Chapter 11 : Belt Master
Second Panipat War… huh! First Panipat War itself never entered my brain. Now this second one? Hatha vidhii!(Oh! My fate) The moment I opened the Social Studies book, there would be only wars, killings, happenings of those long-ago years and dates, and strange names I had never even heard of. On top of it, all those numbers before kings’ names — first king, second king, third king — like bogies attached to a train! Oh, just opening the book was enough to make me sleepy!
But what to do? Exams and marks are like two Grahaalu(planets) that keep pressing down on you. You can’t escape. In this marks Yagnam, we students had to serve as the Samidhalu (sacred sacrificial wood) for the fire. Not just history, all of Social Studies was like that — a big rock to carry. That was my feeling during high school days.
A friend used to console me: “Oreyy, once we cross this 10th class hurdle, Social Studies and Hindi troubles will go away.”
There were three subjects I never liked. First one was SocialStudies, then Maths, and the third was Hindi.
The troubles with Maths
If Social Studies was like that, Maths was even worse. Especially Arithmetic was a pure bore. Algebra meant only tension.
Nandigama Zilla Parishad High School, which was established on 9th June 1913 by Sri Turlapati Veerabhadra Rao (one of our ancestors), Sri Ayyadevara Rama Narasimham and others, was the school where I studied till my 10th standard.
In the 10th class, we had two masters for Mathematics. For Algebra, there was one Bhupathi Rao Master. Hearing his name itself gave us fear. The moment he entered our class, he would pull out the belt tied to his pants, shouting “Oreyy…!” like a hungry lion pouncing on calves. For us skinny fellows, his arrival itself was enough to shake our hearts.
He would not waste time. “Oreyy, nuvvu le!” Some poor fellow would get up.
“You fellow, what’s the value of A plus B whole square?” The boy would gulp, unable to answer. Whack! The belt would land on him before he even blinked. Tears would flood his eyes.
Short fellows sat in the first rows, tall ones at the back. Unluckily, I was a short boy. So, I always sat in the first two rows. And these masters’ eyes always fell on us first-benchers. That’s why our hearts would thump the moment such a master entered.
We, the first-benchers, lived under hi a quiet mix of fear and reverence. We knew the questions would reach us before anyone else, and so many of us studied tomorrow’s lesson a day in advance. That small act of foresight became our shield—when the master’s gaze fell on us, the answers were already waiting on our lips.
Later I realised, it was this “fearful devotion” that gave first-benchers the reputation of being good students.
Teachers were of many kinds. Some were “Chalk-piece teachers” (who threw chalk when angry), some “Duster teachers”, some “Note-book teachers”, some “Stick teachers”,and yes, the unforgettable “Belt teachers.” Of course, there were a few who were like Shantamurthulu, calm and patient. But there were also some chitapata Eswarraos and chitapataEswaries — always restless and fiery.
So, all this narration is just to tell you — Bhupathi Rao was a true Belt Master.
Belt fear
When he entered with belt in hand, it was like Yama-pasham(whip) swinging. My heart would jump.
“Oreyy Bhushanam, le!” he shouted once. Somehow, I stood up.
“Tell me the, A plus B whole square formula,” he roared.
That roar almost snatched away my breath. Still, I gathered courage. Not from my heart, but from my brain — because I had learnt by rote that formula, practicing it many times at home.
The Master looked at my trembling body and calmed a bit. The belt went back. He even gave a villain-style smile. That was enough. My brain switched on, and my tongue moved. I said the formula. Master heard it, seemed satisfied, but then immediately shot another arrow:
“Ok, now say A plus B plus C whole cube formula.” His belt again rose in the air.
This time, my brain froze. Sweat poured. Just when I thought I would collapse, his raised hand paused. “Uh… if I hit, you’ll die. Sit down,” he said.
Even after sitting, my heart kept racing. But I promised myself — next time, I will not stumble. I went home, practiced that formula 20–30 times, until it got stamped into my brain.
Next day, Master came again, belt ready. “Yesterday’s formula … by now did it stick?” he asked. He never expected this shivering fellow would rattle it out. But I did. From then, he stopped troubling me much.
