I. The Kohinoor of the Lane
One summer morning in early 1980s, in a modest neighborhood of a sleepy town of Cuttack, my best friend Kuna and me, stood frozen, stunned, utterly dumbstruck.
A pickup truck stood right Infront of the Marwadi Seth’s house, and men loaded the household items one by one. Iron trunks screeched against the concrete. Utensils clanged and thudded. Furniture groaned as it was dragged out into the unforgiving morning light.
This awakened the neighborhood with a huff.
Our lane was a graveyard of ancestral pride, lined with rickety and crumbling houses that were once symbols of prosperity. Homes which were once made by proud and successful forefathers, now left in the hands of wayward children unworthy of that rich lineage.
A familiar sour smell hung in the air as the household waste water slushed leisurely through the open drains – a smell which was slightly inconvenient but well tolerated by the accustomed neighborhood.
However, to us children, this lane wasn’t an echo from the past but a joyful playground of infinite possibilities, with adventures waiting for us at every corner.
“Pintu, are you listening to me”?
Kuna rocked me like a goli soda bottle, forcing me to come out of my reverie.
“What”? I blinked, startled.
“Arrey baba” he said, voice heavy with betrayal. “Jignesh is a liar. He told us it was all a rumour. And now look at this!” said Kuna, dejected.
Now, the Seth family in our lane were all together a different story.
It is said that the Seth came from Rajasthan with nothing and used to roam around as a street vendor selling “Har ek Maal Saadhe Saat Rupaiaya” (all items for Rs 7.50 only).
Through sheer hard work and an entrepreneurial mindset, he prospered. First, he opened a small shop and then several more, and now is the owner of one of the largest garment shops in the city.
That is the success story of everyone who does hard work and shows perseverance.
It may appear strange how such a rich man landed up in a lane like ours. Some elders in the lane say that the Seth started his “Saadhe Saat Rupaiya” business from our lane and found the people to be very amiable and kind. As a result, when his fortune changed, he bought an old, dilapidated, large house and renovated it for himself and his family.
And some renovation it was.
The house emerged transformed, painted bright and proud, its windows always open. And Seth did something no one else in the lane ever did.
He invited us in.
Though we had seen it from the outside, what we saw inside blew our mind.
It seemed as if we had stepped in to a Bollywood cinema set - a large, lavish house with the latest furniture and expensive upholsteries with the latest gadgets and all items that comfort can want and more. The home had five bedrooms with a large drawing and dining room. Each of the kids had their own bedroom, with rooms painted in the choice of their colors, curtains and bedsheets carefully picked up by the Sethani which had Mickey Mouse and other Disney characters printed on them, smiling at you from every corner.
Once invited in, men sat on his sofas. Women admired the curtains. Children wandered without being yelled at. He did not ask anyone to leave. Everyone was welcome as the familiar warmth of Seth and his family embraced one and all.
And inside, glowing like a relic stolen from the future, stood the color television. It was indeed a rare possession for the lane and the Seth took great pride in showcasing it. It occupied a pride of place in his drawing room, sitting atop the teakwood table, polished and shining like a true Kohinoor diamond.
The first time I saw it, I thought it was alive.
Colors moved inside it. Actual colors, not the muddy greys of the black-and-white set that we saw in shops or other wealthy households. When actors cried, their tears shone. When songs played, dresses exploded with blues and reds I had never seen together.
With a VHS player.
And stacks of movie cassettes.
Little did we know then that this Kohinoor carried a curse of its own, and that our excitement around it would quietly grow into the source of many troubles and small miseries that waited for us in the days ahead.
***
II. The Departure
The next day morning the final loading began.
What met me outside was an incredible scene where the entire neighborhood had gathered outside their house to see off one of the most beloved family leave the lane.
Women, stopped mid-way from their Jhoti - making Infront of their houses - a traditional practice of creating Rangoli with rice flour against a background of mostly dried cow dung on the road, which was beautiful, aesthetic, and very Odia.
I looked at Kuna grinning in that infuriating, devil-may-care attitude of his.
It was very much like Kuna and I looked at him visibly irritated.
“Sanga, why are you cross with me?” Kuna said.
“Arrey, naahin Sanga”. I jumped before he could answer. I am just so sad to see Jignesh and his family leave the lane. It feels strange,” I said, trying to be as sincere and with as straight a face as possible.
Kuna looked at me for a long second, then snorted. “Don’t give me that, Pintu. White lies and all.”
“What white lie?”
“Are you really sad that Jignesh is leaving,” he said, folding his arms, “or are you mourning the loss of the colour TV, the VHS player, and our shameless back-to-back ‘free shows’ at his place?”
This time I did not get angry with him.
For the first time, the fool made sense and paraphrased our shared emotions correctly.
Suddenly Jignesh and his family came out of their house, met the people of the neighborhood and piled up in two hand pulled rickshaws.
The truck pulled out of the bend and the last sight of the packed TV, perched atop the furniture, was a sight so heart rendering that both Kuna and I let out a shriek, startling the neighbors and infuriating our parents, inviting royal size slaps from our respective fathers.
