Left from the Nameless Shop

by Adithi Rao

  ADITHI RAO

  For

  my ajja

  Dr Bhaskara Puthu

  &

  Dr Mohan Rao

  my one-man army

  Contents

  1. The Poster Painter (Who No Longer Painted Posters)

  2. A Brush with New Purpose

  3. Left, from the Nameless Shop

  4. The Awakening

  5. Talking Pillar

  6. Decent Haircuts

  7. The Beggar of Rudrapura

  8. The Memory

  9. Wife

  10. About Grandfathers and Trees

  11. Genetic Conspiracy

  12. The Story of Rain

  13. The Story of Rain – Part II

  Acknowledgements

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Praise for Left from the Nameless Shop

  Copyright

  1

  The Poster Painter (Who No Longer Painted Posters)

  At half past five in the evening, Devendrappa captured the eyes of Gabbar Singh on canvas to perfection. The light was fading fast, and Devendrappa put away his brushes, stowing them in a shelf behind the urinal in one corner of the compound of Vishnu Talkies. Then he returned to survey his work.

  Yes, the lunacy in the eyes of the arch villain he had painted was unmistakeable. And the twist of Hema’s body was like a visual scream of anguish. This was exactly what he had hoped to achieve! Tomorrow, he would put the finishing touches to Amitabh’s rifle, and the poster would be complete.

  Not a bad day’s work, thought Devendrappa, as he began to leave the theatre premises. His mind wandered to the poster he would begin as soon as he was done with this one: Hamsageethe, starring Anant Nag. Devendrappa’s heart leapt at the thought of capturing his idol on canvas, and in such a noble role! When he thought about the poster – his poster – with his precious Anant Nag on it, fluttering from the balcony of Lalita Kuteer Mansion for all to see, Devendrappa closed his eyes for joy.

  The brilliant blue gate of Vishnu Talkies, ornate with delicate floral grillwork and a large shankha in the middle, was hanging half-open on its hinges when Devendrappa made to leave through it. This gate was close to fifty years old, and was the pride of the cinema hall and all who worked in it. The shankha – conch of Lord Vishnu – embodied the name of the theatre perfectly, which was probably what prompted Vishnu Pai, the late proprietor, to choose the motif.

  Although it was dusk now, Devendrappa retraced his steps to the shelf behind the urinal. Pulling out a torch and his make-shift palette, he deftly mixed colours until he had achieved the right shade of blue. This he applied to a patch of rust on the shankha until it was completely covered. Having restored its glory, Devendrappa folded his hands to the conch in a moment of reverence. Then he set out for home.

  On the way, he stopped by Narayanamma’s tuck shop for a cup of coffee. This was the one luxury his wife permitted him, in consideration of the long hours of labour that went into bringing home his tiny salary each month.

  Devendrappa and Nagalakshmi lived in a vatara on the outskirts of Rudrapura, made up of a small cluster of huts. The 303 bus from Chithalli passed the boundary wall of the vatara on its way to Five Lights, and would have dropped Devendrappa right outside Vishnu Talkies, had he been able to afford the fare.

  The late Vishnu Pai, owner of the talkies, used to give Devendrappa bus money along with his salary each month. But now, with his son Balamurali Pai taking over the management of the cinema hall, things had changed for the poster painter and the rest of the people who worked there.

  Bala Pai, or Diesel Pai as he was universally referred to, owned petrol and diesel stations in Shivamogga. While the father had been a generous and well-loved man, Diesel Pai was widely known to be as greasy as the engine oil dispensed in his diesel stations, and as full of gas as his bunks!

  It was such a master that Devendrappa served, ever since he had been passed down from father to son along with the talkies, its walls, the urinal inside its premises, two large projectors, fifty folding metal chairs, the ticket seller, the cleaning staff and the parking assistant. Devendrappa had made the transition with as little distress as it was possible for a happy-hearted, penniless fellow to feel.

  Nagalakshmi had prepared ganji for dinner that night. Steaming hot red rice gruel tasted good with tender mango pickle, and Devendrappa thoroughly enjoyed his meal.

