The Hanging Children of Meghadooth (Part 3)

While Hari Sankar and I were the master performers of the glorious Meghadooth theatre, there were some notable guest appearances over the course of the years. Sometimes this involved our respective cousins, but also those occasional child candidates who popped up as residents in Meghadooth III.

The two names that I can remember now are Chinthu and Shyama. Chinthu was, of course, a pet name. I cannot recall her real name. I think she was younger than us, and the other more enthusiastic one who came after Chinthu was Shyama, who was our age.

However, their stay at the ill christened Meghadooth III, was so short that I cannot shed light on any particularly memorable events involving them.

It has to be said that the real addition to our gaming company was made when Malu, my sister, turned old enough to run and climb small heights. Unfortunately for her, she was at the mercy of two tyrannical older boys who cast her in the least wanted roles in many productions. Sigh. The hierarchies of the playground were a bit cruel, as is the custom with most children.

Hari Sankar’s own younger brother Ravi, never really joined in as much, at least not to my recollection. He was a somewhat quiet kid, who preferred to play indoors, I suppose.

One game we played that made an adequate investment in the memory bank, probably because of its silliness, was the wonderfully pointless game of ‘Superhuman Samurai’. It was a television show that aired back then, and I must say, as I'm typing this the theme song just began playing in my head.

Let me give you a brief into to Superhuman Samurai. No, it was not a cool, modern or classic take on a Samurai warrior with superpowers. If only.

The story was set in a high school or college in America. There was a guy and a girl, as there often are, who were the heroes. The bad guy, who I still vaguely remember, was a guy dressed all in black - Malcolm.

I remember this because when the credits were rolling, I always noticed the name Malcolm. This was mostly because I couldn't understand why there would be a second ‘L’ in the word, when they did not seem to pronounce it at all. The strange ways of foreigners, I thought, impressed with the novelty of the language none the less.

Basically, the plot goes thus. Things would be said in English, which we mostly didn't follow. Then the lead guy would play his electric guitar and get transported in a weird ‘Tron’ like world, where computer chips and processors were buildings and towers. But not as himself. No. He would appear as a Power Ranger type figure, who would be fighting Malcolm, who would be controlling a Godzilla type robo - monster. Then the lead guy would transform into a giant robot himself with various other characters forming his various robotic limbs and such.

Sounds confusing?

It was. We just wanted to see the giant robots fight.

The game, that would follow one of the half hour episodes of the Superhuman Samurai, was just the transformation into the giant robot and then a pretend fight with… well, air.

And before you imagine a nifty scene with lots of props, I shall tell you that the giant imaginary robot was formed by me pretending to be a robot head, holding my hands in various abstract shapes while making hissing and whirring noises. Then, Hari Sankar would run at me and stand on my right pretending to be a robot arm or gun. Malu, having no call in the casting process, became a robot shoe, crouched unhappily near my feet.

That about sums it up. Yeah, it wasn't a shining example of creativity.

(concluding part to be posted soon)

The Hanging Children of Meghadooth (Part 2)

Hari Sankar and I grew up together in that compound of childish possibilities galore. The low walled, sparsely wooded and kid friendly land of the Meghadooths, which we would declare our kingdom and make our own for the next decade or so. It helped that our parents became good friends too, although that was inevitable I think. It was an ideal situation in many ways.

Apart from the fact that our names being so similar made it sound like we were brothers, maybe it was the fateful thing that we were the same age and perhaps even of kindred mind sets. At least it feels that way now.

Being born in a family with a great legacy of music, and generations of amazing and respected musicians, Hari Sankar nourished in himself a deep and abiding passion for it. It didn't hurt that he was a gifted singer even back then, and now turns out, a talented musician all around.

My own parental pool of genetic predispositions for the arts made it so that I took a liking to the stage and drawing. My sister, who was born when I was three and three quarters of a year old, would fill the gaps with her talent in music and dancing.

But the really powerful memories of that time that stick with me till this day are not of us children delving in to our respective arts. No, it is of the games we played and the lessons we learned.

Imagination was our toy of choice and the entire compound of the three adjoining Meghadooths was our playground.

Hari Sankar and I went to different schools, so the well flavoured dishes that were our much awaited evenings would be peppered with the tales we heard from our different friends in class. Or from our parents or relatives. It didn't matter the source as long as the story was a good one.

Like the time we had an argument, that eventually split us up for the evening in frustration and anger.

The reason?

Hari Sankar was adamant that the low walls in the compound, that were our friends and a source of steady entertainment as far as I was concerned, were in fact dreadful things that would bite us if we got too relaxed around them.

Looking back, it seems obvious that some grown up had of course convinced him of this, with the aim of deterring him from climbing or running on those walls. But in the tempestuous indignation of childhood, I couldn't let it go and eventually there was a stalemate of will. I have distinct memories of questioning myself at one point in our argument, and carefully studying the surface and edges of one particularly sinister wall, looking for hidden mouths full of concrete teeth.

