Rajkumar holidays

In honour of S.M Krishna

In honour of the first Chief Minister I have any memory of, here’s a chapter from my book One and Half about the Rajkumar holidays

Pretty early into our relationship, I figured that Mali, and I had different tastes in television. She gravitated towards cerebral shows that ranged from science fiction to dystopia. Like the Handmaid’s tale. I was less discerning. Like the time she came home to find me watching "John Wick" for the 13^th time.

“Babe, they killed his dog. HIS. DOG.”

At one point I would fall into a routine of earmarking stuff that was best to watch alone. I’d watch it on the yellow line on the way back from work or when in the loo. One of the better shows that somehow ticked all my boxes for mindless entertainment was an Israeli show, "Fauda" that I found on Netflix.

Lots of guns and bullets and low on knives? Check.

Undercover spies? Check.

Middle Eastern theme music? Check.

Undercover spies who could be confused with milkmen? CHECK 200 PERCENT.

I’d watch two seasons until the show got way too jingoistic. It started off by showing some nuance of the Palestine - Israel conflict before veering into “BIBI IS OUR DADDY” territory. The show’s premise was simple. There was an elite unit of Israeli intelligence officers. They were all prone to fits of violence like the people they were chasing, and they were elite because they spoke Arabic and could pass off as Palestinians. Fauda which meant ‘chaos’ in Arabic was the code they would use when shit was about to go down. They’d keep switching between Hebrew and Arabic depending on how occupied the area they were in was.

It reminded me of the strange noises I’d occasionally hear from my family, which I would later realise was their attempt at speaking Kannada. As Tamilians who had settled in the city between 1980 and 2000, unlike today, assimilation was not optional. Tamilians who move today can create their own bubble (sans the sweaty shirts) with Adyar Anand Bhavan, PSBB and Gold Winner oil at their disposal.

Historically there has always been a large Telugu and Tamil speaking population in Bangalore. Speaking Tamil in public was never an issue until there was some flare up due to some judgement or announcement on sharing the Cauvery. At which point my family would begin speaking in Kannada in public. Like when commuting by auto with my granddad, Cheema.

“Sir inge-”

“Cheema! Don’t speak in Tamil” I whispered to him.

“Sorry sorry, left maadi!”

The auto driver pulled over near the gate and we got out. He seemed to have missed his breakfast and snapped at us to give him 20 rupees more.

“20 ah? Why pa so much?”

“Return Customer I won’t get, give me.”

Just as Cheema was about to make an impassioned speech in Tamil, I poked him in his paunch. With a pained look that suggested he had just swallowed some hing, he switched to Kannada.

“Sulay hel beda?”

“........Sir?”

“SULAY HEL BEDA.”

“.................”

In an attempt to request that the auto guy not lie (“Sulu hel beda”) Cheema had unwittingly given the auto guy a stroke by telling him “Hooker don’t tell me” (twice). Thanks to his advanced years we escaped with no consequence. The true test for our Tamil paranoia would come at the dawn of a new millennium thanks to Rajkumar.

Rajkumar and his family were ubiquitous in Bangalore. He was easily identified by his moustache and benign smile. He had a legion of fans like his counterparts in the other southern states which he hadn’t parlayed into a career in politics. By 2000, he was in the twilight of his career and was working on what would be his last film.

“Shabdavedi” is a police drama where he played a straight cop who was taking on the drug trade in India. I would end up seeing snatches of it later in a salon while waiting for a haircut. There was a scene where, with his trademark smile, he clapped while citizens looked on laughing and dancing. He was clapping while packages in front of him burned. They were filled with ganja.

No wonder they’re all so happy.

One morning we woke up to news that he had been kidnapped by Veerappan. I hadn’t yet left for school when I found out that we had the day off. At the first hint of trouble, the Karnataka way was to give a holiday. This was not unlike what would happen a year later when we got a holiday because of the Bhuj earthquake. Our buses were pulling up to the school just as we could feel the tremors. We reached just as these tremors inspired our principal to run out in a towel from her house across the street.

“It’s a holidayyyyy” she shrieked.

The drivers hurriedly drove away from the school gradually leaving only her red shower cap visible in the distance. It was vibrating in time with her yelling to the school security guard to go in and check the house for damage.

“Madam, you said holiday…”

The whole city went into a complete shutdown. Everyone was too scared to go out in the fear of running into an over enthusiastic fan. Across the different south Indian states, fans of film stars are split by geography, language, and loyalties. But they are united in their disregard for Isaac Newton. Especially on his maxim that an action causes an equal reaction. Though this has been proven in labs, it still hasn’t been observed in these film fans.

A film star getting kidnapped could lead the fans to test how flammable the neighbourhood buses are. Like that event I saw to celebrate 100 years of Kannada cinema. There’s a clip of irate fans stomping on their favourite actor’s car because he didn’t make the time to meet them. At which point he comes running out.

“Why are you doing this? You’re my fan-”

“YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELF!”

The first day had turned Bangalore into a ghost town. Not a soul on the road and everybody staying indoors. We had the added palpitations of calculating how this was going to affect Tamilians. It was a time before Whatsapp but the situation was ripe for a message to be forwarded.

