Rice Grains in Wheat Barns: An Extraordinary Real Life Story of an Auto-Biographer - Yarlagadda

By Krishna Prayaga

Life is layers and layers of experiences packed in a secret memory box contained in the cranium. I dug deep into tried to peep at the contents through the prismatic eyes of a narrator. It looked colourful and multidimensional. But the aim of my book was to indicate the quality of human relationships. The second aspect which impressed me most is that destiny is powerful. Luck is a combination of forces.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493190270

Book preview

40833.png

Copyright © 2014 by Krishna Prayaga.

Library of Congress Control Number:               2014905760

ISBN:               Hardcover                     978-1-4931-9028-7

                       Softcover                        978-1-4931-9029-4

                       eBook                             978-1-4931-9027-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/14/2014

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

552374

Contents

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

EPILOGUE

BOOK 2

PREAMBLE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CONCLUSION

To my mentors:

My departed parents

My wife, Lakshmi

My brothers

And my teachers

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Krishna Prayaga is a medical doctor specializing in anesthesiology and intensive care medicine. A Diplomate European Academy of Anesthesiology (DEAA, London), he is an acknowledged author of many books and articles and scientific publications. He obtained three patents for his medical inventions. He worked as anesthesiologist in India, Trinidad, England, Ireland, Denmark, Sweden, and Norway for more than three decades. The author speaks several languages but fluently in Telugu, Hindi, English, Danish, Swedish, and Norwegian.

Life is a long journey?

It is not a journey, every journey ends but we go on—the world turns and we turn with it, plans disappear, dreams take over but wherever I go there you are my luck, my fate, my fortune, the inevitable.

—Anonymous

CHAPTER 1

The connecting road from the national highway (six-lane motorway) to my village is recently laid out and was in public usage since last year. Thanks to the political leadership of the region, our villagers got these roads, electricity, primary school, and drinking water supply very recently.

While the car was speeding through the windy but smooth roads, it is dream realized, I exclaimed with great excitement. I thought I would ever see these changes in my lifetime.

Why do you say that, Thataa, my grandson, Gyan, wondered. Gyan’s skeptic look prompted me to explain further.

You see when we were children, we had to wade through dusty or muddy walking trail. The path was long, curvy, and situated mostly on the land demarcation kerbs. It used to be an act of acrobatic feat to keep oneself on the walking track without falling into the wet paddy fields. The car zoomed past a cluster of houses while I was trying to explain the hardships we experienced.

I paused a minute to see if Gyan is following my talk or not. You see that village, Gyan, we just passed, is where I used to stop for a while to relax after a tiresome journey. The house near that tree belonged to the village chief. He and his family used to treat us with great respect. They used to offer us some snacks and a glass of buttermilk or coconut water. Naidu stopped the car for a few minutes. I used to rest myself under the shade of that tamarind tree. That tree must have seen one hundred years, it is that old.

A few curious villagers gathered round us.

Where are you going? some young village boys asked us casually. We are going to Gotivada, Naidu’s reply was equally casual. They looked at us quite indifferently.

What a change! I mumbled. More than fifty years passed. Those thatched houses replaced by cement constructions. There is dish antenna on rooftops. Instead of tall trees, electric poles appeared. The village looked bald except that tamarind tree. It is still bearing some fruits.

I reminded myself of the ignorance of the people of my childhood. Could one walk to Vizag? was a question I still remember. Why walk when you could buy a train ticket," was my off-the-cuff suggestion. I guess I had a subtle feeling of superiority over those innocent mortals. I used to exaggerate the distance and make them feel that only rich people like us could afford travel to such far-off places.

I must not hide the fact that I had little idea about the value of money. In those days, the price of train ticket from Urlaam to Vizag was more than two rupees. But one rupee could buy a bag full of rice and could buy a meter of shirting cloth too.

The cost of train ticket from Urlaam station to Vizag is so much, they used to wonder. They used to tell me—two rupees is an awful lot of money, lot more worthy than unnecessary travel to a far-off place.

