Chapter 10 : Gorinta Pusindi.. (Mehendi Blossoming…)

  One day, my sister (akka) was talking very excitedly with my mother (amma). In between their conversation, words like “pindivantalu”, “gorintaaku”, “uyyaala”  were slipping out. Just hearing those words made me feel thrilled! I understood that a festival which girls celebrate with so much fun was on its way.

 

I too joined them. Amma pulled me close and lovingly stroked my head. On the other side, akka took my little hand in hers and kept staring at my tiny palms with full attention.

 

“Artham ayyindile… I’ll also put gorintaaku for thammudu,” said amma.

“Look amma, his hands are so tender… like soft rose petals!” akka admired affectionately.

As akka was saying that, amma interrupted—

“Challe sambadam… dishti tagulutundi,” she said, kissing me on the cheek.

 

Then akka brought the small vessel of freshly ground gorintaaku and gave it to amma. Amma placed a dot of it on my palm, the size of a ten-paisa coin. In those days, ten paisa had a lot of value. Around that very ten paisa, an incident comes back to my memory now.

Job under the fan:

It was the late 1960s. At that time, we were living in Brodipet, 8th Line, Guntur, in a rented house. I was studying 6th class in Majeti Guravayya High School (MGH) nearby. My akka was studying in Bandlamudi Hanumayamma High School, and my elder brother (anna) was in Hindu College.

 

As a child, I was very delicate. Not that I am a strong-built person now, but even today my palms still look soft, like rose petals.

 

My father (nannagaru) would sometimes tell his friends, “Our second boy…  “ammaayilaanti sukumaarudu le!(as delicate as a girl)” and then laugh. His laughter was rare, but when he laughed it was very beautiful. Yet, whenever I hear such comments, I get angry.

 

Once, I heard nannagaru saying to someone, “This boy cannot work in the hot sun. Some job under a fan is what he’ll end up with.” Such insults would occasionally come my way, all because of my tender body.

No use. I thought, I must gain strength. My arms should get muscles. With one strong punch, even the neem tree behind our house should fall! That was the dream.

 

But in reality, one thing came true. Just as nannagaru said, my whole service went on either under the fan or inside AC rooms. Now when I think back, I feel his words were not a curse, but actually a blessing.

 

“Panchakattu:”

 

Nannagaru was nearly six feet tall. From as far back as I can remember, I always saw him in panchakattu (a typical Telugu man’s attire). When he walked, Telugudanam itself radiated from him. Amma, round faced, always cheerful was very charismatic—That panchakattu of nannagaru left such a deep impression on my heart, so much so, that even today, whenever Ugadi comes, I feel like donning a panchakattu myself.

 

Panchakattu influence

Among the people I saw in panchakattu, other than nannagaru, there were famous personalities like Akkineni Nageswara Rao (actor), whom I saw when he presented me the UNICEF Award, Dr. C. Narayana Reddy (Professor of Telugu, poet, and film lyricist) (whom I once interviewed in Hyderabad), and my Telugu teacher in Nandigama High School, Vidwan Shree Garikapati Venkateswara Rao. Then there was my father-in-law (mamagaru), Mannava Giridhara Rao garu, who was an MLC (a member of the Andhra Pradesh State Legislative Council) for one term(six years). About him, I’ll share a few anecdotes later.

 

Maybe there were more people too, but now I can’t recall immediately. All of them left an influence on me. That’s why, once in a while, the Telugu person (Telugodu)  in me also comes out in panchakattu and quenches his desire. That’s all about it.

 

Now let me tell about amma…

 

Amma – Kanaka Durgamma

 

When nannagaru was working as the Executive Officer(E.O.) of Vijayawada Kanaka Durgamma Temple, we were given a portion of the quarters right there on the hilltop (Indrakeeladri). As I remember, there were three or four portions in a row: one for the E.O., another for the chief priest, one for the head clerk, and so on. It was arranged so that the temple staff could stay on the hill itself without getting tired climbing up daily, and discharge duties properly.

 

Those were the early 1960s. In those days, to see Bejawada Durgamma, you had to climb the steps. The ghat road proposal apparently came only when my father was the E.O. The house where we stayed probably doesn’t exist now. From Durgamma temple, when you go down the steps towards Mallikarjuna Swamy (Lord Shiva) temple and climb back up, to the left side midway there used to be these houses.

