Sporting Memories

I used to play football (Soccer) when I was younger. Those distant memories stirred within while I was watching an Olympic football match the other day.

We then had a football ground, committed players and time. In those good old days, no one had ever heard of cricket and none of us ever seen a TV either. The playground belonged to the local Upper Primary School. When school was off on weekends and holidays, it was our territory. No one else was crazy to play under a hot noon sun during daytime. We had the field for ourselves, except may be for an occasional cow grazing peacefully on the field. This we didn't mind. Live and let live but try not to step in that cow dung! 

'We' were 4 or 5 kids. Average age being 7 years or so. We make teams of 2 each or sometimes 2 on one side and 3 on the other. It was not wise to make anyone feel left out. Especially when it was the younger brother of my classmate. The brat will then go and complain to his parents and if my classmate is called home to explain, we can't very well play with the rest, see?

We used to play in the 4-3-3 formation mostly. We invented the concept of 'timely goalie'. When the ball is near a goal area, which eventually happens even on that vast field with 5 kids and a rubber ball the size of a tennis ball, the guy closer for the concerned team assumed the role of goal keeper and played goalie.

 We wore skin colored uniforms. No boots were required. None of us wore any footwear for that matter. We were shirtless and our tan was visible to the astute observer who could look through the burn we got playing under the sun all the time. Properly dressed guys in this group had functioning buttons on their (Half) trousers. Not so properly dressed ones wore their trousers like a dhoti. That is to pull the right half side with the left hand and the left side with the right hand while pulling in the stomach to tie a knot. It was not uncommon to see your star striker stopping in the middle of a run to hitch up his trousers and fix it again before resuming the attack.

We played some. Argued and fought more. Other times we spent time searching for the ball when it went out of play. Old pros like us didn't have the conveniences of today's players. Nobody brought us drinks on field. We went to the nearest well for the drinks.


In the evenings, local grownups played soccer in the same field.  They played with a regular football, big one with air in it and having those black and white spots design on it. We played in the 'out'field when the grownups played. When their ball went out of play, we would eagerly retrieve it and send it soaring back in to the field, sometimes even 10 whole feet, to the impatiently waiting players. How else you can hope to play one of those real balls?

They sometimes gave us the old discarded balls but ultimately it will lose air and the bladder will be out soon. We didn't have any means to put air in it then. Somebody would be wearing it for a cap in the end.

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During rainy seasons, this playground used to get flooded. There were rice fields towards one side of it. Water will come up and we sometimes played a game which would later go on to become popularly known as water polo. We didn't grudge the floods. We accepted it calmly and fished when we couldn't play ball. Or we just made waves.

Story of a Boss

I once worked in a place where everybody seemed to have a great sense of humor. Our department head was another 'Vashalan'. There is this story about him.

Often, we get visitors to our plant from the corporate head office or other plants. And the old timers like my Boss knew other old timers in every other plants.

Story begins when one such dignitary visit our plant. After 2 days of his visit, he is supposed to catch the evening train. So Boss offers to take him to the railway station. Off they go. As they have lots of time to catch the train, Boss suggests why don't they drop in at his house for a quick tea? His friend agrees.

While at Boss' house, the visitor has to sit alone for a minute while Boss goes inside to talk to his wife. The visitor can see Boss whispering something to his wife, and the wife looking at the visitor and Boss whispering more. Visitor sees the wife going inside, coming back and putting something in the pocket of our Boss surreptitiously.

While they are out again and driving towards the railway station, Boss stops the car for a minute, goes out and comes back with a packet. They move again. So at the station, they have more time and the visitor can't hold his curiosity anymore. He suspect he is playing some part in a drama but he has no clue what this is all about. So the visitor ask the Boss what's up.

Boss explains that he was telling his wife that his friend from Chennai was a bit tight for cash. After wasting what money he brought, now the friend was broke and Boss was thinking about loaning him some money. The friend won't ask for a loan being very proud but Boss knows he needs money. Would she give him some money? She readily brought some money and put it in Boss' pocket.

The friend remember the packet Boss brought from a shop and remembers it was a liquor shop. The friend is envious about the quick thinking of our Boss. Knowing the character of our Boss, the friend doesn't mind his own name being used in pulling off this stunt.

But he has a genuine question to ask. With some satisfaction not well hidden, the friend asks our Boss what he is going to do when the missus ask him for the money back. After all, it was supposed to be a loan.

