Small town blues

As I sit alone in my hotel room smoking, what seems to me as an endless succession of cigarettes, my mind inevitably drifts back to the sepia toned picture of my first smoke.

It was 1992 and I was in my 10th standard. It was the cricket season in Port Blair and the crowd was out in force to see “Nawaz” take on “Forest” for the “Jumpin Juicy Cup”, arguably the most prestigious of the club competitions back then. Even in those days we had floodlights, white balls and colored clothing. It was a carnival atmosphere with people looking to have a good time and I was there with couple of my mates from school. During a drinks break my friend suggested that we should do something. That something, as it was decided by consensus, was to have a smoke. Now I had stolen a few puffs here and there, but this was serious stuff. We were talking about a whole bloody cigarette. So after counting the money we had (my pocket money amounted to 5 rupees a week), with winged objects drawing lazy shapes in my stomach, we stole furtively to the nearest cigarette shop and bought 3 Benson & Hedges. The choice was simple B & H was the most “prestigious” brands we knew of and we were at a cricket match and B & H sponsored the only other day and night cricket we knew of.

With the most dangerous part of our mission completed we went behind the stadium hid in an obscure corner by the ladies toilet and puffed furiously. Occasionally I would add my two bits on how Anil was wasting the cigarette by not taking the smoke in etc. Soon we were back in our seats, triumphant and a little high; little did we realize that the shit had already hit the fan.

At the innings break, another classmate of ours, popularly known as “girgit” (chameleon for the uninitiated), passed by us with a smirky smile. He always had one, it was much later that we realized that it wasn’t smirky at all, but of the knowing variety. By the drinks break of the second innings we saw a group of our schoolmates chattering away excitedly, throwing the more than occasional glance at us. The next day at school people I barely knew came up to me and asked how the first smoke felt. I know that fame or infamy at school had certain benefits but that that moment my only thought was “shit, I am in big trouble”. The trouble, you see, was threefold. One, my sister studied in the same school, couple of classes my senior. Two, notoriety traveled faster than wild fire. Three, she was a squeal, who never passed by an opportunity to get into my dad’s ear about me. That evening I waited for my dad to arrive with great trepidation. Needless to say what transpired afterward is a painful memory. I am not sure what happened at Samit’s and Anil’s households but an icy chill set onto mine for the next couple of days.

As it turns out, I haven’t quite managed to kick the habit yet.

The Adventures of Nattu - 1

I was 13 years old. A year back I had read “Adventures of Tom Sawyer” as apart of the school curriculum. Usually school work came last in my list of things to do. With Tom Sawyer, though, I was fascinated. I realised that my life was a dull drag, and I longed for something that would justify a book called “Adventures of Nattu”. I decided that something needed to be done. I planned, discarded the plan then re-planned. Nothing that could qualify as “adventurous” materialised. I re-read the book. Could I plagiarise something of Tom’s adventures. Then it came to me. I could run away from home. Anyways my exam results were due and it was a good time to do it. But merely running away from home didn’t satisfy me, I had to do something more.

I drew up a plan, worked on it till I was satisfied. I was going to do it. I went to school by the day and thought about it all the time. At home I worked on the details. I being me couldn’t hold on to the secret for long. I was dying to tell someone about the brave thing I was doing. Who else could I confide in but my partner in numerous crimes, Samit! Samit was excited, he too wasn’t expecting great things from the exam results (how could he, he had studied with me). He said he would join me. We worked every evening on it.

Finally the D-Day arrived. Precisely at 4:30 in morning we slipped out of our houses (we had synchronised our watches the previous evening). We reach the designated rendezvous point. Few agonising minutes were spent trying to find Samit. I quietly whispered his name as I negotiated thorny bushes (This was in the pre-mobile days). We found each other and made our way to the sea shore. We quickly uncovered the product of our labour of the past 2 weeks. The raft looked ready to take the sea. We hefted it, huffing and puffing we made it to the sea. We had to work fast. The plan was to leave at first light. Samit looked at me and asked “Do you think it is good idea?” I didn’t reply. I got on the raft and looked at him. With a resigned sigh he got on it. We were away.

