Sunrise at Narasukaka's house
Prelude: Narasukaka was our grandfather and the most beloved person in our
family. His house was (and still is) is in Bijapur a short distance
behind the railway station. This is a memoir from the idyllic days when, other than one's grandparents' love it didn't take much for life to be beautiful. I wrote this initially only for my immediate family but thought this might perhaps appeal to pretty much anyone with memories of being doted by those who are no longer with us.
Many decades have past but I still vividly recall our visits to Narasukaka's house in Bijapur. I must have been ten or eleven years then. It was an early morning of the Navarathri season. My
sleep was interrupted rudely by the siren from the nearby oil mills
which blew promptly at an impossibly early hour in the morning. I made a
half eyed attempt to
come to surface on Narasukaka's cot. He was already
awake and was lying next to me with his face up and one leg crossed
over the other. The Bush radio was on his chest and his hands fiddled
with its tuner to catch the Dhardwad station for the early morning
news. "This is All India Radio..." declared the radio. I lazily tracked the seconds needle of his Favre-Leuba wrist watch while my fingers tried loosening it's belt. As I drew myself closer to Narasukaka, the familiar odor that was blend of beedi (ಬೕ ಡಿ) and Mysore Sandal soap seemed vaguely soothing. I could hear the bur-bur of a stove coming to life. Akka (we called our grandmother akka) was in the kitchen. Some minutes later the aroma of tea boiling over the kerosine stove floated through the corridor and spread across Narasukaka's room. "Get up you ಎಬಡೊಜಿ ಮಾನೆ (dumb-wit)", said Narasukaka tapping me gently, "your grandmother is calling you inside".
"Brush your teeth first," I heard my mother's stern voice from inside the kitchen.
"Hurry up dear. Your tea will turn cold if you don't come soon. You can always wash your face later," akka pleaded. I conveniently ignored my mother's orders and headed straight to the kitchen. Akka handed me the cup and bending down, slowly wiped the little smudges (ಕಣ್ಣಾ ಗಿನ ಪಿಚ್ಚು) that had gathered around the edges of my well slept eyes with a corner of her saree. Plump and of fair complexion, akka looked graceful in her nine yard saree. She always smelt as though doused in a perfume that was made from chapati flour. Her eyes were large and round and held a ready reservoir of tears. She sat down and with a glazed expression drank me in with her compassionate eyes. Amma and Shobha maushi were already up and having their tea. My father had gone to Delhi on some training and both my siblings were still asleep.
A few minutes later Narasukaka joined us in the kitchen. He was clad in a dhoti and an ultra thin cotton banian (ಗಂಜಿ ಫ್ರಾಕ್ ). You could have passed him for Devananad's brother when he turned on his mischievous smile. I spilled some tea with a jerk and I like to think that it was due to the house cat entering from near where I was sitting. Finding her way towards Narasukaka, the cat stretched it's legs and cuddled next to him. Narasukaka poured some milk into a saucer and watched with satisfaction as the cat started drinking. He turned towards my mother and said teasingly, "Maali, look how clean and tidy this cat is - much better than your son! " A couple of dimples lit his handsome face as he chuckled "heh hey!"
"Can I go out and play with Puttya?" Puttya was my neighbour and chaddi friend. In addition to cricket we also played "Train" or "Bus" - games that we ourselves had invented. One of us would be the driver and the other the guard or conductor. "Play now? Are you out of your mind? First change Hemi's ಧುಬುಟಿ and then do your maths tables," amma told me in her no nonsense voice.
"Let him go back and sleep," said akka.
"He is weak in maths, he must study now akka," declared amma.
"It is still very early in the morning. Let him sleep," insisted akka
"Yes, let him sleep," echoed Shobha maushi. As though this was the verdict from Supreme court that had gone in my favour I ran down to Narasukaka's room, jumped up the cot, and this time edged into his side of the bed that had been left vacant and warm by him. I huddled inside the blanket and looked around. I could hear the distinct whistle of the early morning Golgumbaz express heralding it's arrival from Hubli. Inside the Bush radio Mallikarjun Mansur was spiritedly singing ಅಕ್ಕ ಕೇಳವ್ವ ನಾನೊಂದ ಕನಸ ಕಂಡೆ (akka keLavva..). The sun's early rays fell on the stack of jowar bags from Narasukaka's ancestral farms in Hipparagi. I didn't have to count even five of them; my carefree mind soon melted into the sweet embrace of the early morning sleep.