Boss replies he knows what he is going to do about it. When the missus ask Boss for the money, he is just going tell her that his friend, the rascal from Chennai, swindled him.

A Case for Fitness

I was going through local news and came across an interesting piece. There was a raid in a local lodge for 'immoral activities' and among those caught, was a man aged 78.

That should be a lesson for those middle aged guys that let themselves go all soft once they are in their 40s. The above news  underlines the fact that fitness is the key, yet again.

The young ones managed to outrun the police.

Making A Name For Yourself

I have often wondered what a person has to achieve in life in order for future generations to remember him. Everyone cannot be a Gandhi, or an Einstein or a Genghis Khan. Even if you were prepared to settle for something less, what is to be done? There were those statesmen and bureaucrats who made waves or even minor earthquakes while they were in power. But nobody seems to hear about them anymore once they retire. And not everyone can hope to be even one of those. You tone down a little more and think what you have to achieve so that people of your tiny village will remember you after you are long gone.

I have stayed out of my place for extended periods but it is as if I lived there all my life. I remember the junction where the bus stop was, 35 years back. That time there was a tea shop and another shop that sold rat traps and such knickknacks and toys on one side of the road and a pan shop on the other side. This junction was a place they placed cinema posters of movies playing in local theaters. Walls of those establishments usually had posters and other graffiti on them. But what I am trying to remember is the people. Do I remember the famous people that lived in my village in the past?

When there is a death in the village, I become philosophical and think if those people are going to be remembered a few years down the road. Would their grandchildren remember them? Do I know anything about my Granpa's dad? Very little. And no idea about of my ancestors before that at all. And it will be the same more or less for most people. If you forget the 'progress' part out of human life, they lived just like us. They played, got drunk, partied, fought and  had kids etc. They thought they were important just like we all think we are important and look where they are now. Not even their great grandchildren remember them.

I try to think and remember people that lived in my village in my time and that are dead now. Mind you, I am not trying to remember the name of some people that are dead. There is a difference. And I don't seem to be able to remember any of those 'pillars of society' when I try. The first names that come up to my mind are Raghavan and Pavithran. I try to analyze why these, of all people.

Raghavan had a knife wound he was proud of. He was a rowdy when he was younger but once he retired, he turned his focus to booze and smoking weed. He was found dead in front of a shop one morning. As to Pavithran, he was known to have a career relieving people of their possessions when they were not looking. He worked nights. He took his own life one day.

I have a theory forming in my mind by now. To be remembered, to be part of the colorful history of your village, you need to have a 'reputation'. But then, by this time I remember another couple of guys. One is Keshavan and the other is Madhavan. They didn't have this kind of 'reputation' I touched upon earlier. I think.

Keshavan was known because I remembered him only as Viruddhan Keshavan (Keshavan the Rebel). A name given to him by the village affectionately long before I came on the scene. And Madhavan was always known as Thoppi Madhavan. (Thoppi= A Cap) Madhavan once entered in to a bet with somebody and lost it. So he was required to wear a cap for a period of time. Just that he never stopped wearing his red cap ever after. It became a fixture on him forever after. Hence the name.

So, what is the common thread here that joins all these guys I remember as part of the history of my village? Raghavan was always known with his caste name prefixed to Raghavan. (He was a goldsmith by caste) Pavithran had his career label prefixed to his name too. So I adjust my theory a little and conclude that it is a name that you earn in your life that makes you a legend later. You might be an upstanding citizen of your time, a pillar of society and all that, but it all come to naught a few years after you are gone. You are just forgotten.

I sit back, satisfied with my analytical skills. Just the same, I think again to make sure there aren't any loopholes in my theory. It would be a nasty shock to bump in to any old pillars of society when I am parading my theory to others later. And at this stage itself in my fantasy I bump in to a solid one. This guy hailed from a respected and wealthy family. He never was known to booze or smoke weed. If he had a knife wound, he hid it well. I always remembered him dressed in a white mundu and white Khadi shirt. No red cap. For that matter, no cap at all. He didn't fit in with any of the characters I mentioned earlier. I know my theory can't be that off the mark. I think hard and then I get it.

