Stars of Bagamandala
“Chetimani, Chetimani, come quickly.” the conductor shouted.
“Bagamandala 8 Kms” read the mile stone.
“Bagamandala” the voice sang out in my head. I was going back to my roots, to my village after a long gap to 10 years.
Bagamandala a small village in the far end of Coorg district is the place I spent most of my childhood, with my grandparents.
Tall green mountains in the background, sparkling waters of river Kaveri cutting across, green paddy fields on one side of the road and rich coffee plants on the other.
I often tell my friends in Bangalore, how Mother Nature has been too kind to the people of Bagamandala.
I lowered the window pane, and immediately strong gush of cold wind hurried in and slid into my shirt. It seemed to hug me, the chill it left felt familiar, it whisked past my ear and seemed to whisper
“Welcome back home.”
The bus stop in front of the Bhagandeshwara temple forms the centre of the village. A road runs to one of its sides and turns into a stretch of provision shops, coffee curing works, few houses and a small hotel.
I got down from the bus and started to walk, I turned around constantly to see if I could spot a familiar face.
On reaching my grandparents house, I stood frozen facing the house for minute, nothing looked to have changed from the time I had last visited the place.
A small iron gate opened into the front yard, where sat the Tulsi decked with flowers and a few incense sticks, surrounded by lush green plants with colorful flowers smiling, a few coffee plants that bordered the compound wall, and overlooking them stood strong a mango tree.
“Siddhartha” a voice called me from behind.
I turned around to see an old man, pushing his bicycle towards me, the khaki uniform and the letters in his worn out bag reminded me it was Postman Ponappa.
“Siddhartha, look at you how tall you have grown.” he patted my back.
“Do you remember me.” he asked with a heartfelt smile and a care in his eyes behind the thick glasses.
“How can I forget you anna (Respect, elder brother), how can I forget those letter you brought to me.”
“You remember.” he smiled
“Look at you; you have grown taller than your father. I remember, when you seven or eight…” he took me back in time.
Postman Ponappa is the only postman to have served the village for more than 30 years. He would often come home to deliver letters or register posts. Once when he found me bored and restless, counting days to go back to my friends in Bangalore, he introduced me to letters and brought into my life pen-pals.
Address with black and white photos found in Tinkle comics became my friends. One in the Middle East, two in Europe. I would sit looking at the road, waiting for Ponappa to come riding on his cycle with my letters.
I would run into my room, sit at the table and feel like a grown up to have received a letter addressed exclusively to me. The next two days were often spent in writing back a reply, getting from my desk only to ask Ajja (grandfather) a few spellings.
“Ajja must be waiting, I will come later. You have to tell me everything about Bangalore.” he smiled and walked away pushing his old cycle.
I bent down and touched my grandfather’s feet, ajji stood near the table wiping away a tear filled with joy. I hugged her she pulled me down and kissed my forehead.
“Look at him Radho, he has grown taller than me.” ajja spoke with pride in his voice.
Ajji affectionately brushed my hair and spoke
“Go take a bath. I will have the break-fast ready.”
Hot steaming idly with coconut chutney sat still on the banana leaf waiting for me. Seeing ajji holding the jar of ‘midi opinkai’ (mango pickle) brought an instant smile on my face.
Steaming hot coffee in a dented steel tumbler added an extra joy to the break-fast.
I sat on the floor cross legged. The break-fast slipped away in world politics, Kannada authors, Bangalore and a few times ajji forcing more idly onto my leaf.
The hands of the clock had come together to welcome a new afternoon. I looked out of the window. The mighty sun struggled hard to break free from the thick clouds that covered it, the fog had cleared and now visible was the majestic mountain that sat facing the village center, a pleasant chill filled the air, the road invited me out for a stroll.
“Going out for a walk, will be back in half an hour.” I shouted out
“Don’t forget to take the ‘Kodae’ (umbrella) “ ajji shouted back.
I entered the road bare handed, walked along the line of shops, the smell of coffee from the curing works at the end of the street filled the air, Kaveri Darshini the only hotel in Bagamandala looked to be packed with tourists, I walked further ahead and stopped at “Aghora Provision Stores”.
Rajanna stood across the counter handing out a pack of beedhi to a costumer. He looked to have changed a little, slightly on the fatter side but people often preferred to call it prosperity than fat.
“Mathe Rajanna vishasha?” (So Rajanna, what’s new on your side?)
“Siddhartha!” he let out a loud cry.
When, what and how covered the next ten minutes. He invited me into the store and forced me on his chair while he sat on a pile of rice sacks.
Rajanna had once visited Bangalore five years back. He left the store to his younger brother and landed in Bangalore with bags on his shoulder and a dream in his eyes. A desire to live in the big city, a strange fascination for Bangalore pulled him to the city.
I will never forget that day I ran into him.
I parked my bike outside an abandoned bus stop and ran under it to take shelter from the heavy rain that lashed with no mercy. A human like figure sat crouched with his head hiding between his legs. A soft sob was all I could hear, but when the sob turned into a cry. I walked up to the guy patted on his shoulder. He jumped to one side, turned to me and shouted out with trembling folded hands,
“Sir, I don’t have anything. Please don’t hit me sir.” he pleaded with tears flowing from his fear filled eyes onto his dirt laden cheeks.
It took me a few minutes to realize it was Rajanna. Robbed off all his belongings, no food for three days, beaten up by cops chased by dogs, he roamed the streets of Bangalore not knowing where to go. The people, the traffic, the smoke filled air choked him into a shock.