It wasn’t that the belt had stopped frightening me; rather, the old, paralyzing terror had loosened its hold. Freed from that fear, I began to understand Algebra—and that understanding carried me safely across the tenth-class hurdle.
Arithmetic confusion:
Arithmetic never made sense to me. Those “Train sums” — one train, its length and speed, a signal pole on the track… how much time it takes to pass the pole. All that was total confusion.
Or goat problems — a goat tied in a meadow, how much grass can it eat… such sums I can never forget. Even today, if I travel by train and see electric poles pass by, immediately those sums flash in my mind. If I see cows tied in a meadow, I remember those “goat sums.” Life-long memories, though never useful!
Teachers’ impact:
Some teachers inspire you for life. Some make you lose interest in the subject. Even those who scold and hit, but teach with love, remain unforgettable.
Because of Belt Master, I not only gained confidence in Algebra but also passed Maths in 10th Public examination. Maths had two papers — first 50 marks Arithmetic andsecond 50 marks Algebra. I ruined the first paper completely. Want to know how?
Colour pencils in Maths exam
Yes — in the 10th public exam, I carried a box of colour pencils. My friends asked, “Evenduku ra?”(Why these?) I didn’t answer.
My secret plan: if I can’t solve sums, I’ll at least draw neat diagrams and colour them. Maybe the examiner will have some pity and award some marks.
In the paper, a train problem came. I drew a full train, wrote its length, drew an electric pole, then added meadows, hills, everything. A complete scenery! I coloured the train, the fields, the hills. The invigilator came, looked shocked. I was proud of my artwork.
He muttered to someone, “Look, that boy in second bench is sure to fail in Maths.” But God didn’t listen to him. I passed in my very first attempt.
How? That night, my anna, who had done B.Sc. with MMP (Double Maths and Physics), sat with me. He explained key Algebra sums, corrected my mistakes, and told me likely questions. Next day, I wrote with full speed. Invigilator looked stunned seeing me ask for additional answer sheets!
Finally, the marks from second paper pulled me through. I silently thanked both Belt Master and my Anna.
From Belt Master, I learnt a truth: with hard work, even the toughest task becomes simple.
That lesson stayed with me. It helped me during drama rehearsals, teaching me to deliver dialogues with prison, and later in writing essays with perfection. Even in my journalism career, such people hardened me in the right way and laid a solid foundation.
Another surprise:
Just as Maths pushed me into drama, Social Studies broughtout the playwright in me.
During 9th class, with exams near, family imposed “Section 144” at home — no marbles, no cricket, no transistor radio, no cinema magazines, no friends. Still, my friend Radhakrishna (Radha) would sneak in. He was very innocent, followed me everywhere. If I told him “Bring marbles from the attic,” he would run and fetch. He was like my shadow.
That day too, though family banned games, I wanted marbles secretly. So, I made Radha get them quietly. He went into the house like a cat, climbed the attic, and brought back the marble box, his face glowing with victory. Yes, it was not a small achievement in those strict exam days!
My face too swelled with a kind of victorious pride. Just think — the very marbles which elders had hidden away, saying, “these marbles will spoil the children’s studies,” I managed to bring back cleverly with my strategy! Looking at my own planning, I had to pat myself on the back. So, I tapped my right palm on my left shoulder and praised myself: “Shahbaash raa!”(praised myself)
Radha looked at me in surprise. After a while, hearing the clicking sound of marbles from the side room near the verandah, my Akka slowly came and opened the door. What she saw there left her shocked. And why not? Actually, we were “studying” while playing with marbles. You may ask — how is it possible to do both at the same time?
Well, as I read aloud the lesson about the Second Panipat War from the Social Studies book, every four–five lines, we created a scene with marbles based on the summary. Every war has two sides. In history too, it’s usually between two kings.
So, dividing the marbles by colours was Radha’s job. He did it perfectly. Blue marbles became Akbar’s army, with the biggest blue marble as Akbar himself. On the other side was Hemu Chandra Vikramaditya. Red marbles, yellow marbles, and the other coloured ones all stood for his army. And the biggest red marble was Hemu himself.
