'Readings: Manjit Bawa’
Compiled and edited by Ina Puri
Lalit Kala Akademi
New Delhi
2010
226 pages.
Full colour illustrations.
Rs. 1,000.
Saturday, 31 March 2012
Manjit Bawa: Readings
I have an interview with the late Indian artist Manjit Bawa, titled 'Art is an Attitude' in this richly-compiled tribute to him, published by the Lalit Kala Akademi.
'Readings: Manjit Bawa’
Compiled and edited by Ina Puri
Lalit Kala Akademi
New Delhi
2010
226 pages.
Full colour illustrations.
Rs. 1,000.
'Readings: Manjit Bawa’
Compiled and edited by Ina Puri
Lalit Kala Akademi
New Delhi
2010
226 pages.
Full colour illustrations.
Rs. 1,000.
Manu Parekh: Banaras - Eternity watches Time
Manu Parekh: Banaras - Eternity watches Time
Mapin Publishing and Lund Humphries
224 pages
84 colour illustrations
2007
Hardcover
Rs. 2,000/ £35.00
ISBN: 978-0-85331-963-4
The jacket blurb reads:
Situated on the Ganges, Banaras is a pilgrimage site where the Hindu faithful bathe in the sacred river. The site contains more than 1,500 temples and mosques and 100 bathing and burning ghats, of which Manikarnika ghat is the most sacred. To die in Banaras is to die blessed; many move here to live out their final days.
Manu Parekh has executed a series of paintings inspired by the city. In turn, this book is a collection of the essays by eight writers who have been inspired by his work. Tanuj Berry considers the use of red in the Banaras paintings while Aditi De looks at the theme of holiness and pilgrimage. These essays offer a thorough assessment of the themes and motivations in the series. We hear the voice of Manu Parekh in an interview with the artist in which he explains what attracted him to Banaras and how the city ignited his creativity.
The Banaras series is a symbolic rendering of the relationship between faith and fear, a dynamic which the artist identifies as uniquely Indian. Painted in the Indian Expressionist style, these works have a significant role in the development of modern Indian painting.
The contents:
~ Foreword: Tanuj Berry and Saman Malik
~ A Sanctum of the Human Spirit: Aditi De
~ Night Landscape of Banaras: Peter Osborne
~ Eternity Watches Time: Ashok Vajpeyi
~ Landscape as Mindscape: Meera Menezes
~ Talking da Vinci and Tagore: Meera Menezes
~ The Sensual Engine: How to Find Majaa in Manu Parekh's Banaras: Jeet Thayil
~ No One is Alone in Banaras: Ashok Vajpeyi
~ Banaras in Monsoon: Marilyn Rushton
~ Landscape of Banaras: Peter Osborne
~ Dawn Light Deities: Marilyn Rushton
~ Moonlight Banaras: Marilyn Rushton
~ The Thrice-Named City: A Colour Alphabet: Jeet Thayil
~ Banaras in Red: Tanuj Berry
~ The Blue Surge of Banaras: Aditi De
Chronology
Notes on Contributors.
* * *
I have two essays in the beautifully produced Lund Humphries/ Mapin book about artist Manu Parekh's diptychs and triptrychs on the holy city of Banaras.
The opening essay, titled 'A sanctum of the holy spirit,' explores why the city inspires great works of art.
An excerpt:
On the canvas lie mere hints. Of
journeys without route maps. Or puzzles sans solutions. Or even landscapes
untraceable by a normal intelligence.
What is this mythic landscape? Peopled
by Saivite shades, by the eternal union of Varuna and Assi, a fusion beyond
mere tributaries or a divine conclave. Or even a vision beyond 108 avatars.
Reincarnated, rising from the ashes of each creation, infinitely potent,
indestructible beyond imagining. And deeply imbued with the power to wash away
all earthly sins.
Awash in brush strokes propelled by
emotion, orgasmic colour frets, fumes, fusses and pauses for no man. It
synthesizes dawn and dusk in a timeless city. It harnesses the mutual ecstasy
of darkness and light. It mutes, suggests, then shrouds over, the potency of a
higher power.
Can a city ever embody all the
thoughts of its denizens since it rose from the dust? Why should religion be
stifled by a name, a face, a local habitation? What dreams, what prayers, what progressive
thoughts direct its longevity, its teeming paean to a world beyond the merely
mortal?
Is Banaras,
then, a search for a resting space for ancestral spirits? A destination between
the now and the thereafter? An elusive
eternal search without an anchor, or even a horizon?
* * *
The closing interview-based essay is titled 'The Blue Surge of Banaras.' An excerpt:
What
distinguishes the energy of Banaras from that
of other cities? How does a city evolve from a mere locale to a spiritual
harbour? Can inspiration spring from jostling crowds by Ganga-side shrines, a
shakti pitha, a jyotirlinga, once named Avimukta? Can great devotion wash away
a mortal sin?
I feel my Calcutta
period was an inner landscape, while Banaras is
an outer one. The latter is distinctive because of its light and shadows, both
natural and manmade. In the decoration of a temple, its garba dwar, the drama
enacted within it, I glimpsed the varied human activity I so admired in Calcutta. I found here
the Indian quality of light I admired in Rabindranath Tagore’s paintings.
But the biggest attraction to me was
the people and their collective faith. One day, I was waiting at the Dasashwamedh
Ghat. It was filled with young married couples in bright clothes, with red and
yellow flowers all around. Soon afterwards, at the Manikarnika Ghat, I saw the
same flowers around a body laid out for the last rites.
I vividly recall the shaven head of
a widow amidst rituals. People may be uneducated, but not unintelligent. They
followed the priest through the rituals without question because of their love
for their elders. When I roamed about Banaras
at night, often I’d come across a small mandir lit from within. I’d discern a
sudden movement ~ a pujari performing rites.
Life and death co-exist so
organically in Banaras. That attracts me ~ the
everyday evidence of common people bathing in the Ganga,
praying at a shrine, then re-entering life. In this series, I tried to create a
human space without using human beings. If I had put a person or a face in, it
would have become a calendar!
The Madras Metaphor: P S Nandhan
My earliest art essay in a book was on the Chennai-based sculptor, P S Nandan. He lives in the Cholamandal Artists Village at Injambakkam.
An excerpt from the 1992 piece about this retiring, reticent artist:
"When Nandan, with his roots firmly embedded in the folk tradition turns to explore the realm of abstract sculpture in granite, wood, or metal, questions inevitably surface, both about his medium and his motivation. This is particularly true with regard to his current granite series titled 'Movement of Lines,' which twists out of the innards of solid rock the motion inherent in all natural forms, the rhythm of shore-bound waves, the sway of branches in mid-motion, the visual poetry of clouds as they move. Preserving the grainy texture of the substance, which is reverentially left undisturbed, the sculptor wrests from the unmoving mass spatial arrangements which harmonize the logical requirements of abstraction with the basic tenets of folk art..."
The essay was commissioned by Prof. Josef James for the volume below:
Contemporary Indian Sculpture: The Madras Metaphor
Edited by Josef James
Oxford University Press
1993
168 pages
Hardcover
Rs. 750
An excerpt from the 1992 piece about this retiring, reticent artist:
"When Nandan, with his roots firmly embedded in the folk tradition turns to explore the realm of abstract sculpture in granite, wood, or metal, questions inevitably surface, both about his medium and his motivation. This is particularly true with regard to his current granite series titled 'Movement of Lines,' which twists out of the innards of solid rock the motion inherent in all natural forms, the rhythm of shore-bound waves, the sway of branches in mid-motion, the visual poetry of clouds as they move. Preserving the grainy texture of the substance, which is reverentially left undisturbed, the sculptor wrests from the unmoving mass spatial arrangements which harmonize the logical requirements of abstraction with the basic tenets of folk art..."
The essay was commissioned by Prof. Josef James for the volume below:
Contemporary Indian Sculpture: The Madras Metaphor
Edited by Josef James
Oxford University Press
1993
168 pages
Hardcover
Rs. 750
The arts beat! Feel the heat!
'The art beat! Feel the heat'
That's the title of my essay on covering the arts in the Indian media since June 1976. It's a tongue-in-cheek, informal, straight-from-the-heart piece, peppered with anecdotes and encounters in real time.
The essay can be found in the book below:
'21st century journalism in India'
Edited by Nalini Rajan
2007
324 pages
Hardcover
Rs. 695
That's the title of my essay on covering the arts in the Indian media since June 1976. It's a tongue-in-cheek, informal, straight-from-the-heart piece, peppered with anecdotes and encounters in real time.
The essay can be found in the book below:
'21st century journalism in India'
Edited by Nalini Rajan
2007
324 pages
Hardcover
Rs. 695
Jawaharlal Nehru: The Jewel of India
'Jawaharlal Nehru: The Jewel of India'
Puffin India (Puffin Lives series).
143 pages.
Paperback.
September 2009.
Rs. 150.
It was midnight on August 14, 1947. Jawaharlal Nehru, dressed in a pale cream achkan, a white khadi cap on his head, rose to speak to independent India as its first Prime Minister. His emotion-charged voice was carried to millions of Indians over the radio. Though his eyes were shadow-lined, they grew brighter as Jawaharlal began to speak…
Pandit Nehru’s words that night have remained etched in the nation’s memory ever since. Born to a privileged family in Allahabad, Jawaharlal went on to become a leading figure of the Indian independence movement. During the struggle he spent nearly nine years in prison, watched others in his family jailed time and again, and led numerous protest marches and agitations. Working alongside Mahatma Gandhi, he helped India keep its tryst with destiny and become a free nation.