¤¤

We arrived in our village just a few hours before dawn. Cattle are returning home after their grazing in the open fields. They were returning home after a thorough wash of their bodies in the nearby pond. Young boys sitting on the hoof of the buffalos were loudly singing some verses of Mahabharata. Buffalos were making noises perhaps of hunger. Cows were returning home. The bells in their necks dinned the boy’s voices. I remember that it was time for the cows to have a large meal of paddy, grains, some amount of rice added to the husk gruel. Milking cows used to get some additional quota of pounded lentils added to the gruel.

When I was young, I used to take personal care of one white cow named after my departed sister, Lakshmi. Lakshmi used to give more than two liters of milk whereas the other cows were giving far less. Lakshmi was fourth generation belonging to our cowherd. She was born, brought up in our cattle yard. Right from the birth, she used to walk into the house and go through the kitchen to the backyard.

¤¤

Suddenly I realized we reached our village, Gotivada. It looked very different. It has acquired the looks of an improvised slum. It featured more electric poles and wires loosely dangling between the poles. The walking path leading to our ancestral house was a cemented path. At the time of our leaving the village, there existed few pucca (cemented) houses, but now almost all houses are cement constructions. Our house situated almost in the center of the village is on a slightly elevated location. At one time, our house was visible from a distance, but now there are so many houses in between. We followed the road leading us into the center of the village.

Stop the car. This is the temple my brother built some thirty years back. As soon as it stopped, Ram noticed a few people gathering near the car. We got down the car and looked around. All who gathered around us were new faces to me. Very few people knew who we are. However, one young man came close to me with his typical bamboo stick in his hand. He wore shorts with Nike sign printed and was bare chest.

We came from Vizag. Could I talk to any one of your old folk?

Ya. But why? The young man was reluctant to move from there.

We used to live here, I meekly replied and revealed my identity.

Wait. I will call my grandfather. He rushed into a nearby house.

An old man came close to me and looked through his ill-fitting glasses and exclaimed with a loud voice, Aren’t you Kishtappa bugatha, are you not? He virtually shouted with his shrill voice. And that signalled a message to the rest of the crowd that gathered around us. Suddenly, I realized that the old man is none other than the then famous drama actor Latchanna.

There was a sudden surge of interest in us.

You must come to my house first. Latchanna gave me an affectionate hug and paved the way for us to follow him. His hug virtually squeezed me. I introduced my son, Ram, and daughter-in-law, Rena, and our grandsons, Gyan and Jeev. He greeted them with a namaskaar (greeting with folded hands).

Why didn’t you send a word before? the old man, Latchanna, virtually chided me.

My daughter-in-law, Rena, looked at Latchanna and me with awe and admiration for our mutual affection. Although not understood, she grasped the sentimentality. I apologized to him for their inability to understand Telugu. In return, he expressed his sadness for his inability to speak any other language.

As soon as we reached his house, he said with a tone of anger, You have abandoned us, Kishtappa! Whatever you say, people in this village will not forgive you. I am sorry, I used harsh language. Latchann looked at me and touched my feet with tears in his eyes. I lifted him with his shoulders.

This village may belong to us now, but truly, it will always be yours. Make no mistake. After you all left this village, we felt like we are orphans. Latchanna now eighty-five years of age looked fragile but still has a commanding voice.

I saw him forty years back and again now. I only remember him as a young man acting in the role of Laxmana of Ramayana. When we were living in the village, he was very active in drama acting, and he used to recite Ramayana verses very melodiously.

Flashes of memory prompted me to ask him for a few clarifications of his family ties. He was the first one in our village to marry a child-widow, against the will of his parents. He promptly mentioned that his wife took exceptional care of his father after he suffered stroke. I was told that he lived till he reached his hundredth year.

My wife passed away a few years back, and I too am waiting for my turn. He concealed his sadness and said, I would like to invite you all to stay in my house tonight and meet a few of our old friends in the village. Latchanna insisted. I looked at the watch and gently reminded him that we had to leave before it gets too dark. With great difficulty, I could convince him that we must to go back to Vizag.

I can’t believe you got six grandchildren. Latchanna appeared very surprised.

