Confessions of a Hyperactive Boyhood, Smoking Traumas and Goat’s Milk Taste.
Author’s Note:
Girisaṁ’s Coffee Shop, nestled under the cool shade of a sprawling tree, is a sanctuary for minds and souls to relax and unwind after a rigorous trek up the steep slopes of scholarly, educational, and technical stories. Here, there are no three-minute quick fixes for losing weight or gaining riches.
Enjoy a piping-hot cup of coffee paired with delicious snacks—where humor is the main ingredient, seasoned with a splash of high-seas maritime adventures, tales of Bhishma, and timeless mythology. No action is expected or required from you.
Pause to take in the panoramic view of the hills and cascading waterfalls before resuming your trek toward knowledge! Dr Mehmet Yildiz and Dr Michael Broadly would surely recommend a healthy dose of humor as the perfect complement to a nutritious diet and exercise regimen. Humor is the best medicine!
Three Calls, One Crash, and the Miracle of Tata Rao
In that precise moment, I behaved exactly like young Lord Ganesh in the classic mythological legend of the Atmalingam.
For those not familiar with that famous lore, the demon king Ravana had earned the sacred Atmalingam as a supreme divine boon through intense penance to Lord Shiva. However, Lord Shiva attached a crucial, non-negotiable warning: Ravana could only set the Atmalingam down on the floor inside his personal pooja room. If he placed it down anywhere else on the earth, it would immediately root itself to that exact spot forever.
The Gods in heaven were deeply anxious. If Ravana succeeded in bringing the Atmalingam safely to his palace pooja room, he would gain absolute divine protection and become completely invincible. Desperate to prevent this, the Devas approached Lord Ganesh, begging for his intervention.
As Ravana journeyed back toward his kingdom, the evening drew near. Being deeply religious, Ravana never missed his daily evening prayers (sandhyavandanam) and needed to perform his ritual bath in the nearby river. However, he could not carry or hold the holy Atmalingam while wading into the water.
Noticing a young cowherd boy standing nearby — who was actually Lord Ganesh in disguise — Ravana approached him and requested that he hold the heavy Atmalingam until his bath and prayers were completed.
Ganesh agreed, but issued a strict condition: he warned Ravana that he would call his name aloud three times if the weight became too heavy, and if Ravana did not return immediately to take it back, he would set the lingam down on the earth.
As soon as Ravana was chest-deep in the river, Ganesh quickly called out, “Ravana! Ravana! Ravana!” in rapid succession. Before the demon king could even scramble out of the riverbank, Vinayaka placed the divine lingam onto the ground. The Atmalingam rooted itself permanently into the earth, leaving Ravana completely unable to lift, budge, or carry it home!
Standing in that bedroom, I shouted, “Mom, are you coming? Mom, are you coming? Mom, are you coming?” three times in rapid succession. Without waiting another second, I picked up the heavy, mysterious parcel and promptly lost my grip.
My mother was just a few feet away from the doorway when the parcel crashed onto the hard floor with a sickening, shattering crunch. The high-grade porcelain dinner set inside was instantly pulverized into dozens of jagged pieces.
My poor mother stood in the doorway, utterly exasperated, yet true to form, she did not scream or raise her hand.
“Why couldn’t you just wait for two minutes?” was the only sentence she uttered, her voice laced with deep, weary impatience.
She immediately summoned Tata Rao, a devoted peon designated for our household duties. In those golden days of government service, senior officers were granted official domestic attendants to assist with family upkeep. Tata Rao carefully gathered up every single broken ceramic shard, placed them in a box, and set off on a frantic search across the city markets. Miraculously, after visiting multiple crockery shops, he located and purchased an identical replacement dinner set, had it meticulously wrapped in similar gift paper, and returned home just in time. When the mysterious foreign lady returned that evening, Mother handed her the fresh package with a serene smile.
Who that lady was, where she was traveling, and why she had chosen our house as a luggage depot remains forever shrouded in mystery.
The Ear-Key Disciplinary Tool and the Newspaper Cigar
This same Tata Rao was also assigned the official responsibility of acting as my personal chauffeur. He dropped me off at primary school, picked me up at the gates, and pedaled me all across town on the front bar of his heavy black bicycle whenever I wanted to explore. Tata Rao had a habit of smoking local cigarettes during his breaks, and he possessed the unique artistic skill of blowing perfect, floating rings of grey smoke into the air.
I was completely spellbound by this trick. “Give me the cigarette! I also want to blow smoke rings!” I demanded one afternoon, pulling at his sleeve.
