Cut to summer of 1950… My first holiday was at age 17 in Theni district, Tamil Nadu at a place called Cumbum which is famous for its spice gardens. At my uncle’s estate, my cousins decided with great gusto that, being a town boy, I required to be acclimatised to village ways. Fair enough, I thought, not realizing that my lessons on swimming and riding a bullock cart were going to be highly unusual!
Within the estate was a deep agricultural well of about 30-ft diameter. Water was pumped out to irrigate the estate but it seeped in at a pretty fast pace too. I was pushed into the well when the water was up to my chest level, say 4 feet deep. ‘Just remain afloat!’ they called out. As I splashed about madly, the water level rose until, within 20-30 minutes, it was up to my nose. I frantically yelled to my cousins to restart the pumping. In ten minutes, water was back to my chest level and the pump was promptly switched off. I started flailing my arms and legs once again, trying to stay afloat while all the time the water level rose ominously. Once again it was up to my nose! Restart the pump, I yelled, but there was utter silence. Cousins had gone home!
Thrashing about desperately, I suddenly discovered that I had somehow learned to float on my back! I plotted my revenge. An hour later, when my dear cousins returned and called out to me, they were met with utter silence. Intrigued, they peeped into the well and spotted me, completely still, floating on my back. Horrified, contrite and concerned, they jumped in to retrieve my ‘body’. As I yelled my lungs out at them, we had each learned a lesson, swimming or otherwise!
Next came my maiden bullock-cart journey when we all went to a night show in a tent-theatre over 16 km away. Travelling by three bullock carts, ten of us reached the venue for the 9pm show!
The return journey was particularly memorable. Almost everyone fell asleep as soon as they got into the carts and I, an inexperienced 17-year old town boy, was to drive our cart! I gingerly took the driver’s seat with no idea, whatsoever, of the route or of ‘steering’ the beasts. Soon enough, I realised they did not really need me. By some logic, they did not budge an inch for cyclists or pedestrians but gave a wide berth each time a bus or truck came by. Very smart! I mused. Two-and-half hours later, we reached Cumbum.
Wish I could have gotten a certificate from those beasts and beastly cousins for, back home in Madras, no one believed me when I said I had driven a bullock-cart. Nor do my grandchildren now.