What can I get for these beautiful children and Ammagaaru [the madam]? Latchanna looked at his assistant and ordered some coconut-jaggery balls wrapped in banana leaves and placed them in the hands of Gyan and Jeev. These sweets are freshly made by my daughter-in-law," he claimed with great pride.

You could eat them on the way… they are good for the stomach. He moved his hands in suggestive gestures. In the meantime, one young boy climbed a tall coconut tree in front of Latchanna’s house, brought down many green young coconuts, and offered the coconut water to drink.

Load the rest into the car… these are from our village you know. They are sweet. He looked at Ram and Rena with pride. They are our people. They must come back to our village. Keep that in mind. He oozed out so much affection. Ram didn’t know what to say. But he got the message.

Rena and the children were busy in sipping the coconut water. Very very sweet, really wonderful! Can we eat the inside kernel? Rena’s request was conveyed.

Yes… yes. Instantly one of the boys broke them open and scooped the kernel, and we ate with great relish. It was sumptuous and satisfied our hunger and thirst.

You want to see your house? Latchanna grasped my hand and pulled me to follow him. Come, let’s go.

He took us to our ancestral house and introduced us to the present occupants. This boy, Narasimhulu, married the daughter of the person that purchased your house. The Somineni family has no male children. They are all gone. This boy came from another village… therefore he will not be able to recognize you.

It doesn’t matter. I was to walk away, but the young man stopped me and offered to show the house, the cattle yard, the paddy storage house, etc.

Ram looked at the massive antique front doors of the house, touched them affectionately.

They must be more than one hundred years old, I told them. My grandchildren were impressed by the height and sturdiness of the doors.

Each door may weigh one hundred kilos easily. They are made of neem tree. Therefore termites won’t come near them, Latchanna explained.

Ram hesitantly expressed his desire to buy them off from him for any price. Alternatively, exchange them for new full-length teak doors. But the house owner politely declined the offer.

We modified the house, but we retained these doors because they are eternally beautiful. Termites can’t destroy them. They are made of neem tree. Ram, although disappointed, appreciated the taste of the young occupants of the house.

After taking leave from Latchanna, we got back into the car. Ram, Rena, Gyan, and Jeev looked very tired. Long journey and jet-lag effect seem to have taken a toll on them. Although they were curious to know more about the village, they settled in their seats and slipped into a nap.

¤¤

Naidu’s smooth driving induced sleep in all of us. He never would jerk the car, drive speedily, or apply sudden breaks. I was awake as Naidu kept asking me some questions about the reasons why we left our native village.

I sensed that the village people of Gotivada love you even after forty years. It is amazing.

You know, I myself hail from a village, but the owners of our village were never close to us. As a matter of fact, we drove them away after the abolition of Inamdaris [villages gifted by the Nawabs or Rajas]. They treated us real bad.

Really? But not in our village, I retorted. Naidu listened to my narration, which went on through the journey.

I should have followed my father’s advice, stay-put in Gotivada, I said it loudly.

I know that it is absurd and stupid to think like that, but overwhelming sentiment, I guess. My nostalgia continued to haunt me. I slipped into the memory lane of my childhood, life in general. Suddenly Sottanna came to my mind. Naidu was listening to my narration.

"You know, Sottanna was almost like our elder brother. Although he is a Dalit, he commanded respect from all of us. He had the looks of a Polynesian but was a tower of muscular strength. His charming smile was his weapon against any adversary.

If you guys take to higher studies and leave the village, what will happen? Sottanna dreaded to think of consequences. He intensely persuaded us to stay back. Don’t leave the village, I beg you. Stay back. Sottanna’s appeal did not suit us at that time. Since all the four of us preferred higher studies, we had no option but to seek livelihood outside the village. We finally left the village in the year 1961. By then, my eldest brother became an advocate, second brother became an account officer, and my third brother joined government service after finishing his MBBS.

