“All these pots are too old
Suresh. Some have developed cracks. Roses surely need re-potting. We must get rid of these crotons … enough of
their boring looks,” Sumathi kept muttering as she inspected her plants and
pots.
“Yeh, Yeh! Before it rains,” I said
not applying my mind but reading, sitting on the kitchen step.
“We must buy some good pots this
time … I saw some on the road-side, beyond the new bus stand on the Melur Road. All painted in gorgeous colours. Must be Biharis I think … or some North
Indian folks doing it.”
I desperately wanted to continue
with my reading but sounded serious to Sumathi.
“I too saw some. But they are not the traditional ones we get
in sandai.”
“Nothing wrong … they looked very
nice even from a distance, painted so nicely … in colours of the rainbow … kept
in galleried rows.”
Giving up the hope of reading I
said, “How colour matters Sumathi? They
have painted them garish mainly to attract the passersby.”
“You mean that there is no
aesthetics involved?” asked Sumathi, turning away from her roses.
I put down the book.
“Only we Tamils do not have real
sense of colour. You see for instance Rajastani and Gujarati traditional costumes. What
bright hues! What stunning play of colours! Really kaleidoscopic.Women’s skirts
and blouses … they call them gangaaras and
kurtis you know! Men’s turban too . .
. elegant.”
A little amused by Sumathi’s sudden
aesthetic foray I quipped, “Why then you didn’t stop to buy your rainbow pots
on the highway?”
“What do you think Soor? It is a weird place. Not a place for a woman to stop and step
out. These northies I can’t handle
either. if you don’t know Hindi, they certainly cheat. A whole lot have come from Bihar. Half the thefts and house-breaks in the city happen
because of them … thieves. Even they
slit open your throat.”
“Hey, Hey! Stop! You just said
Biharis make beautiful pots?”
“Biharis or Marwaris, . . . they are
from North. Speak Hindi. You just can’t handle them.”
“But they make nice pots.”
“That
is different Suresh. Buy me some
pots. That is all.”
I
pitied Sumathi’s criminology.
II
Saturday. I wanted to go and buy her
the pots. The language riddle I solved by deciding to take Mani with me.
Mani is about 30. Apart from speaking Hindi, he claims to speak
Gujarathi, Marwari, Marathi, Oriya, Bojpuri, Bengali and a few more. I have no means of verifying all that. But I reassure him often that I respect his
linguistic genius. The problem however
is his compulsive chronicling and dialogue delivery in Hindi. He seems to have worked as a private security
in several industrial sites of North.
Now, he is a watchman in the flat next door.
As we drove towards the highway,
Mani began, “You know Suresh Sir, Modi Saab
is sure to become Prime Minister this time.
Very strict man, Honest man. People
talk bad of him because of the riots!”
“Mmm?”
“I was very much there in Ahmedabad
during Godhra times. I simply put a ruthraksha malai around my neck, applied
vermilion mark on forehead and happily went around - me, John Jesurathnam Mani.”
“Jesus bless Gujarat!”
“Modi is personally a good man … you
know Sir, his personal barber is a poor Muslim fellow … he helps him a lot.”
My gas pedal went one notch down and
my ageing Ikon gushed but did not pick up speed.
Mani now wanted to score his point,
“Our problem here is language Sir. Don’t
take offence … even the well educated is not capable of speaking Hindi.”
This stung. I grimly wondered, “Did
Mani mean to say I am more Tamil? Or, simply less Indian?”
III
No one can miss the site. I pulled the car off the road and parked it
on the very bank of the old irrigation channel that ran alongside of the
highway. Mani ejected out swift and
smart, and walked ahead of me like a collector’s dawali. It was embarrassing.
As I walked carefully on the
rickety, perhaps unauthorized wooden overpass, a gush of warm rotten-egg
smelling breeze wafted through my face and entered my nostrils. Glistening oil-black silt was rotting underneath. The stream, I thought, will die soon.
“There is no one,” announced Mani.
Besides flower pots, the stall sold
Ganesh idols – big and small, one at least measured six feet tall – and a variety
of talismanic artifacts that ward off
the effects of evil eye. But it was
colour, colour on everything. The range
of hues was much more than what a rainbow can craft.
Mani interrupted, “These people are
like this …slothful nomads, indifferent by nature. We may have to wait …”
I didn’t mind. I thought I can walk around a little and see.
The stall provided only a small
façade to an otherwise expansive plot of land possibly measuring more than a
quarter of an acre as it could be seen by the conspicuous marking of boundary
with decrepit wooden poles, sagging barbed wires and at irregular intervals,
even with piles of stone boulders.