Radha was restless: “Orey, shall we start the war?” He asked this already four–five times.
I stopped him: “Aagaagu (wait) let me read two more paragraphs first. Then, it’s war.”
When I finally read the line that Hemu Chandra Vikramaditya was killed by Akbar, I shouted, “Start the war!”
That shout must have alerted the whole house. One by one, family members gathered near the doorway.
Radha started striking red marbles with blue ones, while I was knocking down the red army with the blue side. We had each taken one camp. Emotions were running high. The battle was intense. Some marbles even cracked and broke!
Then Akka intervened. “Challe, enough! Stop your games. If father sees, he’ll scold you.”
I protested: “Games kaave Akka,(they are not games) this is study!”
“Yes Akka, study only!” Radha joined me in chorus.
By then, Amma and Baamma too had come and scattered the whole war scene. Akka mercilessly pushed all the marbles back into the box, carried them inside, and disappeared.
Baamma asked, “Eme, are these boys studying… or playing?” Amma had no answer.
Truth is, even I could not answer that question — not for a long time. Mischievously, I had mixed play into studies. But today, when I see my grandsons’ school environment, I feel — wasn’t that also a kind of educational reform? Maybe it’s overstatement, but call it what you will!
Marbles and playwriting
It’s like they say: Aadutu paadutu panicheste alupu solupuundadu. In the same way, when studies go like play, real interest grows.
This “marble study” gave me many benefits later in life. The main one: I could write dramas well. Back then, I didn’t know that turning what you learn into dramatization is an art.
For All India Radio Vijayawada, I once wrote a Roopakam on “Orpu–Sahanam” (Patience & Tolerance). In that, I dramatized an episode from the Mahabharata.
Ashwatthama slaughters the Upa-Pandavas at night. When Pandavas capture him and bring him before Draupadi, she speaks these powerful lines:
“Ashwatthama! You are our guru’s son, a Brahmin, equal to my own child. Yet you had no mercy and killed my little ones. How could your hands strike down children who were asleep, unaware? Where did your patience and humanity vanish? Just as I cry in grief now, your mother too will cry when she hears of her son’s fate. Let her not suffer like me. Arjuna, leave him free.”
The play ended with this scene. Listeners appreciated it a lot.
From then, whenever I saw marbles, I would feel like I was having Vishwa-Darshanam. This earth itself is one big marble. Around it, other giant marbles. All circling the burning marble called Surya. And in this vast universe, countless such marbles. Just as Radha and I played with marbles inside a small room, I felt God (the supreme Shakti) was playing with marbles inside this universe-room.
These were my thoughts.
I remembered a song from the movie Sri Shirdi Saibaba Mahatyam:
“In marbles play, you revealed mountains of truth, O Sai…”
Similarly, in the Bhagavad Gita, Lord Krishna grants Arjuna His Vishwaroopa Darshanam. In films too, whenever I saw such cosmic scenes, my mind ran back to our marble battles.
Later, when I studied Astronomy, I understood: yes, planets are like marbles, stars too are like marbles, scattered in billions across the cosmos. While watching films like Sri Krishnavataram, I wondered — “Did our little marbles hold such big truths (knowledge) inside?”
Tribute to Marble Radha
My long-time friend Radha suddenly vanished from my life. On inquiry, I learnt he had drunk pesticide and committed suicide. At that time, I was working in Andhra Prabha.
After studies, after job struggles, I had settled into journalism, married, and was living a routine life. Visits to Nandigamabecame fewer, maybe once in six months. New friends came, old ones faded. In a desk job, taking leave was not easy.
So, it was during one such visit that I heard the tragic news of Radha’s death. My heart sank.
Earlier, on a Vinayaka Chavithi festival morning, I had seen him at the bazaar — spreading long incense sticks, flowers, and pooja items on the ground, selling them. I asked, “What’s this?” He just smiled faintly. Later, others told me — his life was in trouble. No job, not much education. Though he studied with me, he couldn’t clear even Intermediate. Married, but couldn’t pull the cart of family life.