At the time of our leaving, Gotivada enjoyed no amenities like current, roads or fresh water supply. It was a decrepit little village, many miles away from road or rail connection. Why, Gotivada has no school, sir? was Naidu’s genuine doubt. Our village was once hailed as the center for native education. Since the British times, Vedic education was discouraged. Thus, it has lost all its facilities, at the behest of the local officers of the British Raj. The villages Gurukulam education system was no more patronized.

In fact, we had to walk two miles every day to attend a single teacher primary school in a neighboring village. That was the reason why my schoolmates Ramjee, Somineni brothers, and Latchanna’s younger brother and me became such intimate friends. The only girl in our group was Sanyasamma, who later became my second brother Singannayya’s wife.

My father gave Sottanna thirty acres of land as parting gift and paid the education expenses of his only son up to matriculation. However, after our departure from the village, Sottanna was frustrated and thoroughly displeased. None of you listened to me… I promised to take care of you, the land, the cultivation, and everything that was dear to you all, but you didn’t heed my advice, Sottanna kept complaining till his last breath.

To Sottanna who was born, brought up, and grew in our household, what mattered most was our family. Although he has all the qualities of a leader, he used his negotiating skills only to help my father. He managed my father’s administrative control of the village. Whenever my father is in doubt about some people, Sottanna was his eyes and ears. Critical issues like land division after the abolition of Inamdari (ancestral right of ownership of land) ownership was amicably resolved by Sottanna.

But for the solid help of Sottanna, my father wouldn’t have managed the crisis of my mother’s critical illness. My mother’s illness was a testing time for the entire family of thirteen children. My father had to accompany her to Madras and stay with her for one year until she is cured of TB. During that crucial period, Sottaanna was the only one who knew all the details of our possessions. He solidly stood by my second brother and efficiently controlled the cultivation activity and administrative control of the village. In fact, he made my second brother, Singannayya, a hero of the village.

If I listened to Sottanna, I would have had the same advantage. He would have carved me into a good political leader besides being a property owner! In fact, he suggested that I should marry my maternal uncle’s daughter and settle in Gotivada. Sottanna has grandiose plans about me, but destiny decided otherwise.

¤¤

My grandsons appeared somewhat impressed with the village of their ancestors. I continued with the narration of the stories of our village. It was interesting that they evinced keen attention and prompted me to tell them more. I told them the story of the big banyan tree.

"In my childhood, we used to hide within cavelike formations of the banyan tree’s main trunk and the bulky branches of the sprawling banyan tree. In the bygone era, it must have been planted outside the reach of our houses. For centuries, our villagers believed that the banyan tree is a gift of gods. Therefore, no one ever dared to suggest that the tree of hundreds of years of age uprooted. Now that it has grown too big and encroached on to the rooftops of our houses, a heated discussion took place among the villagers whether to cut it off or not.

I still can remember the day when elders of the village gathered in front of our house to discuss whether to fell the sprawling big banyan tree. There were some harsh exchanges between themselves. I remember my father was explaining some issues trying to pacify them.

We cannot cut this tree, shouted one.

It is God’s gift, yelled another one.

Look what happened to my son… the sight of a cobra frightened him, and he fell off and broke his legs. You all have seen this. Snakes are creeping into our houses via the branches.

You can’t stop children climbing the tree… can you? a fierce-looking man argued with anger.

The sprawling tree branches are pushing the walls of our houses, lamented another man.

Actually, the thick branches of the tree brushed the walls of my uncle Ramakrishnudu’s house and the wall finally collapsed. Fortunately, no one was living there since a few months. Families of Sheppards living in the hutments were complaining that snakes were entering their houses through the roofs.

Its branches are covering half our street, and we stopped using the verandas for drying things. There is little sunshine for our houses, some Brahmins living in the opposite row of our house complained.

My father raised his voice. He gave them an account of what was discussed over the years. We tried cutting the branches, but soon newer branches grew with more speed. All of us are aware of the problems, but tell me what to do. We must decide once for all. He offered to listen to their views.

We must cut off the tree… , a unanimous chorus ringed the place.

Cut off completely?

Yes, sir… cut the tree. We should not allow a banyan tree in the vicinity of residential houses.