The target was a small island on the other side of the bay some 8 miles off. We took turns in rowing and steering. We had made some ground but had a long way to go. We took a break. With a practiced flourish I took out a packet of cigarettes and matchbox carefully wrapped in water proof plastic. I had planned well. Samit asked “Do you think it is good idea? What if mom and dad some to know?”. That sissy, I regretted having got him along. I mean what’s the point in running away from home if a mom-substitute accompanies you. We quickly completed the cigarette and got back to work.

We were now about 3 miles from where we started. The waves were starting to buffet the raft. Suddenly with a loud creak the raft broke, I fell into the sea. I didn’t know how to swim. I thrashed around till my hands grabbed one log of the raft. I hoped it would hold. I heard “Mummy, mummy, help” somewhere in the distance. I couldn’t care less. That bloody mama’s boy. I was going to die. But at least I had my adventure. I remembered how Tom Sawyer got a memorial service when people thought he was dead. I hoped my parents would so something similar.

Two strong hands grabbed me. I had drifted off dreaming of Becky. I saw Samit next to me looking miserable. We had been rescued by some fishermen who were going out for their day’s work. They dropped us at a nearby jetty. We made out way back home. My mom was all over me. I didn’t tell her the whole story. After a couple of days my results came out. I was ranked between a retard who liked to pull out his nose hair and contemplate over it for hours and Samit the sissy. If my dad was upset he didn’t show it. My mom even made some sweets t celebrate my passing. My sister sulked a little bit as she wondered whether 59th in the class was better than first. I had my adventure, my results were forgotten and Samit got his mummy back.

Absolute Crap

Most of you would not have any idea what human waste tastes like. In fact I am the only one I know of who has had the unfortunate experience of tasting shit.

The year was 1982. The world headlines were dominated by Falklands war, the first human heart transplant death of Grace Kelly, India hosted an Asian games and T.V. made its debut in the Andamans. Among these great events in a remote corner of the world an obscure boy was in the midst of his experiences with truth. That obscure young boy was me.

Inspired by the feats of the athletes I tried my hand at various sports; sprints, javelin, pole vault (that’s another story). It was when I tried my hand at long jump that I realised that I was not really cut out for a career in athletics. It so happened that, around the that time the septic tank at my house overflowed. Two men were hired to clean the mess up. The started with opening the tank. Having never seen one open before, I was naturally curious. I loitered around till the workmen left for a cup of tea.

My mind projected dreamy images of long loose limbed athletes sprinting and jumping into a pit the size and shape of which resembled the open pit in front of me. My mind protested, but visions of me standing atop the podium with the gold medal around my neck was too overpowering for the feeble resistance put up by my mind. Without a second thought I marked a as long a run-up as our backyard would allow. I imagined myself in a stadium full of spectators wildly cheering for the new hope of Indian athletics. Then I sprinted. Before I knew it I reached the threshold, there was no turning back, with my heart pounding, I took the leap of faith.

Plop. A warm, evil smelling mush enveloped me. My short past (all of 6 years) rushed passed my eyes along with sundry decomposing organic matter. I couldn’t believe it. This is no way to end a glorious career in athletics! Drowned in a pool of shit! Suddenly I felt a stabbing pain in my scalp. It was my sister. A year and a half years elder to me, she summoned thus far unrecognised physical strength to pull me out by my hair. Maybe she was practicing in secret to be the next weight lifting champion. Surely she had a better chance at it than I did in long jump. Whatever it was, it saved my life that day, though I sometimes wish I had died then. The beating that your psyche takes when your dreams drown in a cess pool take much more than the couple of cakes of soap I used to get rid of the smell.

Superheros!

Watched Spiderman-2 recently and while the movie was quite timepass I found myself drifting back to my childhood days in Andamans and my brush with superheros. We used have a maths teacher called Ramamurthy. He was quite a brilliant teacher and more than a bit weird. Once in a while he would go into this spells of pure unadultrated lunacy. e.g. he once rode his moped right into the classroom. His antics were mostly harmless till he discoverd "Superman". Aparently he had got hold of this superman comic from somewhere and started fantasizing about being superman. Unlike most of us he did not rest on his fantasies and got a superman outfit stiched in from Madras. Then in those spells he would ride around the town in his moped wearing this familiar blue and red outfit. When he climbed the tallest buildings in Port blair threatening to fly off from there, people got seriously worried and he was kept under observation and treatment till he seemed OK again. Things back to normal with him back in schol teaching with zest, then one fine day someone handed him a letter to give it to someone who was flying to Madras as he was going towards the airport. He was running late and he decided since the man cannot do it it is a job for superman. He put on the suit jumped on to the moped and off he went to the airport. By the time he reached the airport the plane was already taxiing bu that did not deter superman he rode his moped right on to the runway chasing the the disappearing plane.Three things resulted from that episode. he was put into a mental institute for a long time, we lost a great maths teacher and the security of the airport at Port Blair improved dramatically.