The right rear extreme corner of the
plot housed a living quarter, an improvised tent raised on bamboo poles and
canopied with thick blue polythene.
Close to it was the work area, with mounds of clay, unfinished casts,
rubber moulds of different sizes and shapes, tins of paints and brushes and
carelessly kept bags of cement and plaster of paris. There was no potter’s wheel.
Mani snapped, “Perfect encroachment
… must be a government purampok. In no
time the city would reach here. Now
itself it is worth in gold … two to three crores at least …”
“How do you know?”
“That is how it is…I know.Where from
these nomads plucked this much courage I don’t understand … vagabonds becoming
land sharks overnight!”
I didn’t respond. But Mani was unrelenting.
“It is because of our own weaken. No
Tamil can handle even a Hindi speaking hawker selling durry in the street. How are we going to drive away these rogues
and thieves? First, we must learn at least to speak Hindi Suresh Sir.”
I gave a cold look. He stopped.
IV
He returned from the road side … the
vendor. Bihari!
But he was no shark. Looked a
field-rat.
Mani took a few steps forward
apparently to halt ‘the hostile force’ with his Hindi. He said something in a rattle.
But the youth standing before him,
gave a very broad but smug smile.
Then said in perfect Tamil, “First
you select all that you want. Then we
will decide the price …. Pots only?”
Mani was nonplussed. He withdrew.
Moving around examining the pots I
casually asked him, “You seem to speak Tamil like a native?”
“I was born in Trichendur … You must
have known the famous temple there on the shore.”
I queried “You have been around ever since
your birth?”
“Yes Sir, my mother left my father
when I was two. My father left me behind
when I was hardly four as he took another woman…”
“Then?”
I stopped inspecting the pots. I straightened up to look at him.
“Our people are not bad … I mean the
other groups who have been around. You
know Sir, we are Kumhars from
Rajastan, pot makers. One group or the other
took care of me. Some were kind some
were not. Now I am twenty one.”
“You speak Rajastani?”
“Yes.”
“Now you work independently?”
“Four years … since I quarreled with
Mina’s parents.”
He pointed his fingers at a distance
and said “They live there … along this road.
But they make Ganesh idols and Kanthrishti
items only.”
“How long you were with them?”
“Seven years … They are good
people. But Mina was growing up and they
wanted me to go away.”
I became more curious.
“Is Mina there with parents
now? How old is she?”
“Yes, very much … sixteen or
seventeen, I don’t know…”
At that point I thought I was
becoming too intrusive and stopped. I went
back choosing the pots.
“Twenty of them … these medium sized
ones … on those last two rows. I want
them in all possible colours you have.”
Some he moved from the gallery. Some he moved from inside the stall. An array of atleast ten or twelve different
tints.
“Oh! You first tell your price. I forgot to ask. I was too involved in the conversation.”
“No problem Sir. My price is Rs. 230/- per piece.”
“ Rs. 230/- per piece? … Too much thambi.”
“Then I must ask Appa.”
“Appa? Who is Appa?”
“You don’t know Vel Anna? Big man in politics. Everything belongs to him … this land, this
stall, these pots, these idols …. I only work here.”
Even before I asked anything further,
he pulled out a cell phone from his trouser pocket and called Appa. Appa promptly responded. He spoke to him in Tamil. He told him that I needed 20 pots and that my
quote was only Rs. 150/- per pot and that in the event the deal was finalized
they might have to organize transportation for me. He spoke with certain clarity, ease and
responsibility. The response from the
other side seemed equally poised and reciprocating.
He finished the call and said, “Appa
says you can take it for Rs. 180/- per pot.”
I bargained, “Rs. 150/- is the right
price.”
“You can talk to Appa. He will give
further concession. He is coming. He can
only arrange for transport.”
“When will he come?”
“Soon. He has started. He will come in his Sumo.”
The pots were good and the dealings
looked somewhat authentic. Besides, I had
become interested in listening to him more.
I decided to wait for Vel Anna
coming in a Sumo.
His Hindi not working, Mani felt
snubbed. My style of carrying out the conversation with the young man further
rubbed salt on his wound. He kept aloof.
“I must be gone before it is too late
Suresh Sir. I have promised to go over
to Major Saab’s house in the second floor to do some cleaning,” Mani said in a
mournful voice.
I ignored.
V
The youth - even at 21 he looked a
boy - brought a stool for me to sit.
