Dhana ‘Dhan’

 

“Come on, let’s go, Raju,

let’s go watch a love movie,

come on, let’s go, Raju…” In Nandigama, my relatives and close friends call me Nagaraju.

Humming a parody of a movie song, Vijaya Babu signalled to me.

I immediately picked up another tune and sang back:

“Come, come, little boy,

flying like a ‘time-pass’ bird,

without even looking at your book,

come on, come on…”

and I gestured back at him. “They say it’s a really good love movie. Let’s go watch it,” he said. That’s the term he used for romantic films.

It was a tiny room on the terrace of a house in the Sixth Lane, Arundalpet, Guntur.

The owners rented it out to bachelors and students. My elder brother knew about this, so

he spoke to the owner, rented the room for a month, and put the three of us, (Parthasarathy, Vijaya Babu and me) there — basically dumped us into that room.

Out of the three of us, Parthasarathy,  was the serious type — always with a book in his hand, deeply absorbed in studying. He had come along with us with the goal of becoming a doctor.

This was in summer 1976, soon after we completed Intermediate. We were dragged from Nandigama and settled into that room in Guntur, to prepare for the MBBS entrance exam.

By then, my brother knew Guntur quite well.

Not that I didn’t. I already knew places like Anand Bhavan, Shankar Vilas,

Lakshmi Talkies, Harihara Mahal, Rang Mahal, and Sesh Mahal, Majeti Guravayya High School, Hindu College, and A.C. College!

I had even seen Dhan’s College (Ravi College) in Brodipet earlier while passing by,

though I never imagined I would actually study there someday.

The other two didn’t know so many things about Guntur.

Since I knew a world that they didn’t, I used to feel quite proud for a while.

Because I knew a lot of things — and especially , I also knew Ravi’s college — they thought I would really rock it. That’s how I became the unofficial leader for that whole month.

When we were in Guntur, out of the three of us, Babu and I were the ones who were always roaming around. Honestly, I don’t feel like using the words “we used to study.” That wouldn’t be truthful. So I say we were “roaming around.”

“Do you want the truth, or do you want a lie?” — like NTR asks in Paathala Bhairavi.

When the elders said, “Tell us the truth, boys,” we would neatly stitch together stories about “our movie entertainment in Guntur.” Nobody at home beat us or scolded us. But they quietly came to one conclusion: “These boys will never become doctors.”

After that, education just went on — B.Sc., M.Sc., and so on. Babu thought, “Why do I need science?” and shifted to Arts. He did B.A., then M.A. and M.Phil from JNU, and I successfully completed B.Sc. To be honest, at Nandigama College, we were on the merit students’ list. I was so meritorious that the University of Bombay (that’s what it was called in those days) actually sent word asking me to join M.Sc. and even offered a merit scholarship. In my B.Sc. group, I scored 72 percent. But in English, I just scraped through.

With all that merit, getting an MBBS seat should be a cake walk — or so I believed. Vijaya Babu and Parthasarathy were equally confident. That’s how the three of us ended up joining Guntur Ravi College (CVN Dhan College). But then…

What happened…

What really happened?

In those days, to get into an MBBS course, writing an entrance exam was compulsory. Before that, seats were given based on Intermediate (12th class) marks. These days, as everyone knows, whether it’s engineering or medicine, you can get in only by writing the EAMCET/ NEET exam.

At Guntur Ravi College, students preparing for both the MBBS and the engineering entrance exam used to get enrolled for coaching. Their numbers ran into hundreds. All the classrooms were packed. The main building wasn’t enough, so they even rented nearby buildings to run the classes.

Here I should say a few words about Sri CVN Dhan. At that time, I didn’t know much about his ability. But he was like a lion. ( I wrote “The Lion Laughed” about Ramoji Rao garu, remember?) In the same way, this man too was a lion.

He was about six feet tall, imposing, with a serious look and a thick moustache. Students were afraid of him.

Sri CVN Dhan’s real name was Chennavajjula Viswanathan. His native place was Raghavapuram, which comes just after crossing the Muneru river near Nandigama. Since he belonged to our region, some of our elders met Dhan garu beforehand and got us admitted there with a small concession in fees.

