Good day to all my dear ones!
The prolonged rains have subsided and the climate is quite pleasant, neither hot nor cold. But my courtyard bears a wild look, thanks to the luxuriant grass. Gangadharan, that stout little chap, who could have tidied it up, is not to be seen. My wife complains that I am not putting in sufficient efforts to summon him. She does not realise, winning a game of roulette is much easier than tracing him out.
Today being Sunday, I decide to take up the task myself. I squat on the ground and commence the job of picking grass. By the time I clear up a small area, I feel exhausted. My drowsy glance falls on the cleared up patch. With childish curiosity, I scoop up a handful of earth. Underneath it is moist. To my rapture, an exhilarating whiff of wet soil wafts up. I dig out one more handful and then another. “If I go down further, will water break out?” I wonder. But nothing happens. In fact, the pit is quite dry!
This reminds me of our well that had been dug out near our ancestral house at Tiruvilwamala. I was merely five or six then. Velichapadu, the gigantic figure, who periodically ran his fingers through his hanging hair, had been assigned the job of digging. By virtue of his long association with us, he had in fact become an affectionate member of our family. He was very fond of me, and he always addressed me as “Thampuran,” though I was too young to be honoured thus. Twenty feet down, he had struck rock, when he resorted to rock blasting. I remember Velichapadu hurling a rag-torch into the well. At the next instant, a thousand dynamites exploded. Horrified, I closed my ears with my palms. Splinters shot up and fell back with a bang. Soot and dust rose up and an eerie silence ensued. What followed was a spectacular sight! Strong jets of water spurted out sky high!
“We struck water, we struck water,” chorused we all. It was at this precise moment the childish fancy took me over. Overawed by the “supernatural” power of Velichapadu, I instantly appealed to him,
“I want to be a rock-blaster. Won’t you teach me the job?”
Tousling up my hair, he immediately concurred,
“Why not, Thampuran? Tomorrow onwards we are off together. Within a few days, I assure you, you will become a master.”
Then, as though I had already become one, he requested me with wide grin,
“Master blaster, bring a glass of water.”
Presently, as I stare into the empty pit, I espy the smiling face of Velichapadu. His baritone voice too rings in my ears.
“Master blaster, bring a glass of water.”
As a sense of loss steals through me, my son appears in front of me, and I drift back to reality.
“Don’t you know today is Sunday? Where is your article for posting?” He asks.
Tapping my head, I reply,
“Here. Here.”
And finally here lies the article!
With loving regards and sincere prayers, Chandran calls it a day!
@
Acknowledgements:
Thanks to all who have responded.
Anu, Sushama and Sudev: Before I could act upon your suggestion, the blog has already appeared. My special thanks to Jayashankar, who has done it.
The prolonged rains have subsided and the climate is quite pleasant, neither hot nor cold. But my courtyard bears a wild look, thanks to the luxuriant grass. Gangadharan, that stout little chap, who could have tidied it up, is not to be seen. My wife complains that I am not putting in sufficient efforts to summon him. She does not realise, winning a game of roulette is much easier than tracing him out.
Today being Sunday, I decide to take up the task myself. I squat on the ground and commence the job of picking grass. By the time I clear up a small area, I feel exhausted. My drowsy glance falls on the cleared up patch. With childish curiosity, I scoop up a handful of earth. Underneath it is moist. To my rapture, an exhilarating whiff of wet soil wafts up. I dig out one more handful and then another. “If I go down further, will water break out?” I wonder. But nothing happens. In fact, the pit is quite dry!
This reminds me of our well that had been dug out near our ancestral house at Tiruvilwamala. I was merely five or six then. Velichapadu, the gigantic figure, who periodically ran his fingers through his hanging hair, had been assigned the job of digging. By virtue of his long association with us, he had in fact become an affectionate member of our family. He was very fond of me, and he always addressed me as “Thampuran,” though I was too young to be honoured thus. Twenty feet down, he had struck rock, when he resorted to rock blasting. I remember Velichapadu hurling a rag-torch into the well. At the next instant, a thousand dynamites exploded. Horrified, I closed my ears with my palms. Splinters shot up and fell back with a bang. Soot and dust rose up and an eerie silence ensued. What followed was a spectacular sight! Strong jets of water spurted out sky high!
“We struck water, we struck water,” chorused we all. It was at this precise moment the childish fancy took me over. Overawed by the “supernatural” power of Velichapadu, I instantly appealed to him,
“I want to be a rock-blaster. Won’t you teach me the job?”
Tousling up my hair, he immediately concurred,
“Why not, Thampuran? Tomorrow onwards we are off together. Within a few days, I assure you, you will become a master.”
Then, as though I had already become one, he requested me with wide grin,
“Master blaster, bring a glass of water.”
Presently, as I stare into the empty pit, I espy the smiling face of Velichapadu. His baritone voice too rings in my ears.
“Master blaster, bring a glass of water.”
As a sense of loss steals through me, my son appears in front of me, and I drift back to reality.
“Don’t you know today is Sunday? Where is your article for posting?” He asks.
Tapping my head, I reply,
“Here. Here.”
And finally here lies the article!
With loving regards and sincere prayers, Chandran calls it a day!
@
Acknowledgements:
Thanks to all who have responded.
Anu, Sushama and Sudev: Before I could act upon your suggestion, the blog has already appeared. My special thanks to Jayashankar, who has done it.
1 comment:
Mere words wouldn't describe the way I feel about the article. Its fantastic I must say.
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