  Look at him, eating like it’s a king’s feast, thought Nagalakshmi, with affectionate derision. He works all day in the hot sun, painting as if those heroes and heroines will jump out of the canvas and reward him for his efforts. Do they even care what they look like on a poster in some unknown village? They are stars already, and stars they will remain regardless. And yet this man paints like his life depends upon it. Then again, maybe it does. Maybe he wouldn’t survive if he couldn’t paint…

  Nagalakshmi was given to arguing with herself this way from time to time. Often, when she had reached the end of it, she was never sure what decision she had arrived at, because she had argued on behalf of both sides so effectively. Now she watched absently as her husband licked his fingers. As the red oil of the pickle slowly cleared away, pinkish nails with muddy blue crescents emerged.

  ‘Ay!’ she cried, arresting his hand mid-lick. ‘Paint under your finger nails and there you are eating it! Do you want to get poisoned or what?’

  He grinned sheepishly at her.

  ‘You didn’t wash your hands after you came home, did you?’ she demanded, as of a naughty child.

  ‘I did, Nagi, I did,’ responded her husband mildly. ‘But some of it remained, what to do? A painter’s best friends are his paints, and he must always keep them close at hand.’

  Nagi opened her mouth to scold and Devendrappa cut her off quickly, exclaiming, ‘Ayyayo, I almost forgot! Narayani Akka sent something for you.’

  He ran outside to retrieve the parcel he had left unceremoniously by the hand pump, where he had washed upon his arrival home. Delivering it into Nagi’s eager arms, he left her to the delights of a dozen glass bangles, and went to bed.

  Late the next morning, the poster for Ramesh Sippy’s latest film Sholay was mounted onto two bamboo poles and slowly raised up to the first-floor balcony of Lalita Kuteer Mansion. Located in Five Lights – the very heart of Rudrapura – the mansion belonged to Diesel Pai’s cousin, who had rented out his balcony to the talkies to display posters of all upcoming films. The cousin and his family went about their daily business, treating that portion of their house as if it didn’t exist. Of course, no outsider was allowed to enter the house and use the inner staircase to access the balcony; the mounting of posters had to be done from the outside, by erecting a scaffolding.

  The second the Sholay poster went up, a crowd appeared to stare and speculate.

  ‘The fellow looks like a rakshasa!’ cried one man, pointing to the image of Gabbar Singh.

  ‘I have an idea! This year at Dasara, we will set fire to him instead of Ravana!’ suggested another.

  ‘Good idea! Good idea!’ cried a dozen voices in hearty approval.

  ‘Devanna! Ay Devanna!’ called Ranganath, shading his eyes from the sun and looking up the scaffolding where Devendrappa was securing the bamboo poles to the pillars of the balcony.

  ‘Eeyno?’ responded Devendrappa.

  ‘Can we have that poster once the film has left the talkies?’

  ‘This is Bala Sir’s property. You’ll have to ask him,’ returned Devendrappa.

  ‘Aaay thoo!’ said Ranganath, and several others spat into the mud at the sound of the name. But they knew, as Devendrappa did, that the kind-hearted poster painter would secure the poster from his master for them.


  By two that afternoon, Devendrappa put the finishing touches to the ‘moving publicity’ canvas. This involved bright, colourful images of the actors accompanied by text announcing the new film, painted across a canvas sheet and draped over the back of a bullock cart to form a tent.

  When the bullock cart had been readied, the man in charge of the bullocks climbed into the front of the cart and steered the animals through the streets of Rudrapura, while two musicians sat in the back with Devendrappa. The poster painter was armed with a loudspeaker. One musician played the nadaswaram, the other beat vigorously on a drum. Hidden under the poster tent, they created sounds that ranged between music and cacophony, sometimes both at once.

  To this charming background score, Devendrappa called out the announcement through the loudspeaker. ‘Solay philum! Solay philum! Hindi philum Solay, Vishnu Talkies nalli! Morning-show-matinee-show-first-show-second-show! Banni! Banni! Ellaru Banni! Solay philum! Solay philum!’

  This produced the desired effect instantly. A dozen little boys came running up and surrounded the cart, dancing and throwing their shirts high into the air. They accompanied the cart, calling out to passers-by, drawing attention to the new film, collecting more boys to swell their ranks as they made their way through the town. This was all the publicity a film needed to become a super hit in Rudrapura.