Tata Rao panicked instantly, dropping the cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath his sandal. But I was relentless. I kept pestering, whining, and begging him for a turn until he finally grew thoroughly fed up. “If you want to smoke, go get your mother’s permission first!” he snapped, thinking that would silence me forever.
I immediately turned around, ran straight into the house, and complained to my mother at high volume. “Look, Mom! Tata Rao is being mean! He refuses to let me blow smoke rings with his cigarette! Please tell him to give it to me right now!”
Now, my mother possessed a specialized, traditional disciplinary technique called the “Key” — a custom tool designed specifically for peace-loving parents who refused to hit their children. It operated on a simple mechanical principle: you take a firm hold of the child’s soft ear and turn it clockwise or counterclockwise, exactly like inserting a brass key into a heavy iron lock to lock and unlock a door. You continue twisting with steady pressure until you successfully extract a solemn, binding promise from the culprit.
Mother applied the “Key” to my right ear with practiced precision, twisting until I squealed and vowed on my life that I would never, ever touch a cigarette.
However, as I walked away rubbing and massaging my burning red ear, my stubborn childish resolve to experience smoking only intensified.
In those days, our daily bath water was heated outdoors in a large copper vessel placed over an open, roaring wood fire. I slipped over to the woodpile, tightly rolled up a thick strip of daily newspaper into a long tube, lit the tip in the glowing embers, and took a deep, aggressive drag just like I had seen adults do.
The flared newspaper instantly burst into a flame, scorching my lips and tongue. I dropped the burning paper and ran howling into the house, tears streaming down my face.
For the next several days, my severely swollen, blistered lips stuck out dramatically, making me look exactly like Lord Hanuman in the ancient play productions. That painful incident permanently cured any childish fascination I had with smoking tobacco.
Ironically, in my later college years, I would frequently hold lit cigarettes for my panic-stricken friends whenever their strict parents, college elders, or pretty neighborhood girls suddenly appeared on the horizon, taking the blame so they wouldn’t get caught. In those conservative days, drinking, smoking, and teasing girls were strictly associated with movie villains and bad influences, whereas young women were only supposed to fall in love with wholesome, disciplined gentlemen!
Raw Goat’s Milk and the End of My National Ambitions
My mother came from a very large, lively traditional family — she had three brothers and four sisters, which meant my brothers and I were blessed with an army of lively cousins. During the long summer holidays, we would travel down to my grandparents’ quiet village or visit various aunts and uncles, spending weeks playing games and exploring the countryside. My father’s side was smaller; he had three sisters, though we primarily visited one aunt who lived in the coastal town.
A few years after the smoking incident, Tata Rao was sent to pick me up at the Kakinada railway station. My father was extraordinarily brave and trusting, routinely allowing me to travel alone on the passenger train from Rajahmundry to Kakinada despite my young age.
Tata Rao placed me on the front frame of his trusty bicycle and began pedaling down the road toward my aunt’s house. After a few minutes of quiet riding, I leaned back and asked him thoughtfully, “Tata Rao, do you know why Mahatma Gandhiji became such a great, legendary man?”
He scratched his chin and admitted that he didn’t have the foggiest idea.
“My school teacher told us the secret today,” I declared proudly. “Gandhiji drank fresh goat’s milk every single day!”
Tata Rao stopped pedaling, looked down at me, and asked, “Do you also want to become a great, famous man like Gandhiji?”
“Of course I do!” I replied enthusiastically. “Who wouldn’t want to be great?”
Without another word, Tata Rao pulled the bicycle over to the side of the dusty road, set it on its kickstand, and led me by the hand toward a large banyan tree. A live domestic goat was tied to the trunk with a rough rope.
Before I could even comprehend what he was planning, Tata Rao squatted down, expertly milked the goat directly into his cupped, unwashed palm, and forcefully shoved his hand against my mouth!
I had absolutely no time to react and was forced to gulp down the warm, raw liquid. After forcing two full palmfuls down my throat, I thrashed wildly, broke free from his tight grip, and bolted several yards away, spitting furiously.
Awwwgh! The raw milk tasted completely gamey, warm, and utterly repulsive! As I stood there desperately pulling stray goat hairs out of my mouth and spitting onto the grass, Tata Rao was leaning against his bicycle, laughing his absolute guts out until tears rolled down his cheeks.
I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and made a silent vow right then and there: If becoming a national hero like Mahatma Gandhi requires drinking this vile, hairy liquid, no thank you! I would much rather remain a completely ordinary, average human being for the rest of my life!
Contd…
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