Jignesh turned, confused, trying to understand why his leaving hurt us so much.
I don’t think he ever did.
***
III. The Failed Plan
Once the Seths departed and both of us went off to Kanika Kothi, the old palace where we hid when home felt unsafe. No one owned the palace, though its walls had broken and bats and rumors haunted its rooms.
Once alone, Kuna said “Actually, Sanga, I wanted to tell you that all hopes are not lost with Jignesh’s departure”.
He smiled with his eyes gleaming with the fire of a conspirator
“There is a house in our close neighborhood of Sri Vihar Colony where a drunkard lives. It is said that the drunkard is a wealthy heir and has the entire house and all the wealth to enjoy”. He said drawing an air of mystery around the tale.
He continued. I was dying inside with excitement at the mystery and getting irritated at Kuna for not telling it quick enough.
“The whole day the man does nothing except drink and lay in his drawing room Infront of a large imported color television with movies playing in the VHS, which is also imported. What’s more, the window is always open for anyone to see whenever they want to”.
Both of us happily shrieked and squealed as he blurted out the last few details excited of the possibilities that lay ahead for us.
There and then it was decided that Kuna and I would try to go for the movie watching at the drunkard’s house the very next afternoon.
Afternoon, of course, was the problem.
The tricky part was that it was peak summer vacation and most parents considered afternoon siesta sacred. It is not only a habit but an institution in itself in eastern India. People ate, melted in to deep slumber and awakened unreasonably refreshed and cheerful by afternoon 4 pm. Nay, in Odisha, afternoon was popularly known as char ita bele (4 o’ clock) as life truly geared up and resumed for the evening after that.
Stepping out then was dangerous.
Now I had my misgivings on this new adventure which I shared with Kuna.
However, he convinced me that this is a trip worth taking and that we should not miss it for anything.
Convinced, against my better judgment, we decided to sneak out the next day during the afternoon siesta.
The next day afternoon, two little boys tried to escape for their mid-summer adventure but barely made it past the doorstep.
One of us tripped over utensils kept for washing.
Unfortunately, it was me.
The noise woke up Kuna’s household as well.
They caught him mid escape.
That afternoon, the neighborhood could no longer sleep as it reverberated with the wailing and bawling of two innocent boys at the mercy of their fierce mothers.
Later that evening, we met up. Battered brothers who have fallen through hard times. Bruised, humiliated but our resolve now stubborn and hardened. Our plan was not going to die. We thought about the most opportune time when we could make the plan work without raising any doubt with the parents, especially the two heartless fathers.
It was decided that we will do it during the evening grocery run.
Evening grocery run was when each household will send their kids to fetch groceries from the local shop. As the fathers were too tired after a long day of office work & travel, it generally fell on kids like me and Kuna to fetch the groceries. Our incentive was a chocolate or a lollypop and if one was lucky, eat the tasty Dahibara Aloo Dum, the hallmark of Cuttack.
It was perfect. Trusted. Routine. Invisible.
So, two days after the last beating, we were handed our grocery lists and sent out. The two friends walked toward the local shop—
and quietly took a detour toward our cherished destination – the drunkard’s house.
***
IV. The Final Run
On and on we went, crossing roads, neighborhood and every rule meant to bind us back; with the breeze in our hair – truly carefree like the bird. The sun was setting; crimson light bled into the streets, staining the walls and stretching our shadows into uneasy shapes. The evening felt unreal, cinematic. It fueled us, pushed us forward.
We did not know what lay in store for us as in Jignesh’s case, we knew beforehand which movie will play. This uncertainty thrilled us & propelled us forward.
We finally reached the drunkard house. It was a palatial bungalow with long driveway and manicured lawn with a central fountain and our real point of attraction: the backyard. We snuck up the wall and landed on the other side of the narrow lane.
Through the open window, light spilled out: blue, yellow, impossible.
What met our eyes was unbelievable! A massive imported TV was playing the Amitabh Bacchan blockbuster Sharaabi - Fate had a macabre sense of humor, showing a movie about a drunkard to our very own resident drunkard.
Then we watched.
And watched.
And watched.
Time evaporated as the movie took us through various twist & turns as a lovable drunk with a golden heart drink his way through daddy issues, falls in love, sings iconic songs, and somehow proves that being Sharaabi is a personality trait, not a problem. And inside the room the reel was playing out the real!
“Arrey, sighra asi ki cassette badala… Nua bhala filim laga” (“Come and change the cassette and put on a good new film”) The drunkard shouted in Odia to his man servant when the movie ended.
What bliss!
V. All Hell Breaks Loose
That’s when we heard a gasping sound and turned.
“You scoundrels! Do you know what you’ve done?” shouted Jena Uncle, our neighbor. “Your families have been searching for two hours. The whole neighborhood is out looking for you. Your fathers are at the police station; and here you are, watching movies like thieves!”
The noise drew people from the neighborhood. Hands grabbed us, pinned us down, just as we tried to escape.
Off went Jena uncle to inform our fathers.
All our bad luck.
