Kaala bandar -the black monkey: childhood memories

We were a dissimilar bunch of up coming athletes, that is what we presumed; lanky, tiny, plump, as children aged 8-11, coming from diverse backgrounds. The eldest amongst us was the tiniest, ebonite black, and wiry like an ill fed langoor. And he was indeed as supple and sweetly cunning as a real monkey. We called him a kaala bandar, the black monkey. Our tale hovers around our monkey sans a tail. He was one of the eight children, all coal black, in deference to the dominant gene of their father, our street dhobi, the haughty ironing man, who happened to be a cricket player of some uncertain repute: a fast bowler, notorious for his bouncers, that must have given a bloody nose to half a dozen budding gentlemen of the game, who thought too much of themselves, a la Sardesai or Farukh Engineer. He was pitch black like tar, with a head sprawling with loosely dangling, lush, curly, and springy hair. Kaala bandar was actually the carbon copy of his father's.

The rest of us were ordinary, deserving nothing much to write home about, in the department of childhood athletics, graduating not beyond pitthu or gulli danda. Spinning tops, we did not like them much. That included me too, a bit on the heavier side, taller and the sole bicycle puller for anyone and everyone of the gang, presumably too mild, who wished to snatch a ride from me without saying or feeling a thank you. It was their birthright, they were sure.

Kala bandar was a happy go-lucky urchin, happiest and most exuberant, when he was in the field, naturally leading the motley bunch in playing the rustic, tough game of pil plangda, that demanded immense physical stamina, zest and cunning and joyful enterprise. In all the requisite skills the ebonite man made his mark every time, all the time. In the game of Pil plangda a small wooden staff was hurled as far as possible from under and across the left leg, sometime right, by one who was to be caught by hook or by crook, and all of us would run with all strength at our command to retrieve it back before the wooden staff pitcher scampered up a tree, like the monkeys do. If one was a slowpoke, he would be caught even before he could touch the tree, leave alone climbing it up. It was not that easy for the rest of us, but it was a child 's play for kaala bandar, whose skills were legendary. He would spring up like a dart with alacrity of kinetic energy, and in less than ten seconds he was on the top of the tree, grinning at all of us, exhibiting his asymmetrical white teeth, in coral red mouth studded on his night dark face. We were in the meantime not even a few yards up, that too struggling up and falling off the slippery trunk, like a well greased malkhamb. We were supposed to touch or catch the wooden staff hurler, up on the tree. Seven or eight of us were pitted against one, the one and only, our kaala bandar. The hare and hounds like it was. But we were helpless and insignificant before the king climber. We could at best bark and howl like curs from the ground. It happened to be a mammoth tree, that covered almost half the playing ground of our primary school, in which we studied in the second, third and fourth class.

A grandfather mango tree it was, said to be then more than a hundred and fifty years old. One of its trunks bifurcated and extended into a huge swing-like rotund branch that rocked up and down in regal grandeur, with our weight, very close to the ground. We had learnt to get up and down, but were too afraid to climb beyond a small height lest we should fall unceremoniously. And fall we did in ones and twos, occasionally. Just like the wickets his father hit with the cricket ball. It was an everyday affair to get scraped and bruised, especially at the knees, which were painted blue and yellow with tincher iodine by our falsely angry and mildly cursing mothers, fervently praying for our well being within. Kaala bandar never got a bruise of any significance. He laughed at our discomfort, he-he-he-he-ing like a monkey, his wirey head bobbing in tandem like a wooden doll. In allu alacrity, his light brown eyes glistened bright in raw glee laced in mischief. In contrast to all of us, in the outer appearance, he looked like a weakling, very poor and unintelligent, too miserable with books. He could barely write his name on the off white takhti, the flat wood plate, washed light yellow everyday in multani mitti, that we called gachhi. While we could deftly write a few sentences with a black ink soaked reed pen, dipped again and again and again in black sihai.

Ah! the black monkey was never flustered at any time. He had no time to feel anxious or afraid or unhappy. He was always sure of himself, whether it was in the class, trying to figure out what was being taught, inviting a daily cane of our teacher, or on the tree top. He was never caught by any of us, for he was perched on such, impossibly thin branches so, precariously positioned, reaching where was only a dream for all. One or two of our idiotically smart pals in khaki shorts did try to reach him, but catching him was beyond our grasp. Many of us often ended up scratching ourselves comprehensively, from face and arms to knees and toes, to be painted blue the coming afternoon after the school was over. This said, he was a realised soul. Unique to the hilt, ready for any risk or a helping hand. He was a natural, forest innocent and unmindful.

We remained friends for many years, till we joined the college, and finally left the town for greener pastures far removed from the town. He remained in the sixth class before finally quitting the school for good, thrashed blue and black by his bowler father in his crisp cotton whites, the street dhobi. It was an annual ritual. Kaala bandar too took to washing clothes and ironing after his family heirloom, but strangely and inexplicably, he started extending a helping hand to all and sundry, with a permanent smile that adorned his black countenance . He was often seen carting unclaimed dead bodies all alone to the cremation ground and burning them, almost daily, using his hard earned or hardly earned ironing money, and crying copiously for the dead and their unknown families. He was known by the same name in many parts of the town. Kala bandar of the cremation grounds.

We almost forgot his name. In the school register, his name was supposed to have been entered as Kishani Dhobi, roll number 6. I don't know where he is now. Perhaps he died in his late thirties. Some say he was trampled and killed more than three decades back by a mad bull, when he tried to save a small child playing in the street. There is none to corroborate the facts. He was living in penury, mostly consuming his meagre fortune in burning the unclaimed. His father played for the Ranji trophy for a couple of seasons, perhaps two or three matches. But he was no match for Kaala bandar, who played all his innings admirably, always staying at the apex, scaling new heights in everything he did, but studies were never his forte. Always at the top he was, whether it was the school mango tree or that of his life best lived, by any standard, however brief. I was later told by the old headmaster living across the road that the mango tree was hurriedly axed after a storm crippled it and its legendary branch, on which we played, crushed the head clerk's car, beyond recognition, one gray morning, many years back. The school now has wound up and is turned into the office of the district education officer. No children are seen in its vicinity. Most trees have been cleared for another building. An ugly structure has come up there instead, where once the mighty tree reigned supreme. A sleepy peon is at the mesh door, deterring junior teachers from meeting the madam. 'She is very busy today. Come later, tomorrow'. He tells all visitors.

The rest is rust. The only remains and left overs of time are an assortment of wounded memories, deeply etched with acid on the smoke plate of our minds, remaining steadfast and undiluted in the recesses of the psyche.

Ravindra Tandon Nov, 2022