My father bent his head, waited for more opinions, scratched his forehead for a while, rose from his seat, and solemnly declared, It is sad, but we have to cut the tree. He became very emotional and left the place to wail in private.

Everyone that gathered there shared his pain. Later in the course of a few days, I saw my father led the villagers to the temple of our village deity and offered special prayers for forgiveness.

Within the next few days, several women carrying vessels with red-colored water poured on the trunk and uttered some words. After they left, I dared to go near the tree, saw many marigold flowers decorating the soil. They smeared red color on the trunk and the surrounding soil. It looked ghastly.

Ten men with axes began cutting. They started with careful trimming of the branches. Villagers were warned not to come anywhere near the tree. It took more than a month to complete the job and clearing the debris. Many snakes crawled out. Thousands of birds hovered over the falling branches. Their ruffling feathers indicated their restlessness. They made noises that represented their anxiety and anger at the destruction.

All the villagers, especially children, complained bitterly. The tree disappeared and the place looked empty, very wide, and bald.

Sadness pervaded the village. My father fasted for two days. The villagers conducted special prayers with the help of specialist priests brought from somewhere.

After listening to the story, Gyan and Jeev expressed their utter disgust. Was there no government to stop?

It is against ecology… gross insult to Mother Earth and environment.

Children showed their utter resentment and despised the action of their ancestors.

"At least, did they plant a sapling somewhere else? was their genuine compromise solution to gross injustice.

I had no answer to their questions. Nevertheless, I certainly admired them for their concerns about ecology.

*      *      *

There is no friendship, no love, like that of the parent for the child.

—Henry Ward Beecher

Family is a place where minds come in contact with one another.

—Lord Buddha

Happiness is having large, loving, caring close-knit family . . .

—George Burns

CHAPTER 2

The banyan tree ceased to exist. Soon we started missing the all-important play station, the banyan tree. There was no more swinging with the roots of the tree. The clear sky in front of our house was welcome, but we missed the sounds of birds.

One day, my cousin Ramjee came to me. He expressed his desire to be close to him. After a few minutes after lying down beside me, he started crying. He appeared terribly disturbed by the disappearance of the banyan tree. He appeared frightened. He muttered in a broken voice, Gods are appearing in my dream. They appear as big trees falling on me. When I close my eyes to sleep, the trees are falling on me. I am frightened Annayya [brother]. He sobbed. He couldn’t stop crying. For the last few days, he was repeatedly mentioning that his father appeared in his dreams. My father loved the tree. They would not have cut the tree if I was alive," his father has told him appearing in the dream.

Ramjee is the eldest son of my father’s younger brother who suddenly died two years back. Ever since, my father was taking care of them. They almost grew in our house and thus became very close to us. Within a year after my uncle’s death, Aunt Seetapinni declared her intension to make her own decisions. She decided not to send them with us to Vizianagaram. Original plan was to send us to the same school in Vizianagaram. My father had to plan my schooling separately; therefore, Ramjee’s anxiety got worse as the time approached for my departure to Vizianagaram, the town where I was to go for my schooling.

Should you go leaving me here? He looked at me. Tears rolled down his cheeks. When are you going to town, Annayya? I want to come with you. He broke down crying.

I won’t go without you… I promise, I tried to console him. I told my mother I won’t go to Vizianagaram without Ramjee. My mother didn’t care much. I thought to myself that our elders are unreasonably cruel. In addition, to my surprise no one cared to answer my question: Why should people leave their friends and family for studies?

I won’t go to the town… , I declared.

We will run away to a place where they can’t find us… OK… Ramjee appeared happy.

¤¤

My uncle, Ramjee’s father, fondly remembered by us as Bucchibabu died before he attained his fortieth year. After her husband’s death, Aunt Seetapinni has distanced herself from us. Her side relatives took advantage of her innocence and dominated her. They successfully created some misunderstanding between my father and my aunt. Although never expressed, there seem to be an air of suspicion about my father’s handling of our uncle’s property.

Aunt Seetapinni was also known for her spendthrift attitude. She dubbed my father as an utterly miserly person. My father used to advise her to be careful with purchase of rationed items such as sugar.

