Posted by: oys_chill January 27, 2008
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Memory Lane: Interstellar Overdrive!
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“Gara raksha saba ko, Pashupatinath…..” I could hear her low yet mellifluous voice from our bardali. Obscured behind the plants in her balcony, I could still make Shivani watering the "Tulsi" and doing her usual morning “puja.” She was wearing her vibrant black Kurta surwal, the one with tiny white flowers inscribed in them which I had seen from close range a week or so ago. The winter sun broke through the haziness of the morning like the spotlight on the stage highlighting her little better. It didn’t feel as cold anymore.
“Hyaa Oyss! Kata tolai ra..maile ta siddai saken! ” my sister broke me off. Into our usual morning past times in winter, she had polished Dad’s right shoe to perfection. Unfazed, I re-enacted the radio ad. “Paile ali kati cherry blossom paalish line, brush le sabai teera laune, ani kada burush le ramrari talkaune. “ My sister giggled as I worked on Dad’s left shoe. “La hernus! Yo jadu mero hoina! Cherry blossom ko ho!”
As soon as dad made his way upstairs to the kitchen, my sister ran up to him and inquired “daddy, kasko ramro talkyo?” My dad, a trivial-perfectionist, began to scrutinize his shoes from every angle. Finally, he decided that I had not paid much attention to the back of the heels unlike my sister. My sister jumped up in joy saying “dekhis dekhis!” On that note, we next went off to dry the Lapsi’s titaura Maami had made the night before.
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The dynamics of home changed drastically as soon as our parents left for work. My elder sister began to make plans with neighbors for a “Bhogate” session. My younger sister scurried off to Shivani’s home to have their doll weddings. Despite my sisters’ disapproval, I combed my hair with “tori ko tel”, put on my sweater, and slid out quietly like I did everyday that winter with my semi-sponged table tennis bat. The stillness besieged Handigaon as soon as the morning session of “Bigyapan Sewa” ended on the radio.
I had only got out of our small gulli when I saw a congregation of older men arguing vociferously with one another. “Yo bato ma mari gaye ni PITCHED huna dinna, Lazza ta!” “Bato pitch bhaye pachi Jatra ma k huncha hola?” “Harey! aba sadhai bhari Jatra Jatra bhanera, motor hidne bato chai kasari aucha?” I had heard rumors that the dirt road of handigaon would soon be black-topped.
Even from afar, I spotted Pawan Dai on the terrace of Tri-shakti club that stood overlooking the house of a pretty girl named “Mona” that had driven Pawan Dai CRAZY. As usual, he was dressed in his long black overcoat and his shady leather cap that hid most of his shoulder length hair personifying “Khalnayak.” He even had guitar on his hand that he could barely strum, but he had memorized the song “Oh Mona” that he often sang with his rugged voice. Not everyone called him pawan dai. Some called him Sanjay Dutt, some Khalnayak, but his most popular nick was self explanatory “Sadak Chaap Romeo” blessed from Mona herself. He barely played table tennis with us, but we felt comfortable in his presence.
As I did a usual go-around of Bhagwati Temple that adjoined the Tri-shakti club and a peepal -bot, I heard disgruntled mumblings from familiar voices. Debre Hemante, Fiste, Kaichi, Daare, and Laloo were all huddled around the tree, that stood by the concrete table tennis board. I instantly realized it was Kale who seemed to be in trouble. The gatekeeper from the adjoining prominent Sardarji’s house that had visible four big TATA buses in the compound, who was our usual spectator, seemed concerned as well.