Now to hear that he ended it all… it was like a marble that had been spinning in a plate suddenly stopped. Like a circus motorbike rider who spins inside a well suddenly falling down. My eyes moistened.
Even now I ask — why couldn’t any power save this innocent soul?
Cigarettes – the lighter side
Enough of that heavy memory. Let me take you to a lighter one. Come… to Saradaga Sarada Cigarette.
Cigarette smoking was a fashion among men. Holding a cigarette pack was a style.
In the 1970s, the Berkeley Cigarette Company’s advertisement caught my eye. In it, S.V. Ranga Rao, a popular Telugu actor, sat in dignity, wearing black goggles, with a white cigarette in his mouth. On the packet itself, his quote was printed:
“Berkeley smoking gives me great pleasure. The tobacco has rich taste, and smooth, plentiful smoke.”
At the top, it said boldly: “Chitra Ranga Empika – Berkeley.”
In those days, Cigarette packets used words like “rich taste” and “smooth smoke.” No warnings like “Smoking is injurious to health” or “Causes cancer.”
As a boy turning into youth, this smoke and smell were naturally attractive.
Empty cigarette packets too fascinated us. Collecting them became a hobby. Packs came in all colours. Whenever I found one, I’d keep it safely. In some games like Bacchaala aata(using small stone slabs to hit the empty cigarette packets), these packets or their shiny foils had value. If I didn’t play, others would buy packets from me in exchange for marbles.
Sometimes, with pocket money, I’d buy marbles directly from shops.
From packets to puff
Slowly, the packet fascination led to curiosity about smoking. As boys, when money was scarce, we burnt gogu pulla or kandi pulla, blowing out smoke just for fun. But their smell wasn’t nice like real cigarette smoke. So naturally, the thought came: “This is not it. One day we must buy a cigarette pack and smoke like SVR.”
Once I started earning in Andhra Prabha, I got hooked to that “fragrance.” I believed smoking sharpened my thoughts, gave me catchy headlines, and stimulated my brain. Some said so — and I believed it.
But truth is, cigarette is harmful. Out of ignorance, we make such mistakes.
That’s why Kosaraju wrote in Ramudu Bheemudu film:“Saradaa Saradaa Cigarettu…” Song.
The song humorously describes the temporary thrill of smoking, compares it to style, poetry, rocket, but ends by warning that it leads to cancer, breathlessness, and suffering. A satirical yet moralistic piece.
It’s true — finally, I realised smoking should be given up.
One day, when I felt a slight chest pain, I visited a doctor. He asked bluntly: “Can’t you quit smoking?” I said, “Why can’t I?” And that was it. Goodbye to cigarette.
After that, neither packets nor their shiny papers nor the marbles I once bought with them came to my mind again. Only while writing all that now, those memories returned.
But what to do? Exams and marks are like two Grahaalu (planets) that keep pressing down on you. You can’t escape. In this marks yaagnam, we students had to serve as the samidhalu for the fire. Not just history, all of Social was like that — a big rock to carry. That was my feeling during high school days.
A friend used to console me: “Oreyy, once we cross this 10th class hurdle, Social and Hindi troubles will go away.”
There were three subjects I never liked. First one was Social, then Maths, and the third was Hindi.
The troubles with Maths
If Social was like that, Maths was even worse. Especially Arithmetic — pure bore. Algebra meant only tension.
At Nandigama High School, we had two masters for Maths. For Algebra, there was one Bhupathi Rao Master. Hearing his name itself gave us huddle. The moment he entered class, he would pull out the belt tied to his pants, shouting “Oreyy…!” like a hungry lion pouncing on calves. For us skinny fellows, his arrival itself was enough to shake our hearts.
He would not waste time. “Oreyy, nuvvu le!” Some poor fellow would get up.
“A plus B whole square enthara?” The boy would gulp, unable to answer. Whack! The belt would land on him before he even blinked. Tears would flood his eyes.
Short fellows sat in the first rows, tall ones at the back. Unluckily, I was a shorty. So, I always sat in the first two rows. And these masters’ eyes always fell on us first-benchers. That’s why our hearts would thump the moment such a master entered.