"I wouldn’t buy sugar at the exorbitant rate of four rupees per veese [nearly two pounds in weight.] If sugar is not available or rationed, you do not make sweets to please your guests, do you?" My father scolded her many times. Although my father was intending to take care of the family, her relatives attributed motives to him.

The irreparable loss of his brother on one side, gross mismanagement of the property by Seetapinni and a host of other problems took a toll on my father’s health. He took nearly a year to recover from the shock of his younger brother’s early death.

SeethaPinni started discouraging her children from getting closer to us, but Ramjee and his brother Suryam would never leave us. Until my departure to the town, we grew together, so close that our relatives commented that Ramjee and myself appear as twins. Ramjee used to tell me, You know, Annayya, everyone in the village like your singing. He linked his pride with that of mine. I never expressed to outsiders, but innately, I was very proud of my singing.

Incidentally, one day, our grandmother (my father’s stepmother) called me and Ramjee, Come close to me, boys, sit beside me. She asked us to sit beside her on the mat she was resting on. That was the evening time of the day after the taddinam (annual death-ceremony day) of my grandfather. She asked us, Do you remember your grandfather? She never stopped extolling her husband’s likes and dislikes. "You know he is an embodiment of compassion. He was fond of Ramadasu keertanas [devotional songs of a saint-singer]. While saying that she tried to restrain herself from sobbing. This was not new to us but that day was different. I took the opportunity to sing. That was the only way to divert her mind. Whenever, I offered to sing Dasarathi Shatakam (stanzas composed by saint Ramdasu in praise of Lord Rama), she used to jump with joy. She would happily allow us to sing.

The problem I faced with her was she was an accomplished singer; she would correct me if my rendition were not right. In fact, she stopped me many times in the middle of my rendition and demonstrated how Ghantasala (a famous singer of telugu cinema) sang. She insisted that I should follow her singing and repeat after her. Nonetheless, she would invariably appreciate me.

You are a blessed soul, my boy. She used to pat on my back.

"You know Prayaga Narayana Das tata [our distant ancestor] he was a great Harikatha performer [a song-speech narration of divine stories]. Do you know that he learned this from the great Adibhatla Narayan Das [a legendary exponent of Harikatha]!

You know something, Kishtappa… Adibhatla garu visited our village and sang here. She pointed out the place in front of our house where the great exponent performed harikatha [divine stories]. However, at that time I had no idea of the greatness of Adibhatla Narayan Dasu.

She told me singing is for one’s own pleasure. To please someone with singing is not that easy. I found imitating someone’s voice a very difficult task. One must do it with great care. But I enjoyed imitating the voice of Rajeswara Rao (Telugu cinema Music director). I could even imitate his nasal twang. His songs were a delight to the ears of many of our Telugu people.

I owe my singing ability to our grandmother. She encouraged me by rewarding my singing with a few coins. Buy some sweets, she would say. She would give us a kanee (a coin sufficient enough to buy a sweet ball) each as a token of her appreciation.

¤¤

My father planned my primary and secondary schooling in a nearby town called Vizianagaram (headquarters of a former princely state). Since my third brother, Subbulu, already got admission into Maharajah’s school in Vizianagaram, I was to follow him. I hated leaving Gotivada, but no one cared for my views.

Until the moment of my departure to Vizianagaram came, I believed that I would not be forced to begin my schooling in a far-off place. Nonetheless, my father’s plans were different. I sensed the impending danger. I called Ramjee to explain the strategy of my escape.

I will hide myself in the water tank… don’t ever tell anybody, I cautioned him. However, after an intense search of the premises, they found me at last, in the half-full water tank, completely wet and drenching. On that day, my father’s, anger new no bounds. He gave me two smacks with his hand and dragged me out of the tank. At once, he pushed me into the bullock cart. Shut up, he shouted at the top of his voice. Left behind was Ramjee crying his heart out for me. I struggled with my father crying bitterly. Sottanna, our guard, kept a vigil on me until we reached Vizianagaram. In Vizianagaram, a relative of ours was our guardian.