As I grew closer, I heard Kaichi trying to console Kale “hyaa Pele, naro k. Tyo Sagar tyastai ho kaile kahi” Pele was the euphemism for Kale because Kale loved giving guffs about Pele all the time. The very mention of Sagar dai made snse on what had happened. Playing table tennis all day nearly entire winter, we had gotten so good that we’d beat most of the senior guys around Handigaon. Of course, some like Sagar dai who had one of the most volatile tempers, didn’t receive this well getting beaten by fucches. To avoid their wraths, I often intentionally lost to them not only to be on their good side but also with the hope that they wouldn’t ban us from playing on the only TT board around the neighborhood. Kale didn’t have a Libran heritage like mine, and his only fault that morning was that he had celebrated excessively after beating Sagar dai .
*********************
“Yo ta atti nai bhayo. Sadhai yini haroo ki pitai khane? M***, ma ta aba kehi garchu garchu! ” Fiste sounded serious flexing his muscles.
“Garis Khub? Talai pitai khana maun cha, Fiste?” Daare responded wryly exposing his two incongruous canines.
“Hoina yaar! Eklai bhaye po pitai khane. Hami sabai sangai bhaye ta kasle pitcha?” Kaichi (which was just a literal translation of his first name) had a point. “Oye oyss! K garne bhan na!” Surprisingly, most of them called me by my first name. Rarely, when irritated they did call me Nashe. It served two purposes: to highlight my thin frame like Fiste and to purposely skew the compliment of “Nashalu Aankhen” given by Daare’s sister about my druggie eyes.
“Khoi! Gang banaune ho ta ?” I proposed a whimsical solution to which all five of them including Kale raised their eyebrows. Laloo, who was sort of foolhardy, was the most excited as he quickly demonstrated his roundhouse kick which he had been learning in his karate lessons “banne bhaye bhanne, Gangfighter!” he beamed with confidence. Just like that, just there and then, under the vigilance of the Sardarji’s gatekeeper and Romeo Pawan Dai, we formed our gang and vowed to look after one another against the tyranny of Handigaon Bullies. The only uneasiness was the inclusion of Debre Hemante who we talked with a slight apprehension than with others. It was not due to his left handedness, but rather of him being the brother of a REAL infamous gangster of Handigaon who was talked on the same breadth as AASU (AAwara SUman), who terrorized Maligaon at the time.
contd...
*******************************
“Gara raksha saba ko, Pashupatinath…..” I could hear her low yet mellifluous voice from our bardali. Obscured behind the plants in her balcony, I could still make Shivani watering the "Tulsi" and doing her usual morning “puja.” She was wearing her vibrant black Kurta surwal, the one with tiny white flowers inscribed in them which I had seen from close range a week or so ago. The winter sun broke through the haziness of the morning like the spotlight on the stage highlighting her little better. It didn’t feel as cold anymore.
“Hyaa Oyss! Kata tolai ra..maile ta siddai saken! ” my sister broke me off. Into our usual morning past times in winter, she had polished Dad’s right shoe to perfection. Unfazed, I re-enacted the radio ad. “Paile ali kati cherry blossom paalish line, brush le sabai teera laune, ani kada burush le ramrari talkaune. “ My sister giggled as I worked on Dad’s left shoe. “La hernus! Yo jadu mero hoina! Cherry blossom ko ho!”
As soon as dad made his way upstairs to the kitchen, my sister ran up to him and inquired “daddy, kasko ramro talkyo?” My dad, a trivial-perfectionist, began to scrutinize his shoes from every angle. Finally, he decided that I had not paid much attention to the back of the heels unlike my sister. My sister jumped up in joy saying “dekhis dekhis!” On that note, we next went off to dry the Lapsi’s titaura Maami had made the night before.
************************
The dynamics of home changed drastically as soon as our parents left for work. My elder sister began to make plans with neighbors for a “Bhogate” session. My younger sister scurried off to Shivani’s home to have their doll weddings. Despite my sisters’ disapproval, I combed my hair with “tori ko tel”, put on my sweater, and slid out quietly like I did everyday that winter with my semi-sponged table tennis bat. The stillness besieged Handigaon as soon as the morning session of “Bigyapan Sewa” ended on the radio.
