Chapter 8: My Life Savior
A very young boy was swimming in a river (Munneru) . Actually, he wasn't well-trained in swimming. He went to the stream with his friends. He was excited and fearless. He was telling himself, " get into the river without fear!" The river had plenty of water. The boy jumped into the water with enthusiasm. They chose a spot with still water, avoiding the flowing stream, thinking it was safer.
The boy and his friends were splashing around and chatting. But the boy didn't realize that he would soon be drowning. Until then, he was swimming fine, touching the ground with his feet and pushing himself up to the surface. He would dive again and touch the ground, then come up, thinking it was all a game. Each time he surfaced, he would boast to himself, "See, I can swim!"
But suddenly, his feet couldn't touch the ground. He had moved to a deeper area, and the water was too deep. He was struggling to stay afloat, waving his hands for help, signalling "Save me!" His legs were fluttering rapidly, trying to find something to grasp. He was sinking and couldn't come up. Water was filling his lungs. He thought, "It's all over; my life will end in seconds."
But fate is mysterious. God had many plans for this young boy's future, but God doesn't directly intervene. Instead, he sends help in human form. That's exactly what happened here. Just as the boy was drowning, a strong hand grabbed his weak hand and pulled him out. That hand belonged to my friend and relative, Kasthala Vijaya Babu. This incident occurred in the early 1970s.
Though he's named “Vijayudu,” he's Lord Krishna Paramatma to me. He may not agree with this statement, and I'm aware of that. I've written this for my own satisfaction.
The same hand helped me again in 2020, during the corona virus pandemic, when I was elderly and had just celebrated my 60th birthday (Shashtipurti). I was living in Nandigama with my wife, Sridevi, when I experienced severe chest pain while walking one morning.
With the help of my friend, Gopu Subrahmanyam, I was admitted to a hospital in Vijayawada. The doctors said I had four blocks in my heart and needed an open-heart surgery.
At that time, my wife, daughter, son, and Vijaya Babu were constantly in touch with the doctors. Vijaya Babu ensured I received the best care by:
1. Shifting me to a better hospital.
2. Finding a skilled surgeon.
3. Directly communicating with the hospital staff.
Through all these efforts, he played a vital role in helping me recover safely from that crisis.
During the course of my recovery, to keep myself engaged and to overcome my depression, I sang to myself old Telugu cinema songs even in the ICU, as in Antyakshari. Later, when I regained my stamina, I started work with my YouTube channel, Channel 5am, which gained popularity.
I also remembered the day I escaped from the "Jala Gandam" in Munneru (also known as Muneru). Despite everything, we returned home as if nothing had happened. We didn't tell anyone in the house, and I think they still don't know about it.
In our rural Telugu areas, we have "Chelamalu" - small pits dug in the river sand near the river or natural water streams like "Eru" to find water during dry seasons. People dig these pits, hoping to find water springs. Sometimes they succeed, sometimes they don't.
In our village, near the “Eeti voddu,” you can see pits dug for "Chelamalu." People draw water from these pits into "Kadavalu" (vessels) and carry it away. They don't refill the pits with sand. Later, during the rainy season, when the river swells, these pits become invisible.
The reason I faced the "Jala Gandam" ordeal was also due to one such pit.
During the 70s, one year saw heavy rainfall. Rivers, rivulets and streams swelled and overflowed. Munneru, which flows close to Nandigama, too had strong currents during the rainy season. Once, due to torrential rains, the river surged on the Nandigama-Vijayawada highway, near Ambaru Peta village and floodwaters washed away the road.
Our gang decided to cycle to the site without telling our families, knowing they'd worry. We found the road severely damaged by floodwaters. One of our friends, Vishnu, brought his Click Third camera (see footnote 12) and attached it to his cycle handle. He took a few photos. Taking those photos of the flood made us feel like we'd accomplished something significant.
We saw a car submerged in floodwaters beside the road and a tractor stuck in the middle of the road, surrounded by water. The terrified passengers in the tractor shouted for help, but my friends and I could only watch helplessly. Rescue teams eventually arrived and saved them, but the car and its occupants were swept away. We cried uncontrollably. Even now, recalling that scene after many years brings tears to my eyes.
Later, the photo taken by my friend remained safely with me for a long time. Back then, I didn't think that such incidents would inspire me to become a journalist. Our news editor used to say, "An article isn't complete without a photo," when I worked on the editorial desk at Andhra Prabha.(a Telugu daily)
I'd like to share another aspect. My stint as a journalist was also influenced by the sea and its fishermen. The fishermen's villages, their way of life, and traditional catamarans awakened the journalist within me.
