JOIN USMy neighbour and I were conversing about the sweltering heat when the topic of anekal male (hailstorm) popped up.
“It’s something terrible — what with them dashing the window panes and thumping the roofs! We shuddered and huddled close to ajji as she reeled off stories of rakshasas pelting stones at the frightened, fleeing devatas, and chasing them to the end of the earth. ‘Don’t open the door!’ she would warn the boys, ‘The devatas may barge in to take shelter, and the rakshasas will follow with bigger stones.’ They had the knack of making any mundane matter interesting,” my neighbour recounted.
At this point, her little son, who hopped to her side, enquired, “What is anekal, mum? I haven’t seen it, and you seemed to be telling a story?” “Story? Just some nonsense,” the mother brushed it off, “Anekal? It’s just one of the vagaries of nature.”
Not satisfied with the answer, the boy turned to me for clarification. But the working mother was in a hurry. “Next time it’s here, I will send you out and you will get your head split open by the big balls!” Saying so in a threatening tone, she dragged him away.
I felt sad that this generation had been deprived of one of the little pleasures that illuminated our childhood. Trifle it may seem when viewed by the modern mind with its lofty measures of enjoyment, but the simple pleasure the youngsters then experienced can never be equalled, what with many elders also taking part in the homely frolic.
What a thrilling adventure — holding the slippery, shining pearl in the hand one moment, and finding it gone the next! It enticed us with its beguiling look, but was hard as a stone while it hit the rooftops, justifying the name anekal, meaning ‘elephant-like stone’ in Kannada.
Everyone wanted to chase it, something like chasing a dream.
My sportive grandfather, who held a respectable job in a government office, often sat majestically on his special cane-chair placed in the veranda, with my aunts handling bandages, antibiotic phials, cotton, and ointments — medical kits of those times — while the boys of the house hobbled in the hailstorm to hunt for anekal. Their war cries (inspired by films featuring cowboys) would sound terrifying to us (girls).
Each hunter carried an umbrella and they altogether made a funny sight as they balanced umbrellas over their heads.
Tatha goaded them on with cheers and directions, taking up the roles of director, umpire and audience all rolled into one.
Yes, the pearl-divers fell often and presented a pathetic picture, but tatha was not the one to allow any fall deter the fighting spirit. He encouraged them to delve deeper, thereby inculcating the habit of perseverance in them.
My aunts and elder sisters lined up on the steps, deftly administering first-aid to their wounds. The army would be packed off once again on their adventures. It was then that the girls joined them, hampering the divers’ movements, inviting growls and scowls.
Treated as warriors, the troop would be honoured with hot tea, snacks and dry clothes to the background pianism of us (girls) standing aside with envy!