“Ananda” Meals:

Even before admitting us into the room, our elders paid the room rent. The only expense left was food. Even that they planned carefully — meaning, they planned how to spend as little money as possible.

They bought lunch and dinner tickets for a whole month — 60 tickets per head. Thirty tickets were tied together into a small booklet. So each of us got two ticket token bundles in our hands. That took care of lunch and dinner. All that was left was breakfast and other small expenses.

We thought, “Our elders are really clever!”

If we went late for dinner at Anand Bhavan, sometimes the curry would be over. But for people like us, they would prepare a “second curry” (which was usually potato fry). In the hotel, they would spread fresh and clean banana leaves and serve ghee in a tiny little bowl (so tiny that you’d think such bowls were made only for hotels!). Yet the ghee smelled delicious!

With two curries, dal, papad, fresh chutney, sambar, rasam, and thick curd, mixed with white rice and with ghee poured in between mouthfuls, it felt like there could be no greater happiness than this. One felt like blessing it, “Long live Anand Bhavan!”

Classes would be over by seven in the evening. So why wait till “second curry time”? There was really no need. But whenever we bunked classes, sneaked off to a first-show movie, and came back, it would be second-curry time anyway. That’s the real reason!

Anand Bhavan was conveniently located between Brodipet and Arundalpet. Between Brodipet and the A.C. College area, there used to be a railway track with a manual gate. Whenever a train passed, the gate would be closed and traffic would pile up on the road. People kept pleading for a flyover there, but for a long time the authorities didn’t care. My father-in-law (Mannava Giridhara Rao garu) had even written an article stressing the need for a flyover, my wife told me after our marriage. Finally, even before the 1960s, an overbridge was built there. Only then did commuters breathe a sigh of relief.

As you come down the bridge towards Brodipet, Lakshmi Talkies is on the left. Right next to it is Anand Bhavan. Even today, some people say, “Guntur means Anand Bhavan.” Later, modern hotels like Shankar Vilas came up, but once you taste food at Anand Bhavan, you can never forget it. I can never forget my own experience of eating there continuously for thirty days.

CVN Dhan – TNB Shan:

After I joined Andhra Prabha, I became acquainted with a senior man there named Kandarpa Ramachandra Rao. He used to edit articles on the editorial page. Once he told me about CVN Dhan. I remember only a few of the things he said now. Dhan’s thinking was different. He encouraged students from rural areas. He believed that children educated in villages should also dream of becoming doctors and engineers. He had studied at Banaras Hindu University. He had democratic and nationalist ideals and a deep understanding of educational philosophy. His younger brother, C.S. Ramachandra Murthy, wrote his biography titled “Dhanyatmudu – CVN Dhan.”

Before I knew how great a man he was, I had seen him in person. Seeing us boys from Nandigama, he said in a grave voice, “Hmm… study well.”

Even though I didn’t know much about him at the time, I really liked the way people called him “Dhan… Dhan.” I liked it so much that during my degree days I started writing my name on monthly exam answer sheets as T.N.B Shan (for T. Nagabhushan). I didn’t stop there. I even changed my friends’ names — Ch. Parthasarathy and M. Vishnu Vardhan.

Because of my influence, those two poor fellows also began writing their names on answer sheets as Ch.P.S. Dhy (for Ch. Parthasarathy) and M.V.V. Dhan (for M. Vishnu Vardhan). Our Zoology lecturer, D. Krishna Murthy, popularly known as DKM Sir, noticed this strange trend and came to our class intending to scold us. But when we proudly said, “We did it taking Dhan garu as our inspiration,” he burst out laughing. The whole class laughed along with him. Only later did we realize that “imitation” doesn’t mean doing things like this — it means trying to rise to their level.

Our Destiny:

We too wanted to become doctors. Wearing a white coat, a stethoscope around the neck, writing prescriptions and giving patients long lectures — I was extremely excited about that dream. I’ve had a strange habit since childhood. If I saw a bus conductor or driver, I wanted to become like them. I loved the way the postman in our village delivered letters from house to house, and I wanted to be a postman too. In college, when I saw lecturers, I wanted to become one of them.

But none of that happened.

By accident, I became a journalist.

So that’s how things turned out to be.