Standing before me, he gave the same broad smug smile with which he
disarmed Mani first.
I started, “What is your name?”
“Dilip … that is what has stuck
finally … It is the name Mina’s parents gave me when I joined them … I was nine
or ten.”
Dilip was bare bodied and
barefooted. The only cloth on him was an
old jean, cut off below the knees. He
was possibly wearing it for ages and was completely speckled with paints of
very many colours. The spots and patches
formed interesting collages against the dirty blue background of his
jeans. I didn’t think he thought that
way.
His broad chin, thin lips, high
cheeks, narrow forehead and hair with brown tint certainly set him apart from
southern species. His skin had already
turned brown. His eyelids were heavy
drooping down almost half-closing his eyes.
I wasn’t sure whether it was by constitution, or due to a heavy
hangover. The ravages of paan chewing could be seen in the dark
brown stains on his teeth. Yet, he
looked handsome and endearing.
“You seem to have a great sense of
colour,” I said. But he didn’t catch.
I corrected myself, “Your painting
of these pots and idols are really nice.”
He nodded his head with some
embarrassment. But I could see some
animation on his face. It appeared as if
he was carefully gathering some thoughts to speak.
He spoke: “It comes to us Kumhars automatically. Becaue we are children of Prajapathi. You know anna,
he was the one who made the first kumbh,
and gave it to Shiva and Parvathi.”
“Was it painted?” I teased.
“Yes, yes! Very much,” he said seriously.
I immediately changed my demeanor,
and in a very assuaging tone said, “It is quite interesting, tell me more Dilip.”
“You know it all happened during the
wedding of Shiva and Parvathi. They
forgot to bring the vessel that would hold the holy water for the ceremony.”
“What happened?”
“Shiva called Prajapathi, our
primeval father, and ordered him to make a pot.
There was no clay. Shiva tore a
piece of his skin from his body and gave it to Prajapathi to be used as
clay. Parvathi wanted to make her
contribution. She drew some blood from
her body and said, ‘Take my blood! Do the best painting on the pot.’ This is how the first painted pot arrived.”
I became silent and took every
effort to be receptive.
“When I do the mixing anna,” Dilip said, “ I pray to Parvathi
Amma and every time she shows me a new
tint.”
It was gratifying to hear. In a very polite tone, I asked, “Dilip how did you come to know about all these stories?
“From Mina’s mother … they are not
stories anna!”
“I’m sorry I didn’t mean that …I
mean the purana.”
Dilip continued, “They said the same thing in Kotwala when we went to celebrate the eight day festival in the temple of Guga. There was dance-drama and singing. On every occasion they said about Prajapathi making the first painted pot.”
“Kotwala? Where is it?”
“In Rajastan, in Jaisalmar district
near Pakistan border.”
“You go there every year to
celebrate?”
“No.
Not at all. Mina’s parents took
me once when I was small. They said my
father’s village is near Kotwala.”
“Did you go there?”
“Yes, some families remembered my
father. But no one wanted to relate with
me.”
As we were talking, a boy came in a
cycle doing a great balancing act on it before he abruptly jumped from the seat
holding an ever-silver thooku chatti
swinging by its handle. He said
something accosting to Dilip, left the chatti
on the counter, and went away.
“He is Mina’s little brother. Of his age only, I joined them” said Dilip.
“Some food for you? They send it
every day?”
Dilip giggled and said, “No, when
they make something special, Mina sends it without her father knowing it.”
I didn’t say anything further. My head was already full clouding my
mind. I wanted to be quiet.
VI
A Sumo pulled in. Vel Anna got down. Mani’s foreboding of the shark came to my
mind.
The disproportionate and disagreeing
sections of Vel Anna’s huge and heavily pot-bellied body would defy any logic
of human anatomy. But his stolid and
barren face, glittering gold - on his neck, wrists and fingers - and the
rustling Kara Veshti with minister-white
shirt, readily announced his political affiliation and importance.
Anna signaled me not to get up. He
sat in front of me on a chair brought by Dilip.
“You seem to be waiting for long … As
I get out of my house you know, thousand people come calling on”, Anna said.
“Anyway,
your transport is ready … I have told the load-van fellow. To P&T colony?
Am I right? Pay him Rs. 200/-. Enough.”
Vel Anna spoke with authority.
I hesitantly began, “The price is
too much … If it is Rs. 150/- per pot …”
Before I finished he snapped, “You
seem to be an educated man and well of.
You have come in your car … Haven’t you?”
