On the occasion of the birth centenary of Sri Rallapalli Krishnamurthy-garu, August 2011.
....................
I was just a boy - perhaps all of seven years, glowing with all the attention of being the best man (thodi pelli koduku) at my brother's wedding. Friends and relations all over the place, the controlled chaos, fervor and excitement of the upcoming ceremonies, being woken up at odd times to the ear-splitting sounds of nadaswaram and dholu, excited that I will receive a vadina (sister-in-law) in the family... and a bit scared too.
I don't remember seeing Krishnamurthygaru before the wedding... may be I have. But I do remember seeing him, and the rest of the Rallapalli clan, at the marriage hall. I would run around the satram with my similar aged cousins, proudly wearing my new shirt and shorts, my eyes slightly smudged with katuka (eye liner) because I was freshly 'anointed' with a katuka and bugga chukka (black dot on the cheek) proclaiming my status as the best man.
I would hide behind the corners and pillars, stealing glances at the woman who would become my vadina as she bobbed and disappeared behind a sea of silk clad relatives. I remember she looked nervous, which made it OK because I was nervous too. I remember Sugunammagaru calling out to me, gathering me to her and speaking to me. Again, I don't remember what she said, but I do remember she kept smiling at me, which too made it OK. And I remember running away from Krishnamurthygaru and the rest of the male elders because, well, they were elders and they were male.
For a seven year old, there was nothing more terrifying than being accosted by male elders, and there was nothing more comforting than being shown motherly affection by the women elders. I remember too, that my yet-to-be vadina smiling at me as I looked at her. But it was the smile of a nervous bride, herself anxious, herself unsure.
My cousins and I were always the first ones to sit down to a wedding meal - first batch, first row; leaning against the thickly painted green walls, rickety old fans making more noise than wind, small plantain leaves and steel glasses set in rows on the floor, smells of pongal and halva wafting down the hall, towel-clad servers pouring dark coffee from tall steel jugs.
As the ceremonies rolled on, I would sit next my brother and watch my new would-be family through the pungent smoke of the homams, fragrant with the smell of burnt ghee - my nervous looking vadina, the quiet (perhaps apprehensive in her own way) Sugunammagaru (What I should call her? Atta?), and the stern looking (stern to the eyes of a seven year old) Krishnamurthygaru. But I was not anxious - after all, I was in the strength-giving proximity of my brother, and my mother sitting a row behind me.
I don't think I spoke with Krishnamurthygaru at all.
Cut to a visit to Chennai, much after the wedding (was it Avadi, or was it someplace else before that?). All I remember is being anxious once more because I was at 'their' house. Once again, the warm presence of Sugunamma garu made it less nervous. I remember Hindi songs being played or sung - a language as alien to me then as Hebrew. I remember Lata Mangeshkar was a hot favorite ("Rasik balma hai..."), although I didn't know who (or what) Lata Mangeshkar was. I remember a few Telugu songs too, nervously sung by vadina ("Radhaku neevera pranam").
All the while, I would avoid being caught alone by the 'male elders' mentioned, particularly the 'elderest' of them all. I was still terrified of Krishnamurthygaru. I mean what if, as is their usual wont, they asked me to recite a multiplication table or two, what if they asked me about things I didn't now but didn't want to admit - like the capital of a state?
It was the age when all men tried to test you, while all women just gave you their love.
But as it happened, one morning I was sitting down doing nothing in particular and Krishnamurthygaru stepped into the hall, freshly bathed and wrapped in towels. My heart sank at being alone with him. And then the dreaded thing happened. Standing near the other end of the hall, he asked me what time it was. There was, of course, a clock on the wall. As I looked at it, my mind froze (did I really know how to tell the time at that age? Alas, I don't remember). May be I read the time accurately (chinna mullu for hours and pedda mullu multiplied by five) or may be I just made up an answer.
But even as I was dearly wishing I was in the kitchen with Sugunammagaru and her comforting presence, I had no option but to croak out an answer. It is highly probable I made something up out of sheer panic. I thought he might shout at me, I thought he would glare at me, I was worried he would ridicule me, I feared he would ask me more 'test' questions - but, in the end, he just looked at me and smiled.
May be I read the time right and passed the test (unlikely). Or may be, he just wanted me to be more relaxed with him (more likely). At any rate, his smile was a huge huge relief and I think I was less petrified of him after that.
I know that as a recall and remembrance, this is somewhat meager. But if life is a tapestry of multiple weaves and connections, perhaps this too has it's own place, even if the particular thread is a short one.