Top of Form

The lecturers at Ravi College really tried hard to make doctors out of us and watching their efforts actually made me feel sorry for them. Especially the Physics lecturer — the poor man would get totally worn out, filling the blackboard with formulas and running around in great agitation.

For English, I remember Dhan garu coming only once or twice. But whenever he came, the class would become pin-drop silent. Even if he was just seen in the corridor, same effect. Later we learnt he wasn’t really that strict. Apparently, he loved students. Just like my father — stern on the outside, but inside his heart was soft like butter.

State of Total Confusion:

One lecturer after another would come, teach lessons, and tell us to take notes. Cramped benches, suffocating heat… and on top of that, nothing going into our heads. Everything felt confusing. In between classes, I asked Babu,

“Hey, are you following anything they’re teaching?”

He didn’t reply. I asked Partha, sitting next to him. He shook his head sideways once and up and down once — meaning both yes and no.

For about three days, we sincerely paid attention to the lectures. Then one thing became clear to me:

The lessons were the same.

The textbooks were the same.

But in Nandigama, we were merit students.

Here, we were falling behind.

Some students were answering the teachers’ questions instantly.

Something was wrong.

Somewhere.

We just didn’t know where.

By the end of a week, we understood one thing: we weren’t going to catch up. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t secure a seat in just one month. So what was our duty now?

Keep attending these confusing classes and increase our tension?

Or spend the remaining days watching movies?

What was our immediate task?

There were three of us, but we couldn’t agree on any one plan.. Babu and I were on one side; Partha went his own way. He said he wouldn’t watch movies.

“Either class or room, for me, studies come first,” he said firmly.

“Fine, what can we do with people who want to ruin themselves? Come on,” said Babu, and started singing,

“Come on, let’s go, Raju,

let’s go watch a love movie!”

That was that! We handed Partha over to his books and took off!

Partha’s full name was Chavata Parthasarathy. His native place was Anaasagaram and his father was a cloth merchant in Nandigama. Vijaya Babu was also from Nandigama; his father, K.V. Purneswara Rao garu, was an English lecturer in KVR College, Nandigama. Partha was a really good boy — as good as they say, “Rama was a good boy.” Babu and I were from the slightly naughty batch. We liked joking and fooling around. In these matters, Partha was serious. So when he said, “My vote is for studies,” we didn’t feel bad.

We began finding out which theatre was where and which movie was screened, and started quietly slipping away — sometimes even straight from the classroom. New movies like Muthyala Muggu, Annadammula Anubandham, Cheekati Velugulu, along with second-release and old movies — altogether, we watched about eleven films.

When we went back to Nandigama and told our friends, they teased us:

“Hey, this is a record! You guys should enter the Guinness Book!”

We didn’t mind. In fact, we felt proud, as if we really had entered some kind of record book.

Finally, we took the entrance exam.

Students who had studied in Telugu medium were given the question paper in Telugu. At Ravi College too, English-medium students had some sections and Telugu-medium students had different sections. Dhan garu’s aim was to give good training to every student who joined. His intention was good, but for us, what they taught and what we studied just didn’t match.

At home, our “training” at Ravi College became a series of stories. And once, when we were in Guntur, something funny happened…

When luck plays along…

Once, just to see whether we were really studying and how we were studying, my father came to Guntur with another elderly gentleman. It was past 10 at night. We heard footsteps on the stairs and felt someone was coming. Both of them came upstairs.

What they saw at that moment made them very happy.

In the room, three mats were spread out. On one mat, Partha was fast asleep. Between the other two mats, books were spread out. On either side of them, Babu and I were carefully writing notes. The third fellow was snoring loudly.

My father said to the elder who had come with him,

“See, these two are studying well. They might get seats.”

After chatting for a while, they left. Soon the news spread in our village. People assumed that out of the three who were labelled as “merit students,” at least two would definitely get seats.

But what had actually happened is a different story -

That day, we had bunked our classes, watched the matinee and the first show (two movies!), stuffed ourselves at Anand Bhavan with second curry, rushed back to our room, and were hurriedly copying Partha’s class notes into our own notebooks. Their sudden visit at that exact moment was pure luck for us. From then on, both of us became firm believers in God. I even remember the two of us going to Tirumala after completing our PG studies.