 

At that time, I hadn’t joined school yet. Though I was five years old I was physically weak, so climbing up and down the hill daily wasn’t possible, they didn’t put me in school. So I became close friends with the children of priests and temple staff.

 

We would climb on the  elephant images placed there, and circle around the idols of Sri Krishna and the Gopikas as in Brindavan. And then, running up the steps, we would enter the temple itself and touch Durgamma with our own hands, feeling thrilled! We would roam around as if the whole temple belonged to us!

 

After seeing Durgamma like that, when I returned home and looked at amma, she too looked like the Goddess herself. Both had round faces, a big vermillion on the forehead (kumkuma bottu), and the same pleasant smile. At that tender age, I felt amma was there and here as well. So you can say, I received the blessings of two mothers. Even today, the fact that I can write like this is only because of the grace of those two Ammalu (mothers).

 

Nannagaru – Respect mixed with fear:

 

Though my father (nannagaru) influenced me deeply in many aspects of life, I always had a fear of him. I hardly ever expressed my own opinions or decisions in front of him. Whenever we children wanted something, we would never dare ask him directly. Instead, we would go to amma or baamma (father’s mother). They in turn would slowly, carefully convey the matter to nannagaru.

 

We kids would stand in the next room, hiding behind the doorframe, watching in great tension. Funny thing is, nannagaru would listen quietly to amma’s words, but he never gave his decision immediately. He was a big officer after all, with temple staff, priests, clerks, and many others constantly coming home and interacting with him. In between all those discussions and important matters, whether our small requests reached him or not was always a big question mark!

 

But then, strangely, our demands were always fulfilled! And because of that, we never really had any shortage of anything.

 

The Jāmachettu and Two Monkeys:

 

In those days, I had a great liking for sweets. Honestly, who doesn’t? Next to our house lived my friend Mahadevan. I never bothered about where he came from or why his name was Mahadevan — in his house everyone spoke Telugu fluently. He and I studied together in the same school for two years.

 

Between our houses there was a compound wall. From their side, a big guava tree (jāmachettu)  leaned over into our yard. With its branches, I would climb onto the wall and call out to him. He too would immediately rush out and climb up the tree, joining me on the wall. There, sitting together, we would eat guavas and talk endlessly.

At first, squirrels would run away on seeing us. But within two or three days, they became friendly. Not only would they come close, they sometimes even snatched the ripe guavas straight from our hands. And we never got angry — instead, affection grew. Their eyes would meet ours, and we felt connected. If we didn’t show up for a few days, his mother would say, “Poor things, even the squirrels feel sad.”

 

Of course, that happened only when exams were near, and the elders insisted, “Enough of playing, go study.” That was our “busy” schedule! And just like me, Mahadevan was also a delicate boy, even fairer than me. Now I don’t know where he is, but the memories of the chatter and laughter on the jāmachettu wall remain sweet even today.

 

Sometimes my anna or akka, seeing us, would tease amma: “Look, two monkeys on the tree!” But amma never scolded us, nor did his mother. Ammalu are like that after all.

 

The Mithāi Bandi:

Both my friend and I loved sweets (mithāilu). Every evening, a mithāi bandi (mobile sweet cart) would come into the street, ringing a bell tied to a rope. The moment it rang from the other end of the street, we would know it had arrived.

 

Mahadevan’s parents were kind people. They gave him ten paisa daily to buy sweets. He would confidently go to the bandi, pick his favourite mithai, and I would stand there with tears in my eyes. One day, akka saw me crying and told amma, who in turn mentioned it to nannagaru. But even after a week, no ten paisa landed in my hand.

Ten Paisa in my Palm:

Just then, my birthday was nearing. In those days, birthdays weren’t like now — no cakes, balloons, function halls, or gifts. If money permitted, new clothes would be bought; otherwise, freshly ironed clothes were given. In our house, ironing meant chembu istri — a brass ewer half filled with hot coal. Only rarely were clothes given outside for pressing.

 

On birthdays, amma would bathe me thoroughly, dress me, and give me a sweet bite — sugar or jaggery from the tin. Then she would take me to pray. And later she would buy sweets from the mithāi bandi — mostly Mysore pak, halwa, or laddu. That was our birthday celebration, simple but precious.