....................
I was just a boy - perhaps all of seven years, glowing with all the attention of being the best man (thodi pelli koduku) at my brother's wedding. Friends and relations all over the place, the controlled chaos, fervor and excitement of the upcoming ceremonies, being woken up at odd times to the ear-splitting sounds of nadaswaram and dholu, excited that I will receive a vadina (sister-in-law) in the family... and a bit scared too.
I don't remember seeing Krishnamurthygaru before the wedding... may be I have. But I do remember seeing him, and the rest of the Rallapalli clan, at the marriage hall. I would run around the satram with my similar aged cousins, proudly wearing my new shirt and shorts, my eyes slightly smudged with katuka (eye liner) because I was freshly 'anointed' with a katuka and bugga chukka (black dot on the cheek) proclaiming my status as the best man.
I would hide behind the corners and pillars, stealing glances at the woman who would become my vadina as she bobbed and disappeared behind a sea of silk clad relatives. I remember she looked nervous, which made it OK because I was nervous too. I remember Sugunammagaru calling out to me, gathering me to her and speaking to me. Again, I don't remember what she said, but I do remember she kept smiling at me, which too made it OK. And I remember running away from Krishnamurthygaru and the rest of the male elders because, well, they were elders and they were male.
For a seven year old, there was nothing more terrifying than being accosted by male elders, and there was nothing more comforting than being shown motherly affection by the women elders. I remember too, that my yet-to-be vadina smiling at me as I looked at her. But it was the smile of a nervous bride, herself anxious, herself unsure.
My cousins and I were always the first ones to sit down to a wedding meal - first batch, first row; leaning against the thickly painted green walls, rickety old fans making more noise than wind, small plantain leaves and steel glasses set in rows on the floor, smells of pongal and halva wafting down the hall, towel-clad servers pouring dark coffee from tall steel jugs.
As the ceremonies rolled on, I would sit next my brother and watch my new would-be family through the pungent smoke of the homams, fragrant with the smell of burnt ghee - my nervous looking vadina, the quiet (perhaps apprehensive in her own way) Sugunammagaru (What I should call her? Atta?), and the stern looking (stern to the eyes of a seven year old) Krishnamurthygaru. But I was not anxious - after all, I was in the strength-giving proximity of my brother, and my mother sitting a row behind me.
I don't think I spoke with Krishnamurthygaru at all.
Cut to a visit to Chennai, much after the wedding (was it Avadi, or was it someplace else before that?). All I remember is being anxious once more because I was at 'their' house. Once again, the warm presence of Sugunamma garu made it less nervous. I remember Hindi songs being played or sung - a language as alien to me then as Hebrew. I remember Lata Mangeshkar was a hot favorite ("Rasik balma hai..."), although I didn't know who (or what) Lata Mangeshkar was. I remember a few Telugu songs too, nervously sung by vadina ("Radhaku neevera pranam").
All the while, I would avoid being caught alone by the 'male elders' mentioned, particularly the 'elderest' of them all. I was still terrified of Krishnamurthygaru. I mean what if, as is their usual wont, they asked me to recite a multiplication table or two, what if they asked me about things I didn't now but didn't want to admit - like the capital of a state?
But as it happened, one morning I was sitting down doing nothing in particular and Krishnamurthygaru stepped into the hall, freshly bathed and wrapped in towels. My heart sank at being alone with him. And then the dreaded thing happened. Standing near the other end of the hall, he asked me what time it was. There was, of course, a clock on the wall. As I looked at it, my mind froze (did I really know how to tell the time at that age? Alas, I don't remember). May be I read the time accurately (chinna mullu for hours and pedda mullu multiplied by five) or may be I just made up an answer.
But even as I was dearly wishing I was in the kitchen with Sugunammagaru and her comforting presence, I had no option but to croak out an answer. It is highly probable I made something up out of sheer panic. I thought he might shout at me, I thought he would glare at me, I was worried he would ridicule me, I feared he would ask me more 'test' questions - but, in the end, he just looked at me and smiled.
May be I read the time right and passed the test (unlikely). Or may be, he just wanted me to be more relaxed with him (more likely). At any rate, his smile was a huge huge relief and I think I was less petrified of him after that.
I know that as a recall and remembrance, this is somewhat meager. But if life is a tapestry of multiple weaves and connections, perhaps this too has it's own place, even if the particular thread is a short one.
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