  Devendrappa dug into the pockets of his worn-out trousers and came up with handfuls of toffees that he had bought from the tuck shop for just this purpose. He threw them into the air, and the boys scrambled around to snatch as many as they could, grabbing from each other, leaping high to catch the candies before they touched the ground, competing over who would end up with the most. The drummer increased his cadence to egg them on. Devendrappa laughed seeing their excitement.

  By evening, anxious mothers began to observe that their offspring had not returned from school. When searching the playground and the river bank yielded no result, they went asking around after their missing sons. One clue led to the next, and by following the trail, the irate women finally came upon the bullock cart.

  Presently, the sound of angry female voices and howling children filled the air, as mothers spanked their children and attempted to drag them away from the cart. Nothing new, this happened every time. It was invariably the signal for the musicians to call it a day.

  ‘Eeyn-ri, Devanna, nimmage buddhi illva ri? You at least should have stopped these monkeys, no? Look at my son, he has lost his shirt! Now where to go looking for it? I can’t afford a new one!’ cried one woman, shaking her boy by his stick-like arms and glaring at the poster painter inside the bullock cart.

  Devendrappa calmly put away his loudspeaker. He knew, as the musicians did, that the scolding was just a formality, and that it wouldn’t last long. The boys would return home, the mothers would cut up old bedsheets and stitch them into new shirts, and the boys would be back here dancing behind the bullock cart within the fortnight.

  Devendrappa was bent over the Hamsageethe poster, trying to get the colour and texture of the reddish-brown beads of the rudraksha around Anant Nag’s neck just right. The actor’s face loomed large in the background, dominating the space of the canvas and lending a poignancy to the setting. Eyes closed, head resting against the vertical arm of his tanpura, the character looked as if he had utterly merged with his song.

  Devendrappa put down his brush to look intently at the painting. His breath caught in his throat and tears welled up in his eyes. These were not tears of sadness, but of some unnamed emotion arising within him. They stemmed from the ever-present yearning for the divine that animates all beings, embodied in form, yet aloof from it.

  I feel as if I know this man … thought Devendrappa. I know him.

  ‘Of course you do,’ chuckled another voice in his head, ‘He is your favourite actor!’

  But Devendrappa was only half convinced.

  Chinna sauntered in through the gates of Vishnu Talkies. The matinee show was about to get over, and he had arrived in time to clean the theatre and ready it for the next show. Within minutes, the crowd came pouring out of the hall, discussing the film animatedly.

  ‘They shouldn’t have killed off that Amitabachchan in the end, kano! Too much sad, allva? I cried and cried!’ exclaimed one fellow.

  ‘They should have kept him alive so he could kill off that Gabbarakshasa in the end!’ agreed his friend passionately as the two passed Devendrappa on their way to the urinal.

  Gabbarakshasa? thought Devendrappa to himself in amusement. This film is going to be a hit for sure.

  That year, on Vijayadashami day, an unknown demon, heavily fortified with crackers and bombs of all varieties, was erected in the government playground, in place of the usual ten-headed Ravana. Ravana, it appeared, had had enough of being mercilessly shot at and blown up year after year. Quite literally, it was bad for his image, and he was glad for the respite. In his place was a large cut-out of someone who bore an uncanny resemblance to a new actor called Amjad Khan, recently arrived on the Bombay film scene. It had cost Devendrappa two days’ salary plus a month’s worth of conjugal scolding to procure this cut-out from Diesel Pai for the occasion. But when the crowds screamed in delicious fear at the sight of him, and the children cheered as he went up in flames, the poster painter smiled to himself.

  It was worth it, he thought, smiling fondly.

  But then he happened to catch his wife’s eye glaring daggers at him, and his smile vanished.

  Then again, maybe not! he corrected himself hastily.

