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Murari's Dream

Mar 11 2008 | Views 951 | Comments (94)

My vacation ended, before it had begun, on the day the residents of the little, sleepy villag... Expand

My vacation ended, before it had begun, on the day the residents of the little, sleepy village heard of my journalistic capabilities. Thanks to my garrulous Mami, before nightfall, all the neighbours had heard of my arrival and by next noon the entire village was agog with excitement. It was the kind of excitement the village saw during the visit of a VIP. Of course, the parameters of a VIP in that village differed from other places. Here a VIP could be anyone who had attained something in life; right from a local boy who had done his engineering or got a medical degree to a local girl who had settled in a metropolitan city. Even a school-master who had gone on a tour of a hill station, could catch the attention of the villagers for a while.

As far as I was concerned I was much more than a VIP. For them, a person who wrote for the newspapers or magazines was undoubtedly a VVIP. Whether I was merely a reporter assigned for the crime coverage or a political commentator or I worked on a gossip column did not matter to them. All they knew was that I wrote for a newspaper and that was enough to figure in their list of important people.

They did not know that I was a frustrated journalist who was fed up of being relegated to a crime beat. My stories fetched as little attention as a mouse in a gathering of lions. The fact was that I had arrived at the village to get over my frustrations and grab a little bit of fresh air.

That was not to be! The next morning, I was besieged with the village folks wanting to have a look at me as if I had just escaped from the zoo. Mama’s house was turned instantly into a museum. Some of my write-ups had been displayed with great enthusiasm by my well-meaning cousins. People came, turned the pages, looked at me with curiosity and walked away. The daring amongst them asked me several questions like – ‘where did you learn to write?’

‘How do you decide what to write about?’

‘How many days do you write in a week and how many hours a day?’

‘Have you met Amitabh Bachchan?’

While I did not grudge the poor folks their share of incredulity, I had come for a vacation and did not quite enjoy the prospect of being a museum piece. I tried to escape by going out for a long walk around the large village pond, which was surrounded by a mango grove.

It was a hot and humid morning and I was feeling a little exhausted after my walk. The city hardly offered an opportunity for a walk and my legs was not used to long walks. I sat down under one of the large mango trees, intending to relax for a while. But the gentle breeze soothed me and I dozed off for a while. I had hardly completed my forty winks when I was disturbed by a voice –

‘Hey, look, isn’t this the famous writer?’

I opened my eyes slowly. Two men stood before me.

‘Why can’t you leave me in peace?’ I asked, irritated at being disturbed.

‘Yes, why can’t you?’ one of them scolded the other. ‘She must have been thinking of a story and you disturbed her.’

‘Precisely,’ I replied seriously, ‘just as I had begun to formulate a story, you have disturbed me and now I will have to start thinking all over again.’

‘You fool,’ scolded the intelligent one.

‘But, you also wanted to speak to her,’ complained the other.

‘Shut up,’ said the clever one and looked at me reverently. ‘Amma, I am a small time actor. I work in the touring theatre group. I can act in any role. I have done Sita’s role as well as Radha’s role and many other roles. I am good at singing and dancing and I can…..’

‘Now, what have your acting talents got to do with me?’ I asked a trifle rudely.

‘Please don’t get annoyed, I am coming to that part. See Ma, you are a writer. You can make or break a person. You must have written about so many famous personalities.’

I was beginning to enjoy the adulation showered on me by these poor ignorant simpletons.

‘So I have,’ I replied untruthfully.

‘As I said, you must have written about so many people. I want you to write about me too,’ he said in an embarrassed tone.

‘About you?’ I was incredulous.

‘I know Ma it is unthinkable. I am being very unreasonable but I beg you, just write a few lines about me.’

With that he caught hold of my feet and wouldn’t let go.

‘What are you doing?’ I shouted.

‘No, Ma, I will not leave your feet till you agree to do this little favour to me.’

I was acutely embarrassed by his devotion. ‘Alright, alright, now let go of my feet,’ I said, just to get rid of him.

‘You will write about me?’ he looked at me reverently. ‘I will become famous and then I shall join the film industry. But I will never forget you because you will be the reason for my success and I shall remain indebted to you forever. When I become famous, I will give you lots of interviews.’

I was amused at his simplicity and a feeling of guilt nudged my heart. It was more to assuage my guilt than to please the man that I began working on an interview to him. He was thrilled with anticipation as though this little piece of write up (which was most likely to remain unpublished) was guaranteed to open up the doors to stardom for him.