You might wonder what connects journalism to these experiences. Allow me to explain in the next chapter.
“Bavilo kappa:”
My childhood was like a 'frog in a well' (Bavilo kappa), having never seen the world outside my village. I thought the overflowing stream (Vaagu) during floods in our village, was the ocean. It wasn't until I saw the sea in Madras (Chennai) much later in life that I realized what a real sea looked like.
Born in Adavi Ravulapadu and growing up in Nandigama, I was familiar with only small rivers and streams ('Eru' and 'Vaagu'). But when I saw the sea for the first time, I was astonished. My eyes widened, and a sound of wonder 'Ammo!' - slipped out of my mouth.
I recalled a similar experience from my childhood when I saw the stream overflow in our village. Since then, I've frequently seen the ocean. In fact, it's more like the ocean has seen me often!
During my time in Bombay (Mumbai), our hostel was close to the sea. I'd often visit the beach and sit there, feeling like the Arabian sea had become a friend.
“Vaagochche Varadocche:”
During summer vacations, I visited my village and witnessed the overflowing of the Vaagu (stream). Though it was summer, occasional storms would bring heavy rains in April and May, causing the streams to swell. Our village was adjacent to the stream, which was usually harmless. But when it rained heavily, the stream would flood, cutting off connections between our village and the nearby town.
I recall two instances when this happened during my visits. In those days travelling between villages during rainy season was challenging, especially with streams and rivers in between. When the vagu flooded, movement between villages would come to a standstill as there were no bridges.
As a child, I'd accompany friends to witness the flooded stream, and we'd exclaim, 'Ammo!' (wow!) in awe. The waters would reach the village, and some houses would be submerged. Fear of floods would spread, especially at midnight, with worries that the waters might enter our homes.
Sleepless nights were common, and another concern was the lack of comfort. Usually, people would sleep outdoors until the rainy season, but during floods, we'd huddle indoors, fearful that the waters might enter our homes at any moment. We'd light dull traditional lamps (Guddi Deepalu) and spend anxious nights.
As dawn broke, we'd breathe a sigh of relief, thinking, “We made it through the night!”
"Tuvvaayi, Tuvvaayi" :
The stormy rain was battering our village, and nobody dared venture out. Even the cows and oxen in the shelter were shivering with fear, their eyes wide with anxiety. We had around eleven cows, two pairs of oxen, and some young calves. The shelter was spacious, but not enough for all the animals to lie down comfortably. So, they tied some of them outside using short dryer stems fixed in the soil.
One day a cow gave birth to a calf. Oh, what a delightful creature it was! The little one was jumping and moving around energetically. I would play with it, and it would cavort around me. It wouldn't let me catch, but it would come close to me nonetheless. The calf became my good friend, and I cherished playing with it.
On that stormy day, with heavy rain pouring down, my friend Tuvvaayi was shivering with cold and dampness in the shelter. It seemed to look at me pleadingly, and my heart went out to it.
I planned to move Tuvvaayi to a safer place. Though I didn't know the term "safe zone" back then, I wanted to protect it from the wind and rain. I first shared my idea with Bamma (grandmother), who smiled and suggested I tell Amma (mother). Amma asked me to inform Jeetagadu, who gently dismissed my plan, saying, "No, Abbayai Garu " (young master). This upset me, and I thought, "He's heartless and has no compassion for my friend Tuvvaayi.
Determined to rescue it, I decided to move it to the house, near my cot, for the night. Come evening, around 7, I entered the shed. The cows, calves, and my dear calf were all drenched and shivering. The open shed, though covered, was muddy and cold. As I stepped in, Tuvvaayi cried out softly, "Amba" (a low, pitiful sound), as if pleading for my help. I felt a surge of pity and affection.
I carefully untied it and led it to the house, up the steps, and into a room. It trusted me, following me faithfully. I tied it to one leg of my traditional cot and sighed in relief, "Ah, finally!" The satisfaction I felt then still lingers. I felt victorious, having saved my friend. Overjoyed, I lay down, and my eyes began to close. Occasionally, I'd feel Tuvvaayi nuzzling my leg.
I soon drifted off to sleep, only to wake up and find it missing from bedside. I woke up with a start, feeling quite frustrated, and got down from the bed, looking around. Later, I realized that while I was asleep, the servant had come and opened the door, letting Tuvvaayi into the courtyard. 'Why did he do that? He shouldn't have left the Tuvvaayi and separated me from it,' I thought. 'I'll grow up and become strong, and then I'll teach him a lesson.' With that thought, I wished for my hands to become stronger and prayed to God.