“Remember Rajkumar anna was born in Tamil Nadu and succeeded in Karnataka. Veerappan was born in Karnataka and his moustache lives in all the southern states. And we are all Indians. NAMA-STE PEACEFUL PLEASE.”

All the hyperventilating kept us indoors all day even though we were itching to go out. That evening we switched on the Kannada news channel for the first time ever in our house. After some breathless reporting about how multiple agencies were involved in the tracking and negotiation they got to the most important part. The next day was a holiday as well.

OH YEAH!

My parents lasted a few hours with us indoors on the second day before they gladly let us out of the house. The day went by in a blur. We cycled round and round the neighbourhood. Played a cricket match. Rode cycles some more. Played some lagori. I got dragged back inside the house just as we got to the “look ma no hands, no feet” stage of cycling. We were just in time to catch the news. It was another breathless update on what we knew about the kidnap so far. It was narrated by an anchor I had seen the previous day as well. She had that soft but firm sing-song voice that is suited for flight announcements or telling a wedding party that you’re out of curd rice. I cannot remember her name but if I had to guess, I would say Sumalatha.

The kidnapping had occurred at Rajkumar’s farmhouse somewhere near the border. Apparently Veerappan and his henchmen broke into the house and escorted Rajkumar and some of his family members out. At this point, we are still unaware of Veerappan’s demands, said Sumalatha. In the days preceding 24/7 news and well-coiffed Pomeranians like Arnab Goswami, the most spirited Sumalatha got was when talking about how the kidnap had occurred after dinner.

Hopefully he will offer his hostages paan.

As she was wrapping up, she briefly mentioned that the next two days would be holidays for schools and colleges, before signing off. Dhanyavadagalu.

Dhanyavadagalu to you Sumalatha!

The next day my parents sent us to our grandparents’ apartment complex for the day. It had a kidney shaped swimming pool which could have been mistaken for a well-fed bathtub. And that is where we spent almost the whole day.

There were enough of us to play a version of water polo. We had people ranging from 12 to 19. Even though the maximum depth of the pool was five feet, that end was still too deep for me. So, I was relegated to playing the role of a defender on the shallow end. Although my swimming allowed me to catch up to someone, I was too small to effectively block them. My enthusiasm to contribute waned a little bit when they finally figured out a way to use my potential. My friend took to lifting me to block the ball with my stomach/back every time the other team tried to score.

Things had eased up enough to drive to a family friend’s house for dinner. We switched the channel to Kannada news just in time to catch Sumalatha wrapping up. The then Chief Minister S.M Krishna had travelled to meet Karunanidhi to help sort out the issue and reduce the tension between the two states. He had taken over from J.H. Patel and this was in that phase of regional politics where governments came and went in quick succession due to stiff opposition and very rarely lasted the whole term. You had to have mnemonics to remember who was in power based on their personal tics or preferences.

S.M. Krishna? Wig-u..

J.H. Patel? Peg-u!

Just as we were tuning out, Sumalatha interrupted the program to inform us that the next four days would be a holiday for schools and colleges as they waited for the tension to diffuse. We were literally bouncing on the bed! I ran to the counter at their kitchen to get some Thums Up. I was behind my father and one of his friends who were pouring themselves a peg-u and had to get the attention of my friend who was playing bartender. After a few minutes, he poured me one and passed it to me.

“Here you go.”

“Dhanyavadagalu.”

At this point, my relationship with Sumalatha weakened as the Government had also taken to giving holidays in plenty. Both the Karnataka and Tamil Nadu government had appointed a reporter who had worked with Veerappan as a negotiator, Nakkeeran Gopal. The title “Nakkeeran” was the name of his magazine in which he had captured an interview with Veerappan. He was chilling and roaming around with them while serving as a go-between for the government. He seemed at ease not just because his moustache qualified him to share grooming tips with the dacoit, but seemingly almost from a sense of inevitability. That the task we have undertaken will take time, so no need to add pressure to the situation. I have felt it myself when writing two paragraphs in Hindi or seen it on spiritual auto driver’s faces while waiting at Silk Board.

We finally ended up having two weeks off from school. By the time I went back, I had become a brown raisin with the odd water polo bruise. It would end up being 100 days before Rajkumar was finally released. In the intervening period, life slowly got back to normal. Thankfully there was no repeat of any violence or tension when he was finally released.

These Rajkumar holidays were the first thing I remembered when the COVID lockdown kicked in. Two decades later, my wife and I were experiencing this redux on the outskirts of Bangalore. For a two-week period, we were holed up in a house enroute to Mysore, with everything around us shut down. Except for nobody stepping outdoors everything else was different this time around. Social distancing prevented one from blocking a ball with your chest in a pool. You couldn’t go over for dinner cause the doctors hadn’t yet indicated if you could chew with your mask off.

There was more uncertainty in the air as well as to what would happen next. Our own plans for the next few years looked like they were falling apart. The odd person I had bumped into was preoccupied. Until I went grocery shopping in a store further away one particular day. The old shopkeeper was listening to the radio. A song from "Bangaarada Manushya", one of Rajkumar’s monster hit movies was playing. He started to hum along and smiled as I paid him for Thums Up and some veggies. It looked like I could have been his first customer that day.

“Nim change thogoli saar” he said to me.

“Dhanyavadagalu.”