Aditi De recounts the story of Jawaharlal Nehru’s extraordinary life in this sparkling biography for young readers. Filled with charming anecdotes, it recounts episodes from Nehru’s childhood, his fascination with books and scientific experiments, his student years in England, and how he was drawn to the growing struggle for Indian independence. Finally, she sketches his role as the first Indian Prime Minister, and how he shaped the newly-formed democratic republic. Packed with little known nuggets of information, and trivia about the times, this book in the Puffin Lives series brings alive the thoughts and actions of one of modern India’s most important personalities.
* * *
A link to a review by Pravina Shivram in Young India Books:
http://youngindiabooks.com/bookrev/jawaharlal-nehru-jewel-india
Puffin India (Puffin Lives series).
143 pages.
Paperback.
September 2009.
Rs. 150.
It was midnight on August 14, 1947. Jawaharlal Nehru, dressed in a pale cream achkan, a white khadi cap on his head, rose to speak to independent India as its first Prime Minister. His emotion-charged voice was carried to millions of Indians over the radio. Though his eyes were shadow-lined, they grew brighter as Jawaharlal began to speak…
Pandit Nehru’s words that night have remained etched in the nation’s memory ever since. Born to a privileged family in Allahabad, Jawaharlal went on to become a leading figure of the Indian independence movement. During the struggle he spent nearly nine years in prison, watched others in his family jailed time and again, and led numerous protest marches and agitations. Working alongside Mahatma Gandhi, he helped India keep its tryst with destiny and become a free nation.
Aditi De recounts the story of Jawaharlal Nehru’s extraordinary life in this sparkling biography for young readers. Filled with charming anecdotes, it recounts episodes from Nehru’s childhood, his fascination with books and scientific experiments, his student years in England, and how he was drawn to the growing struggle for Indian independence. Finally, she sketches his role as the first Indian Prime Minister, and how he shaped the newly-formed democratic republic. Packed with little known nuggets of information, and trivia about the times, this book in the Puffin Lives series brings alive the thoughts and actions of one of modern India’s most important personalities.
* * *
A link to a review by Pravina Shivram in Young India Books:
http://youngindiabooks.com/bookrev/jawaharlal-nehru-jewel-india
Multiple City: Writings on Bangalore
'Multiple City: Writings on Bangalore'
Edited by Aditi De
Penguin India.
2008.
Paperback.
316 pages.
Rs. 395.
December 2008.
Founded by the chieftain Kempe Gowda around 1537, the story of Bangalore has no grand linear narrative. The location has revealed different facets to settlers and passers-through. The city, the site of bloody battles between the British and Tipu Sultan, was once attached to the glittering court of Mysore. Later, it became a cantonment town where British troops were stationed. Over time, it morphed into a city of gardens and lakes, and the capital of Indian scientific research. More recently, it has been the hub of India's information technology boom, giving rise to Brand Bangalore, an Indian city whose name is recognized globally. Hidden beneath these layers lies a cosmopolitan city of sub-cultures, engaging artists and writers, young geeks and students. People from every corner of India and beyond now call it home.
In this collection of writings about a multi-layered city, there are stories from its history, translations from Kannada literature, personal responses to the city's mindscape, portraits of special citizens, accounts of searches for lost communities and traditions, among much more. U.R. Ananthamurthy writes about Bangalore's Kannada identity; Shashi Deshpande maps the city through the places she has lived in since she was a young girl; Anita Nair draws a touching portrait of a florist who celebrates the glories of the Raj; Ramachandra Guha describes his close bond with Bangalore's most unusual bookseller; and Rajmohan Gandhi recounts the Mahatma's trysts with the city. From traditional folk ballads to a nursery rhyme about Bangalore, from poems to blogs, from reproductions of turn of the twentieth century picture postcards to cartoons, Multiple City is the portrait of a metropolis trying to retain its roots as it hurtles into the future.
This anthology includes 51 contributors, three translators, drawings, cartoons, even 19th century picture postcards. It ranges from ballads to blogs, plays to nursery rhymes, short stories to essays, film songs to poems, history to memoirs, and much more.
Contributors include William Dalrymple, Winston Churchill, Rajmohan Gandhi, Thomas L. Friedman, U.R. Ananthamurthy, Shashi Deshpande, Ramachandra Guha, Pankaj Mishra, R.K. Narayan, Chiranjiv Singh, P. Lankesh, S. Diwakar, Siddalingaiah, Janaki Nair, Zac O'Yeah, Maya Kamath, Anjum Hasan, Jeremy Seabrook, Mahesh Dattani, Tejaswini Niranjana, Prathibha Nandakumar.
* * *
Here are links to some reviews of the anthology:
~ Sumana Mukherjee in Live Mint:
http://www.livemint.com/2008/11/20235748/In-the-land-of-Kempe-Gowda.html
~ Nitya Rao in Outlook Traveller:
http://traveller.outlookindia.com/issuecontent.aspx?id=1562&type=38&flag=issuehome
~ Kala Krishnan Ramesh in The Hindu Literary Review:
http://www.hindu.com/lr/2009/01/04/stories/2009010450080200.htm
Edited by Aditi De
Penguin India.
2008.
Paperback.
316 pages.
Rs. 395.
December 2008.
Founded by the chieftain Kempe Gowda around 1537, the story of Bangalore has no grand linear narrative. The location has revealed different facets to settlers and passers-through. The city, the site of bloody battles between the British and Tipu Sultan, was once attached to the glittering court of Mysore. Later, it became a cantonment town where British troops were stationed. Over time, it morphed into a city of gardens and lakes, and the capital of Indian scientific research. More recently, it has been the hub of India's information technology boom, giving rise to Brand Bangalore, an Indian city whose name is recognized globally. Hidden beneath these layers lies a cosmopolitan city of sub-cultures, engaging artists and writers, young geeks and students. People from every corner of India and beyond now call it home.
In this collection of writings about a multi-layered city, there are stories from its history, translations from Kannada literature, personal responses to the city's mindscape, portraits of special citizens, accounts of searches for lost communities and traditions, among much more. U.R. Ananthamurthy writes about Bangalore's Kannada identity; Shashi Deshpande maps the city through the places she has lived in since she was a young girl; Anita Nair draws a touching portrait of a florist who celebrates the glories of the Raj; Ramachandra Guha describes his close bond with Bangalore's most unusual bookseller; and Rajmohan Gandhi recounts the Mahatma's trysts with the city. From traditional folk ballads to a nursery rhyme about Bangalore, from poems to blogs, from reproductions of turn of the twentieth century picture postcards to cartoons, Multiple City is the portrait of a metropolis trying to retain its roots as it hurtles into the future.
This anthology includes 51 contributors, three translators, drawings, cartoons, even 19th century picture postcards. It ranges from ballads to blogs, plays to nursery rhymes, short stories to essays, film songs to poems, history to memoirs, and much more.
Contributors include William Dalrymple, Winston Churchill, Rajmohan Gandhi, Thomas L. Friedman, U.R. Ananthamurthy, Shashi Deshpande, Ramachandra Guha, Pankaj Mishra, R.K. Narayan, Chiranjiv Singh, P. Lankesh, S. Diwakar, Siddalingaiah, Janaki Nair, Zac O'Yeah, Maya Kamath, Anjum Hasan, Jeremy Seabrook, Mahesh Dattani, Tejaswini Niranjana, Prathibha Nandakumar.
* * *
Here are links to some reviews of the anthology:
~ Sumana Mukherjee in Live Mint:
http://www.livemint.com/2008/11/20235748/In-the-land-of-Kempe-Gowda.html
~ Nitya Rao in Outlook Traveller:
http://traveller.outlookindia.com/issuecontent.aspx?id=1562&type=38&flag=issuehome
~ Kala Krishnan Ramesh in The Hindu Literary Review:
http://www.hindu.com/lr/2009/01/04/stories/2009010450080200.htm
Rustic Ragas: Inner Melodies of Thota Vaikuntam
'Rustic Ragas: Inner Melodies of Thota Vaikuntam'
Timeless Books.
AbMaa Publishing, New Delhi.
149 pages.
Full colour.
Hardcover.
2008.
Rs. 1,800.
ISBN: 9788189497155
Main essay by Aditi De.
Foreword by Krishen Khanna. He is one of India's most reputed artists. He worked as a banker from 1948 to 1961 before deciding it was far better to follow his destiny as an artist than to stay in a secure job. A member of the Progressive Artists Group, Bombay, he has held more than forty one-man exhibitions in India and abroad, and participated in all the important Triennales and Biennales in the world - at Sao Paulo, Venice, New Delhi, Tokyo and elsewhere. His work is represented in several major museums including the Museum of Modern Art, New York and the National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi. A recipient of the Padma Shri, he divides his time between Delhi and Shimla.
Afterword by S H Raza. He is an eminent Indian artist who has lived and worked in France since 1950. He was awarded the Padma Shri in 1981, and is a Fellow of the Lalit Kala Akademi, New Delhi. He is also the recipient of the Kalidas Samman from the Madhya Pradesh State Government in 1996.
* * *
This book presents fifteen new dramatic paintings by Hyderabad-based artist Vaikuntam. The artist grew up in a village called Boorugupalli in the Karimnagar district within the Telangana heartland of Andhra Pradesh.
The people of his village have often been depicted in his work, especially his portrayals of women - they could be his mother, an entertainer, a neighbour, a labourer, a gaze encountered in the teeming bazaar, even a family friend from his childhood.
Vaikuntam's Telangana folk meld the memory of his eyes and his fingers. They embody a unique world, of daily rites of life couched within an imaginative terrain. The monumentality of Vaikuntam's figures in rich primary colours of the earth assume a mythical dimension, enhanced by the solidity of their execution in acrylic. They seem like demigods, not village folk-looming, tantalizing, almost unapproachable.
Vaikuntam voices the collective yearning for a separate Telangana identity, beyond politics, beyond couched cultures. His rich palette and easily recognizable faces and figures have given his work acceptability; paintings that are strikingly modern without any allegiance to anything usually associated with modernity. In these huge canvases, Vaikuntam immortalizes his earthy icons for all time.