We first-benchers lived with a mix of fear and bhakti. Because we knew their questions would come to us first, many of us would prepare tomorrow’s lesson today itself. This foresight helped — the moment master asked, we could answer.
Later I realised, it was this “fearful devotion” that gave first-benchers the reputation of being good students.
Masters were of many kinds. Some were “Chalk-piece teachers” (who threw chalk when angry), some “Duster teachers”, some “Note-book teachers”, some “Stick teachers”, and yes, the unforgettable “Belt teachers.” Of course, there were a few who were like Shantamurthulu, calm and patient. But there were also some chitapata Eswarraos and chitapata Eswaries — always restless and fiery.
So, all this narration is just to tell you — Bhupathi Rao was a true Belt Master.
Belt fear
When he entered with belt in hand, it was like yamapasham swinging. My heart would jump.
“Oreyy Bhushanam, le!” he shouted once. Somehow, I stood up.
“Cheppura, A plus B whole square sutram.”
That roar almost snatched away my breath. Still, I gathered courage. Not from my heart, but from my brain — because I had byhearted that sutram, practicing it many times at home.
Master looked at my trembling body and calmed a bit. The belt went back. He even gave a villain-style smile. That was enough. My brain switched on, and my tongue moved. I said the formula. Master heard it, seemed satisfied, but then immediately shot another arrow:
“Ok, now say A plus B plus C whole cube sutram.” His belt again rose in the air.
This time, my brain froze. Sweat poured. Just when I thought I would collapse, his raised hand paused. “Uh… if I hit, you’ll die. Sit down,” he said.
Even after sitting, my heart kept racing. But I promised myself — next time, I will not stumble. I went home, practiced that sutram 20–30 times, until it got stamped into my brain.
Next day, Master came again, belt ready. “Yesterday’s sutram… by now did it stick?” he asked. He never expected this shivering fellow would rattle it out. But I did. From then, he stopped troubling me much.
It’s not that the belt didn’t scare me anymore. But that old terror was gone. And because of that, I got grip on Algebra — which helped me cross the 10th class hurdle.
Arithmetics confusion
Arithmetic never made sense to me. Those “Train sums” — one train, its length and speed, a signal pole on the track… how much time it takes to pass the pole. All that was total confusion.
Or goat problems — a goat tied in a meadow, how much grass it can eat… such sums I can never forget. Even today, if I travel by train and see electric poles pass by, immediately those sums flash in my mind. If I see cows tied in a meadow, I remember those goat sums. Life-lonely memories, though never useful!
Teachers’ impact
Some teachers inspire you for life. Some make you lose interest. Even those who scold and hit, but teach with love, remain unforgettable.
Because of Belt Master, I not only gained grip in Algebra but also passed Maths in 10th. Maths had two papers — first 50 marks Arithmetic, second 50 marks Algebra. I ruined the first paper completely. Want to know how?
Colour pencils in Maths exam
Yes — in the 10th public exam, I carried a box of colour pencils. My friends asked, “Eveenduku ra?” I didn’t answer.
My secret plan: if I can’t solve sums, I’ll at least draw neat diagrams and colour them. Maybe the examiner will pity and give some marks.
In the paper, a train problem came. I drew a full train, wrote its length, drew an electric pole, then added meadows, hills, everything. A complete scenery! I coloured the train, the fields, the hills. The invigilator came, looked shocked. I was proud of my artwork.
He muttered to someone, “Look, that boy in second bench is sure to fail in Maths.” But God didn’t listen to him. I passed in my very first attempt.
How? That night, my anna, who had done B.Sc. with MMP (Double Maths and Physics), sat with me. He explained key Algebra sums, corrected my mistakes, and told me likely bits. Next day, I wrote with full speed. Invigilator looked stunned seeing me ask for extra sheets!
Finally, the marks from second paper pulled me through. I silently thanked both Belt Master and my anna.
From Belt Master, I learned a truth: with hard effort, even the toughest thing becomes simple.
That lesson helped me later in drama rehearsals, to deliver dialogues correctly, and also in writing essays with discipline. Even in my journalism career, such people toughened me and laid a strong foundation.
