one of the cities. It would add more meaning to our fifty years of existence than anything else.” There was a murmur of agreement, while Nagesh and Khincha shifted uneasily in their chairs. Khincha was a jeweler who owned the only jewelry store in Kaaluru. He was among those who had enthusiastically seconded Nagesh’s idea of inviting a film star. Nagesh’s tea lay there, untouched. Sensing tension building in the room, Harish said “Do not worry, Mr. Nagesh. Even to invite the cricket teams, sponsor their stay and more importantly, to invite Kumar we will need your financial and moral support. How can anything in Kaaluru happen without you?” Nagesh beamed with satisfaction at the unexpected importance given to him. Another round of murmurs ensued, before the Principal concluded the meeting, approving the idea and entrusting the responsibility of contacting the teams to Nagesh while the Headmaster would contact Kumar.

Kaaluru had its moment in the sun when a couple of 24x7 news channels ran features on Kumar playing in the exhibition match. Word had somehow reached our Principal that the news channels would come to the school for shooting for a feature on Kumar’s early childhood. Sriranga, our Principal, came the next day donning a neatly ironed blazer and polished formal shoes. Somehow, such grandeur stood out oddly in the environs of the government school. It was the blazer given to him during his marriage, Sriranga said. He had never worn it after that day. His wife, daughter of a former civil engineer, had taken extra care to groom him for his special day – he would be on TV! In fact, she had even called her relatives in Bengaluru telling them about it. To those who still lived to tell the tales of the Raj, Sriranga looked very much like the Sahibs. However, no news reporter came to Kaaluru. What would she tell her relatives now?

I was eagerly waiting for the match day. The Chairman of the Municipal Council had taken personal initiative to get the stands in the Municipal Grounds, where the match would take place, painted. Special enclosures were created for the all eminent people and their families. Nagesh had promised to get the MLA himself from Mandya to toss the coin. Huge hoardings announcing the match were put up all across the town. More prominent than the details of the match was the address of Khincha Jewelers and Khincha’s face, who had sponsored the hoardings and filled the Council’s coffers. There were rumors that Khincha would contest the upcoming Municipal elections. This might well be the first public outreach, some said. Nagesh and the Headmaster went all the way to the highway to receive Kumar. The last leg of their journey – from the Fort to Nagesh’s house was nothing less than a procession. People stood on either side of the road, welcoming him. The old man beside me in the crowd commented on how people would stand similarly while welcoming the erstwhile Maharaja himself. I was not sure whether the Maharaja had visited Kaaluru at all, though.

As I stepped into the packed stands of the Municipal grounds, I heard tit-bits from the people about Kumar. He was an excellent right-handed batsman in his time. He was also the captain of Karnataka’s Ranji team and had led them to victories in three consecutive Ranji and Irani trophies. He was the leading run scorer for four consecutive seasons. Former Indian players who watched him bat vouched for his caliber and said that the India cap was not far off. This happened in the prime of his career, in his late twenties or early thirties. While the fact that Kumar had lost his form later was known to all, some speculated that politics within BCCI hindered his selection. Apparently, it was West Zone’s presidency then. They did all they could to promote players from their region, at Kumar’s cost. That was when he lost his form they said. Some, however, attributed the loss of form to a link-up with a cine star in the Kannada film industry.

After below-par performances in the next few seasons, Kumar was dropped from the Ranji squad. It was when the incumbent Ranji captain got the national call that Kumar, now forty, was asked to lead the team. Karnataka had performed badly ever since he left the team, not even progressing beyond group stages. Kumar led his team to victory that season before announcing his retirement. ‘An apt swansong for an eventful career’ some newspapers reported the next day. After a couple of days, Kumar was forgotten.

All this had happened five years ago. He hadn’t ever played a game of cricket, even with his kids, since that day, it was rumoured. He had taken sanyas from the game, they said, and it was only because of the Headmaster’s invitation that he had decided to appear in this match.

The match was to be played between the teams of Mysuru & Bengaluru Universities. Kumar was part of the Bengaluru University team, his alma mater. Whichever team won the toss, Bengaluru University would bat and Kumar would open the innings – that was the unwritten pact. Players of the Mysuru University came in behind the umpires and formed a guard of honour while Kumar entered the field. Shastry, the English teacher had taken up the responsibility of commentary and was blaring away on the microphone, repeatedly emphasizing that Kumar was an alumnus of Kaaluru Government Primary & High School.

People cheered as Kumar walked in, me among them. The other opener, a student of twenty-two, ensured that he did not interrupt the adulation showered on Kumar and walked in a couple of minutes after him. Kumar took strike. He trembled a little with the feel of a bat in his hand at a competitive level after five long years. Looking around to soak in the atmosphere, Kumar composed himself. What more could he, as a player, ask for than recognition of this extent in some place so remote that the government had not even bothered to start bus service?

“Middle stump,” he shouted to the umpire. He went about with his ritual of taking a bail off the stumps to mark his guard. He adjusted his helmet and gloves for one final time before facing the delivery. The opening bowler was a left-arm medium pacer. Kumar looked at the fielders and finally, took stance. Our cheering reached a crescendo as the bowler ran in. The ball pitched on middle and leg stump and was a slightly short of full-length delivery. Kumar placed his bat to defend it. It swung and all that was heard was the ball hitting off-stump!