Timeless Books.
AbMaa Publishing, New Delhi.
149 pages.
Full colour.
Hardcover.
2008.
Rs. 1,800.
ISBN: 9788189497155
Main essay by Aditi De.
Foreword by Krishen Khanna. He is one of India's most reputed artists. He worked as a banker from 1948 to 1961 before deciding it was far better to follow his destiny as an artist than to stay in a secure job. A member of the Progressive Artists Group, Bombay, he has held more than forty one-man exhibitions in India and abroad, and participated in all the important Triennales and Biennales in the world - at Sao Paulo, Venice, New Delhi, Tokyo and elsewhere. His work is represented in several major museums including the Museum of Modern Art, New York and the National Gallery of Modern Art, New Delhi. A recipient of the Padma Shri, he divides his time between Delhi and Shimla.
Afterword by S H Raza. He is an eminent Indian artist who has lived and worked in France since 1950. He was awarded the Padma Shri in 1981, and is a Fellow of the Lalit Kala Akademi, New Delhi. He is also the recipient of the Kalidas Samman from the Madhya Pradesh State Government in 1996.
* * *
This book presents fifteen new dramatic paintings by Hyderabad-based artist Vaikuntam. The artist grew up in a village called Boorugupalli in the Karimnagar district within the Telangana heartland of Andhra Pradesh.
The people of his village have often been depicted in his work, especially his portrayals of women - they could be his mother, an entertainer, a neighbour, a labourer, a gaze encountered in the teeming bazaar, even a family friend from his childhood.
Vaikuntam's Telangana folk meld the memory of his eyes and his fingers. They embody a unique world, of daily rites of life couched within an imaginative terrain. The monumentality of Vaikuntam's figures in rich primary colours of the earth assume a mythical dimension, enhanced by the solidity of their execution in acrylic. They seem like demigods, not village folk-looming, tantalizing, almost unapproachable.
Vaikuntam voices the collective yearning for a separate Telangana identity, beyond politics, beyond couched cultures. His rich palette and easily recognizable faces and figures have given his work acceptability; paintings that are strikingly modern without any allegiance to anything usually associated with modernity. In these huge canvases, Vaikuntam immortalizes his earthy icons for all time.
Lines from an artistic life: the drawings of Adimoolam
Lines from an Artistic Life: The drawings of Adimoolam
Lund Humphries/ Mapin
152 pages
180 duotone illustrations
Hardcover
2007
Rs. 1,200/ £35.00
ISBN: 978-0-85331-982-5
'A Life in a Line: The drawings of KM Adimoolam': Main essay by Aditi De
Foreword by Tanuj Berry and Saman Malik
Lund Humphries/ Mapin
152 pages
180 duotone illustrations
Hardcover
2007
Rs. 1,200/ £35.00
ISBN: 978-0-85331-982-5
'A Life in a Line: The drawings of KM Adimoolam': Main essay by Aditi De
Foreword by Tanuj Berry and Saman Malik
'A Reflection on Adimoolam's Drawings' by Krishen Khanna. He is one of India’s most
distinguished contemporary artists. He was a member of the Progressive Artists’
Group and has been honoured by the President of India with a Padma Shri in 1996.
'Thinking the Line' by Jehangir Sabawala. He has held several solo shows
and participated in major exhibitions all over the world. He was awarded the
Padma Shri in 1977.
·
'Lines from an Artistic Life' is the first book to
explore the drawings of eminent Indian artist K.M. Adimoolam, well known in
India and internationally for his meticulous pen-and-ink drawings on subjects
ranging from realistic portraits of Mahatma Gandhi to idealised portrayals of
Indian Kings and warriors, and semi-abstract depictions of Hindu gods informed
by Cubism.
Born in 1938 in Tiruchirapalli in Tamil Nadu, K.M. Adimoolam's natural aptitude for drawing at an early age made him move to Chennai in 1959. There, under the influence of the sculptor Dhanapal, he enrolled in the School of Arts and Crafts. After completing his Diploma in Advanced Painting in 1966, Adimoolam started a series of black-and-white portraits of Mahatma Gandhi. Sketching from photographs of the great man, he finished nearly 100 drawings that covered over 60 years of the Mahatma's life.
At about this time, Adimoolam came into contact with Tamil writers and began an association with them, illustrating their works, after which he took up oil painting. Colour came into his life, causing him to move from the figurative to the abstract.
Adimoolam now works with equal ease at drawing and painting, combining the two to produce a large body of work. The recipient of many honours and awards, his works are held in numerous public and private collections in India and abroad. This book will appeal to all those with an interest in drawing, contemporary art and Indian culture.
Born in 1938 in Tiruchirapalli in Tamil Nadu, K.M. Adimoolam's natural aptitude for drawing at an early age made him move to Chennai in 1959. There, under the influence of the sculptor Dhanapal, he enrolled in the School of Arts and Crafts. After completing his Diploma in Advanced Painting in 1966, Adimoolam started a series of black-and-white portraits of Mahatma Gandhi. Sketching from photographs of the great man, he finished nearly 100 drawings that covered over 60 years of the Mahatma's life.
At about this time, Adimoolam came into contact with Tamil writers and began an association with them, illustrating their works, after which he took up oil painting. Colour came into his life, causing him to move from the figurative to the abstract.
Adimoolam now works with equal ease at drawing and painting, combining the two to produce a large body of work. The recipient of many honours and awards, his works are held in numerous public and private collections in India and abroad. This book will appeal to all those with an interest in drawing, contemporary art and Indian culture.
* * *
Review excerpt:
·
' … these works have a significant role in the
development of modern Indian painting'. Asian Art Books 2007
A new life for Damu
'A new life for Damu'
Unicef/ IETS
Translated into Kannada and Hindi for first generation rural students
16 pages
Paperback
2006
My original story in English:
A new life for Damu
by Aditi De
“Prakash!” whispered Damu through the Karikahalli school window, “I have a wonderful idea for the Makkala Sangha. I have to tell you about it right now. If I don’t, my stomach will burst from keeping it to myself…”
Prakash looked out. He froze. It was right in the middle of a history class on a hot May day.
Then he grinned. It was so much like Damu to spring a surprise like this. But what was his best friend doing there, instead of training with the carpenter as usual? Prakash’s brain began to work extra fast.
“Sir,” he said to Prasad anna, the teacher, “can I go out, please? There’s something creeping up my leg. It may be a scorpion. I can’t sit still…”
Prasad Anna waved him out of the room. “Be sure to return quickly, Prakash,” he called after the skinny figure that vanished among the swaying neem trees.
But Prakash and Damu, both eleven, had other plans. “Remember how the last monsoon made our stream swell?” said Damu. “And Kavitha, who’s so short, almost drowned when she was on her way to school?
Prakash, we have to get the panchayat to build a footbridge over it before the monsoon sets in. How can we convince them?”
Prakash looked at his best friend with wonder. Damu always had the best ideas at Sangha meetings. The Sangha made it possible for them to ask for compound walls, anganwadis and playgrounds, water and electricity. It made them all feel grown-up. Prakash and Damu were proud that the adults took the Makkala Sangha seriously.
And yet, Prakash was puzzled at the grown-ups in Karikahalli. They thought Damu was a bad boy. But he hadn’t always been that way.
Two years ago, Damu's baby sister drowned in the pond while his mother was washing clothes. Ever since then, the boy had changed. He had become very quiet.
He even avoided the other village children, except during Sangha meetings.
Damu couldn’t bear to see his parents quarrel at home. When they did, he couldn’t concentrate on his lessons. He dropped out of school, despite Prasad anna’s efforts to make him stay.
Instead, to avoid toiling in the jowar fields like his Amma and Appa, Damu took lessons from the local carpenter. He worked hard. He ate little. But his sadness made him hang out with some rough youths. They taught him to smoke ganja, and to drink alcohol to forget his troubles.
Prakash thought to himself, “My best friend is in trouble. What should I do?
Why does his Appa nag him for running into the darkness whenever there’s a quarrel at home? Why doesn’t anybody coax him back to school? Why does nobody else understand that we need to help Damu? He’s as clever as I am…”
At the Makkala Sangha after school, Prakash announced to the nineteen other members, “Damu has a wonderful idea…”
“What is it?” asked Kotramma. “Can it be as adventurous as when we persuaded the beedi-factory owner to set free the ten children who worked for him?”
“Or when we convinced the panchayat that it wasn’t fair to marry Manu, who’s ten like me, to Gauri, who’s four?” recalled Karibasappa.
“Remember how we fought Manu’s father? He’s so rich, yet he wanted a share of Gauri’s Appa’s fields?”
“That was tough,” said Netravathi, tossing her pigtails. “But it was just as difficult to convince Kotramma and Manjula’s parents to send them back to school after they failed the 5th standard exams. They’re doing so well, now that they have a second chance.”
“But listen to Damu’s idea,” interrupted Prakash, the most brilliant student at the Karikahalli school. The others fell silent because Damu was his best friend.
“What happens in Karikahalli every year?” asked Damu, looking at the circle of familiar faces in the schoolroom.
“Wedding feasts! Navaratri!” yelled Shivakumar, who could never have enough of good food.
“Ei! Stop thinking with your tummy!” said Prakash, as the others laughed.
“Exams!” said Kotramma, who loved to bury her head in books.
“No, no, no!” said Damu. “The monsoon. That’s when the Karikahalli stream overflows.
Kavitha, Nethravathi and Gangamma can’t come to class for weeks during the rains because they live on the other bank. Couldn’t we ask the panchayat to build a footbridge over the stream, so that they don’t need to miss school?”
There was silence for a few minutes. Then, Kavitha said, “That’s an amazing idea, Damu. How can we persuade the grown-ups how important this is?”
