But Manjuladi was not a thing to be owned.
She was free spirited, like the billowing parrot-green dupatta she wore on her shoulders.
She wore many hats.If you got stuck in algebra, trigonometry, or shakespeare, you could ask her. She would gleefully set aside everything that she had been doing, and solve your sums. You could ask her about class tests, cat-fights, broken hearts,acne,face-packs, cracked tea-pot sets, faded kurtis, embroidery snags, impossible projects or incorrigible friends/siblings, she would always give you sane advice and keep your secrets to herself.
She was an angel in disguise. Or as my parents put it, a lotus born in the' mud'. Mud here alluding to her illiterate mother, and her shop owner father, who steadfastly refused to see the glittering gem that was born in their home. To them, she was just a burden, a" wild weed" bagandi ( a local green with white waxy leaves and showy , purple flowers, which grows to impossible heights within matter of weeks) .In fact, her popularity actually dwarfed her parents , into some kind of wormhood.
Several times in a day, we would hear her mother bellowing her lungs out -" Monju,monju, MONJUULLLAA" If the last scream was unanswered, it would be followed by the loud lament -"May God take me away,I can't take this anymore"(Bhogowaan tule nen, aar paarchchi na.")
The arthritic joints of the mother would creak audibly( incredibly loud enough , for us neighbors to hear ) as she made her way to wherever she thought her daughter was, in the large house; sighing and muttering all the way.
As a matter of fact, that would be the cue for manjuladi to apparate ( thanks JK Rowling , for supplying this word, for there is no other way of describing this) silently. Wet-haired (she had glorious waist length raven hair, that turned all the girls green with envy)from the bathroom, bespectacled from her bedroom, or disheveled and flustered from the rooftop(where she would be reading forbidden books(non study books), she would silently stand in the path of her bent-double mother, waiting for the mandatory tongue-lashing.
Not only would she hear out the insults being heaped on her own poor self, she would grab the elbow of her aged parent,and helped her into a chair while being berated.
It was a poignant scene , but one which burned rage into my adolescent heart.
I hated her mother, her father , her home ( which imprisoned her, or so would I believe).
Her home resembled a giant prison.There were tall ten foot walls , all around, topped with broken glass, to dissuade monkeys and possible suitors from trying.
The monkeys, giant , black-faced langurs would , most cheekily, find a way out. The massive courtyard would be routinely invaded by marauding bands, who would help themselves to anything, laid out to sun, pickles, preserves, badis, grains ; and then , nonchalantly park their butts on the glass topped surface while they ate, littered the area, scattered the leftovers, groomed themselves, occasionally snarling at manjuladi's mothers' hysterical screams and loped away only when they tired of the place.In the end, the entire courtyard would resemble a war zone. Littered with stones, shoe brushes, chappals, and other sundry items, thrown at the monkeys , in futile desperation.
Occasionally,some of these missiles , would land in our courtyard. Once, a pretty sandal , with a gold braid for strap landed inside. It was placed on the top shelf of our clothes cupboard ( out of the reach of brattish cousins , but visible enough for a worshipful peek, once in a while), and kept sitting there, till aunty sent a servant inquiring.
Monkeys were not the only ones to thumb their nose at the forbidding exclusivity bred so carefully within those walls.
Occasionally, a clear voice would emanate from the bathroom, singing the latest lata mangeshkar hit, in so heavenly a voice, that a hush would descend over our household, just to hear the rest of it. The bathroom walls were flush with our own boundary wall, so the voice carried across, spontaneous, joyful. It was manjuladi .
Like the occasional creeper of gourd, or lajwanti that would poke its head on the glass -topped wall, and wind its way down , on our side , in an act of clear rebelllion, the lyrical notes would weave magic in our hearts, and compel my teenaged cousins (some of whom had serious boyhood crush on manjuladi) into forbidden realm of daydreams."Neighbor's envy , owner's pride!" so went an old ad for a second rate TV.
But Manjuladi was not a thing to be owned.
She was free spirited, like the billowing parrot-green dupatta she wore on her shoulders.
She wore many hats.If you got stuck in algebra, trigonometry, or shakespeare, you could ask her. She would gleefully set aside everything that she had been doing, and solve your sums. You could ask her about class tests, cat-fights, broken hearts,acne,face-packs, cracked tea-pot sets, faded kurtis, embroidery snags, impossible projects or incorrigible friends/siblings, she would always give you sane advice and keep your secrets to herself.
She was an angel in disguise. Or as my parents put it, a lotus born in the' mud'. Mud here alluding to her illiterate mother, and her shop owner father, who steadfastly refused to see the glittering gem that was born in their home. To them, she was just a burden, a" wild weed" bagandi ( a local green with white waxy leaves and showy , purple flowers, which grows to impossible heights within matter of weeks) .In fact, her popularity actually dwarfed her parents , into some kind of wormhood.
Several times in a day, we would hear her mother bellowing her lungs out -" Monju,monju, MONJUULLLAA" If the last scream was unanswered, it would be followed by the loud lament -"May God take me away,I can't take this anymore"(Bhogowaan tule nen, aar paarchchi na.")
The arthritic joints of the mother would creak audibly( incredibly loud enough , for us neighbors to hear ) as she made her way to wherever she thought her daughter was, in the large house; sighing and muttering all the way.
As a matter of fact, that would be the cue for manjuladi to apparate ( thanks JK Rowling , for supplying this word, for there is no other way of describing this) silently. Wet-haired (she had glorious waist length raven hair, that turned all the girls green with envy)from the bathroom, bespectacled from her bedroom, or disheveled and flustered from the rooftop(where she would be reading forbidden books(non study books), she would silently stand in the path of her bent-double mother, waiting for the mandatory tongue-lashing.