Another surprise
Just as Maths pushed me into drama, Social pushed out the playwright in me.
During 9th class, with exams near, family imposed “Section 144” at home — no marbles, no cricket, no transistor radio, no cinema magazines. Still, my friend Radhakrishna (Radha) would sneak in. He was very innocent, followed me everywhere. If I told him “Bring marbles from attic,” he would run and fetch. He was like my shadow.
That day too, though family banned games, I wanted marbles secretly. So I made Radha get them quietly. He went into the house like a cat, climbed the attic, and brought back the marble box, his face glowing with victory. Yes it is not a small achievement in those strict exam days!
My face too swelled with a kind of victorious pride. Just think — the very golis which elders had hidden away, saying, “these marbles will spoil the children’s studies,” I managed to bring back cleverly with my strategy! Looking at my own planning, I had to pat myself on the back. So, I tapped my right palm on my left shoulder and praised myself: “Shahbaash ra!”
Radha looked at me in surprise. After a while, hearing the clicking sound of marbles from the side room near the verandah, my akka slowly came and opened the door. What she saw there left her shocked. And why not? Actually, we were “studying” while playing with marbles. You may ask — how is it possible to do both at the same time?
Well, as I read aloud the lesson about the Second Panipat War from the Social book, every four–five lines, we created a scene with marbles based on the summary. Every war has two sides. In history too, it’s usually between two kings.
So dividing the marbles by colours was Radha’s job. He did it perfectly. Blue marbles became Akbar’s army, with the biggest blue marble as Akbar himself. On the other side was Hemu Chandra Vikramaditya. Red marbles, yellow marbles, and the other coloured ones all stood for his army. And the biggest red marble was Hemu himself.
Radha was restless: “Orey, shall we start the war?” He asked this already four–five times.
I stopped him: “Aagagu, let me read two more paragraphs first. Then, it’s war.”
When I finally read the line that Hemu Chandra Vikramaditya was killed by Akbar, I shouted, “Start the war!”
That shout must have alerted the whole house. One by one, family members gathered near the doorway.
Radha started striking red marbles with blue ones, while I was knocking down the red army with the blue side. We had each taken one camp. Emotions were running high. The battle was intense. Some marbles even cracked and broke!
Then akka intervened. “Challe, enough! Stop your games. If father sees, he’ll scold you.”
I protested: “Games kaave akka, this is study!”
“Yes akka, study only!” Radha joined me in chorus.
By then, amma and baamma too had come and scattered the whole war scene. Akka mercilessly pushed all the marbles back into the box, carried them inside, and disappeared.
Baamma asked, “Aeme, are these boys studying… or playing?” Amma had no answer.
Truth is, even I could not answer that question — not for a long time. Mischievously, I had mixed play into studies. But today, when I see my grandsons’ school environment, I feel — wasn’t that also a kind of education reform? Maybe it’s overstatement, but call it what you will!
Marbles and playwriting
It’s like they say: Aadutu paadutu panicheste alupu solupu undadu. In the same way, when studies go like play, real interest grows.
This “marble study” gave me many benefits later in life. The main one: I could write dramas well. Back then, I didn’t know that turning what you learn into dramatization is an art.
For All India Radio Vijayawada, I once wrote a Roopakam on “Oorpu–Sahanam” (Patience & Tolerance). In that, I dramatized an episode from Mahabharata.
Ashwatthama slaughters the Upapandavas at night. When Pandavas capture him and bring him before Draupadi, she speaks these powerful lines:
“Ashwatthama! You are guru’s son, a Brahmin, equal to my own child. Yet you had no mercy and killed my little ones. How could your hands strike down children who were asleep, unaware? Where did your patience and humanity vanish? Just as I cry in grief now, your mother too will cry when she hears of her son’s fate. Let her not suffer like me. Arjuna, leave him free.”
The play ended with this scene. Listeners appreciated it a lot.