The children thought and thought about it over the next hour. Then, as dusk cast shadows over the distant fields, they slowly began to trail back home.
“I think Damu’s very clever!” said Kavitha to Nethravathi, as they walked hand in hand. “If only he’d come back to school…”
“That’s true,” Nethravathi agreed. “But he’s been drinking horrible-smelling stuff with all those terrible bullies who cause problems in Karikahalli. How can we get Damu to drop the habit?”
Kavitha was silent. Then she said, “Why don’t we have a Makkala Sangha meeting about drinking and how it can become addictive?”
Over the next three days, Kavitha and Netravathi spoke to Prakash during the tiffin break. The other children wondered what their secret was.
The Makkala Sangha met a week later. Prakash had managed to get Damu to attend. He took a few hours off from his carpentry training and came by.
“Are we going to talk about the bridge today?” asked Damu.
“Maybe. It all depends on what Kavitha chooses as our subject. She’s in charge of today’s meeting,” Prakash said, not wanting to give away any information that might make Damu want to leave.
All eyes were on Kavitha. She took a deep breath, looked at Prakash, then began: “My brother is 19. He works in an areca plantation. My Amma feels that if he didn’t, our family would be in trouble…”
“Trouble?” echoed Kotramma.
“Yes, trouble,” said Kavitha, “because he might have joined that gang of jobless teenagers who roam around the village creating trouble. The ones who tease us when we pass by. Those terrible boys who steal grain and money from the farmers at night…”
“I don’t know why they behave like that,” Karibasappa said, shaking his head.
“Because they have dropped out of school,” said Nethravathi. “But most of all, because they drink cheap alcohol every day…”
“Why do people drink alcohol at all?” asked Shivakumar. “Does it taste as good as fresh coconut water or majjige?”
“My Appa told me not to ever try it,” said Prakash, “because I’d never be able to come first again if I did…”
“What do you mean?” said Manjula, puzzled by his words.
“Appa took me to Bangalore last summer. On a footpath, I saw a boy our age curled up, fast asleep at 10 in the morning,” explained Prakash. “Appa explained that many children run away from home. They live on railway platforms, park benches, footpaths and all that. When they can’t earn enough to eat or have no one to talk to, they take to ganja or drink alcohol…”
“Then…?” Savithriamma prompted.
“At first, their breath stinks when they talk. Sometimes, they can’t see or hear too well. They often stumble when they try to walk. Or fall and hurt themselves. When they are high from a drink, they can’t think very clearly. So, they could be run over by a truck or drown in a lake,” said Prakash. “It makes them sleep when the whole world is up with the sun…”
“My appa says that when people drink too much, they don’t eat enough. They often forget important things. They fall sick, too. Their hearts don’t run as they should, their stomachs hurt all the time,” said Karibasappa.
“That’s frightening,” Manjula looked scared.
“My uncle told me about boys and girls who are just four or five years old, who smoke beedies,” Suman said.
“Beedies! That can’t be true,” said Karuna.
“Even in our village, I’ve seen children who smoke the stubs their Ajja’s throw away,” Suman sounded angry. “Some steal beedies from their fathers’ shops! I have heard that beedies are not good for grown-ups. How can they be good for children? Maybe they smoke because they are hungry or sad. Some of them smoke just for fun and don’t know that it is bad for health…”
“Apart from this gang of bad fellows in Karikahalli, do we know anyone else who drinks?” asked Kavitha.
The children looked at each other.
Suddenly, Damu spoke up: “I do. Especially when Prakash has homework to do, and can’t talk to me. Or when Appa and Amma quarrel. Or when the carpenter scolds me when I make a mistake…”
“Is that why you took to alcohol, Damu?” Manjula was puzzled.
“No. I began drinking a little when my baby sister Lakshmi drowned in the pond,” said Damu, blinking hard to check the tears in his eyes. "Whenever I think of her, I need a drink. I sometimes steal a sip from a bottle the carpenter hides behind his tool case. Or I steal some money from Appa’s wallet to get a drink. It helps me to forget…”
There was a long pause. The children didn't know what to say.
“Damu, you could always visit my home and play with my little sister. I can share her with you…” Kavitha said sympathetically.
Manjula said, “My Appa thinks you’re too intelligent to be a carpenter. Maybe you should come back to school, Damu…”
Then it was Prakash’s turn, “You can stay with us when there’s a quarrel in your house. My amma loves you as much as she loves me…”
“The Makkala Sangha really needs you,” said Shivakumar. “We can’t manage without you…”
From that day, Damu spent less time with the village goondas and more with his Sangha friends. Prakash sat with him and helped him catch up with all the portions he had missed in school. He learnt about the Indian Parliament, about men who walked on the moon, even about robots as bright as human children.
Once in a while, Manjula brought Damu basundi from her amma’s kitchen.
Karibasappa spent time listening to him whenever Damu felt sad.
One day Prakash’s father said, “Damu looks different these days. He looks less tired. He smiles much more. Do you think he’d like to go back to school again?”
Prakash smiled. At the Makkala Sangha meetings, Damu’s ideas were getting better and better. Maybe they would be able to get him back to school soon.
Prakash was sure that Damu had given up drinking. So he was worried when his friend told him, “It’s so hard to get away from the habit, Prakash. Can you help me, please?”
Prakash spoke to his father and mother. They went to Damu’s house and explained to his parents that they should not quarrel in front of him. Sometimes he came to Prakash’s house for the evening meal. And once in a while, he stayed over.
The two friends spent a lot of time with each other.
Within a few weeks, Damu did not need alcohol any more. He returned to school and Prasad anna was especially kind to him.
One day, Damu’s father overheard the Karikahalli panchayat president telling Prasad anna, “That Damu is very intelligent. He and Kavitha convinced me to build a footbridge over the stream. They waded through the water to show me how high it flows during the monsoon. The water actually reached Kavitha’s neck. That’s dangerous! The footbridge will be ready soon. After all, why should our children miss even a day of school?”
Damu’s father was amazed. He was ashamed of the way he had been behaving at home. He made sure there was a quiet corner where Prakash and Damu could study together in the evenings.
Damu did better and better at school. Soon, his marks were as good as Prakash’s.
“I want to make sure that every child in India can go to school,” said Prakash as they sat by the village pond one Sunday.
“That’s good,” replied Damu. “But when I grow up, I want to be the panchayat head. I’ll make sure there are no unhappy children in Karikahalli. And that no other child ever needs to touch alcohol or ganja….”
“You sound like an Ajja,” teased Prakash, with a smile. He knew that his friend would keep his word. In future, there would be happier children in Karikahalli.
Prakash had no doubt about that.
Unicef/ IETS
Translated into Kannada and Hindi for first generation rural students
16 pages
Paperback
2006
My original story in English:
A new life for Damu
by Aditi De
“Prakash!” whispered Damu through the Karikahalli school window, “I have a wonderful idea for the Makkala Sangha. I have to tell you about it right now. If I don’t, my stomach will burst from keeping it to myself…”
Prakash looked out. He froze. It was right in the middle of a history class on a hot May day.
Then he grinned. It was so much like Damu to spring a surprise like this. But what was his best friend doing there, instead of training with the carpenter as usual? Prakash’s brain began to work extra fast.
“Sir,” he said to Prasad anna, the teacher, “can I go out, please? There’s something creeping up my leg. It may be a scorpion. I can’t sit still…”
Prasad Anna waved him out of the room. “Be sure to return quickly, Prakash,” he called after the skinny figure that vanished among the swaying neem trees.
But Prakash and Damu, both eleven, had other plans. “Remember how the last monsoon made our stream swell?” said Damu. “And Kavitha, who’s so short, almost drowned when she was on her way to school?
Prakash, we have to get the panchayat to build a footbridge over it before the monsoon sets in. How can we convince them?”
Prakash looked at his best friend with wonder. Damu always had the best ideas at Sangha meetings. The Sangha made it possible for them to ask for compound walls, anganwadis and playgrounds, water and electricity. It made them all feel grown-up. Prakash and Damu were proud that the adults took the Makkala Sangha seriously.
And yet, Prakash was puzzled at the grown-ups in Karikahalli. They thought Damu was a bad boy. But he hadn’t always been that way.
Two years ago, Damu's baby sister drowned in the pond while his mother was washing clothes. Ever since then, the boy had changed. He had become very quiet.
He even avoided the other village children, except during Sangha meetings.
Damu couldn’t bear to see his parents quarrel at home. When they did, he couldn’t concentrate on his lessons. He dropped out of school, despite Prasad anna’s efforts to make him stay.
Instead, to avoid toiling in the jowar fields like his Amma and Appa, Damu took lessons from the local carpenter. He worked hard. He ate little. But his sadness made him hang out with some rough youths. They taught him to smoke ganja, and to drink alcohol to forget his troubles.
Prakash thought to himself, “My best friend is in trouble. What should I do?
Why does his Appa nag him for running into the darkness whenever there’s a quarrel at home? Why doesn’t anybody coax him back to school? Why does nobody else understand that we need to help Damu? He’s as clever as I am…”
At the Makkala Sangha after school, Prakash announced to the nineteen other members, “Damu has a wonderful idea…”
“What is it?” asked Kotramma. “Can it be as adventurous as when we persuaded the beedi-factory owner to set free the ten children who worked for him?”
“Or when we convinced the panchayat that it wasn’t fair to marry Manu, who’s ten like me, to Gauri, who’s four?” recalled Karibasappa.
“Remember how we fought Manu’s father? He’s so rich, yet he wanted a share of Gauri’s Appa’s fields?”
“That was tough,” said Netravathi, tossing her pigtails. “But it was just as difficult to convince Kotramma and Manjula’s parents to send them back to school after they failed the 5th standard exams. They’re doing so well, now that they have a second chance.”