 

Still, the question lingered: would my daily ten paisa demand be met? The bandi came, Mahadevan stood proudly with his ten paisa coin… and then a small miracle happened. Akka came running from inside, held my hand, placed a ten paisa coin in my palm, and rushed me to the bandi.

I was overjoyed! Mahadevan was watching me as I bought halwa — my favourite mithai. Beaming with pride, I held akka’s hand, swinging happily, throwing triumphant glances at Mahadevan as we returned home.

Later, I came to know that Nannagaru had sanctioned ten paisa every day for my little mithai. That’s how fathers are — stern on the outside, yet carrying a wealth of hidden affection within, like savings tucked away in a bank, meant to be opened only at the right moment.

 

 

“Atlataddi:”

That day, with akka putting ten paisa in my palm, my affection for her doubled. From then on, whatever akka said, I followed — no questions asked. And that brings me back to atlataddi.

On that day, akka had said she wanted to put gorintaaku on my palms, and amma too agreed. But truth be told, I found gorintaaku quite irritating — all the restrictions that came with it: no climbing trees, no marbles, no touching anyone, no even holding your own hands together! Too many rules. So as I grew older, I stopped bothering about it.

 

For girls, though, it was an art — full palm designs with a big central dot representing the sun, surrounded by smaller dots representing planets. They said it protected from the evil eye (dishti) and brought lifelong happiness. I even read later that it was connected to health benefits.

 

But for us boys, just one dot in the palm was enough. Maybe because the gorinta leaves weren’t sufficient, or may be society thought boys didn’t need more. Whatever the reason, even today when my wife applies gorintaaku and teasingly asks, “Should I put one dot for you too?” I escape! Yet, these old memories always come flooding.

 

Atlataddi: Gorumuḍḍalu and Uyyaala

For young unmarried girls, two main aspects of the festival were gorintaaku and gorumuḍḍalu. On atlataddi morning, amma and akka would wake early. Amma made pan cakes (attlu /dosas), served them to akka, and ate as well. For us kids, she would mix hot rice with gongura pachadi and make gorumuḍḍalu , before the sun rise. Even today, I can’t forget that taste.

 

In our village, near the house, there was a huge tamarind tree. For atlataddi, swings were tied to its branches. Thick ropes were fastened, a strong wooden plank was fixed, and all the village girls would come and swing. Even small swings (uyyaalalu) were arranged for children like me.

 

The joy of swinging on those uyyaala was beyond words. Girls in colourful dresses on swings, while young boys watched in excitement. The whole place buzzed with laughter, teasing, and competitions. Even elderly women joined in the fun.

 

Baamma always warned: “Be careful, tamarind tree swings are dangerous!” And true, the swings went so high, our hearts almost dropped. To push or balance a swing required skill, and sometimes accidents did happen. Amma often recalled such incidents.

 

Life itself is a Swing:

Actually, swing is a symbol of life. I realized this during my Andhra Prabha days. Once, before atlataddi, a photographer brought a picture of two girls standing on a swing tied to a big tree. I had to give it a caption.

I wrote: “Life itself is a swing.” Just like swings go up and down, so does life. The play of happiness and sorrow, rise and fall, speed and stillness… until one day it stops. That is the philosophy of the swing, and perhaps the very purpose of atlataddi — to prepare young girls for life’s ups and downs.

 

That caption - “Jeevitamee  Oka Uyyaala” - got appreciated by colleagues, and such small recognitions always boosted my spirits. Working at Andhra Prabha Vijayawada office gave me countless such joys… and, of course, a few sorrows too.

Footnote – Atlataddi

Atlataddi falls on Ashwayuja Bahula Tadiya, mainly celebrated by girls and women. It’s also called Uyyaala Panduga or Gorintaaku Panduga. Unmarried girls pray for a good husband, married women for their saubhagyam. There’s even a saying: “Atlatadde aratlu, muddapappu, moodatlu…” Songs, games, swings — the whole day belongs to girls. Some even connect atlu to planet Kuja (Mars), saying he loves them, hence the ritual. Over time, while writing festival articles, I came to appreciate the deeper logic and science behind such traditions.

 

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