  By the summer of 1983, Vishnu Talkies boasted of ceiling fans and two toilets – one for ‘Lady Peoples’ and the other for ‘Gentlemans’ – inside the main building, right beside the viewing hall. The old urinal had been converted into a store room for Devendrappa’s paints and canvases. One morning, a black Ambassador swept into the driveway of Vishnu Talkies and came to a halt at the grill gate. The driver jumped out and held open the passenger door. Mr Balamurali Pai stepped out. The ticket seller and Chinna came hurrying up to greet their boss, and the driver handed Chinna a long cardboard tube. The men followed the proprietor to a sunny part of the front yard, where they found Devendrappa crouched over a poster.

  Benkiya Bale was due to release, and Devendrappa was caught up, once again, in the spell of its hero. Consequently, he did not notice the arrival of Diesel Pai and his entourage. Over the years, the poster painter’s brush had witnessed Anant Nag’s transition from a promising actor into a hero and a star. His heart swelled with pride as the handsome face emerged on the canvas beside the beautiful, almond-eyed heroine’s.

  ‘Ssst … Devanna!’ came Chinna’s voice, with an urgency that caused Devendrappa to look up, startled. He noticed then, for the first time, the owner of Vishnu Talkies standing at the far end of the yard. Devendrappa stood up quickly, folding his hands in greeting. But Diesel Pai either did not or chose not to see the gesture. He seemed excessively occupied by the something that Chinna was holding.

  On the proprietor’s command, Chinna opened the tube and withdrew a sheet of glossy paper. Bala Pai took it and unrolled it slowly, inch by inch, to heighten the drama of the moment. His eyes gleamed with anticipation.

  What emerged was a poster. A digital poster. With Anant Nag on it, and his leading lady enfolded in his arms. Splashed across the bottom were the words ‘Benkiya Bale’.

  ‘First of its kind!’ exclaimed Diesel Pai proudly. ‘This is the latest trend in the country. I only got it because of my contacts in Bangalore. They sent it specially for me.’ He looked around at the others boastfully, expectantly. The ticket seller and the driver had stepped closer to the poster, a look of awe on their faces.

  Only Chinna remained where he was, his eyes turned to the poster painter across the distance of the yard, an expression of dismay on his face. At that moment, a strange foreboding filled Devendrappa. He had sensed, without yet seeing, the thing that would change his life forever. He took a tentative step forward.

  ‘Nagalakshmiamma
, Lakshmi Atte nimmannu kariutta iddare. She said to tell you to come to the big house at two o’clock this afternoon.’

  Nagi, wiping her hand on the pallu of her sari, stared at the boy in surprise. When she continued to say nothing, the boy turned on his heel and ran off. Halfway down the road, he called over his shoulder: ‘Don’t come before two, Nagalakshmiamma! It’ll be lunch time, and Lakshmi Atte will be busy!’

  ‘Aythappa,’ mumbled Nagi, feeling dazed by this sudden turn of events. ‘Baruttene.’ I will come.

  It was Narayanamma who had told Sheshadri Saab’s sister Lakshmi about the situation at Devendrappa’s house, when she had dropped in at the tuck shop to buy milk that morning.

  ‘They are down to their last fistful of rice, and still Devendrappa is showing no signs of getting back on his feet.’

  ‘Three months it’s been since he lost his job at the talkies, Narayani. Perhaps he is sick?’ suggested Lakshmi worriedly.

  ‘He is, Lakshmi Akka. Sick at heart. Painting was his life. With that gone …’ Narayanamma broke off with a sad shake of her head.

  Nevertheless, this exchange resulted in one of the Sheshadri Mansion boys appearing at the vatara that very afternoon to deliver the message to Nagalakshmi that there was work for her at the big house.

  That the women of Sheshadri Mansion were busy in the kitchen was evident from the sounds of vegetables being chopped and metal spoons grazing the bottoms of iron cauldrons. Nagalakshmi quickly swept around the sofa, giving the area underneath it a miss. She did it so quickly that if any of the family members had been in the room, they might not have noticed. She straightened up … and found herself looking directly into the unwavering gaze of Sheshadri Saab’s ancient mother. She quickly squatted down and passed the broom under the three-seater over and over again, striving to display diligence. It’s like being in a room with a ghost, thought Nagalakshmi with a shudder. Can’t speak, can’t remember her own name, but the old dame notices everything that goes on around here!