He was known as 'Nehru' in the village because of his dress and the fact that he looked somewhat like our first PM minus the cap and the rose in the buttonhole :D


------------------------------------------------------------Some of the names have been changed in this story

Going West

First things first. Here, by west, I mean the western side of my village. In the old days when I was a kid, the west was just rivers, canals and rice fields. My Grandpa lived there. So, I used to visit his place when I had time. It was fun there. I get tender coconuts every time I visit. Plenty of mangoes when it is in season. Can fish, play in the water, get a country boat ride now and then through the river etc etc.


I walk a short distance on the main road, then another quarter of a km on a dirt road. Which ends at the river. Here, on sunny days you see women washing clothes. There is a bridge, which in the old days was essentially 2 planks, each a foot wide, joined somehow together, side by side. You climb the steps and step on  the bridge and the adventure begins. As you get to the middle of it, the up down motion starts getting very noticeable. Once you cross the bridge, you get to the 'west'. No vehicles beyond this point. You walk on a ridge, that is a kind of barrier that separate the river from the rice fields. Uneven surface here. If you are lucky it won't be very slippery. You walk on the ridge, which is about 4 foot wide, for another 200 meters and get to a place where you can let your breath out and walk without fear of immediately falling in to the river or the lake on the left. ( Lake, because the rice fields around this place are mostly not cultivated usually. So it will be filled with water. Generally water lilies and such vegetation floating around.) This is somebody's property but people are allowed to walk through,because, if someone were to block the path, then no one will be able to move around those places. You soon come to a small stream or canal. The bridge here is a concrete beam with a rectangular cross section. about one food wide. Only a small distance to cross and it doesn't oscillate. Now I stand in my grandpa's property.


Most houses in the west typically stand on land raised from low laying areas. So when it is monsoon season, most houses will briefly have 'running water' facility through them. When it is real bad, people move in with their relatives on higher land. It becomes practically impossible to walk on the ridge then. Water will be flowing over it in a strong current and you would have no idea where the river or the lake began.


They live in the middle of water but they have to bring their drinking water from some distance away. Because if they dig a well, they get salty water around those places. There are more houses towards the west and worse canals and bridges. Some of the canals will have just a coconut tree trunk for a bridge. Usual to have a slight rolling motion towards either side, in addition to the up/down motion. Someone who is not used to these places would gladly throw in the towel at this point. Yet, you would see women walking those tree trunk bridges with a pot of water on their head and another pot in their hand. If you were contemplating crawling across, they could even take your hand and walk you across without any problem. If you are a kid being helped across thus, having a one track mind helps. You just concentrate on not thinking about the abyss below till you are across.


You would think these ladies of the West could  whistle a merry tune while balancing a pot of water on their head, another on their hip while helping a kid across by the hand. But this was not so. Surprisingly, these brave ladies could never whistle.


My step Granny never even sang. At best, she recited some verses while she prayed at home or in Church which was mostly in subdued tones. All the years I have known her, she looked essentially the same. Always the proper dress for women of Christians our side, old fashioned. This traditional dress always fascinated me as a kid. ('Chattayum Mundum'. The white Mundu is wore such that it will have a fan shaped tail. The tail is what makes it look funny in the eyes of kids) My aunt could sing one or two lines of popular songs but the less we talk about that, the better. But there was one thing remarkable about her. She had, and still has, a hearty laugh for the occasions when she found something very funny. Many years later, this laugh would be used by diesel auto-rickshaw manufacturers for the start up sound of their autos, when they  release them in the Indian market.


My Granpa I always thought was an ordinary old man. He read his paper, smoked his beedi, went about his farming etc. But he was a very wise man. I divined this by chance.Once I was there, me and Granpa were trying to read the newspapers. Women were chatting loudly with the neighbors who dropped in for gossip. Those days people had lots of time, see. This loud chatting was getting on the nerves of us, the Men. They stopped only to draw breath or to shout a curse at an errant hen that came too close to the house or to scream at the neighbor's kid that went too near the river. I sense my Granpa getting exasperated with his reading. He lower the paper and mutter through clenched teeth,


'Vekili!!'


Now that is a slang term to describe unruliness in general. I liked him saying this. Shows him in a new light.


Years pass. Granpa is no more. I am unmarried and so theoretically should be having an orderly life. But there are times when one encounter this scene again in life. Typical family with women and kids raising a racket (sounds of domestic life) and the men of the home pulling out their hairs in exasperation. I tip my imaginary hat to the old man, remembering with awe the time he said that one word in my presence.


'Vekili!!'


He was indeed a wise old man.