by P.R.Viswanathan
[box]A sparsely dressed man, who was shunned as a beggar by some but regarded with a strange respect by many; He was a different personality altogether – fteor one, he invited food to come to him; secondly his appearance and worldly knowledge were shockingly contradictory. For all the spark he carried, one fine day, he fizzled out, learns P.R.Viswanathan. Here, he shares the memories of SV, the different man who roamed about in Matunga, Bombay.[/box]I was planning to call this piece “Lost in Translation” but I realize I might as well give that title to all my writings based on life in Matunga. The Matunga of my formative years (the fifties through the seventies) was quintessentially Tamilian – in language and culture generally – including my own Palakkad variant. Even the minority Maharashtrians and Gujarathis and the lone Muslim family, all spoke at least a smattering of Tamil. And here I am trying to put it all down in English. Translation kills. But write I must. I have been so full of these stories and the characters in them all these years; I should burst if I didn’t share them. So here goes.
We called him “Shappade Vaa” for that is what he used to cry out every evening after sunset. Now, how do I translate that? It means, literally: “Oh Food! Come.” The man in question was a tall, spare Tamilian, who was dressed in a real loincloth. Let me put it this way: compared to him, Gandhiji would have appeared overdressed. He had wonderful eyes – large, intense, melancholic and tear-filled. They seemed to be full of compassion and understanding. He carried himself like a soldier, erect at all times – seated or walking. He had a small cloth bundle, which contained all his earthly belongings. He talked well on occasion and oftentimes blabbered incoherently. For all that, he had an extraordinary personality and commanded respect. He would appear in Matunga frequently and spend months at a time. Just as easily, he would disappear for months.
He sat anywhere on the pavement but he was most comfortable just outside my building, Laxmi Bhuvan. The huge banyan tree so thoughtfully planted years ago by our ground floor neighbour offered him a welcome shade. He never begged for food. Instead, he exhorted food to come to him with that cry in Tamil “Shappade Vaa”. Many residents heeded the cry so that there was no evening that he did not have enough to eat. Sometimes, his cry would be borne to us eerily through thunderclaps and torrential rain.
And still, some of us would respond – to find him sitting erect, fully drenched. People also gave him money. I have never seen any one throw a coin; they placed it respectfully before him. The name stuck; we all called him “Shappade Vaa”. Lets shorten it to SV.
SV would call out to youngsters like me and engage us in conversation. We even ran errands for him. I can hear his confident tone calling out to us: “Thambi (younger brother)! Here, get me a Dina Thanthi.” And he would hand us 10 or 15 paise. Dina Thanthi is a Tamil newspaper. The name means daily telegram. Nothing lost in translation there! We would go to Kannan round the corner on Bhaudhaji Road. Apart from pan, supari, beedies and cigarettes, Kannan also sold Tamil and Malayalam newspapers. SV would accept the paper with a smile of acknowledgment and start reading with total concentration. If any of us were around, we could sit there in silence without disturbing him though he himself would freely air his comments on the day’s news.
He had very clear views on many subjects. In particular, India needed the Congress to be in power in order to ensure that we remained secular. We should be allied with USA for economic progress. The Democrats in USA were our friends. President John Kennedy (pronounced ‘Kannadi’) was one of the greatest statesmen and human beings ever. We should befriend him. After he completes his two terms, we must hope that his brother Robert will succeed him. He referred to Robert as ‘Kannadi Bhai’ (Kennedy Brother). Today, I do not think I agree with any of these opinions but remember, at the time I talk of, I was but a fledgling and SV created in me, an uncommon awareness of issues.
For some strange reason, Chatterbox could not stand SV. Surprising for one who was the unofficial biographer of many Matunga lives and who celebrated the kinks and eccentricities of human nature! SV offered so much in that direction. Yet, seldom did Chatterbox refer to SV without a sneer and a laugh. ‘Beggar’ and ‘mad man’ were the epithets he commonly used. When I told him I was planning to write about SV, he suggested the title ‘The Mad Man of Matunga’. He was so pleased with his coinage that he clapped his hands and laughed loudly, searching my face for reactions. He well knew my weakness for alliteration. The thing about SV is that barring Chatterbox (who had just this one inexplicable aversion) and a microscopic minority of generally insensitive people, none dared call him either of these names.