I complained to my mother about the servant, but she wouldn't take it seriously. She gently stroked my head with affection. My anger subsided, and I hugged my mother lovingly.
Just then, I saw Tuvvaayi drinking milk from its mother in the courtyard.
The mother cow also looked at its calf lovingly. At that young age, I didn't understand why the servant had left it, but I knew that Tuvvaayilu are small calves and should stay with their mothers. It's the safest place for them. I realized this later.
I love the old Telugu song:
"Changu changuna genthulu veyandi... O Jaati vanna bujjaayillara... Noru leyni tuvvaayillara..." I love this song from an old Telugu movie, “Namminabantu.” The word "tuvvaayi" itself is so dear to me that even now, I affectionately call my daughter "tuvvaayi".
Floods and Weddings:
In those days, there were no bridges to cross rivers, streams, and canals in many places. There were no boatsmen to ferry people across, and even if there were, the journey was precarious.
This difficulty in traveling led to the tradition of arranging marriages within the local limits. It was considered better to have a known family relationship rather than an unknown one from a far-off place. In those days, marriages between close relatives were common. Many families lived in the same village, and from a young age, they would interact and bond with each other. This led to affectionate relationships between cousins (Baavaa- Maradallu), which often resulted in marriages.
People believed that marrying someone from a known family was better, as they could observe the couple's behaviour and compatibility. They thought that marrying someone from a distant place would lead to problems. "Dūram" referred to a place that was far enough to require crossing rivers, streams, or canals. People preferred not to have relationships with families from the other side of the river or stream.
When floods came, communication between villages would be cut off, and it would take weeks for postal services to resume. Even then, letters might not reach their destination for a week or more.
Once, a wedding was fixed between a boy from Guntur district and a girl from Krishna district. The Krishna River flowed between the two districts. In those days, until the wedding was completed and the bride safely reached her husband's house, the bride's family would be anxious. I personally witnessed this anxiety. From the day the wedding was fixed, they would pray to God to prevent floods. News of wedding processions getting stranded in floodwaters was common in those days.
Things changed gradually with the construction of dams and bridges. Marriages between distant families became common, eventually leading to inter-state marriages.
“Panditlo pellavutunnadi:”
I still remember a wedding celebration I attended when I was young. It was a wedding organized by my father in our village. A close relative had asked for his help in arranging his daughter's wedding, and my father had taken up the responsibility.
The wedding was held during the summer season. A large pandal made of palm leaves, called a "chaluvaa pandiri," was set up in the open area in front of our house. A large bundle of dried palm leaves was brought in for this purpose. The leaves were spread out in the open area and water was sprinkled on them. Meanwhile, long sticks called "gunjalu" were used to construct the pandal. Yes, the palm leaf pandal was ready.
A peculiar fragrance emanated from the palm leaves, and we all experienced a new sensation. We gathered around our mother, asking her to make dolls out of the palm leaves.
Mother made dolls of the wedding couple using palm leaves and gave one each to me and my sister. This wedding took place at a time when our house had just received electricity. However, the lighting was dim, with only one or two ordinary light bulbs. At night, we had a zero-watt candle bed light. Our grandmother would scold us, saying, "Turn off the extra lights, or the electricity bill will increase!" Despite this, the palm leaf pandal was illuminated with tube lights, which was a rare sight back then.
It felt like I had entered a new world. I was filled with wonder. Almost every long stick had a tube light attached to it. Some lights had red, some had yellow, and some had green transparent paper wrapped around them. With this, the tube lights shone in various colours, and our little gang lost control, excitedly running around. We played games, running around the long sticks, until bedtime.
The day before the wedding, mango leaf toranas (archway made of mango leaves) were hung all over the pandal. A big, wide table was set up on one side. It was on this table that the wedding couple would sit and get married, I had learned. "When you grow up, you'll have a wedding just like this, won't you?" a friend teased me, and I felt like a hero. But I had no idea who my heroine would be. I was determined that my wedding would take place on a table, just like the one I had seen. But that didn't happen. My wedding took place at the Sri Venkateswara Function Hall near Brindavan Gardens in Guntur's Krishna Nagar. Let's get back to the wedding celebrations in our village...