He continued without looking for my
answer, “What a big deal if you are losing that Rs.600/- on the whole? See the poor boy. For his sake, people like
you must extend some charity.
Even if you pay that Rs.230/- I will be happy
Even if you pay that Rs.230/- I will be happy
Anna
did not bother to look for my answer. He
turned to Dilip, who had now taken a safe distance from us and asked, “Was
there any trouble in the night?”
“No Appa,” said Dilip.
“Did you hear anything from that
donkey of a girl, Mina?”
“No trouble.”
Then Vel Anna turned to me and said, “See the travails of these people. Three days back some drunken youths got into the other camp in the middle of the night and attempted to molest that girl. This lad called me over phone and I came all the way from home. After beating them up with the help of my men, I handed those rogues over to police.”
He turned to Dilip and teased: “Now at
least they must get her married to you”.
“See Sir, it is all by arrangement,”
Vel Anna continued with me. “All sorts
of people come here, police men, rogues, thieves, touts … all sorts of
people. Dilip promptly tells everyone
that the business belongs to me, HIS APPA!” Vel Anna laughed in a big guffaw
subjecting his huge body to violent tremors. He further said “Hearing my name,
no one would wag his tail… I don’t take
a single pie, you must know.”
“He calls me very affectionately
Appa. I don’t mind. Your own children these days are not very
okay. This lad guards this place like a hound
…. This place is under some legal dispute, I need to show possession to the
court.”
I did not want to know what Vel Anna
meant by children of these days and showing possession to court.
I told myself, “The shark has a
heart, a huge heart.”
I wondered, “Will I allow the boy
call me Appa under any circumstance?
Will Sumathi allow that in the first place?”
I got up, counted three thousand
six hundred rupees and handed it over to Vel Anna.
Vel Anna said, “You seem to be
reasonable.”
Mani helped Dilip loading the pots
to the van.
VII
Mani looked very cross as we drove
home. After a long pause he opened, “You
believe all that the boy told Sir? I
listened to only half of what he was blabbering to you …all gas. These people would put up any show for the
sake of survival.”
I did not answer.
Mani felt encouraged. “I strongly feel even he cheated you on the
price … that Vel also was mean, aligning with him for a petty profit.”
I did not answer.
“What a show, what a show!” Mani said again.
“It is a better show than your ruthraksha malai show,” I snapped.
Mani didn’t speak till we reached
home.
VIII
Sumathi
was quite satisfied with the pots as they arrived. But raised some doubts about the price. Finally she said reassuring herself, “Mani
was there after all with you. They could
not have cheated.”I did not utter a single word about Dilip or what happened in
the rainbow stall.
But something was haunting me. When I went to bed in the night, the incident
at the stall came to my mind in a clear flash back. I tried to wish it away. Again and again it came back.
Dilip, Mina, Mina’s parents, Vel
Anna, those vulgar rogues.
Several images of an abandoned child
will pass first. Then I will ask:
“Why Dilip’s mother should have
become promiscuous in the first place?
Was she promiscuous? Then I will
say that his father must be blamed more than the mother. Then I will wish in my mind Mina must be a
good-looking girl. Will she marry Dilip?
Is that what Vel Anna meant? Can he be trusted?” Then I would declare myself to
be stupid.
When I turn around and see my
children sleeping under the buzz of the air-conditioner, I will start another
round. “How abandoned children sleep
alone on the road?” And so on, and on.
It was three or four days before I forgot about it.
IX
Second Saturday. The whole week Sumathi had busied herself
with gardening. This Saturday was marked
for buying roses from the nursery.
Sumathi only knows roses. We both
drove up. As she was picking up the
plants, I was aimlessly moving around the nursery. Suddenly I saw the same rainbow pots kept in
a ramshackle shed in an extreme corner, in the front.
I asked the supervisor who was
standing nearby. In a welcoming tone he
said, “Sir, they have just arrived. We
will display them soon. Costs only hundred rupees … We get it for eighty from
the North Indian chap who makes them on the Melur road.” Very same pots. I did not utter a word. But I did not want Sumathi to see them. I stepped forward and stood in a manner
diverting her to go to the car straight.
She paid the bill and went passed me without turning to the shed.
I was about to start the car. Sumathi suddenly lowering the glass on her side excitedly said, “Same pots Suresh, Did you see?”
I was extra cool. I said “yes, I saw.”
“Did you ask for the price then?”
“yes, two hundred and thirty rupees
a piece.”
As we drove away, the broad smug
smile of Dilip appeared before me. I didn’t want to decode it.
© Chinnaraj Joseph Jaikumar
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