“But listen to Damu’s idea,” interrupted Prakash, the most brilliant student at the Karikahalli school. The others fell silent because Damu was his best friend.
“What happens in Karikahalli every year?” asked Damu, looking at the circle of familiar faces in the schoolroom.
“Wedding feasts! Navaratri!” yelled Shivakumar, who could never have enough of good food.
“Ei! Stop thinking with your tummy!” said Prakash, as the others laughed.
“Exams!” said Kotramma, who loved to bury her head in books.
“No, no, no!” said Damu. “The monsoon. That’s when the Karikahalli stream overflows.
Kavitha, Nethravathi and Gangamma can’t come to class for weeks during the rains because they live on the other bank. Couldn’t we ask the panchayat to build a footbridge over the stream, so that they don’t need to miss school?”
There was silence for a few minutes. Then, Kavitha said, “That’s an amazing idea, Damu. How can we persuade the grown-ups how important this is?”
The children thought and thought about it over the next hour. Then, as dusk cast shadows over the distant fields, they slowly began to trail back home.
“I think Damu’s very clever!” said Kavitha to Nethravathi, as they walked hand in hand. “If only he’d come back to school…”
“That’s true,” Nethravathi agreed. “But he’s been drinking horrible-smelling stuff with all those terrible bullies who cause problems in Karikahalli. How can we get Damu to drop the habit?”
Kavitha was silent. Then she said, “Why don’t we have a Makkala Sangha meeting about drinking and how it can become addictive?”
Over the next three days, Kavitha and Netravathi spoke to Prakash during the tiffin break. The other children wondered what their secret was.
The Makkala Sangha met a week later. Prakash had managed to get Damu to attend. He took a few hours off from his carpentry training and came by.
“Are we going to talk about the bridge today?” asked Damu.
“Maybe. It all depends on what Kavitha chooses as our subject. She’s in charge of today’s meeting,” Prakash said, not wanting to give away any information that might make Damu want to leave.
All eyes were on Kavitha. She took a deep breath, looked at Prakash, then began: “My brother is 19. He works in an areca plantation. My Amma feels that if he didn’t, our family would be in trouble…”
“Trouble?” echoed Kotramma.
“Yes, trouble,” said Kavitha, “because he might have joined that gang of jobless teenagers who roam around the village creating trouble. The ones who tease us when we pass by. Those terrible boys who steal grain and money from the farmers at night…”
“I don’t know why they behave like that,” Karibasappa said, shaking his head.
“Because they have dropped out of school,” said Nethravathi. “But most of all, because they drink cheap alcohol every day…”
“Why do people drink alcohol at all?” asked Shivakumar. “Does it taste as good as fresh coconut water or majjige?”
“My Appa told me not to ever try it,” said Prakash, “because I’d never be able to come first again if I did…”
“What do you mean?” said Manjula, puzzled by his words.
“Appa took me to Bangalore last summer. On a footpath, I saw a boy our age curled up, fast asleep at 10 in the morning,” explained Prakash. “Appa explained that many children run away from home. They live on railway platforms, park benches, footpaths and all that. When they can’t earn enough to eat or have no one to talk to, they take to ganja or drink alcohol…”
“Then…?” Savithriamma prompted.
“At first, their breath stinks when they talk. Sometimes, they can’t see or hear too well. They often stumble when they try to walk. Or fall and hurt themselves. When they are high from a drink, they can’t think very clearly. So, they could be run over by a truck or drown in a lake,” said Prakash. “It makes them sleep when the whole world is up with the sun…”
“My appa says that when people drink too much, they don’t eat enough. They often forget important things. They fall sick, too. Their hearts don’t run as they should, their stomachs hurt all the time,” said Karibasappa.
“That’s frightening,” Manjula looked scared.
“My uncle told me about boys and girls who are just four or five years old, who smoke beedies,” Suman said.
“Beedies! That can’t be true,” said Karuna.
“Even in our village, I’ve seen children who smoke the stubs their Ajja’s throw away,” Suman sounded angry. “Some steal beedies from their fathers’ shops! I have heard that beedies are not good for grown-ups. How can they be good for children? Maybe they smoke because they are hungry or sad. Some of them smoke just for fun and don’t know that it is bad for health…”
“Apart from this gang of bad fellows in Karikahalli, do we know anyone else who drinks?” asked Kavitha.
The children looked at each other.
Suddenly, Damu spoke up: “I do. Especially when Prakash has homework to do, and can’t talk to me. Or when Appa and Amma quarrel. Or when the carpenter scolds me when I make a mistake…”
“Is that why you took to alcohol, Damu?” Manjula was puzzled.
“No. I began drinking a little when my baby sister Lakshmi drowned in the pond,” said Damu, blinking hard to check the tears in his eyes. "Whenever I think of her, I need a drink. I sometimes steal a sip from a bottle the carpenter hides behind his tool case. Or I steal some money from Appa’s wallet to get a drink. It helps me to forget…”
There was a long pause. The children didn't know what to say.
“Damu, you could always visit my home and play with my little sister. I can share her with you…” Kavitha said sympathetically.
Manjula said, “My Appa thinks you’re too intelligent to be a carpenter. Maybe you should come back to school, Damu…”
Then it was Prakash’s turn, “You can stay with us when there’s a quarrel in your house. My amma loves you as much as she loves me…”
“The Makkala Sangha really needs you,” said Shivakumar. “We can’t manage without you…”
From that day, Damu spent less time with the village goondas and more with his Sangha friends. Prakash sat with him and helped him catch up with all the portions he had missed in school. He learnt about the Indian Parliament, about men who walked on the moon, even about robots as bright as human children.
Once in a while, Manjula brought Damu basundi from her amma’s kitchen.
Karibasappa spent time listening to him whenever Damu felt sad.
One day Prakash’s father said, “Damu looks different these days. He looks less tired. He smiles much more. Do you think he’d like to go back to school again?”
Prakash smiled. At the Makkala Sangha meetings, Damu’s ideas were getting better and better. Maybe they would be able to get him back to school soon.
Prakash was sure that Damu had given up drinking. So he was worried when his friend told him, “It’s so hard to get away from the habit, Prakash. Can you help me, please?”
Prakash spoke to his father and mother. They went to Damu’s house and explained to his parents that they should not quarrel in front of him. Sometimes he came to Prakash’s house for the evening meal. And once in a while, he stayed over.
The two friends spent a lot of time with each other.
Within a few weeks, Damu did not need alcohol any more. He returned to school and Prasad anna was especially kind to him.
One day, Damu’s father overheard the Karikahalli panchayat president telling Prasad anna, “That Damu is very intelligent. He and Kavitha convinced me to build a footbridge over the stream. They waded through the water to show me how high it flows during the monsoon. The water actually reached Kavitha’s neck. That’s dangerous! The footbridge will be ready soon. After all, why should our children miss even a day of school?”
Damu’s father was amazed. He was ashamed of the way he had been behaving at home. He made sure there was a quiet corner where Prakash and Damu could study together in the evenings.
Damu did better and better at school. Soon, his marks were as good as Prakash’s.
“I want to make sure that every child in India can go to school,” said Prakash as they sat by the village pond one Sunday.
“That’s good,” replied Damu. “But when I grow up, I want to be the panchayat head. I’ll make sure there are no unhappy children in Karikahalli. And that no other child ever needs to touch alcohol or ganja….”
“You sound like an Ajja,” teased Prakash, with a smile. He knew that his friend would keep his word. In future, there would be happier children in Karikahalli.
Prakash had no doubt about that.
Prize Day at Caveryhalli
'Prize Day at Caveryhalli'
Unicef/ IETS
Translated into Kannada and Hindi for first-generation rural learners
16 pages
Paperback
2006
My original story in English:
Unicef/ IETS
Translated into Kannada and Hindi for first-generation rural learners
16 pages
Paperback
2006
My original story in English:
Prize Day at Caveryhalli
By Aditi De
“Oh no!” said Pankajamma, clutching
at Amreen’s elbow as they turned into the long school corridor that led to the
assembly space beyond Std. X. “I don’t think our Prize Day is going to be the
best ever.”
“I doubt it, too” echoed Amreen,
breaking into run. “Why are these senior boys fighting now?”
By the time the Std. IX girls
arrived there, Sangamesh had Balukrishna by the collar. He was shaking his best
friend violently.
“Ganesha Sir said I was to make the
welcome speech for the chief guest, Abdur Raheem Sheikh” yelled Sangamesh,
crossing his arms over his chest seconds later. “Not you!”
“But I’ve always won the elocution
and sports prizes!” Balukrishna screamed back, his clenched fists on his hips.
“Sheikh anna is an important
politician today. I’m sure it’s because he won the Caveryhalli school elocution
prize ~ like me. Not some silly best student award like you… Why can’t you tell
Ganesha Sir that I’d do it much better? That’s not fair….”
“I’ve topped our class ever since
Std. I. Don’t you ever forget that!” retorted Sangamesh, as four of his
classmates gathered around him. “That takes brains, you know. Who cares about
reciting like a parrot? Or running faster than the rest of the school? Nobody
who’s clever needs those skills…”
“I don’t know why I ever thought
you were my friend,” yelled Balukrishna, even louder, as his friends tugged at
his shirt. “You can’t even be on the winning side in our kabaddi matches
against the Doddahalli school. I hope you forget your speech on stage today. I
hate you…”
“Calm down!” panted Pankajamma,
reaching the boys. “Remember, Ganesha Sir said all of us have to work together
make our Prize Day wonderful.”
All she got in return was an ugly
glare from Balukrishna ~ and a knock on her head from Sangamesh.
“Ganesha Sir is a wise man. We have
to listen to him,” added Amreen. “He is our principal, after all.”
