Melodies of Life (Turlapati nagabhushana Rao)

Railaata (chuck..chuck: Kids Train Game) is in full swing. Five-six kids are playing in the courtyard of a house in our village, oblivious to the scorching summer heat. They're all around the same age, except for one "chinnodu". The game is intense, but occasionally, they take breaks to catch their breath. 'Enough of Railaata, kids! Sun is overhead, come inside and play in the shade,' amma calls out. But this 'children's train' doesn't stop, it only gains speed. This was May 1964. Since it was summer vacation, we took a bus from Guntur to Ravulapadu. We had been planning this trip for ten-fifteen days, mind you! I would boast to my friends about our village. 'You know how great our village is? We have so many cows and oxen in our courtyard. We even have names for them, and they respond when we call them!' I would say. My friends would listen in awe, eyes wide with wonder. In those days, there was a direct fast passenger bus from Guntur ...

  Summer holidays  were a long-awaited respite from school, a time when the scorching heat and hot winds couldn't dampen our spirits. We knew that summer meant a break from studies, and no one would bother us to "study" during this golden period. But our favourite days melted away like, an ice cream, day by day, and as the summer wore on, someone would bring news of school reopening soon.        My father would say, "School reopens next Monday, so reduce your roaming, and I'll bring new textbooks tomorrow." I dreaded such statements. Can’t these elders ever stop saying, "Study, study"? Are we actually learning, or just pretending to? One moment they tell us to study, the next they say, "Go play" or "Go sleep," but they can never stick to one thing. They’re like people who can’t make up their minds.    Anyway, they kept their promise and one day, new textbooks arrived. What can I say? When new books arrive, it's special...

As a seven-year-old boy, I stood in front of a small house in Mangalagiri, clutching my mother’s hand and crying. My heart felt unbearably heavy, and my eyes brimmed with tears. A strange emptiness filled me — the kind that even a child can feel but cannot name. Mangalagiri in the 1960s was not the town you see today. Tiled houses and small huts dotted the streets. Whenever someone mentions Mangalagiri, the first things that come to mind are the Panakala Swamy temple atop the hill and the Narasimha Swamy temple at its foot.      During my childhood, I shared a deep bond with both these sacred places. Perhaps that’s why, whenever I speak about my life’s journey, Mangalagiri always finds its way into my story. My father, T. V. M. Prasad Rao, served as the Executive Officer (E.O.) of these two temples in the early 1960s. Because of his official status, we were allotted a tiled house in the open space behind the great temple chariot. Our family lived there while my fa...

In college, I often dreamed of becoming a lecturer like the one who taught us—captivated by the way he wrote on the blackboard with a piece of chalk. As exams approached, our home would turn into a mini tutorial college. We painted one wall of the verandah black, to use as a board, and my classmates and I would study together from morning till night. Those days were full of energy and laughter. My classmates were my students, and the lecturer in me slowly began to awaken. I would teach, and they would listen attentively; I would write, and they would take notes. From the outside, it looked exactly like a classroom. People from the village often stopped by to watch us study, smiling as they left. Our B.Sc. results proved that teamwork really worked. After graduation, I was convinced I would become a lecturer. How innocent I was! I applied to several universities—Benaras, Bombay, and Andhra. Andhra University, Vizag, offered me a seat in Bio-Sciences, while Bombay University (now Mumb...