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Published: February 22nd 2011
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Tottempudi Gopichand dances to fast beats and piercing whistles. Brahmanandam commands claps and catcalls for the umpteenth time. We too applauded the latest action hero and the constant comedian of Telugu cinema, but reserved the loudest for Prakash Raj, the antihero who has been creating superheroes across south India. “Pedda Prakash Raj fansukalu…” The reveling boys behind us were curious about the villain worship. By the time we left the old-world theatre, after Gopichand did the customary bashing-up of the army of herculeses, we were bound by our love of the fantastical.
Prem Udayabhanu and I had got into a slow passenger train to Guntur from Bangalore in the morning. Chilli bajjis and dal vadas accompanied apple-flavoured vodka. After noon, we got down at Dharmavaram, about 40 kilometres short of Anantapur, our original destination. Chiranjeevi, matinee idol and member of the legislative assembly, is in town, leading his party’s road show. Oppressed by the high noon, however, we asked an autorickshaw driver to drop us at a theatre showing ‘Wanted’.
Telugu movies mined Anantapur and the greater Rayalaseema region for violent plots. The warring ‘factions’ and their fancy knives and country bombs set the backdrop for many super hits.
Politics here has been as avenging and unforgiving. A month after Ram Gopal Verma released two movies – Raktha Charitra 1 & 2 -- on the rise and fall of Telugu Desam’s Penukonda legislator Paritala Ravi and the rise of his nemesis Maddelacheruvu Suri, the latter too fell to bullets in January. The cycle of violence precedes and transcends the reel.
Wanted turned as bloody as the posters promised. But the land proved hospitable. The boys invited us home. There were twelve of us, including the driver, on a "share auto" to Battalepalli, a town, a junction in fact, about 20 kilometres off Dharmavaram on the Chennai-Anantapur national highway. Mobile phones sang Telugu songs. I asked for ‘Ringa, Ringa..’ Surprisingly, none of them had it on their phones. So we sang it, adding to the intoxication. It was night by the time we reached Battalepalli. We proceeded to a tiny village called Gummala Gunda, sitting in the ‘boot’ of another autorickshaw, almost dragging our feet on the asphalt.
The colony is half asleep, except for a few insomniac elders. Vijay and friends take us to his house at the far end of the colony. His mother is at
the neighbour’s. We continue to discuss what we know in common – Chiranjeevi, Nagarjuna, Allu Arjun etc – over a plate of boiled beans and fried sweets. The snack, made of rice and jaggery, resembles the unniyappam of Kerala. More boys join. Our hosts introduce us – particularly me, the Don from Bangalore – to everyone. It’s the best name a hitchhiker can get. Everyone likes to have a don as friend.
"No drinking here," Vijay points to an icon of Jesus. We didn't have any stock anyway. The family uses this room to pray, sleep and store its agriculture tools and the harvest of rice. The other room, not larger than a train toilet, has been allotted to a cat and her litter of two. Vijay's elder brothers are working in Bangalore. He shows me the family album, him trying out stylistic poster poses with shades and mobile phones.
We move to a community hall which doubles up as a primary school in the day. It is built by a non-government organisation with Spanish funding. I remember all the Telugu movies I have seen to keep the conversation going. It is easy to understand standardised movie dialogues,
but the local lingo moslty flew over my head. I approve of everything they ask my opinion of, because I can recollect only "baga undi".
Tired after a graveyard shift, a booze binge, a slow train journey, a maddening movie and much roaming around, we sleep on the stone floor of the school. Festooned paintings -- smiling sunflowers, chubby tigers, lonely tiled houses and winding swan-filled rivers -- hung over us like dreams. Maps of India, Andhra Pradesh and Anantpur are painted on the walls. I have slept in my college class room many times. But this is a first.
In the morning, we venture beyond the last house in the colony to the endless fields of rice and lentils, with rationed water in a tin mug. These houses don't seem to have a toilet. This is going to be another first. Second actually. And it's best avoided in future. This outdoor practice can turn addictive. Squatting in the vast breezy field is so relieving.
Water is the most precious commodity in this arid land. We get some to brush teeth, not to bathe. Vijay's mother and godmother are cooking in their yard. We get some hot
smoky coffee. The mother puts two very large scoops of rice-ragi mixture in plates. A familiar dilemma. I can't finish the heavy meal, but I can't waste the food offered by my frugal hosts. Vijay prods me, flexing his biceps: "Ragi makes you stronger." True. This heavy breakfast is meant for farmers before they head for the daylong toil.
We settle for the battle with breakfast and soon realize that we had underestimated the broadbeans fried with crushed red chillis. We hogged the bland rice-ragi with small pinches of broadbeans. Andhra-style eateries were always my favourite. But this simple dish beats them all. The exceptional taste would be emblematic of this haphazard weekend, as the colour and odour of the chillis that dominate fields and markets.
It's time for us to leave. An autorickshaw has come and will leave for Battalepalli soon. On the way, Maruti takes me to his house, similar to Vijay's. Jesus is replaced by Satya Sai Baba, another totem of the region. Maruti's parents and most of their neighbours are already at work at a nearby field. We get on the rickshaw, this time only nine of us.
At Battalepalli, the boys take
us through a narrow stairway to a tiny shop. They want to compensate for not treating us to "Ringa, ringa". They offer to download the song to Prem's brand new HTC. Prem tries to tell them that he has it at home. "It's free," they insist. "Our friend, your friend," they introduce the local supplier of ring tones, and possibly some virus. Luckily for Prem, our new friend didn't have the song ready.
To make up for it, we waited till a music system-fitted taxi (it was neither a car nor a rickshaw), again shared by strangers. Fast beats on a smooth highway, dry fields stretching on either side.
Anantapur, where we planned go two days ago. But where in Anantapur? our hosts ask. We decide to end the sojourn where it started -- movie hall. The boys have seen all new releases. They recommend Merpakkai. "Raviteja super." As long Prakash Raj is there as the incorrigible baddie, we didn't mind.
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