Although the school in Vizianagaram was highly reputed, my backwardness in the school was a talking point. I remained an important cause for concern for the entire family. My teachers certified that I am of mentation, a born dullard. My inability to secure even single digit marks, especially in maths and English, shamed my father. "You are not ashamed. Are you? My father’s angry looks showed his utter disgust and frustration. His penetrative look into my eyes was enough to frighten me. Normally I avoided looking at him, as his looks would pierce through anyone.

But my mother used to rescue me in those situations. Her classical defense ended with the words, "Decrepit villages were known to have become the most famous towns. Don’t ever underestimate your flesh and blood. You just wait… one day, he will become so great.

He is still very young… on top of the fact he was a sick child till recently… why don’t you understand? I beg you, be kind to him. She never allowed anyone to denigrate me even slightly.

The shame of my poor performance in the school was too intense for my father and my third brother Subbulu, who was three years senior to me in age. I guess the others may have resigned themselves to the idea that I am a dullard.

Every time I failed an exam, my brother used to trash me. Nevertheless, school holidays were a great respite. The moment I reached my village for the school holidays, I used to give my mother an account of how many times my brother Subbulu hit me.

This fellow is like a Ganja plant in the middle of Tulasi (divine Basilicum plant) garden, he used to say.

He is a blot, my relative used to comment. On one such occasion, my mother’s retort was caustic enough to stop her from repeating it again. My mother being a persistent optimist very few had the guts to make derogatory comments on any one of us.

Initially my brothers took care of me, but soon, they gave up and expressed their inability to control me. My schoolteachers also advised my father to shift me to another school.

Perhaps Vizianagaram hasn’t suited him, was my mother’s excuse. She would never give up in spite of glaring problem. She decided to consult her brothers in Chodavaram. She then advised my father, I think he should be sent to Chodavaram. My brothers are ready to offer their help if you agree, Father had to agree.

My maternal uncles held my parents in high regard. They therefore offered to take my brother Subbulu and me to educate us in their hometown Chodavaram.

¤¤

Chodavaram, a small town, is located more than 150 km away from our village and it has a government-run high school. We were to study in that school. To reach Chodavaram we had to take bullock cart, train, and then coal-bus. It was a long and tedious journey.

We arrived in Chodavaram along with my mother. Our maternal uncles took charge of us almost immediately. Chodavaram is my mother’s birthplace where my maternal uncles were very influential. They were considered very high in the fields of medicine, law, and business. Because of their influence, the teachers of the high school treated us very well. As soon as we reached, they got us admitted into the school.

In Chodavaram, my brother quickly established himself as a studious and hardworking student. But in my case, the influence of my powerful uncles had to be used. Due to the fact that I am a nephew of Ramesam, our eldest maternal uncle, a famous lawyer, also an MLA (Member Legislative Assembly of the State of Andhra), I was given a place in the seventh class, although I did not have proper qualifying marks in my sixth class.

As most of my cousins were of my age, year less or more, I quickly became friendly with them. In fact, I became an important member of their gang of seven. The gang of seven were together in every adventure. But my brother kept himself away from us. My cousins didn’t enjoy his company either.

My stint in the Chodavaram High School started with great hope and certainly gave some respite to my father. However, I could not impress any of my teachers. Our class-teacher Jogarao classified me as an idiot.

I always wondered, Why are they not satisfied . . . can’t my brother’s good performance compensate my failure?

Sarma (Subbulu) will bring great credit to our school. The school authorities were full of praise for him. The schoolteachers unanimously declared, Sarma is a role model, a gold standard to the rest of our students.

My cousins Nehru, Pandu, and Jaggappa loved me. I found in Nehru, the leader of our gang, a compassionate friend. He used to take care of me whenever I was in trouble with caretakers of mango gardens or coconut grove or sugarcane fields.

Since the pet name Kishtappa (Krishna’s colloquial name) is common to many others, my cousins gave me a separate identity calling me Gotivada Kishtappa. That prefix Gotivada to my name stuck with me even today.