I had only got out of our small gulli when I saw a congregation of older men arguing vociferously with one another. “Yo bato ma mari gaye ni PITCHED huna dinna, Lazza ta!” “Bato pitch bhaye pachi Jatra ma k huncha hola?” “Harey! aba sadhai bhari Jatra Jatra bhanera, motor hidne bato chai kasari aucha?” I had heard rumors that the dirt road of handigaon would soon be black-topped.
Even from afar, I spotted Pawan Dai on the terrace of Tri-shakti club that stood overlooking the house of a pretty girl named “Mona” that had driven Pawan Dai CRAZY. As usual, he was dressed in his long black overcoat and his shady leather cap that hid most of his shoulder length hair personifying “Khalnayak.” He even had guitar on his hand that he could barely strum, but he had memorized the song “Oh Mona” that he often sang with his rugged voice. Not everyone called him pawan dai. Some called him Sanjay Dutt, some Khalnayak, but his most popular nick was self explanatory “Sadak Chaap Romeo” blessed from Mona herself. He barely played table tennis with us, but we felt comfortable in his presence.
As I did a usual go-around of Bhagwati Temple that adjoined the Tri-shakti club and a peepal -bot, I heard disgruntled mumblings from familiar voices. Debre Hemante, Fiste, Kaichi, Daare, and Laloo were all huddled around the tree, that stood by the concrete table tennis board. I instantly realized it was Kale who seemed to be in trouble. The gatekeeper from the adjoining prominent Sardarji’s house that had visible four big TATA buses in the compound, who was our usual spectator, seemed concerned as well.
As I grew closer, I heard Kaichi trying to console Kale “hyaa Pele, naro k. Tyo Sagar tyastai ho kaile kahi” Pele was the euphemism for Kale because Kale loved giving guffs about Pele all the time. The very mention of Sagar dai made snse on what had happened. Playing table tennis all day nearly entire winter, we had gotten so good that we’d beat most of the senior guys around Handigaon. Of course, some like Sagar dai who had one of the most volatile tempers, didn’t receive this well getting beaten by fucches. To avoid their wraths, I often intentionally lost to them not only to be on their good side but also with the hope that they wouldn’t ban us from playing on the only TT board around the neighborhood. Kale didn’t have a Libran heritage like mine, and his only fault that morning was that he had celebrated excessively after beating Sagar dai .
*********************
“Yo ta atti nai bhayo. Sadhai yini haroo ki pitai khane? M***, ma ta aba kehi garchu garchu! ” Fiste sounded serious flexing his muscles.
“Garis Khub? Talai pitai khana maun cha, Fiste?” Daare responded wryly exposing his two incongruous canines.
“Hoina yaar! Eklai bhaye po pitai khane. Hami sabai sangai bhaye ta kasle pitcha?” Kaichi (which was just a literal translation of his first name) had a point. “Oye oyss! K garne bhan na!” Surprisingly, most of them called me by my first name. Rarely, when irritated they did call me Nashe. It served two purposes: to highlight my thin frame like Fiste and to purposely skew the compliment of “Nashalu Aankhen” given by Daare’s sister about my druggie eyes.
“Khoi! Gang banaune ho ta ?” I proposed a whimsical solution to which all five of them including Kale raised their eyebrows. Laloo, who was sort of foolhardy, was the most excited as he quickly demonstrated his roundhouse kick which he had been learning in his karate lessons “banne bhaye bhanne, Gangfighter!” he beamed with confidence. Just like that, just there and then, under the vigilance of the Sardarji’s gatekeeper and Romeo Pawan Dai, we formed our gang and vowed to look after one another against the tyranny of Handigaon Bullies. The only uneasiness was the inclusion of Debre Hemante who we talked with a slight apprehension than with others. It was not due to his left handedness, but rather of him being the brother of a REAL infamous gangster of Handigaon who was talked on the same breadth as AASU (AAwara SUman), who terrorized Maligaon at the time.
contd...