The crowd was stunned into silence. Even Shastry fumbled for words. Kumar stood fixed in his position, as if for the photographers of various newspapers who had taken special interest in this story and made all their way to Kaaluru. The crowd finally found its voice to cheer and applaud Kumar, as he took the long walk back to the pavilion. People started moving out of the stadium, some abusing the curator for having prepared such a pitch. I, too, moved out of the stadium and made my way to the cycle stand.

Bengaluru University won the match, I heard from some of my friends.

Photographs of Kumar being felicitated by the Chairman and the Principal made it to newspapers the next day. 

Kaaluru Kronicles: An Introduction

On the way to Mysuru from Bengaluru, around thirty kilometers before Mysuru, on a nondescript board was written in English and Kannada “Kaaluru” with an arrow pointing left. The distance was written below the arrow – twenty-five kilometers. The board stood next to a banyan tree, comfortably in its shade. Buses that ran on the highway stopped here and people who wanted to go to Kaaluru boarded the private bus that started from the banyan tree. There was no government bus to Kaaluru and all the private buses were owned by the son of a former village accountant. Some smelt a scam. It was said, although in hushed tones, that a few years ago, the government had taken unusual interest in introducing government buses on the Kaaluru-Highway line. Then, the owner of these buses had lobbied with the MLAs from Mandya & Mysuru to get the plan stopped midway. He had spent lakhs on getting this project scrapped, it was believed. Nobody knew how he had earned so much money, because not many people travelled to Kaaluru and the population of Kaaluru itself was a few thousand at the maximum. People spoke of unauthorized bars he operated in Bengaluru, with a famous politician for a god-father. Nobody knew for sure, though.

In Kannada, “kaalu” has dual connotations – one is “leg” and the other “quarter of a whole”. “Ooru” could mean any inhabited place like a village or a town or a metropolis. The origin of the name “Kaaluru” was rooted in a legend, some learned folk said. When Goddess Chamundeshwari slayed Mahishasura (after whom Mysuru is named), his legs fell where the town stood today, giving rise to its name. Some “new-age rationalists”, the youth mainly, had an entirely different theory. According to them, while administration was run from Mysuru by the royalty, Kaaluru was very significant. Since it was nearly a quarter of the distance between Mysuru and Bengaluru (two big cities of the erstwhile Mysore state) it came to be known as Kaaluru or the “town which is one-fourth” the distance. The old guard, who could not tolerate such blasphemy (of disowning the puranic origins of their town), had a counter-argument ready - if the town was significant as recently as around seventy years ago, why was there not even something as elementary as government bus service?!

The entrance to Kaaluru was shaped like an entrance of a fort. It was mentioned in the footnotes of some history books as the Kaaluru Fort, although some believed it to be just an abandoned extension of the Srirangapatna (famous for Tipu Sultan’s summer palace) Fort. It was a small town, with just one main road running from the entrance of the fort to the end of the town, which ended on the banks of river Kaveri. It was called the M.G. Road. According to those who lived long enough after the freedom struggle to tell the tale, the Mahatma was supposed to visit Kaaluru after visiting Srirangapatna & Mysore. Local Congress workers along with the Headman, accountant and priest had gathered enough man-power to lay a new road to welcome the Mahatma. They said Gandhi was to arrive on February 2^nd. News broke out on January 30^th that “the light had gone out”, plunging the nation into darkness. Even in his death, Gandhi had given Kaaluru a lesson in self-reliance and self-sufficiency – they had built the road themselves, without government interference. The Mahatma had always wanted decentralization, that the village should be the unit of governance. Ironically, he did not live long enough to see this village realize his dreams. [Gandhi’s secretary never recollected any mention of a plan visit to Mysore, let alone Kaaluru, though!] 

An old, abandoned temple of Lord Vishnu lay on the banks of Kaveri. According to some, the temple was part of the town centuries ago which was abandoned when there was a huge flood and people were forced to move higher up, where the town now stood. Nobody built a temple for Vishnu on the outskirts of a village or town, they argued. The responsibility of protecting the village was traditionally left to Lord Hanuman. During every election, whenever the sitting MLA visited Kaaluru, people petitioned him to declare the abandoned temple as a monument. The leader would listen to them sincerely and promise to do his best. However, he would return to the town only during the next election, to receive similar petitions. A mantap belonging to the abandoned temple lay with its steps submerged in the river. People did not dare to venture near the temple or the mantap alone in the night. Voices were heard from the temple and figures were seen moving around the mantap, they said. In fact, mothers frequently invoked the ghosts of the mantap and the abandoned temple to ensure their children listened to them.

The railway line ran along the banks of river Kaveri. However, not many trains stopped at Kaaluru. The station itself was very small. It had only one platform with a couple of benches. There was also a small shop which sold tea, biscuits and juices of different colours. The owner supplemented his meagre income by being the sole newspaper agent for the whole of Kaaluru. The Mysuru-Bengaluru passenger train stopped regularly in the mornings. He had an arrangement with the drivers on the route and they would deliver the newspapers from Mysuru. The whistle of the train leaving Kaaluru served as an alarm to the people. Other trains stopped only if there was traffic at subsequent junctions. The platform was used by the idlers of Kaaluru and the surrounding villages for playing cards. In fact, they provided more business to the shop than all the passengers from the train could provide in a week!

