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I don't know about Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, but I did live on the famed Coromandel Coast (with an Express Train named for it) during my childhood and school days.
This narrow, Chile-like strip of the Southern Coast of the Bay of Bengal is as mysterious as the sound of its name. And its mystery lies in its anomalous climate relative to the Rest of India...indeed even the Rest of AP, like its North Coast, Telengana, Hyderabad and Rayalaseema.
And it is because it lies in a little-understood rain-shadow region. While the Rest of India is celebrating the much-awaited South-West Monsoon, both its wings sweeping the land give it a miss...they just skip by it.
Not for us the dramatic Break of Monsoon with its lightning and thunder and the sudden arrival of cooling moist winds. Not for us the tapur-tupur of rain drops swelling into streams, the songs and dances and heart-throbbing lyrics sung by our Kishore-da like:
"Mere naina saawan bhadon"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hNHyrLNi8zI
And our geography dictates that being sandwiched between the Equator and the Tropic of Cancer (no!) that we had two summers instead of one...the first in mid-May when the Sun-God is overhead while traveling South to North, and the other in mid-August when doing his return journey, North to South. And, as usual, it is the second one that is the more termagant.
This didn't mean we kids were sheltered indoors in the sweltering unending heat...no...we got used to heat and dust and two summers meant that many more sunny days for outdoor play.
And when the Rest of India was celebrating its charmed Autumnal festivals, we had our own rainy season in late October and November. For an equally mysterious reason, as the South-West Monsoon decides to retreat from the Sub-Continent, it chooses to do so through the Coromandel Coast as if saying, Sorry!
And we are lashed by cyclones, steady downpours and occasional tsunamis for a change. Not for us any autumn...we don't have a Fall Season, no deciduous trees, and no white winters. When the Rest of India starts shivering in woolens and wayside fires, we have sumptuous rains. And when IIT KGP celebrates its Spring Festival rather early in the last week of January, we have our early First Summer. Such is the anomalous nature of our existence and our mental makeup.
But we do choose to follow the Lunar Calendar along with the Rest of Hindu India. So we do celebrate the Navaratri and Diwali in October-November...both rain-washed.
We call our Devi Navaratri Festvial as Dusserah. And it used to be, during my innocence, a kids' festival. The first day of the Navaratri, my parents would download and open a couple of deal-wood boxes in front of our eager eyes. And take out several dolls wrapped carefully in cotton blouses and worn-out strips of silk saris. And arrange them neatly on the floor.
These dolls were not bought in one fell swoop in the market...many of them are family heirlooms purchased one by one over decades in temple-fairs. They were all made of baked and painted clay and very delicate.
And then several chairs, benches, stools and planks were arranged to form a gallery with four or five stairs. And cover them with white dhutis.
Then all the dolls were arranged in strict order to form what we called:
"Doll Gallery" ("Bommala Koluvu"):
The pride of place belonged to Raamjee-Sitajee-Laxman-Hanuman-Combo because Raamjee was supposed to have prayed to Durga Mai before he killed Raavanjee...that is how it always is...an illustrious devotee or student steals the place of his Guru or Teacher...alas!
Then we had Shivjee with the snake around his neck. And many other deities.
For kids there were small figurines of fish, birds, crocs, apes and the inevitable Pappu Chetti:
And we were allotted space in front of the Gallery of Dolls for making our wet-sand-sculptures in a Park. The Park had its toy train, swimming pool, and whatever we could imagine. And we planted some wet dhaniya seeds that grew in three days into sprouts and leaves along the highways of the park.
And we competed with our neighbors for the First Prize of the Gallery of Dolls.
And year by year as we grew along with Free India, the Gallery of Dolls became extinct. To be replaced by Publicized Religion...the bigger the scams grew so did the Diamond-studded Crowns gifted to Tirupati Balajee.
And the Nehruvian Socialism gave way to Indirajee's Emergency, Rajivjee's Assassination, Free Market, Jail Bharo and Blogs.
And the innocence of dolls vanished...
In 1962, my Father was transferred from Kovur to Kandukur. And I was there for my summer vacation from my University to assist him in shifting his luggage on top of a route-bus. The Conductor was in a hurry and midway, when the driver screeched to a sudden halt to save a buffalo we heard a THUMP-THUD and Dhoom and a peal of sounds. When we came out of the bus we found that our two deal-wood boxes fell down and all our dolls were scattered along the road in utter ruins....we left the broken boxes and dolls there itself and resumed our journey.
Soon enough, Nehru lost his China War and passed away...
And took with him our Gallery of Dolls...
Q: What is worse than "Blogging"?