Unbearable Sorrow:
As soon as the wedding was over, the farewell ceremony (Appaginthalu) began. My sister was leaving for her in-laws' home. The sound of sobbing filled the air, and the men were trying to console the women. Watching this, I too was overcome with grief, and tears began to flow. But the sorrow that followed two days later was even more unbearable.
Before my very eyes, a terrible scene unfolded. The thatch and wooden poles of the pandal were being dismantled. The tube lights that had brought me immense joy and were my favourites were now being ruthlessly removed, and with them, the light in my face faded away. Before my eyes, the thatch, poles, and ropes were all being loaded onto the bullock cart. The vibrant atmosphere, once full of life, was now empty and desolate. Overwhelming sorrow filled me.
My mother on one side and my grandmother on the other, one massaging my head and the other my back, tried to soothe me. With their gentle touch, my distress began to ease.
The Sun Behind the Clouds:
When dark clouds gathered in the sky, my grandmother would instruct the servant to bring in any items that might get wet in the rain, into the house. She'd frequently check if the sun was visible, and I thought it was just a habit. But I soon realized that she wouldn't eat until she saw the sun. Even in the afternoon, she'd keep looking out for the sun, and we'd feel sorry for her. To tease her, we'd point to the sky and say, "Look, Grandma, the sun is there!" She'd eagerly look in that direction, hoping to see it.
Only after spotting the sun, would she eat her meal. She'd say, "The Sun God provides us with food and water." I found this puzzling, wondering how the sun cooked our food or fetched water from the well. Later, I understood that her words held wisdom and insight, reflecting the knowledge and beliefs of her generation.
*Paatharalu - Village Treasures: (Underground Grain Storage)
In our village, Adavi Ravulapadu, we had two paatharalu (underground grain storage structures) in the front yard of our house. These were used to store grains like jowar and red gram. When the harvest was good, grains would be stored in them for year-round use, rather than just in jute bags at home.
Building a paathara was a complex process that required engineering skills. A circular pit, about 10-15 feet deep, would be dug in the ground. The inner walls would be lined with rice straw ropes in two or three layers to prevent moisture. Then, grains would be stored inside, and remarkably, they wouldn't spoil. After storing the grain, the paathra’s top is plastered with mud. This was the special feature of paatharalu.
Our region didn't produce much rice, and most of the area was dry. Before commercial crops became popular, farmers preferred traditional crops. Filling the paatharalu with grains was a grand affair, like a “Yajñam ”. Bullock carts would bring grain bags directly from the fields, and labourers would skilfully unload and pour the grains into them.
One or two people would go inside the paathara to ensure the grains were stored properly. We would also store green gram in a similar way. Watching the grains being poured into them was a delight for kids like me. I would d want to jump in and help, but my grandmother would warn me to stay away.
Filling and emptying the paatharalu created a festive atmosphere. When it was being emptied, people from the village, including labourers and shopkeepers, would gather at our house. In those days, payments were often made in kind rather than cash. My mother would say that a house with paatharalu is a symbol of wealth and prosperity.
The paatharalu would be opened only during summer. If unexpected rains came, everyone would be anxious. To prevent damage, large jute blankets would be used to cover the grains. The chaos would be intense, but they'd resume work once the rain stopped. My grandmother would caution the servant to be prepared for unexpected rains. She called the particular type of rain "musuru," which would last for a few days.
“Tadisina Batukulu:”
During the musuru rains, it was difficult for us to play outside due to the muddy terrain. Our tiled roofs would leak, and we'd have to quickly take care of things that might get ruined in the rain. Wet firewood would make cooking and bathing a challenge. Even setting up beds for the night would be troublesome, as rainwater would seep in. These difficulties were common in almost every village back then.
Recalling those days, I realize that our struggles were nothing compared to the hardships faced by fishermen who lived on the water, constantly dealing with the uncertainties of rain and floods. This realization later inspired me to write an article in a prominent newspaper.
The mention of rain and floods brings back memories of the olden days, including the use of Click Third cameras, which might seem unbelievable to today's kids who are familiar with digital photography.
“The Click Third Camera:”
In the 1960s-70s, the click third camera was all the rage. My close friend Vishnu had one of these cameras, and he loved taking photos. He would explain the intricacies of loading film into the camera, emphasizing the need to do it carefully to avoid wasting film. If sunlight hit the film, it would be exposed, and the money would be wasted. I wasn't interested in technology, so his explanations went over my head. However, I would ask him to take photos of things I liked, and he would happily oblige.
He took photos of me when the Nandigama “munneru” overflowed.
Now, I'll shift my focus to traditional catamarans, which have stories to tell. Would you like to hear them?
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