Chapter 17: chapter 17

13When I started residing in Hyderabad I used to say to those who asked me where my residence was, that I was staying in the Fever hospital. On hearing that answer everybody would ask, “Fever Hospital? Aren’t you well?” Then I would correct: “ Nearby… in the Fever hospital area!” A few would also ask me why I was staying in that area avoiding Secunderabad where the Tamils lived in large numbers!I was staying there with my bachelor friends. Fever Hospital denoted the surrounding area too. It was also a treatment center for many an illness and also was a research center for diseases. During day time, if one glanced from outside one could see a large crowd inside the compound. Many women would be there with dirty black purdha. That place was always dirty.If one crossed that dirt-filled place, one could see the railway crossing. Eagles were always flying over there. I’d heard that there was a factory manufacturing manure from the bones of buffaloes, bulls and other animals. The air was stinking. The tall and large compound wall hid everything.I had to cross that place to reach where I was staying. That building was not plastered. In one of the rooms upstairs, I was staying with Thirunath and Subba Rao, who were officers like me in the Telecom Department. There was another portion that was vacant for a long time. It was my prayer that it should be occupied by a Tamil family. I had not started learning Telugu yet. In the office we conversed in English. As the people in the office thought that it was a great honour to talk in English it acted as a deterrent for me to start learning Telugu. I felt sad when a Telugu family occupied that vacant house. It consisted of a couple and an unmarried middle-aged spinster. About that woman I’d made a note in my story, Innoru Murai Mounam (Silnce Once Again). In those days, I liked to give titles to my stories like that and to begin and end a short story with verses. Na. Kathirvelan said that the character Seetha in that story disturbed him very much when he read it in Kanayazhi. That month writer Tirupur Krishnan was given the honour of selecting the best short story for the Ilakkiya Sindhanai award. He had selected Piramil’s Ilankapuri Raja. In my story the character Seetha used to wear panties. She would wash them and dry them on the clothes line. Krishnan told me that he could not digest that. He felt like vomiting when he read that a woman wore panties. Na. Kathirvelan was writing to everybody about the short-story, Ovvoru Rajakaumarikkullum. He was acting like an advertiser for that story. (Na. Kathirvelan is now working in Ananda Vikatan).It was very comforting for me when Na. Kathirvelan came to our room and talked about writers. We had our holidays on different days. Therefore, we had to select National holidays that were common to both of us to meet and talk. In the 80s good anti-heroes gave good films in Hindi. There were good anti-heroes like Om Puri, Naseeruddin Sha and actresses like Shabana Azmi, Smita Patel, Kalpsan Karbandhar. Both of us didn’t know Hindi. But we literally ran to see Hindi movies especially the films with anti-heroes. We regularly saw good films like, Arth, Ardh Satya, Sparsh, Mandi, Mirch Masala. We could not understand the dialogues. Neither could we understand the endings. We discussed them. Sometimes, the translations of the punch dialogues would be correct as we had guessed. Even without knowing Hindi, we jointly wrote critiques in Kanayazhi on Hindi films.Kathirvelan was staying in another suburban area, called Jeedimetla. He had to undertake a long journey to come to the Fever hospital from there. But Kathirvelan would undertake that journey with much enthusiasm. He was working in a glucose manufacturing factory. He did not like the loneliness he experienced in that factory and his low salary. He dreamt about getting a job in the Kunrakudi Ashram or the research center in Karaikudi. Whenever he went home he requested me to write letters to his village address without fail.He also insisted that I should write his degree ‘M.A.’ after his name. There was another Kathirvelan in his village. He said that only the letters ‘M.A.’ distinguished him from the other. He was very proud that he was the only post-graduate in his village. Whenever he went to his village during long vacations, I wrote letters to his village address with the letters ‘M.A.’ after his name without fail. His village was near Sivaganga in the South Tamil Nadu. Whenever I remembered, I also wrote ‘B.Sc., M.A.,’ after his name.Whenever his factory was not working because of some problems, Kathirvelan would not go home. Then, unable to bear the loneliness, he would write letters to me. The papers he used to write his letters were of a very fine quality. They were very thin with a white and light pink shade. His handwriting was very clear to read. Whenever he talked about good works, he always began his commentary with the words, ‘How beautiful!’ His reaction seemed a bit too much to me. I even thought I was not ready enough to express my appreciation like him. I felt I was correct about my woodenness. Those words reflected his sense of wonder and his boundless eagerness to appreciate good things. To come to Fever Hospital area, he had to change two or three buses.By the time he discovered how to reach my place by a single bus, I had shifted my residence to Secunderabad. Even after my marriage he used to visit me with his shoulder bag filled with big glucose packets and books. He used to appreciate and encourage my wife Suganthi’s skills in drawing. On days he could not come, the unopened packets of glucose reminded him.To escape from his dull job in the glucose factory, he went to Chennai and joined Lenin, the famous editor of films. I met him in Lenin’s lab after many years. I felt that he had the same mind- set like the one he had when he had worked in the glucose factory. His only consolation was that he was working in the cine-field. Surrounded by books and friends, he was feeling a little comfortable.Recently, a weekly was giving freebees. Attracted by the freebees I bought that magazine for some weeks. One week I got a glucose packet free. I also bought the weekly Anandha Vikatan. It had an article by Kathirvelan. When I saw both the glucose packet and his article together, I recalled with some joy my wanderings in the streets of Secunderabad.Even now, the tangent that connected the Fever hospital, the glucose packets and Na. Kathirvelan stay permanently in me!During the Secunderabad book exhibition it was very difficult to get the event advertised and to make the news about the book exhibition reach the people. The biggest advertisement we could make was to print 2000 handbills and insert them in popular weeklies like Kumudham and Vikatan. Even that cost Rs. 300. Deccan Chronicle was a newspaper that gave importance to local news. It had a good circulation. It always carried ‘The Events Today’ column. It reached a large number of people. My desire to pull a large number of Tamil people to the exhibition would always end unsatisfactorily. I had no ‘muscle’ power to fulfil my dream. I had to run literally here and there, even within the members of Kanavu to reach out.The Secunderabad railway station road led to the Monda market. There was a stop near Menon’s shop. Menon was an agent for Tamil weeklies. On the days when those weeklies came out I had to go to the Railway Station to insert the hand bills into them. The job had to be done, mostly, early in the mornings. I had to tolerate the biting cold. The handbills were very small (4”x6”). I had to pay an amount for that… something like ‘this much for 100 handbills’. The cost increased every year. When I told them that I’d paid only a lesser amount last year, the man in the shop would take out a note book, browse through it and would say, “O.K. Give this much!” I don’t know who Menon was! There was an old man with a silver beard wearing threads of beads, like the ones worn by the pilgrims of Sabarimala. Sometimes there were young men too. All are ‘Menons’ to me!It was an art to insert the handbills inside the weeklies. One had to evince keen interest just when the bundles are opened. People would be ready to take up the magazines in tens. if one was not careful enough, one would lose those numbers. The bundles had to be moved a bit apart, opened and the hand bills had to be inserted. One had to hurry through. The small hand bills would stick together sometimes. It was very difficult to insert them in weeklies like Kumudham and Vikatan due to their small size. Sometimes, more than one handbill would go into a copy. Some copies would have no handbills at all. That would sadden me.Two thousand handbills had to be inserted. One had to the work very fast and it would give me pain in the shoulder at times. Sometimes this would lead to temporary numbness of muscles. I would feel at such times that I should lie down somewhere. There were days when the winter was severe. Kumudham and Vikatan came out on different days. If I could not insert the handbills into the weeklies the news about the exhibition would not reach Tamils. Then the bad news that the book exhibition was a failure would struck me like thunder in the beginning itself. Sometimes, the bundles would not come in the usual early morning train. Instead, they would come in the afternoon or night trains. At such times Menon would not care to hear my pleas… Then I would feel as though I was struck by thunder and lightning together. Then I had to wait for the days on which Kalki or MangayarMalar came out. If the book exhibition had started in the meantime, I felt I was shipwrecked in a storm. When everything went well and we had put the handbills in Kumudham and Vikatan, then the time for opening the exhibition would sync.It was difficult for me to insert the handbills into the weeklies singlehanded. In the winter season nobody would come to help me. Parthasarathy from Chilkalguda, C.C.M.P. Arul, Moula Ali, Mahadevan and Muthuswamy from Second Bazaar- I could not call any of them in the early mornings. If I hired somebody to do this work, I had to pay him as I did for Menon. Sometimes, the very thought that I might not be able to insert the handbills, would bring me shoulder pain.One day I had told Somaiya to knock at my door at 4 0’ clock in the morning. Somaiya was doing odd jobs in the Monda market and the Secunderabad Railway Station. He had been a permanent employee of the Fever hospital but he was dismissed for some reason. So, he had to do odd jobs. But Somaiya did not knock at my doors as had been instructed. Thinking about the ‘handbill work’, I could not sleep. The 4”x6” handbills were floating in my dreams. As I was sleepless there was a burning sensation in my eyes.I could not go to the Secunderabad railway station to search for Somaiya. If I was late, then Menon would move the bundles away from the railway station. I went to the Clock Tower area. There was a man warming himself in a small bonfire of small sticks and waste material. I liked the fastness with which he was rubbing his palms. I thought that it would be nice to find somebody like him to insert the handbills with the same speed. I went near him and in my hurry, murmured “notice, notice’. Without understanding what I was saying, he raised his head to see me, pathetically. I again said ‘notice, notice’ It was very difficult for me to explain to him about the work in Telugu. He looked at me with a questioning look. His hair was grey. He had a beard that was not shaven for weeks! When he asked me ‘what?’ I felt some consolation. I explained to him quickly. He asked, “Is it a new work? Can I get it daily?” I thought that if I said that the work was for only one day, he might not come. So, I said, “frequently!” We took some tea in the Irani tea shop that was opposite to Manohar Theatre. Maharajan told me that once Tamil films were screened in Manohar theatre. I understood that his name was Maharajan. He was about forty. If he had a liking for Tamil films, then he must be a new comer, I thought. A new comer would long for a few days for Tamil films and dhal curry for some days in the beginning. He told me, “I am new to Secunderabad!”It seemed that my shoulder pain had gone off! Maharajan inserted the handbills fast. The work was over quickly. I gave a lesser amount to the ‘new’ Menon in the book stall. The new Menon, wearing the dress of an Ayappa pilgrim received the money with a smile. To me he seemed that he was Lord Ayappa himself.As we crossed the Manohar theatre I asked Maharajan, “Shall we take another cup of tea?” He told me that we could walk up to the Ajantha theatre which was nearby. We could take tea there, he said. He also told me that he had seen the film Mayuri in the Ajantha theatre and the way the dancer - heroine Sudha Chandran, who had lost her legs in an accident, danced had made him weep. He had heard about Madala Rangarao and saw a film by him. He told me that he was a fan of our Rangarao. In that film Rangarao appeared with a red blanket wound around his shoulder and waving red flags in his hands. He fought for the downtrodden. Saying that he was a Naxalite, he raised his voice against the rich and kicked them out. Inspired by him, many raised their voices against the rich, stirring the whole village.He also told me that he liked Madala Rangarao more than our Rangarao.Maharajan liked the tea from the Irani tea stall. He said that he liked its cardamom flavour and the hot tea that was boiling all the time. I didn’t like tea that way. “The tea would be boiling always in a big vessel and sometimes it burns the tongue. That’s why I didn’t like the boiling tea. To drink tea from a saucer is inconvenient for me,” I said.Maharajan was from Gudalur. It was a small town that lay on the way from Kundah to Ooty. It was a thick forest area. “I lived a somewhat satisfactory life. There was some sudden pricking problem that drove me!”He had spent his life in gardening and working in tea estates. “For some years I could not like what’s happening there. We used to call the leader of our hatti ‘God’. Now and then, he would call us and give us some big work. For the past two or three years, a particular kind of work was coming often. He used to call us in fifties or even hundreds, that too on new moon days. They would take us in a lorry and drop us on some spot in the thick forest. They would draw a boundary line and then would ask us to fell all the trees within that boundary line before dawn. Very rarely, we would get whisky or brandy but arrack would always be available. They would give us hundred rupees and a packet of biriyani. We had to fell all the trees. Like this, they would call us once in three months and ask us to fell the trees. As the day dawned, they would drop us back in our hatti.We thought that it was quite a normal work. But slowly we began to understand the secret. We, about a hundred people, would go in the night and fell the trees. Then the owner who was living on the other side would launch a formal complaint with the police, a kind of eyewash, you know. The police would not take any action. After a few days, some crops would be grown on that land. Soon there would be a few huts and the crops would be grown further. Nobody could occupy or take over the land in the forest area. Slowly the number of huts would increase. But once the forest was destroyed and made into arable land influential people could become its owners with or without documentation. Generations could enjoy such benefits. Such things were happening now and then. On one of such trips, the enemies of our owner made us fell the trees in the reserved forest area- this they did, to create some problems for our owner. Once, unknowingly, we felled the trees of a very influential person just for a quarter, a packet of biriyani and a hundred rupees. The police filed a case on ten of us. That’s why I had run away from my hatti leaving my wife and children. I cannot return until normalcy returns. Somebody asked us to cut the tress and we had been made scapegoats”.After that, I had met Maharajan three or four times during my morning walk. He used to say, “Things haven’t become normal yet in my place!”When I went to the yoga classes conducted in the Vemana Research Institute that was behind the Mahbub college, to cure my breathing problems, I met Maharajan. He was like anugly sack of potatoes- very weak in body and spirit. He smiled pathetically, as if there was nothing new to narrate.