Well,
some lives are led extraordinarily. This type of living stands out like when a frog
somehow pops out of the well and croaks in chronic freedom and licentious liberation
of spirit. The adventurous song of their living echoes for some time,
encouraging others for the same.
Many
farmers, peasant women, laborers, servicemen, male, female, young and old have
completed their innings in the village. We have witnessed their life, living
and death. Most of them, like yours truly, lived the same rutted way, facing
the same problems, arriving at the same solutions, happy for the same things
and sulking for the same. It seems like only ONE life going like a river.
From
the river of sameness, of collective pains and same ecstasies, a little
creature jumped out and rocked and rafted its life in its own freeways. It was
no ordinary life. The reason I still recall it with perfect vividness and not the
scores of farmers, who have perished during the interval, vouchsafes its outstanding
substantiality in life and living. Even after two and half decades, I can see
that adventurer perfectly clearly in my memory chambers. Whatever I recall and
tell about the gallant has been witnessed firsthand by yours truly.
Well,
he was a few months old monkey, a terribly funny, mischievous, ever-hopping
little creature. At that time there was a little group of monkeys in the
village. When the people found him spending time on his own, separate from the
group, everybody assumed he was motherless. He may really have been a
motherless monkey; otherwise, a living mother monkey won’t condemn him to this
type of fate. She would have kept him stuck to her belly till the end of this world.
So
this little funny faced flunkey started creating anecdotes that still chime in
my brain. He was friendly and not scared of we humans. However, at the same
time, he won’t surrender his freedom by hooking ownership to any particular
Homo sapien. He belonged to all and none at the same time.
There
was a funnily shriveled, oldest of the oldest farmer named Kannhi in the
village. He himself appeared like the grandest king of the simian world. Parallels
were drawn and to fetch jocular fun from both ends—I mean, the old man and the
little monkey—the little bundle of mischief was christened Kannhi. To give you
a clue to little Kannnhi’s standard and style of living, the crudest of farmers
discussed his chronicles in chaupals around hookah. He must have been terribly
funny to raise the bar of peasantry humor because we farmers are ourselves
nothing sort of exquisitely funny and rowdy apes.
When
Kannhi felt like going for a pony ride, he would hitch an uninvited and unsolicited
climb on any farmer’s shoulder. Initially, people got shocked as the miscreant
suddenly was seen poking his little fingers in the ear-waxed head handles of
the farmer. Then all accepted that this little errant kid has a right to come
from around any corner and hold anyone’s ear by sitting on the shoulder.
In
the evenings, he preferred to loiter around the main path leading to the pond.
The farmers drove their buffalos to the pond for wallowing. The nuisant Kannhi
knew there was hell lot fun hidden in the mine of tomfoolery with cattle and
buffalos. He would hide among the path-side bushes and suddenly come in front
and jump onto the back of one of them. It would lead to a stampede as the panicked
buffalos thought the God of death has arrived to drag them to hell for their
sins of wallowing, drinking and defecating in the same water. I remember many
such dusty stampede episodes.
One
summer evening, as I was stoically sitting around the pond, waiting for my
buffalo to be finally mindful of my miseries at the waiting game, Kannhi broke
all tensions of life. A sturdy peasant woman was holding the rope of her Ox, as
the diligent, hardworking cattle drank water, standing on the shore. Now, cows
and her offspring simply detest water. They won’t be scared of even the hardest
whiplash as they would panic about jumping into water and getting wet. Kannhi,
fresh from a great swim and ride on the back of buffalos in the pond, had seen
the little nick for another round of fun. The dripping fun-beast—he looked
squeezed to invisibility with his fur all wet—walked along the shoreline. The
sturdy peasant woman, who had the power to pince down even her rowdy farmer and
tweak his beard while sitting on his chest, got scared like a robust buffalo.
Kannhi pulled at the rope. He looked a menacing molecule of daredevilry. She
let go off her hold on the rope. Now the sturdy Ox had his life stuck in his
nostrils. Kannhi wanted the hardworking beast to take a bath perhaps. Now bathing
and Ox don’t match. They simply prefer a nice scrub on their coat by rough
hands and still rougher metal scrubber. The ox went numb with fear. The jocular
zealot was pulling the rope from the water. He seemed so damn determined to
pull the ox into the water. The ox appeared to have surrendered to its fate like
they do when taken to butcheries. Its eyes popping out, its muzzle flared up in
fear and nostrils puffed out saliva laden breath. Many a farmer had to run to save
the poor ox’s life, as the culprit dived to safety and pop out its mocking face
from among a group of buffalos deep in the waters.