Not only would she hear out the insults being heaped on her own poor self, she would grab the elbow of her aged parent,and helped her into a chair while being berated.
It was a poignant scene , but one which burned rage into my adolescent heart.
I hated her mother, her father , her home ( which imprisoned her, or so would I believe).
Her home resembled a giant prison.There were tall ten foot walls , all around, topped with broken glass, to dissuade monkeys and possible suitors from trying.
The monkeys, giant , black-faced langurs would , most cheekily, find a way out. The massive courtyard would be routinely invaded by marauding bands, who would help themselves to anything, laid out to sun, pickles, preserves, badis, grains ; and then , nonchalantly park their butts on the glass topped surface while they ate, littered the area, scattered the leftovers, groomed themselves, occasionally snarling at manjuladi's mothers' hysterical screams and loped away only when they tired of the place.In the end, the entire courtyard would resemble a war zone. Littered with stones, shoe brushes, chappals, and other sundry items, thrown at the monkeys , in futile desperation.
Occasionally,some of these missiles , would land in our courtyard. Once, a pretty sandal , with a gold braid for strap landed inside. It was placed on the top shelf of our clothes cupboard ( out of the reach of brattish cousins , but visible enough for a worshipful peek, once in a while), and kept sitting there, till aunty sent a servant inquiring.
Monkeys were not the only ones to thumb their nose at the forbidding exclusivity bred so carefully within those walls.
Occasionally, a clear voice would emanate from the bathroom, singing the latest lata mangeshkar hit, in so heavenly a voice, that a hush would descend over our household, just to hear the rest of it. The bathroom walls were flush with our own boundary wall, so the voice carried across, spontaneous, joyful. It was manjuladi .
Like the occasional creeper of gourd, or lajwanti that would poke its head on the glass -topped wall, and wind its way down , on our side , in an act of clear rebelllion, the lyrical notes would weave magic in our hearts, and compel my teenaged cousins (some of whom had serious boyhood crush on manjuladi) into forbidden realm of daydreams.
But Manjuladi was not a thing to be owned.
She was free spirited, like the billowing parrot-green dupatta she wore on her shoulders.
She wore many hats.If you got stuck in algebra, trigonometry, or shakespeare, you could ask her. She would gleefully set aside everything that she had been doing, and solve your sums. You could ask her about class tests, cat-fights, broken hearts,acne,face-packs, cracked tea-pot sets, faded kurtis, embroidery snags, impossible projects or incorrigible friends/siblings, she would always give you sane advice and keep your secrets to herself.
She was an angel in disguise. Or as my parents put it, a lotus born in the' mud'. Mud here alluding to her illiterate mother, and her shop owner father, who steadfastly refused to see the glittering gem that was born in their home. To them, she was just a burden, a" wild weed" bagandi ( a local green with white waxy leaves and showy , purple flowers, which grows to impossible heights within matter of weeks) .In fact, her popularity actually dwarfed her parents , into some kind of wormhood.
Several times in a day, we would hear her mother bellowing her lungs out -" Monju,monju, MONJUULLLAA" If the last scream was unanswered, it would be followed by the loud lament -"May God take me away,I can't take this anymore"(Bhogowaan tule nen, aar paarchchi na.")
The arthritic joints of the mother would creak audibly( incredibly loud enough , for us neighbors to hear ) as she made her way to wherever she thought her daughter was, in the large house; sighing and muttering all the way.
As a matter of fact, that would be the cue for manjuladi to apparate ( thanks JK Rowling , for supplying this word, for there is no other way of describing this) silently. Wet-haired (she had glorious waist length raven hair, that turned all the girls green with envy)from the bathroom, bespectacled from her bedroom, or disheveled and flustered from the rooftop(where she would be reading forbidden books(non study books), she would silently stand in the path of her bent-double mother, waiting for the mandatory tongue-lashing.
Not only would she hear out the insults being heaped on her own poor self, she would grab the elbow of her aged parent,and helped her into a chair while being berated.
It was a poignant scene , but one which burned rage into my adolescent heart.
I hated her mother, her father , her home ( which imprisoned her, or so would I believe).
Her home resembled a giant prison.There were tall ten foot walls , all around, topped with broken glass, to dissuade monkeys and possible suitors from trying.
The monkeys, giant , black-faced langurs would , most cheekily, find a way out. The massive courtyard would be routinely invaded by marauding bands, who would help themselves to anything, laid out to sun, pickles, preserves, badis, grains ; and then , nonchalantly park their butts on the glass topped surface while they ate, littered the area, scattered the leftovers, groomed themselves, occasionally snarling at manjuladi's mothers' hysterical screams and loped away only when they tired of the place.In the end, the entire courtyard would resemble a war zone. Littered with stones, shoe brushes, chappals, and other sundry items, thrown at the monkeys , in futile desperation.
Occasionally,some of these missiles , would land in our courtyard. Once, a pretty sandal , with a gold braid for strap landed inside. It was placed on the top shelf of our clothes cupboard ( out of the reach of brattish cousins , but visible enough for a worshipful peek, once in a while), and kept sitting there, till aunty sent a servant inquiring.
Monkeys were not the only ones to thumb their nose at the forbidding exclusivity bred so carefully within those walls.
Occasionally, a clear voice would emanate from the bathroom, singing the latest lata mangeshkar hit, in so heavenly a voice, that a hush would descend over our household, just to hear the rest of it. The bathroom walls were flush with our own boundary wall, so the voice carried across, spontaneous, joyful. It was manjuladi .
Like the occasional creeper of gourd, or lajwanti that would poke its head on the glass -topped wall, and wind its way down , on our side , in an act of clear rebelllion, the lyrical notes would weave magic in our hearts, and compel my teenaged cousins (some of whom had serious boyhood crush on manjuladi) into forbidden realm of daydreams.
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