This is a post about Chachaji. We were taught the word 'Chachaji' by our teachers or Children's Magazines and the figure associated with it was always Mr. Jawaharlal Nehru. Down South, especially in Kerala, we do not use that word, except for talking about Nehru, in an affectionate way. Born in the Post-Nehruvian (even Post-Indira Gandhi) and brought up and schooled in the Post-Rajiv Gandhi and Narasimha Rao era, I and most of my friends could never really relate to Mr. Nehru and the name 'Chachaji'. The only time I came close to do something for 'Chachaji' was to attend a painting competition on Children's Day, if my memory is not shaken, most of us were pushed over there by Rajiv, Archana and Manu, a few of the budding artists in our age group in that village. We were a group of 10-15 and the painting competition was conducted in a long hall of the newly inaugurated YMCA building. Parents had a good time talking and munching, waiting outside the hall in a long corridor, were tea and snacks were sold. For some of us, who went and bought paints, water color and brushes only in the previous evening, it was really a PAINT(h)ING. In one single evening, all the paint/water color stock in that small town was over and I remember going to a neighboring town, with my dad, to buy stuff for me. In the end, the 'torture hour' was over and some one came and took my painting. The humiliating incident was that the woman who came and took my painting looked at it and gave a lovely smile and said, "Nice Hippopotamus." But I intended to paint an Elephant!! Rajiv, who felt a moral responsibility in giving tips for the painting, tortured me for 10 years regularly and still doing it occasionally by imitating that woman's comment. He came out First in that competition and Manu was in the Third position. And there were hundreds of us clapping for them and our parents thinking about a day gone waste.
Years passed and I entered college. Rajiv joined Raja Ravi Varma College of Fine Arts and started climbing the big steps of becoming an artist. Manu forgot all about painting and started thinking about films and photography and world cinema and very often, 'World' as 'Cinema'. Boys tend to get intolerable when they are in that age, I guess. Archana, who used to paint well, was in my College and was planning to join somewhere for an interior designing course. During that time 'Chachaji' came back to me again. This time as a play organized by some of my classmates and the script looked very much like 'Waiting for Godot'. I was offered a role and was forced to do it as the strength of our class was low and we were advised to draw students from our junior batch too. From the beginning itself, the play looked bad. Most of the participants were not serious about it and rehearsals looked like 'girls fun parties.' When it came on stage, we all looked thoroughly unprepared and most of us missed dialogues, which made the play all the more incomprehensible. 'Chachaji', once more became a symbol of humiliating experience!!
Years passed again. We changed cities and got scattered all across the country. Rajiv is now working as an independent artist and has done some exhibitions and workshops. Academics absorbed Manu and he does photography for a living and Archana is an interior designer in a famous company in Kochi. 'Chachaji' never showed up in their lives after the first incident (which they might have forgotten, by now). I moved to Bangalore and last month, in the beginning of Summer, I had just returned from Chennai, after a week's stay for the talks of a film and was lazying around. Somebody knocked on the door and I opened with that safety hatch on. It was an elderly man with a long white beard, wearing a turban and he looked like a Sufi saint. He asked for money, in Kannada, and considering the blank look on my face, he switched to Hindi, and I understood his need. The entire corridor was filled with some sort of smell. I gave him 50 Rs as that was the minimum givable amount in my wallet. The man gave me a small bottle of 'unbranded' (most probably, his own make) perfume and smiled. I asked him what it is and he turned back and said with a smile, "It doesn't have a name. If you want, call it Chachaji's perfume." He disappeared through the stairs, slowly.
Seriously?? Chachaji's Perfume??
Years passed and I entered college. Rajiv joined Raja Ravi Varma College of Fine Arts and started climbing the big steps of becoming an artist. Manu forgot all about painting and started thinking about films and photography and world cinema and very often, 'World' as 'Cinema'. Boys tend to get intolerable when they are in that age, I guess. Archana, who used to paint well, was in my College and was planning to join somewhere for an interior designing course. During that time 'Chachaji' came back to me again. This time as a play organized by some of my classmates and the script looked very much like 'Waiting for Godot'. I was offered a role and was forced to do it as the strength of our class was low and we were advised to draw students from our junior batch too. From the beginning itself, the play looked bad. Most of the participants were not serious about it and rehearsals looked like 'girls fun parties.' When it came on stage, we all looked thoroughly unprepared and most of us missed dialogues, which made the play all the more incomprehensible. 'Chachaji', once more became a symbol of humiliating experience!!
Years passed again. We changed cities and got scattered all across the country. Rajiv is now working as an independent artist and has done some exhibitions and workshops. Academics absorbed Manu and he does photography for a living and Archana is an interior designer in a famous company in Kochi. 'Chachaji' never showed up in their lives after the first incident (which they might have forgotten, by now). I moved to Bangalore and last month, in the beginning of Summer, I had just returned from Chennai, after a week's stay for the talks of a film and was lazying around. Somebody knocked on the door and I opened with that safety hatch on. It was an elderly man with a long white beard, wearing a turban and he looked like a Sufi saint. He asked for money, in Kannada, and considering the blank look on my face, he switched to Hindi, and I understood his need. The entire corridor was filled with some sort of smell. I gave him 50 Rs as that was the minimum givable amount in my wallet. The man gave me a small bottle of 'unbranded' (most probably, his own make) perfume and smiled. I asked him what it is and he turned back and said with a smile, "It doesn't have a name. If you want, call it Chachaji's perfume." He disappeared through the stairs, slowly.
Seriously?? Chachaji's Perfume??