As Amreen separated the warring
boys, Pankajamma observed, “I like Balukrishna because he’s the best speaker in
school. And I admire Sangamesh because he always tops his class. But each of
them is so busy talking all the time that they never ever listen to anyone
else….”
Over the next two hours, there was
no time for small talk. Amreen helped her classmates Ramya and Mary Joseph to
string bright marigolds and mango leaves across the blue cloth backdrop to the
stage. In another corner, Mamatha rehearsed the bhajan that was to set the mood
for Prize Day.
But they could see that all was not
well amongst the boys. “Balukrishna looks like he’d like to punch Sangamesh on
the nose,” whispered Pankajamma to Ramya. “What can we do to make them friends
once more?”
Before they could discuss a plan, a
huge car drew up to the school gate. Sheikh emerged, dressed in a white outfit,
starched like a crisp paper dosa. Ganesha Sir and the senior teachers rushed to
welcome him.
Sangamesh, who had been asked to join
them as the school’s top student, ran towards the car. Suddenly, he stumbled
over a broken brick. Red-faced, he rose to his feet. Behind him, he heard a
titter of laughter. It had to be Balukrishna’s gang!
He tried to ignore them, but it was
difficult. Would he fall from favour with Ganesha Sir? These troubled thoughts
whirled through Sangamesh’s mind as the assembly settled down. Soon, he heard
the principal call on him to welcome Sheikh.
“Our honored Chief Guest, we are
proud to have you with us on this special day,” Sangamesh began, after changing
his dusty shirt for a clean one borrowed from a classmate. “As an ex-student of …”
He found he could not recall the
name of the school he had belonged to for ten years. He tugged at his shirt
sleeves. That didn’t help. He looked at the clock on the wall. His mouth felt
dry. His palms were sweating.
“As a student of ….” Sangamesh
tried once more. He felt as if a million eyes were drilling into him. He
couldn’t go on. He wished he had allowed Balukrishna to make the speech
instead.
“We’d like to welcome you, Sir,” he
said hurriedly, unusually lost for words. Then, he ran off-stage as fast as his
feet would carry him.
Over the next hour, Sangamesh found
his way to the stage in a daze. He had won prizes for top scores in maths,
science and history ~ and a large cup for topping his class yet again. But
somehow, none of these cheered him up. He felt as if the whole world was jeering
him.
That’s when Sheikh went to the
mike. He began, “Ganesha Sir, boys and girls, it seems as if I was here just
yesterday ~ as a student. Those were the best years of my life…”
Pausing, his eyes rested on
Sangamesh’s downcast face. He took in Pampanna’s triumphant look, his arm
around Balukrishna’s shoulder. He noted how they looked at Sangamesh with cold
eyes.
Sheikh continued, “But I’d like to
share another time with you. I’d just joined the government when a flood hit a
village, 50 km. from Caveryhalli. Thippeswamy, who was our boss, took hours to
explain how relief efforts worked best. How we could get cooked food to the
stranded villagers. How they would need blankets, homes, new clothes very soon…”
But young Sheikh did not like Thippeswamy.
Not one bit. Why? Perhaps because his boss was a very short man with a
pencil-line moustache, which he found funny. His voice was slightly squeaky. He
usually wore safari suits and thick chappals, which smartly-dressed Sheikh
found comic. He disliked the way Thippeswamy’s arms hung limp as he spoke, the
way he tugged at his well-oiled hair, even his constant nods as he
listened.
“I didn’t listen to Thippeswamy’s
instructions. I didn’t understand why he insisted that the rice, palya and
sambar should be plastic-sealed in small packages,” Sheikh told the audience.
“I had thousands of kilos of cooked food and drinking water packed tightly into
cardboard boxes. Our helicopter flew high, high, high above the waters. The
marooned villagers below looked like ants. Some were on rooftop islands amidst
the floods. We airdropped the food supplies…”
This sounds like a film story,
thought Pankajamma. Was Sheikh a hero in this story, like Rajkumar or
Vishnuvardhan in the movies?
But his voice boomed on: “To my
horror, I found that the heavy boxes, filled with food, dropped past the
starving people below. The tiny heads we saw dived into the water. But when
they came up five, ten, then fifteen minutes later, they were empty-handed….”
Sheikh stopped. His eyes met those
of his listeners. He spoke as if he was reaching out to each of them, one to
one. In a gentler tone, he said, “I should have listened to Thippeswamy. I
should have had the food packed in plastic bags, so that the flood waters couldn’t
get into in, so that it would stay afloat….”
What happened then, Amreen asked
Mary Joseph, who shrugged.
“At that moment, I realized how my
young son and daughter would feel if they had to starve while good food was
wasted,” said Sheikh. “I should have listened to Thippeswamy. I knew it was all
my fault. ….”
Once the chief guest came off the
dais, the Caveryhalli students flocked around him.
“Sir,” said Balukrishna, “why do
you feel it was your fault?”
“If only I had listened closely to
Thippeswamy, I would have respected his experience,” replied Sheikh, stroking
his greying beard. “I know now I was only part of a team needed to get that
food safely to the flood-hit families. It wasn’t important whether I liked my
boss or not. What mattered was whether I got his message right, both through
his words and gestures…”
Pankajamma’s hand shot into the
air. Frowning, she said, “I don’t really understand, Sheikh sir…”
Smiling, he asked, “Can I ask you
all a question? Did you have a fight while working together on Prize Day?”
“Yes, sir,” said Balukrishna,
sneaking a look at Sangamesh. “We didn’t know that we needed to play together
like… like a cricket team! But… how did you guess?”
“I could feel the tension while
Sangamesh was speaking,” said Sheikh. “I know how smart he is. So, it had to be
something else…”
The boys shuffled their feet. They
looked at the ground. Within moments, the story of the morning’s rivalry was
out in the open. They felt as if Sheikh was a favourite anna in their midst, not a chief guest any more.
“Did you know how to read people
even as a schoolboy?” asked Mary Joseph.
“When we were in Std. VII, my
classmates and I could figure out whether Ganesha Sir was in a good mood or
not, the minute he stepped into our room,” Sheikh said. “Do you know how?”
“No! How?” asked Sangamesh, not
wanting to be left out.
Looking at Ganesha Sir, who was
grinning by now, the chief guest continued, “Sudhir, Saleem and I would watch
as he came in. If he whistled under his breath, that was a good sign. If he
rocked his chair as he took the roll call, that was even better. On such days,
we knew we could throw chalk at each other, munch on murukku behind our books. Or even tie the girls’ plaits together…”
“That sounds like a lucky day!” giggled
Pankajamma, stroking her own glossy plaits.
“Of course,” said Sheikh. “But not
all days were so easy. On some days, Ganesha Sir would come in frowning. Even
as he sat at his desk, his foot would move up and down restlessly. We learnt to
be very quiet at such times. If we were noisy or forgot our answers, he would
send us out of the class. Or even off to the principal’s office for a
scolding….”
On stage, Ganesha Sir was listening
to them. He looked at the ceiling, then burst into laughter.
“The principal’s in a good mood
now,” said Pankajamma to Lalitha.
As Sheikh left at the end of a long
Prize Day, the girls came upon an unusual sight.
“Look, I think Sangamesh and
Balukrishna are friends again,” said Amreen to Pankajamma. “Balu’s just handed
over his favourite blue marble, the one his Mama from Chikmagalur brought him.
He promised not to part with it all his life.”
Pankajamma agreed, “I think that
means Balu will get to make a speech on Sports Day next month…”
“And Sangamesh will cheer when Balu
wins medals for the 100-metre dash and the high jump,” said Mary Joseph,
nudging Amreen. “They’re even looking at Sangamesh’s prizes shoulder to
shoulder.”
Just then, Sangamesh and
Balukrishna strolled past them. They were sharing a jalebi from the snacks
handed out to the students to mark the occasion.
“We can do anything we want, as
long as we work together,” said Sangamesh. “We can go into space together. Or
find out all about the first animal that ever lived around Caveryhalli. It should
be fine ~ as long as we can figure out how Ganesha Sir’s moods are, or those of
our families at home…”
“This morning’s fight was so
silly,” added Balukrishna, his arm about his friend’s shoulder. “You speak
almost as well as I do in public. Honestly, I mean that…”
“If you teach me how to speak even better,
I promise to learn how to play kabaddi brilliantly enough to be on the school
team that you captain,” grinned Sangamesh.
“That’s a great idea. You could be
the Rahul Dravid of Indian kabaddi,” replied Balukrishna, as they shook hands.
“How about a lesson right now?”
A dream of green hair clips
'A dream of green hair clips'
Unicef/ IETS
Translated into Kannada and Hindi for first generation rural learners
16 pages
Paperback
2006
My original story in English:
A dream of green hair clips
By Aditi De
“Sagar anna! Wake up!” said Surekha, shaking him gently as the soft colours of dawn painted the night sky. “When Appa comes back, do you think he’ll buy me those leaf green flower-like hair clips from the bazaar?”
“Go to sleep, putti!” replied lanky Sagar, turning away from her on the straw mat in their thatched hut at the Samudrapura fishing colony on the Arabian Sea. “It’s still midnight. Maybe Appa’ll return when the fishing boats come in around 10 am.”
Surekha glared at Sagar’s back. Both of them shared a secret they did not want to talk about. Especially not when they saw the foam-topped waves kiss the sandy beach. Or when tiny, transparent crabs scuttled between their toes as they looked out at the horizon. Or even when their friends went to school, while they now stayed back at home.
Their lives had changed for ever since that long, dark night. The night their Appa had vanished during a sudden storm at sea almost two months ago.
Mamatha, their mother, was now a different being. She either stormed at her karma. Or slept for hours all day long. At other times, she wept so much that she choked over grains of rice.
As the sun scaled the sky, their amma sat motionless by the stove, her hair uncombed. She rested her head in her hands.