He hugged me tight outside a restaurant after our lunch and cried on my shoulder for one last time.
I waved good-bye to him at the bus stop the next day, I stood there for a few minutes reminding myself of the promise made to him; his story would stay a safe secret with me for the rest of my life.
“Please come home for lunch.” he requested me getting up from the pile of sacks he was sitting on.
“Tomorrow for sure, today I have to visit the temple.” I slid away.
Bhagandeshwara temple built in the 16th century by architects and masons from Kerala, had a huge open air corridors that ran around the main temple complex.
The specialty of the temple was that the idol of lord Bhangandeshwara is taken around in procession thrice a day, accompanied with dhol, ‘chande’ (a type of drum) and ‘Valaga’ (type of Shehnai).
Rama Shastri a veteran poojari of the temple had the honor of carrying lord Bhagandeshwara on his head. As a young kid I looked at him with awe, his concentration his strength amazed me. I would almost every day tell my grandmother that I wanted to grow up to be like Rama Shastri.
Rama Shastri is a kind hearted man but is also famous for his volcano like anger. When walking in the streets, people on seeing Rama Shastri approaching them would step aside immediately, bend a little and wish him with folded hands. With one hand holding a bronze tumbler filled with water from the river and the other swinging swiftly by his side, he would walk past the people nodding his head and not stopping for a second to exchange pleasantries.
On those lucky days when a huge group of tourists visit coincided with the idol procession.
Rama Shastri would walk briskly with both his hands by his side and balancing the heavy idol on his head. He would suddenly jump, hop on one leg but manage to keep the idol stable on his head. A loud gasp followed by an expression of pure surprise often played on the tourists face. I would look at all of them with a proud smile on my face.
I would try to keep pace with him but also manage to keep a safe distance away from him. On reaching the main door of the temple he would stop, with folded hands he would shout out
“Bhaganda Bhaganda Bhagandeshwara.” I always thought that his shouts were so loud that it would compel Lord Shiva to look down and smile at Rama Shastri.
It was almost two when I walked back home. I silently made my way to the bed room, and fell asleep on the soft mattress.
I was rudely awakened two hours later by voices coming from the living room. I pulled myself up from the bed and walked into the living room to hear ajja say
“His son was never interested, he is now an American citizen. He will not come back. Now all the secrets, all the knowledge will burn to ashes with him.”
“It is a sad day, we have lost a great soul.” Rama Shastri shook his head.
On seeing me walk into the room, Ajja turned to me and broke the news immediately
“Kunyan Gadhae Chikayya is no more.”
I stood silent trying to picture him in my head. The last time I had heard about him was when ajja and called me up two years ago to tell me Kunyan Gadhae Chikayya had turned 80.
Kunyan Gadhae Chikayya or often addressed as Ayya was a brilliant man. He was a dear friend of Ajja and an excellent doctor in his own right. He was a genius at identifying the medicinal qualities of a plant, an art a science that was not documented anywhere but was passed down from generations from father to son.
People from around 20 nearby villages visited him for remedies and advice for their health problems. He never said ‘No’ and treated them all for free. Nobody had ever seen him frown or sulk, he was often heard saying “I have hundred problems in life but my lips don’t know them, they just smile.”
“His son will reach by tomorrow afternoon.” one of our neighbor entered the room.
“Last month I had called him and had warned him of Ayya’s deteriorating health.” Ajja fumed
“Ayya died without getting to see his son or his granddaughter’s face. Could there be a greater curse.” Rama Shastri lamented.
“The bus is here.” another guy entered the room.
I stood silent with folded hands looking at the stream of people that had arrived to pay their respect to Ayya. Almost three hundred had arrived and more were expected, I walked into the verandah to see Ayya’s body surrounded by his family. Tears made their way down their checks; people sobbed finding it hard to accept the loss. I bent down to touch Ayya’s feet, a calm expression with a hint of smile looked to have settled on his face.
“He was adamant, never agreed to visit a hospital.” an old man shared with a group of people.
“He never wanted the English medicine in his blood.” another from the group spoke.
“Ayya, ayya, ayya.” a man ran to his body crying like a child, few tried to pull him away from the body.
The affection, the honest tears, the genuine sadness around me, made me feel proud of Ayya. So many people he had touched, a life he led that anyone would wish for.
I turned away from the people and stood looking at his farm, I had spent many a days playing in the trees, hiding in the bushes from the neem juice Ayya wanted me to drink.
I walked away from the house and entered the farm.
Cardamom plants along with coffee filled the 20 acre area. Types of vegetables, jack fruit, mango, sapota (chiku), areca nut along with various other trees and medicinal plants also had a special place in his farm.
Almost every summer I had spent in Bagamandala he brought me a special jack fruit from his farm. On seeing him walking towards our house, I would run towards Ajji singing
“Chikayya bandhru, halasu thandhru.” (Chikayya is coming, jack fruit he is brining)
The sun had divided into the horizon, darkness slowly started engulf the area. I sat down under a jack fruit tree and looked up at the tree small unripe jack fruits filled the tree. I lied down with both my arm folded under my head. The clouds looked to part and out came a full moon. Stars bright and dull appeared to fill the dark empty sky. The silence that surrounded the place felt peaceful, I closed my eyes for a minute and memories of Ayya, and my summers spent in Bagamandala flooded my head.
I opened my eyes, a bright star to my right caught my attention, the star looked new to the sky, the star sparkled and seemed to smile at me.
I smiled at the star and said to myself
“That has to be Ayya, the brightest star of Bagamandala.”
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