There was also the time he almost had me convinced that elephant tusks were just good sized bananas.

I can’t help but think he really had some unfortunate sources of information. I, on the other hand, was an embellisher of facts and truths, little and big.

I can think of one occasion in particular where I really over did it.

My maternal uncle was an Assistant Commissioner for the Income Tax Department at the time. This was also, much to my delight, around the same time that the hugely successful Suresh Gopi movie ‘Commissioner’ had come out. Suresh Gopi played a loose cannon kind of a cop who ends up shooting and punching his way to victory, with some fiery monologues thrown in there to add some extra zing.

I, of course, took this as my one moment to really shine at the expense of my uncle and informed Hari Sankar one evening that he, being a ‘Commissioner’ of repute, carried a gun with him at all times. I also added that I was unsure when he might feel like using it or who the target might be. I mean I was safe fortunately, I told him. I'm his nephew after all. But anybody else was fair game.

Anyway, the end result of this lie was that my poor friend, for quite a long while, ran for cover each time my uncle dropped by our house.

Run, Hari, run… screamed I, helping him get to safety once. Sigh.

(still more to come)

The Hanging Children of Meghadooth

So here I am on this pleasant day reading an e-book, lying in a distinctly unhealthy manner, cutting off the circulation to my left arm, on my warm bed with its comfortable arrangement of dusty pillows, towels and wrinkled sheets – and I felt like writing a little something. The idea began to take root in me because I was reading. Reading and writing, I've discovered, have a cyclical relation in me when it comes to motivation. If the author of whatever book I'm reading has an interesting way of writing, this prompts me to write a few words myself and conversely, if my writing feels satisfactory, I feel like rejuvenating the little grey cells with more words from perhaps a better writer.

The book that has me got all excited today is David Mitchell’s “Backstory”. I should point out that this isn't David Mitchell the novelist who authored “Cloud Atlas” but the British comedian and television personality. I just love the man and the moment I became aware of this book, I had to get it. It’s a really witty and well written memoir by Mitchell.

In the first part of the book, he talks about his childhood, recalling various incidents while also a providing refreshingly funny and astute social commentary, moving in and out of the past and the present with amusing ease. Couple of lines had me chuckling and laughing out loud and I've barely made it to the second chapter right now. A good read indeed and I recommend it to anyone interested in a light hearted and original piece of literature for a cosy afternoon or late night sleep stalling.

Anyway, it got me thinking about my own childhood. Though I am someone who considers it generally dull and typical in an absent minded way, I do tend to look back on it with fondness. I was a sickly kid, thanks to my asthma, but whatever experiences I had of being ill seems to have faded in to the background of memories now. They give me no sorrow and what stand out are the good moments of being a ‘typical’ child in the eighties and early nineties. You know, before there was cable television all around and computers ate up all your time. Game consoles were still a fantasy, at least in my world back then.

Television meant a single low resolution channel at first, and soon there were two and then three. The Door Darshan days. The days of entertainment depending heavily on frequent power outages, adjusting the bony antenna on the roof and banging desperately on the side of the television when tinkering with its knobs failed. Though I have really good recollection of my obsession with watching the flickering screen of black plastic magic box that stood in my bedroom/ partial living room, I am turning this post away from that to the more eventful time I spend with my best friend.

Hari Sankar.

We lived in a house called Meghadooth. Actually I lived in a house called Meghadooth – II. No, it wasn’t a sequel to the block buster that was Meghadooth – I, but the second house in a series of three Meghadooths, all of which were rented out by a single owner. Though it seemed all perfectly normal then, but I can’t help but find it funny now that the owner seemed to have named a house Meghadooth (which means a message from the clouds), and then apparently ran out of inspiration and resorted to naming the other two in an unimaginative serial manner. Or maybe the Meghadooths were a dynasty of kings he was affiliated with, of whom I know nothing about till date.

Me and Hari Sankar (1989)

The Meghadooths were, in any case, a fantastic place to live as a kid. Not so much joy for the parents though, because they were tiny little homes with aged, semi functional facilities. Each of the houses had its own yards, with trees, and were separated by low interconnected walls that would later provide Hari Sankar and me with ample opportunities for climbing, running and other less risky acrobatics.

My parents, as newlyweds, moved in to Meghadooth – II, because it was a cheap place to live, and in a year’s time, I had arrived. Hari Sankar’s family moved in to Meghadooth – I when I was a year old. Could be a year and a half old. Or two.

Let’s just say that it was before the time my brain had begun to actively register memories and so it came to be that I can now say this - for as long as I can remember, Hari Sankar and I have been friends.

(more to come)