That devil, he took the effort to take out his scooter and transport our fathers so that he can have a ringside view to the entertainment that will unfold!
No longer that Jena Babu hit the brake that both our fathers jumped out from behind and descended on us.
All hell broke loose.
Slaps, kicks, punches as if it was a WWF with no rules. Random slapping, kick, punch – all followed with generous number of unmentionable expletives which in some cases casted doubt on their genuine fatherhood and having sired the both of us. The pain & hurt was there but the shame cut deeper.
From the corner of our eyes, we could see the drunkard ambling out of his house to see what the commotion is all about.
Kuna, ever the wiser, pleaded, “Papa, please, everyone is watching. Let’s go home.”
That only fueled the rage.
This infuriated his father Mangaraj Babu so much that it tempted him to tell my father “whatsay Ahmed babu? These little brats have developed a sense of prestige and self-importance. Let’s give these fine gentlemen some more treatment so that they develop wider prestige all around” Said he gleefully. Trying to match his tempo, my father said, “lets drag this vagabond all the way up to home and teach them a lesson so that they will not repeat it”.
What followed was incredibly embarrassing and shameful with the best of Gaalis. Mothers and sisters reference were used so much that at one point of time we started to feel protective of them given how they were unnecessarily getting dragged and names getting misused.
In between, I mustered up the courage and told my father “maa – behen ke baare mein kuch nahin sununga” (“will not bear to listen anything related to my mother & sister”).
This infuriated my father so much and threw him in such a fit that he started hitting with greater intensity. That day everyone on the way just looked on stunned.
People stared. No one intervened.
The procession of the two fathers, their sons, Jena Babu and some onlookers entered our lane. The expletives stopped as both the fathers had some degree of social prestige in the lane and also, they did not want to come across as ungentlemanly in front of the ladies. However, the hitting continued. The neighbors poured out and formed a line along the lane as if giving a grand salute to us, the returning victors! while some thanked the lord and other philosophized about the transient nature of life, some old devils gleefully wished the two devils (us) had drowned in the muddy pond than to have caused such grief to their parents!
***
VI. The Redemption
By next day, the lane had gone quiet. The afternoon cricket seemed to have paused somewhere even as the chalked line of the cricket creases waited for its heroes to begin the fierce war of cricket. The news of the beating had spread across the length and breadth of the lane and beyond.
Just as the dusk began to settle resignedly, he suddenly appeared, swaying slightly as always.
It was the drunkard from the Sri Vihar colony.
Everybody was shocked to see him appear in the lane, almost from nowhere. He was someone whose reputation preceded him, and in not so good way either. Hence, his appearance was not only surprising but was considered to be inauspicious & ominous. His appearance did not help ether - shirt crumpled, hair unkempt and eyes strangely shifting beneath the haze. Behind him, two boys from the electronics shop carried a boxed television set and a second carton, a brand-new VHS player.
The lane stirred and suddenly came to life.
What is this? Who called him here? Who told him anything?
He stood in the middle of the narrow road, cleared his throat, and for once did not slur. “I heard,” he said quietly. “Heard what happened.” His eyes moved to our verandah where Kuna and I sat, visibly battered, silent and withdrawn. He looked at us for a moment, then looked away, as if the sight of us had confirmed something he had already decided.
“A TV is a mere machine. A box with wires & a screen with light”. He started, as if talking to himself. He turned to the people standing in the lane and continued “It should never become a reason for children to suffer.” As if a pointed references & reproach to the fathers who had gathered there. His word hung heavy and solemn in the lane. No one spoke.
“And it should never,” he added, voice tightening, “become the reason for love to disappear.”
Someone muttered that this was none of his business. He smiled, not offended, just tired.
“I grew up with the best that money can buy. My parents had three televisions,” he said. “Imported ones. Big house. Drivers. Servants. Everything.” He paused.
“Except time.”
“I would sit in front of those screens,” he continued, now his voice mushy & soft, “waiting for them to come sit beside me.” He swallowed & choked. “They never did.” There was no accusation in his tone. It was as if he was reading from memory.
“So,” he said, straightening, as if steadying more than his balance, “put this in the clubhouse. Let all the children watch together. Matches, movies, whatever they like.” He looked again toward the verandah. “No child should think a thing is more important than them.” The shop boys placed the boxes inside the small community room, the one with peeling paint and a broken ceiling fan.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then, quietly, I & Kuna stepped out and walked up to the man everyone called useless. “Thank you,” both of us said. Not loudly. Not with any drama. Just enough.
The drunkard nodded once.
As he turned to leave, his steps were steadier than before. Both the fathers avoided each other’s eyes.
Inside the clubhouse, someone plugged the television in. The screen flickered to life; a blue glow filling the small room.
In the meanwhile, something else had changed in the lane. That night, more than one father sat beside his child: not in front of a screen, but on the doorstep, talking.
And the drunkard from Sri Vihar Colony?
For the first time in years, he did not stop for a drink.
He walked home under the streetlights, hands in pockets, carrying nothing and yet lighter than he had been in decades...
******