A little distance away from the railway station stood a banyan tree, with its shade spreading across the road. The stone platform around the tree was used as a bus-stop and buses to the highway started from here. The entrance to Kaaluru Government Primary & High School stood beside the stone platform. The school itself consisted of three single-storied buildings with huge grounds in the middle. Every year, during Independence Day, Republic Day and Gandhi Jayanti, the entire town gathered there for celebrations. The school had four teachers for around a hundred students from class one to class ten. For education beyond school, they went to Srirangapatna. Fellows who were a little more ambitious went to Mysuru and only those who could afford it dared to even dream about Bengaluru!

Welcome to Kaaluru!

The Haircut

I hail from a semi-orthodox, middle-class Brahmin family in Bengaluru. My parents settled in Bengaluru – Bangalore as it was called until recently – in their late 20s and thus, I am a first generation Banglorean – born and brought up solely in Bengaluru. While one may wonder what significance the above details have, let me assure you – there is a lot of difference in being a Brahmin in a city and in a rural setting. (For starters, a Brahmin in the village is, often, respected for simply being born a Brahmin, if not anything else. That is not the case in a city, at least not publicly.)

Being born into a Brahmin family means that you are bound to follow some customs and observe some rituals. This increases manifold if you have orthodox grandparents living with you. My grandmother was one such woman. She was very finicky about certain issues – you had to bathe before you entered the kitchen; you could not place the plates on your lap while you ate; if you held the plate in your left hand, you could not touch anything else until you washed your left hand; after meals, dishes could not be placed in the same sink where gods’ idols were washed; if you came from a hospital/clinic, you had to bathe and change before you touched anything in the household – the list goes on. Not that I hold anything against her – she died around fourteen years ago – but in hindsight, I find her being finicky amusing. The only thing that probably came out of all this is that my dad and his two brothers know nothing about day-to-day stuff in the kitchen as they were restricted from entering it. (It is a matter often discussed by my mother and aunts – how hopeless their husbands are in these matters!). They do not care much about cleanliness either (probably arising out of a sense of rebellion!).

Years have passed and the ‘rationalist’ in me tries to find reason in all those restrictions. Some of them have become so deeply ingrained that they almost seem second-nature to me. I do not find it amusing when I see my cousins eating with plates on their laps or eating with both hands! What my grandmother imposed were rooted in cleanliness (though she considered any violation of them sacrilege!).

One such rule – which is still practiced in almost all Brahmin households – is that once you return from a saloon, you do not touch any household object or any person until you are “purified” by a bath. If you touch, that object/person needs to be “purified” as well!

A visit to the saloon by a male member in a household, hence, is a carefully planned event. Any day of the week is suited for a haircut except for Tuesday (saloons usually remain closed that day), Thursday (it is holy in its own right), Friday (it is the day Goddess Lakshmi visits the house) and Saturday (you do not dare offend Shani!). Monday is ruled out, that being the first day of the week and hence, busy. Wednesday is mid-week – if you did not care for a haircut on Monday, why care now? So, that leaves just one day – Sunday.

If you go to the saloon early in the morning, a bucket is filled with hot water even before you leave, so that the geyser can heat another bucket of water by the time you return. If you go late, the first bucket is filled after you leave, as there is anyway enough time to heat a second. The younger ones in the family are allowed to sleep late on such days because if they wake up, chances are that they would occupy the bathroom when you return from the saloon, causing you to wait. The more you wait, more chances that you might accidentally touch something or somebody! By the time you return, a ‘green-corridor’ is created from the door to the bathroom. All doormats, foot rugs, carpets, furniture are moved out of your way. You empty your pockets and drop the contents onto the table or sofa from a height - without coming in contact with them. Once in the bathroom, you strip to your inners and your mother pours the first two or three mugs of water on you, “purifying” you! You touch the bucket only after that.

I once asked my mother about why such an elaborate ritual had to be followed – my friends (non-Brahmins, of course!) turned up in school or college directly from the saloon (with hair sticking onto their shirts, though). My mother, a ‘rationalist’ in her own right, explained: a bath is necessary on returning from the saloon, not because it belongs to a person of another caste but because hair sticks to your body and you need to clean it. (What if a person visits a high-class saloon – the ones which charge in hundreds for a simple haircut – where they take care not to let any bit of hair fall on to your shirt or stick to your body?!)

I now stay in a hostel and I obviously cannot expect anybody else to assist in my “purification” bath here. I have devised my own way of circumventing this issue. Before I visit the saloon, I make sure that I keep my clothes, shampoo and bucket separate from the rest of my belongings so that I can take them to the bathroom, without coming in contact with anything else – I do not like hair sticking to my chair, bed or cupboard! I, sometimes, do not even take my cell phone along (I cannot wash it). If Grandmother is watching all this from up there, she would, no doubt, be very happy!