From then, whenever I saw marbles, I would feel like I was having Vishwadarshanam. This Earth itself is one big marble. Around it, other giant marbles. All circling the burning marble called Surya. And in this vast universe, countless such marbles. Just as Radha and I played with marbles inside a small room, I felt God (the supreme Shakti) was playing with marbles inside this universe-room.
These were my thoughts.
I remembered a song from the movie Sri Shirdi Saibaba Mahatyam:
“In marbles play, you revealed mountains of truth, O Sai…”
Later, when I studied Astronomy, I understood: yes, planets are like marbles, stars too are like marbles, scattered in billions across the cosmos. While watching films like Sri Krishnavataram, I wondered — “Did our little marbles hold such big truths (knowledge) inside?”
Tribute to Marble Radha
My long-time friend Radha suddenly vanished from life. On inquiry, I learnt he had drunk pesticide and committed suicide. At that time, I was working in Andhra Prabha.
After studies, after job struggles, I had settled into journalism, married, and was living a routine life. Visits to Nandigama became fewer, maybe once in six months. New friends came, old ones faded. In a desk job, taking leave was not easy.
So, it was during one such visit that I heard the tragic news of Radha’s death. My heart sank.
Earlier, on a Vinayaka Chavithi festival morning, I had seen him at the bazaar — spreading long incense sticks, flowers, and pooja items on the ground, selling them. I asked, “Edenitira?” He just smiled faintly. Later, others told me — his life was in trouble. No job, not much education. Though he studied with me, he couldn’t clear even Intermediate. Married, but couldn’t pull the cart of family life.
Now to hear that he ended it all… it was like a marble that had been spinning in a plate suddenly stopped. Like a circus motorbike rider who spins inside a well suddenly falling down. My eyes moistened.
Even now I ask — why couldn’t any power save this innocent soul?
Cigarettes – the lighter side
Enough of that heavy memory. Let me take you to a lighter one. Come… to Saradaga Sarada Cigarette.
Cigarette smoking was fashion. Holding a cigarette pack was style.
In the 1970s, the Berkeley Cigarette Company’s advertisement caught my eye. In it, S.V. Ranga Rao sat in dignity, wearing black goggles, with a white cigarette in his mouth. On the packet itself, his quote was printed:
“Berkeley smoking gives me great pleasure. The tobacco has rich taste, and smooth, plentiful smoke.”
At the top, it said boldly: “Chitra Ranga Empika – Berkeley.”
In those days, Cigarette packets used words like “rich taste” and “smooth smoke.” No warnings like “Smoking is injurious to health” or “Causes cancer.”
As a boy turning into youth, this smoke and smell were naturally attractive.
Empty cigarette packets too fascinated us. Collecting them became a hobby. Packs came in all colours. Whenever I found one, I’d keep it safely. In some games like Bacchaala aata, these packets or their shiny foils had value. If I didn’t play, others would buy packets from me in exchange for marbles.
Sometimes, with pocket money, I’d buy marbles directly from shops.
From packets to puff
Slowly, the packet fascination led to curiosity about smoke. As boys, when money was scarce, we burnt gogu pulla or kandi pulla, blowing out smoke just for fun. But their smell wasn’t nice like real cigarette smoke. So naturally, the thought came: “This is not it. One day we must buy a cigarette pack and smoke like SVR.”
Once I started earning in Andhra Prabha, I got hooked to that “fragrance.” I believed smoking sharpened my thoughts, gave me catchy headlines, and stimulated my brain. Some said so — and I believed it.
But truth is, cigarette is harmful. Out of ignorance, we make such mistakes.
That’s why Kosaraju wrote in Ramudu Bheemudu:” Saradaga Sarada Sigarette” Song.
The song humorously describes the temporary thrill of smoking, compares it to style, poetry, rocket, but ends by warning that it leads to cancer, breathlessness, and suffering. A satirical yet moralistic piece.
It’s true — finally, I realised smoking should be given up.
One time, when I felt a slight chest pain, I visited a doctor. He asked bluntly: “Can’t you quit smoking?” I said, “Why can’t I?” And that was it. Goodbye to cigarette.
After that, neither packets nor their shiny papers nor the marbles I once bought with them came to my mind again. Only while writing this now, those memories returned.
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