John Kennedy! For us, children of the sixties, he was an icon beyond compare. We were not short on icons in India. Nehru was still the Prime Minister but he was 71. Kennedy on the other hand, was incredibly young. Tall and handsome, he had a lovely wife and an illustrious family. How could any one be President at 43, we wondered? We had all seen pictures of Kennedy in the boat, PT 109 during World War II. Another image was from the comics; in one of them, Superman meets JFK in the White House – a well-deserved reward for a hero. JFK was the one who asked “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” Above everything else, Kennedy would be good for India. That is what SV had told us on numerous occasions.
How well I remember that day, November 23, 1963! The Times of India carried screaming headlines and an AP (Associated Press) Radio Photo. Kennedy had been shot through the head the previous day in Dallas. Another photo showed Lyndon Johnson being sworn in as President in an aircraft. We found SV raving incoherently, swearing revenge on the killers and weeping at India’s fate. That evening, there was no cry of “Shappade Vaa”. He did not eat for the next two days.
In time he recovered. Then, there came the happy announcement that Robert Kennedy would run for President. SV told us about how the Kennedy family was worried about his safety and then laughed his admiration: “Did you expect him to be cowed down? He is Kannadi Bhai after all.”
When news of Robert Kennedy’s assassination reached us, SV once again fasted but there was no raving this time. He went into deep silence for two days. On the evening of the second day, I walked past him. He was at his usual perch under the banyan tree. He stared at me but there was neither a word nor a smile, not even a nod. And that was the last I saw of him – 1968.
Ten years later, I was in Bombay on holiday and ran into Chatterbox. When he gave me a chance to get a word in, I asked him: “Does any one have any idea where Shappade Vaa might be? He was such a part of my growing-up years.”
Chatterbox laughed:
“That mad man! Who cares? Ok, ok! I know you do. But why are you asking me? You should know! Last year, he was here begging aloud as usual. Your brother came running down with food. Your brother has that gruff exterior but he is all soft and sentimental; I saw him crying. Anyway, the guy has disappeared again. Speak to Changa. He might have some information”
Strange, neither my brother nor my mother had mentioned! I suppose my visits have generally been brief and we must have chatted about so many things.
I met Changa (one of the nicknames for Shankar). I am sure Chatterbox had the information but was putting me on to Changa directly only because the subject did not interest him.
Changa had met SV in Madurai the previous year. He found him seated outside the Meenakshi Temple. Changa bought him a cup of tea and some biscuits. They talked for a while. SV was totally thrown off balance by the death of Robert Kennedy. How can such a thing happen! It went against the law of averages – three brothers (Joseph, John and Robert) all dying violent deaths. He felt for some strange reason, impelled to move out of Bombay. He found the national scene too, extremely disheartening. Indira Gandhi was a far cry from Nehru and now, this motley bunch, the Janata Party, were up to no good. Changa held that the sting had gone out of his voice. While talking to Changa, SV abruptly changed the subject by thanking him for the tea; very uncharacteristic. And he added that the people of Matunga had been very kind to him. He had not encountered that level of feeling here in Madurai.
What I heard of him, from Changa, upset me further; neither had SV found the peace of mind that comes from mature reflection nor did he have left in him, the strength to sustain his indignation. He had ceased rebelling and seemed to have resigned himself to the ways of the world. That was 1977. What became of him? What was his story, I had never bothered to inquire. Where did he come from? Why did he roam the streets of Bombay almost naked? And what accounts for the deep impression he made on me and other youngsters? Why did my brother weep for him?
These questions continue to haunt me. Now, tell me, could I have called him a madman? Or a beggar? Then I reflected; there are ever so many lines we draw – between sanity and insanity, crude and sophisticated, prince and beggar? The line is always thin, very thin – the line between.
Pic : lepiaf.geo – http://www.flickr.com/photos/ajawin/
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