Kolam Kanna, page 1
VIBHA BATRA
KOLAM KANNA
Illustrations by Jemma Jose
PUFFIN BOOKS
Contents
1. Steel Sandwich
2. Runaway Paniyarams
3. Pravin’s Paradiso Thugs (The PPTs)
4. Poopy Park
5. Five-star Dream
6. Meet the Competition
7. Who/What/Where Is Mrs Bharathi?
8. A Good Feeling
9. A Bad Feeling
10. The Rules
11. Kontest Time
12. Have a Heart!
13. Welcome Home
Acknowledgements
PUFFIN BOOKS
KOLAM KANNA
Vibha Batra is an author, poet, advertising consultant, graphic novelist, lyricist, translator, playwright, scriptwriter, travel writer, columnist, speaker and creative writing mentor. She has published twenty-five books—many of which have won prestigious awards, bestseller tags and readers’ hearts.
For BNPMRS
STEEL SANDWICH
How do you catch a tiger?
Well, Bharathi usually started with the swishy tail and worked his way up. Up the razor-ish claws, the stripey fur, the heavy jaws, the vampire-ish fangs, the bristly whiskers, the smouldering eyes, the fierce frown and then right up to the tigerish head.
And he wasn’t just a catcher of tigers, mind you. He was also an expert capturer of peacocks and butterflies and fish and dogs and cats. (Ha! Got ya! Everyone knows cats can’t be captured.) They’re like the smell of freshly baked bread—free to go wherever they wanted to and tease whoever they pleased.
But don’t alert animal rescue teams or the neighbourhood watch, okay?
Because Bharathi wasn’t some cruel ringmaster who needed to be taught a lesson! Nor was he a poacher who deserved jail time (and a swift kick on his bum). He was certainly not a dognapper or cat snatcher. (Got ya, again! Please refer to the point about cats above.)
Bharathi was an artist. Not your regular wall-scribbling, newspaper-doodling, textbook-vandalizing artist. A proper kolam artist. Kolam? You know, the floor art form. Drawn at the entrance of homes, offices and temples. Every morning (or evening—especially if the creator happens to be a school-going nine-year-old). As a symbol of auspiciousness and prosperity; as an offering to ants, birds and insects.
The front entrance of Flat 2B was his art gallery—the floor was his canvas and his fingers were his paintbrushes. Armed with rice flour and coloured powder (and occasionally white stone powder or chalk), he created a beautiful piece of art every single day (kolams were a part of Tamil Nadu’s culture, heritage and tradition, after all).
And like a true master, he made it all look so easy.
A dot here, a line there, and lo! Stunning artwork.
A curve above, a loop below, and ta da! Intricate design.
A stroke to the left, a shape to the right, and voila! A complex pattern.
With a flick of the wrist and the flip of a finger, Bharathi could bring anything alive. Even tigers. According to many (okay, his friends), his drawings looked more realistic than the actual, real things.
Today, however, he was frowning at his creation. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but the orange jungle cat with its ferocious scowl, pointy whiskers, sharp teeth and long claws reminded him of someone. But who? He was racking his brains when he heard a soft growl.
Grr! Grrrr!
No, no, it wasn’t the tiger. Just his stomach.
It was time to ask Amma about those murukkus she was talking about earlier.
He looked up from the kolam to see her clutching her knees, wincing in pain. He shook his head.
It was the same story every day. They’d start drawing together, but midway through the kolam, her knees would start acting up, forcing her to stop.
A long time ago, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and Amma was young, she could sit on her haunches for hours. (Well, that’s what she said.) She could draw and draw without taking her hand off the floor or standing up in between. Imagine! Now, though, things were different.
Bharathi sighed. He thought of the first thing he’d do when he became a scientist. Invent a permanent cure for Amma’s achy knees and back pain and Appa’s sore feet and stiff shoulders. Since that was a few years away, he needed to come up with an idea now.
Bharathi cupped a hand behind his ear suddenly. ‘Did you hear that?’
Amma cocked an ear. ‘What? I didn’t hear anything.’
‘Beena Madam’s calling you.’ He got up and gently yanked her to her feet. ‘Go, Amma, go. Finish your work and leave all this to me.’
‘Are you sure, kanna?’ Amma wiped her hands on her saree, a mixture of regret and relief in her voice.
‘Who’s the kolam king?’ Bharathi turned up his collar.
‘You, who else!’ came a voice.
Bharathi spun around to see Tabassum coming down the stairs. Brandishing a cricket bat like a sword, her long braid swinging down her back, the ten-year-old looked exactly like a ninja (if ninjas wore white T-shirts and blue jeans).
Bharathi waved Amma off and beamed at his friend.
‘Tabu! Where’s Alagu?’ he asked, shutting the apartment door after Amma.
As if on cue, the third member of their gang appeared at the top of the stairs. In a pair of checked shorts and a T-shirt worn the wrong way around. Poor thing’s made a silly mistake, Bharathi had thought the first time they met. It was only later that he discovered that Alagu hadn’t put on the tee backwards by accident, but by design. It was his style, he had explained.
‘Oh! You’re here too! Two minutes, just two minutes,’ Bharathi assured them, getting back to work.
‘Arre, you’re making a kolam, not Maggi noodles,’ Tabassum said, hitting the bat for an imaginary six. ‘Take your time.’