Murari, that was his name, told me of his exciting adventures as he visited the neighbouring villages to perform the enactment of mythological stories. He even demonstrated a few popular scenes from Ramayana, for my benefit. His favourite one was where Ravana kidnaps Sita and flies away in his ‘Vimana’, laughing villainously while she weeps profusely. And he did a good job, too. The impromptu rendition of scenes were both touching and enlightening. Never before had I seen anything like this. The man was a chameleon. He could change his looks and persona in a minute, to suit the character he was playing. One moment he was the utterly feminine queen kidnapped by a villain and in the very next he transformed into a terrifying rogue bent upon extracting revenge from the noble king.

My afternoon sessions with Murari turned out to be far more enjoyable than expected. His talents knew no bounds as he skipped between a variety of roles. To be honest, I thought it was a good opportunity for me to study a unique character and to make matters more authentic, I took a few photographs while he performed on the stage, the next day. He was overjoyed.

Soon, Murari became a famous personality in the small village.

‘There goes Murari, he is the man about whom that writer from the city, is writing. She is going to publish his photographs as well. Lucky fellow,’ people said.

On the other hand Murari puffed up with pride. He sauntered in the village lanes jauntily. His dresses became more flashy and his hairstyle, more complicated.

After the much talked about interview, I was besieged by every person of little importance in the village, for an interview. Right from the school-master to the village head, everyone wanted me to write about them and photograph them.

‘Next time when I come here again for my vacation,’ I promised all of them, silently deciding never to return.

Soon, it was time for me to leave the village. My eyes were misty at the love showered by the villagers. A horde of people accompanied me to the railway station. Many of them had brought some gift or the other, including food-stuff, to make my journey comfortable. It was a touching scene and I felt humbled by their love.

Murari was carrying my suitcases with a reverence that befitted royalty. Such love and affection are unimaginable in today’s world of automation. I was not used to such a demonstration of human emotions and did not know how to handle it.

Once in Mumbai, I joined the sea of humanity, the clock-work existence and the practical matters of living took precedence. The little village became an unreal speck in the distance. I was back on the crime beat, running between police stations.

One morning the editor called for me. The newspaper was coming out with a special supplement on folk theatres. Aware that I was looking for a chance to showcase my writing skills, she asked me if I would like to do a feature on the subject. I didn’t think twice before agreeing to the heaven sent opportunity. It was the first time I had been assigned an important feature and I decided to make the best of the opportunity.

‘You have just forty eight hours to deposit your feature, can you manage?’ The editor had looked at me doubtfully.

‘Of course I can.’ I replied cheerfully

‘It should be good. I am taking a chance with you and since it is an important feature it will be placed in the prime slot.’

‘It will be good.’ I promised confidently.

Actually, our regular feature staffer was on leave and after much deliberation the editor had decided on me. I remembered Murari and his little touring theatre group. The interview was lying in a heap of papers which were waiting to be discarded but I had simply been too lazy to sort them out. Digging out the pages I went to work. I wrote the article many times, till it struck an emotional chord. It had to be good; I may not get another chance to display my writing talent. The photographs took some time to locate. Two days of hard work later, I had a perfect feature for the supplement.

It turned out to be better than the editor had expected. I waited with bated breath for her evaluation. Raising an eyebrow she finally commented, “It is quite good. I hadn’t really expected it to be this good.”

The feature brought great accolades to me and my editor seemed impressed. It turned out to be the turning point in my career. Thanks to Murari, I began getting more important assignments. From an ordinary crime reporter, I rose to writing special features. And all because of an adamant and ambitious guy called Murari.

Years later, when I happened to visit the village again, I went across to meet Murari. He was delighted to see me.

‘Ma, you did a fine job. You kept your word and I am so grateful to you.’

He took me to his house. He had framed each page of the feature and hung them in prominent places.

‘I am now the manager of my little troupe, which performs at different villages. I no longer do small roles, only important roles. People from the neighbouring villages especially ask for my performance. All this has happened because of the interview that you had done. I can never repay your kindness.’

I marvelled at his simplicity. He had forgotten all about stardom. Not once did he talk about joining the movies. He was content managing his little troupe. Murari’s ambition was fulfilled; he was famous in his village and the next.

I was the one who had benefited more from that article, yet I was still unsatisfied. I wanted to rise higher in the echelons of power. I didn’t even know where my ambitions ended!

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Murari's Dream

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