Chapter 9: “Ee padavakentha diguloo…”
“The Boat’s Unspoken Sadness:”
It was night time, but I couldn't tell the exact hour. I didn't even have a watch on my wrist. The unfamiliar surroundings made it hard for me to sleep. The sea breeze was strong, and the sound of the waves was deafening. I wondered why I had come here and why I hadn't left before dark.
The fierce wind made my body feel like it was soaked in saltwater, even though I wasn't sweating. The smell of fish was overpowering, a scent I wasn't used to. I looked up at the roof of the hut, which was thatched with palm leaves.
The hut had only one entrance, with no doors or locks. A tattered saree hung as a makeshift curtain, flapping wildly in the strong wind. Whenever it lifted, I could see the sky outside, clear, and serene. The moon, played hide-and-seek among the wispy clouds.
It was a fishing village near Visakhapatnam, a direct witness to the struggles of the Gangaputrulu (fishermen). It was the early 1980s. After completing my PG in Botany from Bombay University, I returned to Nandigama and started exploring research opportunities at Andhra University. During this time, I received an invitation to join a research project, which led me to Visakhapatnam.
As part of the project, I had to spend some time in the fishing village, interacting with the Gangaputrulu. Their struggles touched my heart. There were many such villages along the Visakhapatnam coast, with intriguing names. My friend and I would often visit one of these villages, which became a habit, partly because our research work was connected to these villages.
As a researcher in science, I was moved by the struggles of the fishermen. My friend, who accompanied me twice, had a camera - a simple click third camera. I would persuade him to bring it along, and we'd try to capture the lives of the fishermen. However, this time, my friend wasn't with me.
I had visited the village twice before, so the locals started talking to me warmly, sharing their joys and sorrows. Despite catching plenty of fish, they struggled to make ends meet. Their dialect was hard to understand, but I listened attentively. It took me a few days to grasp the depth of their struggles.
I realized that the root cause of their problems owed to aquatic creatures and plants. Our project aimed to find the scientific reasons behind the decline in the fishermen's livelihoods. We were supposed to collect samples from the damaged boats and study them under a microscope. However, I found myself more drawn to understanding the villagers' struggles, customs, and lives.
In the evenings, I would visit the seashore, meet the fishermen, and learn about their lives. That is what happened this time too. I got engrossed in conversations with the fishermen and lost track of time. It was getting dark, and I was hungry.
They seemed to sense my hunger and offered me buttermilk mixed with raw onions, chilies, and rice. They didn't offer fish curry, knowing I was a vegetarian from a Brahmin family, and they were respectful of my dietary preferences. The buttermilk and rice helped alleviate my hunger, and I realized that hunger knows no caste or religion.
As I ate, some village children gathered around me, watching with curiosity. One boy was wearing a garland of fish, which made me feel uneasy. Thankfully, an elderly man scolded the boy and sent him away. I felt relieved.
I was conscious of being the only one wearing pants and a shirt among the villagers, who mostly wore loincloths. I felt embarrassed and tried to leave several times, but the villagers' warmth and affection kept me there. It was then that I understood the power of humanity and love over caste, religion, and social status.
From that day on, I've made it a habit to accept food without hesitation when offered with love and respect. I didn't know the terms "equality" and "equal treatment" back then, but the experience taught me their meaning. A song from the movie "Karna" came to mind: "Galiki kulamedee ? ” (Does the wind have any caste?)
Dosa varugu:
“Oreyy, thota chenlo dosakāyalu viraga kāchāyatagā, rēpu baṇḍilo vēsuku rāra” – said Bamma.
Next day, the jeetagādu used to bring a basket full of dosakāyas. Some were kept at home, and the rest Bamma would share with relatives and friends in the village.
In those days, fresh vegetables were not available in summer. At that time, dosa varugu and vanga varugu (Brinjal/ Eggplant ) were very useful. In our house, bunches of dosakāya varugulu used to hang from the roof.
When dosakāyas were fully ripened, many of them were cut neatly into round spring like coils and hung on daṇḍēlu (daṇḍēmu is the long wooden stick hanging from the rooftop used for drying clothes or for other domestic needs). Once hung like that, they would get dried up in the breeze, becoming crisp.
