A Flood of Childhood Memories

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We were then living in Muthukur, a seaside village 12 miles from the District HQ, Nellore, during 1952-57. I studied from Second Form to SSLC in the Village High School ‘head-mastered’ by my father. My father used to visit Nellore routinely once a month on official work. I used to watch out and squeeze into the Front Seat of the KVR Bus reserved for him.

Nellore’s fascination for me was my Uncle’s house. It had an awe and aura for a village bumpkin like me. First, the hustle and bustle of a ‘proper’ town. Then the exotic ‘current’: toggle the switch; and the lamp glows! (They had a marvelous ‘hanging’ lamp in the Hall which could be lowered or raised by a weighted pulley).

But the main attraction was Bhanu Moorthy, my cousin an year or so older to me. He studied in the posh Missionary CAM School (with a Museum housing stuffed pigeons!). He was so different from me. I was used to the rough and tumble of village rustic kids spending their entire leisure on outdoor games and sports. There was no day I didn’t have a bruise on the elbows or knee caps, nor escaped sound thrashing from my father for some mischief or other. Moorthy was different. He was a gentleman: a budding poet with literary interests, reciting long poems from Manu Charitram. The games we played were different and sedentary: ‘Monopoly’ (where I heard ecstatic names like Chembur, Andheri and Boriville); Chess with wooden pieces like Raju, Rani, Sakatam, Ashwam with weird moves. But the cake goes to the bound volumes of Chandamama: its glossy paper, wonderful stories and serials that ran for years, adorned with cute colored sketches. Bhanu Moorthy, even at that tender age, was a ‘film critic’ for the local newspaper. He was paid with two tickets for himself and a friend of his on the opening Matinee Show. I was often the parasite. We had no pucca Cinema Hall in Muthukur (only a touring tent; well that is grist for another story!). And ‘Mayaa Bazaar’ watched in the brand new Shesh Mahal (with trailers: Laurel & Hardy) is an unforgettable experience.

I was overawed by Unclejee. He was tall, lanky, spectacled and forever busy ringed by a swarm of buzzing ‘client-bees’ in his Office Room. Once I ventured to peep into his Office when no one was there. I hastily retreated, subdued by the hundreds of fat bound volumes of Law on revolving shelves. I felt that anyone who read and mastered these forbidding tomes be better avoided; which I scrupulously did.

But one evening, he visited our home in Muthukur. After dinner he called me aside and asked me what my favorite subjects were. I replied; English and Science (naturally; my father taught those two subjects and he was the best teacher in the District). Unclejee then asked me to fetch my English Text Book and point to my best prose piece. That was Rip Van Winkle; to this day. He then took my Viva (the first ever I faced with folded hands); and then he gave a sweet unforgettable cuddle. Then again he attended my Upanayanm function and taught me how to shorten my knee-length sacred thread with a retractable ‘Peapod’, the running trick-knot that I taught my son recently. One night Bhanu Moorthy complained to me that Unclejee rebuked him: ‘Vakra Buddhi Vedhava’. He didn’t mind the scolding, but objected to the mixing of chaste Sanskrit and colloquial Lingo.

Auntiejee ruled the household like a Queen. She fondly looked after the gastronomic needs of the 20-odd daily ‘lunchers’ of her extended family and guests. For me the attractions were exotic stuff which Muthukur Village Market didn’t boast: Carrots, Cabbage, Beetroot, Noolkol and such ‘English’ vegetables. I distinctly remember the thin rings of pink carrots soaked in sour buttermilk, dressed with fried Mustard seeds. And the long snow-white Bitter-gourd deep-fried with stuffed Dhaniya Masala, and fastened with easy-knotted Banana Fiber.

One afternoon when I was alone in their upstairs room reading Chandamama, she called me ‘quickly’ to the terrace (by her side) and pointed to the passing brand-new arrival in Nellore: the Cycle-Rickshaw.

O Tempora, O Mores!
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