A: "Not Blogging"
...Posted by Ishani
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On the Coast of Coromandel
Where the early pumpkins blow,
In the middle of woods
Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo
I don't know about Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, but I did live on the famed Coromandel Coast (with an Express Train named for it) during my childhood and school days.
This narrow, Chile-like strip of the Southern Coast of the Bay of Bengal is as mysterious as the sound of its name. And its mystery lies in its anomalous climate relative to the Rest of India...indeed even the Rest of AP, like its North Coast, Telengana, Hyderabad and Rayalaseema.
And it is because it lies in a little-understood rain-shadow region. While the Rest of India is celebrating the much-awaited South-West Monsoon, both its wings sweeping the land give it a miss...they just skip by it.
Not for us the dramatic Break of Monsoon with its lightning and thunder and the sudden arrival of cooling moist winds. Not for us the tapur-tupur of rain drops swelling into streams, the songs and dances and heart-throbbing lyrics sung by our Kishore-da like:
"Mere naina saawan bhadon"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hNHyrLNi8zI
And our geography dictates that being sandwiched between the Equator and the Tropic of Cancer (no!) that we had two summers instead of one...the first in mid-May when the Sun-God is overhead while traveling South to North, and the other in mid-August when doing his return journey, North to South. And, as usual, it is the second one that is the more termagant.
This didn't mean we kids were sheltered indoors in the sweltering unending heat...no...we got used to heat and dust and two summers meant that many more sunny days for outdoor play.
And when the Rest of India was celebrating its charmed Autumnal festivals, we had our own rainy season in late October and November. For an equally mysterious reason, as the South-West Monsoon decides to retreat from the Sub-Continent, it chooses to do so through the Coromandel Coast as if saying, Sorry!
And we are lashed by cyclones, steady downpours and occasional tsunamis for a change. Not for us any autumn...we don't have a Fall Season, no deciduous trees, and no white winters. When the Rest of India starts shivering in woolens and wayside fires, we have sumptuous rains. And when IIT KGP celebrates its Spring Festival rather early in the last week of January, we have our early First Summer. Such is the anomalous nature of our existence and our mental makeup.
But we do choose to follow the Lunar Calendar along with the Rest of Hindu India. So we do celebrate the Navaratri and Diwali in October-November...both rain-washed.
We call our Devi Navaratri Festvial as Dusserah. And it used to be, during my innocence, a kids' festival. The first day of the Navaratri, my parents would download and open a couple of deal-wood boxes in front of our eager eyes. And take out several dolls wrapped carefully in cotton blouses and worn-out strips of silk saris. And arrange them neatly on the floor.
These dolls were not bought in one fell swoop in the market...many of them are family heirlooms purchased one by one over decades in temple-fairs. They were all made of baked and painted clay and very delicate.
And then several chairs, benches, stools and planks were arranged to form a gallery with four or five stairs. And cover them with white dhutis.
Then all the dolls were arranged in strict order to form what we called:
"Doll Gallery" ("Bommala Koluvu"):
The pride of place belonged to Raamjee-Sitajee-Laxman-Hanuman-Combo because Raamjee was supposed to have prayed to Durga Mai before he killed Raavanjee...that is how it always is...an illustrious devotee or student steals the place of his Guru or Teacher...alas!
Then we had Shivjee with the snake around his neck. And many other deities.
For kids there were small figurines of fish, birds, crocs, apes and the inevitable Pappu Chetti:
And we were allotted space in front of the Gallery of Dolls for making our wet-sand-sculptures in a Park. The Park had its toy train, swimming pool, and whatever we could imagine. And we planted some wet dhaniya seeds that grew in three days into sprouts and leaves along the highways of the park.
And we competed with our neighbors for the First Prize of the Gallery of Dolls.
And year by year as we grew along with Free India, the Gallery of Dolls became extinct. To be replaced by Publicized Religion...the bigger the scams grew so did the Diamond-studded Crowns gifted to Tirupati Balajee.
And the Nehruvian Socialism gave way to Indirajee's Emergency, Rajivjee's Assassination, Free Market, Jail Bharo and Blogs.
And the innocence of dolls vanished...
In 1962, my Father was transferred from Kovur to Kandukur. And I was there for my summer vacation from my University to assist him in shifting his luggage on top of a route-bus. The Conductor was in a hurry and midway, when the driver screeched to a sudden halt to save a buffalo we heard a THUMP-THUD and Dhoom and a peal of sounds. When we came out of the bus we found that our two deal-wood boxes fell down and all our dolls were scattered along the road in utter ruins....we left the broken boxes and dolls there itself and resumed our journey.
Soon enough, Nehru lost his China War and passed away...
And took with him our Gallery of Dolls...
Q: What is worse than "Blogging"?
A: "Not Blogging"
...Posted by Ishani
**************************************************************************************************************************
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