Not only that, I felt it was actually good that Partha had joined our batch. Since he attended classes regularly and took proper notes, and since we could copy from his notes, we escaped that crisis. That’s why I have a lot of affection for Partha.

Much later in life, I understood something: luck never stays with us forever. It is very fickle—just like Goddess Lakshmi. Only hard work brings good results. And the happiness that comes from those results is lasting and fulfilling. This is the right path to success in life. There is no shortcut to victory. But by the time I understood these truths, half my life had already passed.

Anyway, the entrance results came. Neither of us got a seat. Nor did Partha. In our college, one student got a seat under the physically challenged quota. The lecturers—especially the science lecturers—were happy that at least someone from our college had made it.

With that, the dream of becoming an MBBS doctor came to an end. But while I was studying for my degree, another opportunity to study a doctor’s course came my way.

Homeo doctor

While studying in Nandigama, my friend Vishnu’s father once gave us a very good piece of advice. But neither Vishnu nor I really understood it at the time. During our college days, in Nandigama,Vishnu, Partha, and I were always together, wherever we went. As I told you, Partha was from Anaasagaram and Vishnu’s house was adjacent to mine. I already wrote about many of our experiments in the chapter “Palikindi Aakasavani.”

In those days, Vishnu’s father, Dr. Mekapothula Venkatapathi garu, was a well-known and leading homeopathy doctor. People used to say that the crowd waiting outside his house was bigger than the crowd waiting for darshan at the Shiva and Rama temples. And it was true. Every day, at least fifty patients came, along with those who accompanied them, from nearby villages.

Dr. Venkatapathi garu became famous for giving very effective medicines for jaundice. People also believed that if he gave a medicine for snakebite, the venom would be neutralised immediately.

One day, when I was doing my B.Sc, I asked him,

“Do the Homeo pills you give really relieve the person from the venom?”

Smiling, he replied,

“Look, Nagaraju (people in my village called me Raju or Nagaraju), not all snakes are poisonous. Only one or two species are truly venomous. If they bite, the poison reaches the brain within minutes, numbs it, stops blood circulation, and even the heart beat might stop. A person may die.

But many people get bitten by non-poisonous snakes and become terribly frightened. Their fear itself numbs their brain. They believe death is certain. For this second type of people, the pills I give create strong confidence and the feeling that the poison is coming down. That is why, if it is a serious venomous bite, I send them to the government hospital. But for the second type, I give them pills and ask them to lie down here. After about four hours, they feel they are safe and go home happily. Where there is belief, medicine works.”

Even today, those words sound like Vedic mantras to me.

In those days, the Rajahmundry Homeopathy College was very famous. Later, it was renamed as Allu Ramalingaiah Homeo College. Before the name change, Dr. Venkatapathi garu once called both of us—Vishnu and me—and advised us,

“Go to Rajahmundry. I will recommend you. Join the Homeo course.”

For some reason, we opposed the idea. But after completing his postgraduate studies, Vishnu changed his mind. He then went to Rajahmundry, completed the Homeopathy course, and became Dr. Vishnuvardhan. Now he is a leading practitioner in Vijayawada and reads many research books on modern Homeopathy. 

When I went to England recently, he asked me to get four books for him. Just get him started and he goes on endlessly about diseases and medicines.

Having lost the chance of becoming a doctor and remaining with that unfulfilled desire, I started thinking of becoming a lecturer. But life took an unexpected turn (as I explained in “The Boat’s Unspoken Sadness…”) and I became a journalist instead. Step by step, I moved up in my career and eventually received a Lifetime Achievement Award from the Government of Andhra Pradesh.

Though we all joined Dhan College with great enthusiasm and wrote our exams quickly, among the three of us — me, Babu, and Partha — I became a journalist, while Vijaya Babu rose from being a lecturer at Loyola College in Vijayawada to the position of Vice-Principal.

He also served as an NCC officer and won the Chief Minister’s Medal. Not only that, he is a good writer and poet too.

Partha went into business, but sadly he died young due to brain fever, leaving us in deep sorrow.

Some other time, I’ll tell you about the inseparable bond between Partha and me. Our elders put us in the Bi.P.C. group hoping we would become doctors. But none of us became MBBS doctors. Still, we achieved a measure of success in life.

And that is enough.