Legends 1 - Saudagar

Walking in the Aberdeen bazaar in Port Blair in the 90s you would often be accosted by a small wiry man with a snow white goatee and round glasses. He’d demand to know why you didn’t greet him! "Janta nahi main kaun hai!" he’d ask indignantly. "Mai, Suadagar!" he would proclaim with a touch of arrogance. As a kid you were part scared and part in awe of him. Of course everybody knew him. His fame had traveled far and wide among the islanders. In his 90s he was still very fit. Surely human meat must hold the key behind his good health. Human meat? This is Suadagar’s story.

In the year 1942 World War II was at its peak. The Japanese were rampant in South-East Asia. After a string of triumphs over the British and the American Pacific fleet the Japanese had occupied most of South East Asia and were heading steadily towards India, the jewel in the British colonial crown. Aided by the Indian National Army headed by Subash Chandra Bose, they wrested control of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands from the British. It was the first Indian territory to become free of the British control with Netaji hoisting the Indian Flag at Port Blair. The residents of the islands rejoiced, for the dream of freedom had come true.The dream however quickly turned into nightmare. The Japanese occupiers displayed cruelty that surpassed the worst of the British. They raped and pillaged at will. When their supply ships began to come under increasing British pressure, they suspected to have a spy in their midst. They also had a food shortage problem in their hands. They quickly set out to eliminate the problems. This was no time for finesse. They rounded up anyone who was educated, anyone suspected to have sympathies with the British, anyone who was old infirm or otherwise unproductive. Initially they shot them and buried them alive in mass graves at a place called Patthar Gadda outside Port Blair. When they realized this was taking more time than necessary, the Japanese took these prisoners out to the sea and threw them overboard. Anyone who tried to swim was mercilessly hacked down by the ships propellers.

Saudagar was one such prisoner. Being very fit and an expert swimmer, when he was thrown overboard, he swam under water escaping the notice of his Japanese captors, made his way to an uninhabited island. He hid there for 14 days. He survived by eating the flesh of the bodies that were washed to the shore. Luckily for him these were the last days of Japanese occupation. Soon it was over.Suadagar survived, the only one to do so. To this day his name evokes awe among us.

Suadagar died in 1997 at the age of 102

Going bananas!

This was year 1985. I was 9. My dad had just got transferred to a small island in the Nicobar archipelago. Since there was no school there, it was decided that my mom, my sister and me stay back in Port Blair. We had to forego our government quarters and move into rented premises. The house we moved into was owned by a rich landlord who had a huge amount of land (by Andaman standards). They had a small colony of houses and two large plantations of betel-nut and banana trees.

As I was in those days, a move to a new place was exciting. The first thing I usually did was pick up my dav (machete, which most households in Andamans used to possess) and explore the area and get a feel for the lay of the land and search for a suitable hideout. This move was no different as soon as we reached and unpacked I took the dav and was off.

I soon chanced upon this banana plantation. It had about 150 trees. The trunks of the banana trees looked succulent and soft and the dav, sharp. I took a swipe at the nearest tree. For a second nothing happened. Then the top half of the tree toppled over, almost in slow motion like you see in the movies. It felt good. At that age the realisation that you can cut a tree (even one with the robustness of a cucumber) in half with one swipe of the dav is a heady. I took another swipe another tree bit the dust. Slowly but steadily the plantation started thinning.

After about an hour and a half of carnage only a handful stood in front of me. I was tired, but was triumphant. Then I heard a shout in chaste Hindi "B@$%$c&^d kaun hai Saala?". The voice sounded vaguely familiar. It was our landlord's eldest son. The realisation that something terrible was going to happen sunk in and I ran for it. Unfortunately all the dav-swinging had made me tired and I was soon caught. I got the thrashing of my life with the landlord's four sons taking turns.

We were soon looking for a new house, without any plantations of course.