Kishtappa is good at climbing the coconut tree and pick young coconuts and peel them with his teeth. My maternal uncle’s son, Nehru appreciated my skills such as climbing trees and pick-up ripened fruits and peeling coconuts with teeth. He was allotting such tasks to me. I never disobeyed Nehru’s commands. I could climb up even the tallest coconut tree and bring down a few coconuts within a few minutes. I never feared that I might fall from those trees.

Thus, in those two years I thoroughly enjoyed my childhood. With regard to studies, my progress was far from satisfaction of my uncles. Due to the tireless efforts of my teachers and the influence of my uncles, I barely managed to scrap through the seventh class.

During our stay in Chodavaram, my brother finished his SSLC (secondary school leaving certification) exam with distinction. Since there was no degree college in Chodavaram, my brother had to move to Vizag (also called Visakhapatnam) for his Intermediate studies. I had no option but to follow him to Vizag, the City of Destiny.

¤¤

Visakhapatnam made a big difference to me and my brothers. My brother got admission into AVN College for his Intermediate course, and I was admitted into the adjacent high school for my eighth class. In the same period, my second brother Singu began his B.Com (Bachelor of Commerce) degree course in AVN College.

My second brother assumed the role of our guardian because he happened to be the senior-most of the three of us. Because of the fact that the three of us were studying in Vizag, my father bought a house in Krishna Nagar colony (a posh colony of Visakhapatnam city) for our exclusive residence. He employed a cook and a servant to look after us.

My life was a little better than before. My second brother Singannayya (Singu) was always kind to me. Fortunately, for me, I had the company of very talented friends. Unlike Chodavaram, my Vizag friends, and classmates were very competitive. They belonged to the families of highly placed government officials and public servants. Although the parents of some of my friends had low estimate of me it never affected me.

If at all, I were to complain, I must admit I was bored with Singannayya’s repeated reminders that I should stick to books and not to play cricket nor sing songs.

You are wasting valuable time, he used to repeat this warning a hundred times a day. It is needless to say that I never listened to him. But I used to pretend great submission.

¤¤

While we were in Vizag, a great calamity struck the entire family in 1954. Our second sister Lakshmi aged twenty-five years, married to a lawyer, died in the KGH (King George Hospital, is the Medical college hospital). That shattered my mother’s health and her well-being. The shock was unbearable to all of us, especially to our mother. Her grief at the loss of our sister was uncontrollable. I guess she may have neglected herself with the result, contracted TB infection.

Within a few months after my sister’s death, I also got very sick with some unknown illness and had to be brought back to our Gotivada village. By then my mother’s TB illness got worse. She was getting weaker and weaker and was completely bedridden. Our maternal uncle, a medical doctor, Krishna Murthy, confirmed that she must be treated by a TB specialist.

Dr. Krishna Murthy, being the family doctor, said, We have to take her to Tambaram TB center, Madras immediately. I talked to my teacher Dr. Sreenivasan. Very unexpected, this news shocked my father and our family.

Dr. Sreenivasan was the best known among the chest physicians. Therefore, my uncle chose him to treat my mother in the TB hospital, Tambaram.

All arrangements are being made to treat her in Tanbaram under Sreenivasan’s care. We have to have faith in him, my uncle reemphasized. He later accompanied my mother to Tambaram to follow the treatment plan with Dr. Srinivasan.

For the first time, I saw my father in tears. Those were the hardest days. My mother’s journey to Madras was an unforgettable event. I never witnessed such commotion in our family. Our villagers followed her palanquin to Urlam rail station. As he was carrying my skinny mother in his arms, the villagers started sobbing loudly as though she was gone forever. In fact, no one thought she would return alive.

¤¤

A new era has commenced for us in Gotivada: My sister-in-law, named Subhadra, our eldest brother’s wife, a newly married young bride, had to come to our house at an early age of sixteen years to take over the household control. Although she was very young, she quickly adopted herself to village life and proved herself very efficient. She had the support of her husband who was by then a lawyer-in-training practising in Srikakulam. She displayed extraordinary love and affection