Tucked
into a noisy commercial hub between Lepakshi and the Southern Grand in Gandhi
Nagar and solidly encased by huge trees and almost hidden from view is a set of
ridiculously tiny buildings belonging to a past era. Housed in the ruins of
those weather-worn buildings which don’t seem to have had a coat of paint on
their walls or windows for a century are a government treasury, a district
jail, a court, and yet another government office with broken beams hanging down
from its tiled roof.
It
was 2.30 in the afternoon. The Bezawada sun was at his blazing best. Between
the risk of catching Covid-19, which, I imagined, was having a field day inside
the dingy, overcrowded treasury, and being burnt by the searing heat, I chose
the latter, leaving it to my friends to deal with the treasury staff. Money
matters, I said to myself, had best be left to them.
The
heat had climbed higher, and being out under the trees seemed a better option
than being inside. I sat under a huge chettu
in the midst of piles of cow-dung. Around me were sleepy-headed cows with
drooping eyelids, with their bodies spread out and their weight differently
distributed. But their calves were active; unmindful of the heat, they were
briskly moving around the trees. The air was filled with a strong smell of a
combination of gaumaya, gaumutra,
sweat and tobacco smoke.
Now
a tall young man in police uniform came out of the darkness of the jail
followed by a bald middle-aged man with a constant grin on his face. The latter
had a pronounced police paunch set over short, thick legs, and he wore khaki
half-trousers and a tight banian
which accentuated his round figure. There was something of the Falstaff about
the man: If sack and sugar be a fault,
God help the wicked. If to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host
that I know is damned. If to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh’s lean kine
are to be loved. And I took an
instant liking to this merry-looking fellow.
The
pudgy policeman sat on a bench under a neighbouring tree, lit a cigarette and
drew deeply on the tobacco smoke. As he blew rings of smoke, his grin widened.
‘Now, tell me,’ he said addressing the young policeman standing in front of
him, ‘Naakku aratti pandu kaavali’ (I want bananas). How would you say this in
Tamil?’
‘Enakku
vazahi pazham vendum.’
‘What
is pandu in Tamil?
‘Pazham.’
‘Pa-’
‘Pa-zham.’
‘Pa-lam.
Aravam is a difficult language,’ he said with a reflective look at the smoke
rings.
The
conversation continued. The senior policeman gave one sentence after another in
Telugu, and the young man promptly supplied Tamil versions. The sentences
sounded quite acceptable. It was a truly riveting performance, and I was
absolutely fascinated.
There
was a sudden splash of warm water against my face now, and I stood up shocked.
The cow was on its feet now. It was urinating intermittently.
‘If
you stay on there,’ shouted the fat cop, ‘you can have a gaumaya treatment
also, and the coronavirus will never touch you.’ With a silly grin on his face,
he got up and moved behind one of the trees in a corner where I now noticed
another building whose sign board read that it was the office of some
pensioners’ association.
Moving
closer to the young man, I asked him, ‘Is Tamil your mother tongue?’ He shook
his head.
‘Then
how come you are able to speak the language with ease?’
‘I’ve
picked up all that I know from movies. I watch quite a lot of Tamil movies.’
‘You've
never learnt Tamil formally?
‘Never.
I don’t even go to Tamil Nadu often.’
‘Your
Tamil is very impressive, I can tell you. It’s amazing that you picked it up
just from movies.'
‘I
can see that you’re having a nice time,’ said a voice from behind. I looked
back. My friends had come out. Mr Rama Raju was giving a big triumphant smile,
and I congratulated him.
‘Get
in. Let’s go,’ said Mr Rama Raju from behind the wheel. While getting in, I
looked in the direction of the pensioner’s association office. The bald man
with a police paunch was stepping into view from behind a massive tree. He
waved a warm hand.