Just then, their neighbour, Kalyani, dropped by. “Mamatha, here are some steaming rawa idlis with coconut chutney. Narayani, from three houses away, said she’ll send you sambar for lunch. Should she send you rice as well?” she asked.
Surekha, who was nine, looked on. Her amma replied, “Kalyani, we have to wait until Sagar’s appa comes home with a big catch. Is it worth eating till he returns…?”
Sagar, who had stretched himself awake, scowled at his amma. Then, with a neem twig in hand, he ran out of their fishing hamlet. At thirteen, he missed his schoolmates and their daily pranks. But most of all, he missed learning about the wonders of computers at the Samudrapura school.
Now rebellious, Sagar refused to run errands for his mother. Or put his sleeping mat away in the mornings. Instead, he spent all day with a group of school dropouts, tossing stones into the waves. Or whistling at passing schoolgirls. Or pelting stray dogs with shells.
After he left, Surekha sat by her mother. “Amma,” she pleaded, “please can anna and I go back to school? Remember, Appa wants me to learn nursing? And Sagar anna dreams of inventing the best computer in the world…”
Her mother didn’t respond. Instead, she began to sort through some rice, as she set water to boil on the fire, a flame lit but once every few days since the storm had turned their lives upside-down.
“Surekha!” she heard Pratima’s voice from outdoors. “Are you there?”
She ran out. Pratima stood there with Amreen Taj, both in the yellow and grey Samudrapura school uniform.
“When are you returning to class?” asked Amreen Taj, taking Surekha’s hand in hers.
“We miss you,” added Pratima. “Even our teacher, Zubeda Akka, was asking about you. She thinks you and Sagar are too intelligent not to study any more…”
“I don’t know what to do,” whispered Surekha. “Amma just hasn’t been herself since the storm…”
As Amreen Taj and Pratima left for school, they wondered how they could help their friend.
“Should we ask Zubeda Akka to talk to Surekha and Sagar?” said Pratima.
“Perhaps we should ask the Makkala Sangha for their suggestions,” said Amreen Taj.
Three days later, with a sea breeze teasing her flowing burqa, Zubeda Akka stopped by at Surekha’s home. Startled, Mamatha rose to make her a cup of tea.
Zubeda Akka was taken back by the change in her. Mamatha, who had wanted Surekha and Sagar to study at college, now seemed drained of energy. Her eyes were dull, her home uncared for.
“Would you mind if I invited Surekha and Sagar to share our evening meal?” Zubeda Akka asked Mamatha. “My children, Rasheeda and Zamir, are just their age…”
Mamatha paused for a moment, then agreed.
As Surekha strolled to Zubeda Akka’s house by the side of lanky Sagar that evening, she asked again, “When do you think Appa will come back, anna? No one laughs in our home any longer. And he had promised me those green hair clips, you know ~ to match the green skirt Appa bought me last year…”
“Oh, do be quiet, you chatterbox!” retorted Sagar, pushing her away. “You know Appa isn’t going to come back to us. Not now. Not ever. Don’t be such a big baby…”
“How can you say that?” yelled Surekha, pummeling his stomach. “I hate you…”
At that, Sagar began to run towards Zubeda Akka’s house. Surekha followed him slowly, almost reluctantly.
Once they got there, the mood changed dramatically.
“Last week, a pigeon fell out of a tree,” Rasheeda confided in Surekha. “It was crying outside our classroom. Amma picked it up. She brought it in. We bound its leg to a twig to set it right. Why can’t you come back to school? You know best how to care for amma-less squirrels and birds in pain…”
Shyly, Surekha explained, “Amma says we don’t have enough money for food. Or for our school fees. She wants us to wait till Appa returns…”
In another corner, Sagar and Zamir were in an animated discussion about whether Rahul Dravid was a better batsman than Sachin Tendulkar.
“Why don’t you watch the next one-day match on TV with me?” said Zamir, just as Zubeda Akka called them in to a dinner of dal, roti, and seer fish in coconut curry as a special treat.
As Sagar helped himself to more fish, Surekha thought: “Will Amma never cook prawn curry for Sagar anna’s birthday again?”
Just then, Zubeda Akka’s husband said, “I remember the day that your appa and I bought our fishing boats four years ago, Sagar. Your father knew all about boats. He persuaded the seller to give us the right price. He was a wonderful man…”
Sagar wondered silently: “Doesn’t he believe my appa will return?”
Zubeda Akka added, “Did you know my uncle? He was a fisherman the village looked up to. He fought to get us safer boats with motors, instead of the wooden ones our great-grandfathers used. But even that didn’t help him. Despite a storm warning over the radio, he went to sea one day. He never came back…”
As she dipped the last of her roti into the dal, Surekha thought: “Was there a storm warning the day Appa went out to sea? I don’t think so…”
Sagar and Surekha were strangely silent as they walked home. Suddenly, Sagar ruffled her hair. He said in a choked voice, “Putti, I love having a sister who dreams of green hair clips all day long. I’ll make sure you become a nurse ~ even if Appa never comes home.”
Surekha looked up at him, surprised. Her anna was crying, though he quickly wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve.
The next morning, Pratima came skipping by. “Surekha, can you come to the Makkala Sangha meeting this evening, please?”
“Remember how we all took Amaraiah’s family a handful of rice daily when they lost their boat? That was your idea, Surekha,” Amreen Taj added.
When Surekha met the Makkala Sangha group in the Std. 9 classroom at the Samudrapura school, she had a surprise. Sagar was already there. His old classmates, Nandan and Sandesh, had persuaded him to attend.
Nandan quickly began, “The recent storm at sea was a tragedy. Sagar’s appa hasn’t yet come back. Nor has Rehman’s abba…”
Sandesh asked, “Isn’t it the government’s job to let Samudrapura and other fishing villages know when there’s a storm coming?”
Sagar pitched in, “They have satellites and other data on their computers that allow them to know long before the waves in the Arabian Sea rise sky-high.”
Pratima said angrily, “If Surekha’s appa doesn’t come back, the government has to pay for their family. Don’t they know only the wrecked boat was washed ashore? Not the two fishermen in it…”
Amreen Taj agreed, “If the government pays enough, Surekha and Sagar can return to school…”
The sangha decided that Zubeda Akka was the best adult to discuss the subject with. She spent long hours with Surekha and Sagar over the next few weeks. She allowed them talk about their family, to cry over their missing appa, to ask questions about storms and schools, about man and god. She convinced the children it was important to return to school.
A day at a time, Zubeda Akka and her husband spoke to the village headman, Devaiyya. He agreed to support the makkala sangha’s battle. They struggled with basic questions. Why hadn’t the coast guard set out to find Sagar’s appa? Why should the family suffer when their boat, which was insured, was now ruined?
Zubeda Akka also spent time with Mamatha after school. Weeks later, she convinced her that that her husband was unlikely to survive a storm in the Arabian Sea. She helped her to fill out long forms. She also joined her on trips to visit the district collector, the state governor, even the fisheries minister.
“Mamatha,” she often cajoled, “Sagar and Surekha need you. Their appa shared your dreams for them. Remember?”
At that, Mamatha wept into the pallu of her sari. Then, she began to collect the children’s school books. She stacked them into a neat pile.
One day, after a dinner of kanji at home, Sagar said, “Amma, we’re fighting to get money because the government didn’t issue a storm warning the day Appa went to sea…”
Mamatha put down the shirt she was darning. She asked, “Who’s going to help poor fisher folks like us?”
Surekha replied, “Amma, the panchayat is helping us. So is the Makkala Sangha….”
After a moment’s silence, Mamatha said, “All of you, mere children….?”
“We’re sure we can do it, amma,” said Sagar. “But we need your help… We need to know how much Appa’s boat cost. And what else we lost when he … when the waves gave him a home…”
Their amma smiled then, for the first time since that dreadful day. Gradually, Mamatha grew to be more like the mother they loved. She borrowed money from her brother ~ to feed and clothe her children. And she sent them back to school.
Though tears often flooded her eyes suddenly, while she was washing their uniforms or cooking Surekha’s favourite brinjal palya, Mamatha knew one thing for sure. She had to keep her husband’s dream alive. She had to allow Sagar to either become the world’s greatest fisherman or a computer scientist. And surely Surekha would grow up to be a nurse.
With Zubeda’s help, Mamatha kept sending letters to the government. The makkala sangha kept copies of all the correspondence in a file covered with a bright picture of a fishing boat that Surekha had drawn.
Months went by. Then, one day, the village postman brought a surprise to Mamatha’s door. It was a cheque for two lakhs of rupees from the state government.
Meanwhile, at school, Zubeda Akka wiped away a tear when she overheard a conversation in the playground.
“I like talking to Zamir’s father,” said Sagar to his sister. “He knows all about cricket. He was so proud when I won a cup for topping our class. He reads my mind so easily that it’s almost like having Appa around ~ except that uncle looks different!”
As for Surekha, she would never ever forget her tenth birthday. When she woke up, she felt a hard object in her clenched fist. She opened it. There lay the green flower clips she had longed for!
She ran to show the glittering surprise to Sagar. He hugged their amma with joy. For it felt as if their appa, wherever he was now, had made the family’s first wish come true.
Unicef/ IETS
Translated into Kannada and Hindi for first generation rural learners
16 pages
Paperback
2006
My original story in English:
A dream of green hair clips
By Aditi De
“Sagar anna! Wake up!” said Surekha, shaking him gently as the soft colours of dawn painted the night sky. “When Appa comes back, do you think he’ll buy me those leaf green flower-like hair clips from the bazaar?”
“Go to sleep, putti!” replied lanky Sagar, turning away from her on the straw mat in their thatched hut at the Samudrapura fishing colony on the Arabian Sea. “It’s still midnight. Maybe Appa’ll return when the fishing boats come in around 10 am.”