Whenever fresh vegetables were not there, immediately these dried dosakāya varugulu were taken from dandemu and curry was prepared with them. Similarly, vanga varugulu were also kept ready. Even now, in some places, these varugulu are available and still some people eat them fondly.
“Choppa Gūdu”
Now, for sitting in a shade in the field – if no trees were there on the field bunds, then the workers used to build a neat choppa gūdu. They would arrange jonna choppa kattalu (sorghum stalk bundles) skilfully and make a hut. It used to look very funny and nice, in the shape of a conch (śankhākāram).
“My Tholi Vyaasam” (My First Article)
Once again, let us go back to the Gangaputrulu area. By then it was fully dawn. After thanking the people who gave me hospitality, I started walking.
On the seashore, here and there, boats needing repair were seen. They looked as if pleading sadly towards me. My hands softly touched those nāṭu paḍavalu with affection. My eyes remained on the cracked boats.
At that very moment, a seed for an article sprouted in my mind. “This sorrow of boatsmen should end. The eyes of Gangaputrulu should shine with happiness. In their homes, let Diwali lights glow every day.” With this thought, I reached Research Scholars Hostel, Andhra University.
“Rātri anta ēmaipōyāv?” my friends asked me. Without answering, I opened my notebook and started writing something.
This was for Eenadu newspaper. Already by early 1980s, Eenadu had become popular. So, I sent my first article to it.
The Reply from Eenadu:
After some time, when I was in Nandigāma, the postman handed me a postcard.
In those days, it became a habit for us to gather at the tea stall near the Gandhi Centre with friends and drink tea around 11 AM. One day, as usual, when we were enjoying tea, the postman came and gave me that postcard right there.
The moment I read it, my joy knew no bounds. It was from Eenadu stating that it had accepted my article and would publish it in the Sunday issue. My friends at once started looking at me like a “Yandamūri”!(a popular Telugu writer). I was on cloud of joy and that day the entire tea bill was paid by me.
From that day, every Sunday early morning, I used to go to the centre, buy Eenadu paper, and search for my article. Weeks passed in disappointment. Then, one Sunday – finally, in the special issue, my article appeared.
In those days, Sunday special did not come in book size. It used to be in broad sheets, only black and white. My article started on the first page and continued inside. They even published photos taken by my friend. He too was thrilled.
That night, I dreamt as if I had become a big writer. Though I did not become a “great writer,” this article surely helped me get some recognition and slowly turned me into a journalist.
Boat’s Hardship – The Scientific Angle
Earlier I mentioned that the reason why nāṭu paḍavalu (traditional wooden boats) turn into a sieve within just four or five years. The problem has its roots in zoology and botany. If I narrate in full detail, it will become a big story, but let me tell you briefly.
These boats are made of wood. Daily they float in the salty seawater. As they remain in seawater continuously for years, small shell-like creatures called molluscs make the underside of the boats their home.
As the boat’s bottom wood gets softened from long soaking in seawater, these organisms begin to settle in groups, digging in and making tiny colonies. Over time, the wood becomes weaker and softer, and finally holes appear. Slowly, the entire bottom of a boat turns into a sieve, making it totally useless.
Not only animals — even fungus (śilīndram) also attacks the boats, further softening the wood. Research has confirmed this truth.
As a result, within five years of buying a wooden boat, its bottom would weaken badly, turning into a sieve. The fishermen’s financial position, already fragile, would break down further.
As this subject is linked to science, society, and economy, Eenadu gave good importance to my article. Not because I wrote something great — but because the issue itself was serious and weighty.
Whatever it may be, my article focussed on the problem and brought awareness among the public. Later, conditions of the fishermen slowly changed. Thanks to scientific research, wood preservatives came into use, giving the fishermen strength to protect their boats and use them for longer years.
Like the small help of a squirrel in the construction of Rama Setu, I too felt I had contributed in some way in easing the problems of the fishermen . Alongside, my interest in journalism increased.
So, leaving my project work half-way through, I joined Eenadu. From there, my journey as a journalist continued and finally reached Andhra Prabha.
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