HUES BEYOND RAINBOW

             

      September was drawing to a close.  But the simmering heat lingered on.  The heavy and still evenings forecast the early arrival of the retreating monsoon.

            

“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

            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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