Surekha glared at Sagar’s back. Both of them shared a secret they did not want to talk about. Especially not when they saw the foam-topped waves kiss the sandy beach. Or when tiny, transparent crabs scuttled between their toes as they looked out at the horizon. Or even when their friends went to school, while they now stayed back at home.
Their lives had changed for ever since that long, dark night. The night their Appa had vanished during a sudden storm at sea almost two months ago.
Mamatha, their mother, was now a different being. She either stormed at her karma. Or slept for hours all day long. At other times, she wept so much that she choked over grains of rice.
As the sun scaled the sky, their amma sat motionless by the stove, her hair uncombed. She rested her head in her hands.
Just then, their neighbour, Kalyani, dropped by. “Mamatha, here are some steaming rawa idlis with coconut chutney. Narayani, from three houses away, said she’ll send you sambar for lunch. Should she send you rice as well?” she asked.
Surekha, who was nine, looked on. Her amma replied, “Kalyani, we have to wait until Sagar’s appa comes home with a big catch. Is it worth eating till he returns…?”
Sagar, who had stretched himself awake, scowled at his amma. Then, with a neem twig in hand, he ran out of their fishing hamlet. At thirteen, he missed his schoolmates and their daily pranks. But most of all, he missed learning about the wonders of computers at the Samudrapura school.
Now rebellious, Sagar refused to run errands for his mother. Or put his sleeping mat away in the mornings. Instead, he spent all day with a group of school dropouts, tossing stones into the waves. Or whistling at passing schoolgirls. Or pelting stray dogs with shells.
After he left, Surekha sat by her mother. “Amma,” she pleaded, “please can anna and I go back to school? Remember, Appa wants me to learn nursing? And Sagar anna dreams of inventing the best computer in the world…”
Her mother didn’t respond. Instead, she began to sort through some rice, as she set water to boil on the fire, a flame lit but once every few days since the storm had turned their lives upside-down.
“Surekha!” she heard Pratima’s voice from outdoors. “Are you there?”
She ran out. Pratima stood there with Amreen Taj, both in the yellow and grey Samudrapura school uniform.
“When are you returning to class?” asked Amreen Taj, taking Surekha’s hand in hers.
“We miss you,” added Pratima. “Even our teacher, Zubeda Akka, was asking about you. She thinks you and Sagar are too intelligent not to study any more…”
“I don’t know what to do,” whispered Surekha. “Amma just hasn’t been herself since the storm…”
As Amreen Taj and Pratima left for school, they wondered how they could help their friend.
“Should we ask Zubeda Akka to talk to Surekha and Sagar?” said Pratima.
“Perhaps we should ask the Makkala Sangha for their suggestions,” said Amreen Taj.
Three days later, with a sea breeze teasing her flowing burqa, Zubeda Akka stopped by at Surekha’s home. Startled, Mamatha rose to make her a cup of tea.
Zubeda Akka was taken back by the change in her. Mamatha, who had wanted Surekha and Sagar to study at college, now seemed drained of energy. Her eyes were dull, her home uncared for.
“Would you mind if I invited Surekha and Sagar to share our evening meal?” Zubeda Akka asked Mamatha. “My children, Rasheeda and Zamir, are just their age…”
Mamatha paused for a moment, then agreed.
As Surekha strolled to Zubeda Akka’s house by the side of lanky Sagar that evening, she asked again, “When do you think Appa will come back, anna? No one laughs in our home any longer. And he had promised me those green hair clips, you know ~ to match the green skirt Appa bought me last year…”
“Oh, do be quiet, you chatterbox!” retorted Sagar, pushing her away. “You know Appa isn’t going to come back to us. Not now. Not ever. Don’t be such a big baby…”
“How can you say that?” yelled Surekha, pummeling his stomach. “I hate you…”
At that, Sagar began to run towards Zubeda Akka’s house. Surekha followed him slowly, almost reluctantly.
Once they got there, the mood changed dramatically.
“Last week, a pigeon fell out of a tree,” Rasheeda confided in Surekha. “It was crying outside our classroom. Amma picked it up. She brought it in. We bound its leg to a twig to set it right. Why can’t you come back to school? You know best how to care for amma-less squirrels and birds in pain…”
Shyly, Surekha explained, “Amma says we don’t have enough money for food. Or for our school fees. She wants us to wait till Appa returns…”
In another corner, Sagar and Zamir were in an animated discussion about whether Rahul Dravid was a better batsman than Sachin Tendulkar.
“Why don’t you watch the next one-day match on TV with me?” said Zamir, just as Zubeda Akka called them in to a dinner of dal, roti, and seer fish in coconut curry as a special treat.
As Sagar helped himself to more fish, Surekha thought: “Will Amma never cook prawn curry for Sagar anna’s birthday again?”
Just then, Zubeda Akka’s husband said, “I remember the day that your appa and I bought our fishing boats four years ago, Sagar. Your father knew all about boats. He persuaded the seller to give us the right price. He was a wonderful man…”
Sagar wondered silently: “Doesn’t he believe my appa will return?”
Zubeda Akka added, “Did you know my uncle? He was a fisherman the village looked up to. He fought to get us safer boats with motors, instead of the wooden ones our great-grandfathers used. But even that didn’t help him. Despite a storm warning over the radio, he went to sea one day. He never came back…”
As she dipped the last of her roti into the dal, Surekha thought: “Was there a storm warning the day Appa went out to sea? I don’t think so…”
Sagar and Surekha were strangely silent as they walked home. Suddenly, Sagar ruffled her hair. He said in a choked voice, “Putti, I love having a sister who dreams of green hair clips all day long. I’ll make sure you become a nurse ~ even if Appa never comes home.”
Surekha looked up at him, surprised. Her anna was crying, though he quickly wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve.
The next morning, Pratima came skipping by. “Surekha, can you come to the Makkala Sangha meeting this evening, please?”
“Remember how we all took Amaraiah’s family a handful of rice daily when they lost their boat? That was your idea, Surekha,” Amreen Taj added.
When Surekha met the Makkala Sangha group in the Std. 9 classroom at the Samudrapura school, she had a surprise. Sagar was already there. His old classmates, Nandan and Sandesh, had persuaded him to attend.
Nandan quickly began, “The recent storm at sea was a tragedy. Sagar’s appa hasn’t yet come back. Nor has Rehman’s abba…”
Sandesh asked, “Isn’t it the government’s job to let Samudrapura and other fishing villages know when there’s a storm coming?”
Sagar pitched in, “They have satellites and other data on their computers that allow them to know long before the waves in the Arabian Sea rise sky-high.”
Pratima said angrily, “If Surekha’s appa doesn’t come back, the government has to pay for their family. Don’t they know only the wrecked boat was washed ashore? Not the two fishermen in it…”
Amreen Taj agreed, “If the government pays enough, Surekha and Sagar can return to school…”
The sangha decided that Zubeda Akka was the best adult to discuss the subject with. She spent long hours with Surekha and Sagar over the next few weeks. She allowed them talk about their family, to cry over their missing appa, to ask questions about storms and schools, about man and god. She convinced the children it was important to return to school.
A day at a time, Zubeda Akka and her husband spoke to the village headman, Devaiyya. He agreed to support the makkala sangha’s battle. They struggled with basic questions. Why hadn’t the coast guard set out to find Sagar’s appa? Why should the family suffer when their boat, which was insured, was now ruined?
Zubeda Akka also spent time with Mamatha after school. Weeks later, she convinced her that that her husband was unlikely to survive a storm in the Arabian Sea. She helped her to fill out long forms. She also joined her on trips to visit the district collector, the state governor, even the fisheries minister.
“Mamatha,” she often cajoled, “Sagar and Surekha need you. Their appa shared your dreams for them. Remember?”
At that, Mamatha wept into the pallu of her sari. Then, she began to collect the children’s school books. She stacked them into a neat pile.
One day, after a dinner of kanji at home, Sagar said, “Amma, we’re fighting to get money because the government didn’t issue a storm warning the day Appa went to sea…”
Mamatha put down the shirt she was darning. She asked, “Who’s going to help poor fisher folks like us?”
Surekha replied, “Amma, the panchayat is helping us. So is the Makkala Sangha….”
After a moment’s silence, Mamatha said, “All of you, mere children….?”
“We’re sure we can do it, amma,” said Sagar. “But we need your help… We need to know how much Appa’s boat cost. And what else we lost when he … when the waves gave him a home…”
Their amma smiled then, for the first time since that dreadful day. Gradually, Mamatha grew to be more like the mother they loved. She borrowed money from her brother ~ to feed and clothe her children. And she sent them back to school.
Though tears often flooded her eyes suddenly, while she was washing their uniforms or cooking Surekha’s favourite brinjal palya, Mamatha knew one thing for sure. She had to keep her husband’s dream alive. She had to allow Sagar to either become the world’s greatest fisherman or a computer scientist. And surely Surekha would grow up to be a nurse.
With Zubeda’s help, Mamatha kept sending letters to the government. The makkala sangha kept copies of all the correspondence in a file covered with a bright picture of a fishing boat that Surekha had drawn.
Months went by. Then, one day, the village postman brought a surprise to Mamatha’s door. It was a cheque for two lakhs of rupees from the state government.
Meanwhile, at school, Zubeda Akka wiped away a tear when she overheard a conversation in the playground.
“I like talking to Zamir’s father,” said Sagar to his sister. “He knows all about cricket. He was so proud when I won a cup for topping our class. He reads my mind so easily that it’s almost like having Appa around ~ except that uncle looks different!”
As for Surekha, she would never ever forget her tenth birthday. When she woke up, she felt a hard object in her clenched fist. She opened it. There lay the green flower clips she had longed for!
She ran to show the glittering surprise to Sagar. He hugged their amma with joy. For it felt as if their appa, wherever he was now, had made the family’s first wish come true.
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