One
day, I was walking pensively dawn the path from the fields. I walked like a
robo who is passive to the beautiful summer evening. You could expect Kannhi
anywhere. He must have enjoyed a joyride on some farmer’s shoulder, so must
have been returning to the primary scene of his fun, that is, village. I saw
him a few paces ahead of me as it suddenly jumped from the branches of a tree. To
go just like any other journeyman wasn’t in his metabolism. While we would walk
simply lost in our little set of problems, he would squeeze the last drop of
fun with his frail little fingers. The idiot terribly insulted me for my human
commonness. Doing things as others do was the most difficult thing for him. My
footsteps were mocked at. I saw him going somersaulting in front of me. A
horribly ecstatic whirlpool of energy as the tiny creature whirled and hopped
in an amazing series of somersaults. To be frank, I have never ever witnessed
such gay abundance of free spirits in my life, never! So the funny ghost left
me in peals of laughter almost doing the same on the dusty path.
By
the village bus stand, there was a mossy water puddle by the road. There was a
big crowd as I walked. I apprehended some mishap but then peals of laughter left
me assured all was well. And fun and jestership had every right in the village
as long as Kannhi was there. The scene opened as I reached. Kannhi was enjoying
his life with master backstrokes in swimming in the puddle. Its funny little
face out of the water, the upturned funny little turtle, it expertly floated
around and would have ashamed many a fish and swimming champions. People
whistled and clapped. Those were the days when there was no mobile phone with people;
otherwise, Kannhi would have become an internet sensation with his funny antiques.
Like
the black bugbears of rascality and tomfoolery, crude farmers take liberty to
urinate with as much freedom as a bear does in a forest. The peasant woman however
face disadvantage in this regard. During those times, older peasant woman wore
long and heavy cotton kirtles, the tedious great-skirts having many folds. In
full measurements it weighed up to 5 Kg. What a feat to carry it. It but also
served as the mobile toilet box. Like a peasant woman had the advantage of
suddenly sitting down on her haunches right in the middle of the sandy path on
the pretext of picking something or fixing her leather footwear, papooshes, and
pee. The wet earth will give a clue to what had happened in reality. One such
old peasant woman got down to sit and go for multitasking, as she fixed her
papoosh and attended the nature’s call. Kannhi but couldn’t beat the temptation
of taking shelter under the tent like sprawl of the huge long-skirt. The
peasant woman was lucky not to have died of shock. Kannhi too got equally
scared as he ran away from the scene of crime.
There
are numerous other episodes when he would sit on the charpoy and rummage
through the sparse silver hair of some retired farmer, pretending to pick lice
and even tweak his ears. People even tried to make him learn to smoke hookah.
They held him by throat and tried to put the pipe into his mouth. But he had no
taste for such vices and he sniffed and even bit a few hands so that they
mended their ways in this regard.
As
the village women made chapattis on their open hearths, he would go and sit
with so much of obedience and innocence that it could even bring moisture to
their eyes. He would melt their hearts with his suffering silent expression. He
went there for a piece of chapatti but would come back licking his whiskers
after drinking pure buffalo milk.
These
are just a few of the funny anecdotes that I remember from my personal
experience. If a research is done in the village, many more people will have
still funnier episodes to share.
Well,
in a span of just four or five months, he lived life so enthusiastically to
create so many outstanding anecdotes that their echo reverberates even after
two and half decades. Meanwhile hundreds of farmers have lived and died in the
same manner.
The
village wasn’t lucky to have this angel of fun for too long. One day, the news
of his death spread. Street dogs killed him. Perhaps they felt left out and
jealous because Kannhi was drawing all attention. But I am sure, even before
death the fun-loving rascal must have done something horribly funny to arise
canine fury and say a funny faced buy to this innings. He lived and died for
fun and frolics. God knows, what hilarity he must be committing now in some
corner of the cosmos!
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