She knew it was the first thing Bharathi did after coming back from school every day. Munching on murukkus was the second.
‘Creative genius at work. Cricket can wait,’ Alagu said in a robotic voice, bouncing the tennis ball against the wall.
Maggi noodles? Ha! It took as long as mutton biryani (hey, you can’t rush creativity). But did his friends mind? No way!
They gazed at Bharathi’s masterpiece in awe and admiration. They marvelled at the geometric figures, oho-ed and aha-ed over the vivid colours and were left speechless at the so-real-it-could-lunge-at-you-any-second tiger.
‘Whistle podu!’ said Tabassum, letting out an ear-splitting hoot.
Not one to be left behind, Alagu put together his thumb and index finger, pushed it between his lips and blew. But what came out was a phooo. He tried and tried and huffed and puffed. Alas, he only sounded like a punctured bicycle tyre each time.
‘Aiyyoo,’ he groaned, giving up. ‘I’m the worst whistle-poder ever. But you,’ he grinned and said, throwing an arm around Bharathi’s shoulders, ‘you’re Micasso da Vinci, da.’
Bharathi blinked. ‘Who-ci?’
‘Oho, Michelangelo + Picasso + Leonardo da Vinci.’
Micasso puffed up like a poori at the praise. ‘I learnt it watching Amma.’ Bharathi tried to sound humble and modest—all those things parents say you should be—but failed spectacularly.
‘I’ve been watching Mom do Zumba for ages too. And all I can do is this.’ Tabassum flapped her elbows like they were wings. The thing about highly ridiculous dance moves is that they’re highly contagious. The boys jumped right in, belting out bonkers moves of their own. Now, the flat happened to be right next to the staircase. Precisely why they failed to notice trouble approaching, er, the elderly lady making her way down the stairs. She was wearing a deep red cotton saree, a deeper frown and carrying a steel sandwich (steel plate below, food in the middle and another steel plate on top, covering it).
After this, everything happened in slow motion.
Bharathi swinging his arms around like a windmill, stumbled and collided with trouble, erm . . . the elderly lady. The steel sandwich flew through the air like a Frisbee. Four kinds of blood-curdling screams went up. Crunchy-munchy snacks somersaulted gracefully like Olympic gymnasts. The smell of freshly cooked food wafted through the air. Coconut and tomato chutney splattered on the walls. And then, all of them (not the elderly lady, just the steel sandwich and snacks) crashed to the floor with a deafening clanggg.
RUNAWAY PANIYARAMS
‘My paniyarams!’ The elderly lady gasped in horror.
Bharathi gasped louder. Not because the crispy, fried, yummy rice and lentil dumplings had crash-landed on his masterpiece, smudging it. Because he finally realized who the tiger reminded him of. It was her! Mrs Subramaniam! Same ferocious expression, same whiskers, same CCTV eyes, same satellite dish ears. The Tiger Twin!
‘S-s-so sorry, madam,’ he stammered out an earnest apology.
‘It was an accident,’ Tabassum said defensively, brushing away a speck of chutney from her T-shirt. ‘We were just playing . . .’
‘I’ll have you know, young lady,’ cut in Mrs Subramaniam, placing her hands on her hips, ‘the stairs are meant for public use, not for monkey business.’
‘Sorry, Mrs Supra Minion’—Alagu broke off, blushing furiously—‘er, I mean, Subbu Aunty’—he slapped the back of his head—‘er, I mean, Mrs S . . .’
A tiny giggle escaped Bharathi’s lips. He quickly tried to disguise it as a cough, but it was too late. The Tiger Twin turned the full force of her death glare on him.
He did the only thing he could under the circumstances. He bent down immediately. Not to touch her feet. To star
Naturally, his friends couldn’t stand by and watch. Soon, they were tracking down runaway paniyarams with the determination of forest rangers pursuing man-eating beasts.
Bharathi was reaching for the last piece when he spotted someone. His eyes widened in alarm. Oh, no! What rotten timing!
Mrs Subramaniam looked over his shoulder at the gangly istri wallah who was climbing up the stairs with an armload of crisp, freshly ironed clothes. He had a long, narrow face and a bushy moustache that covered most of his upper lip.
He stopped in his tracks and looked uncertainly—from the elderly lady to the three children. ‘Madam! What happened?’ he asked. ‘Any problem?’
‘No problem, Govindswamy,’ she began. ‘I was on my way down—the lift’s stuck on the ground floor again. How difficult is it to slam the lift door shut? Fools! Don’t they know it won’t start unless the collapsible door is properly shut!’ She grr-ed. ‘Had made paniyarams for Mrs Chacko, but they’re ruined now. Look!’ She directed her laser stare at Bharathi. ‘I was just telling your son and his friends to find another place to play. We don’t want anyone getting hurt . . .’
Govindswamy nodded like a bobble-head doll. ‘Yes, madam. No, madam. Okay, madam.’
‘. . . And we certainly don’t want anyone complaining to the Residents’ Welfare Association now, do we?’ she finished.
Bharathi handed the steel sandwich back to her, mumbling an apology.
Mrs Subramaniam looked at the trio like they were piles of dirty laundry. Then, she whirled around and walked back up the stairs. Her evening plan well and truly ruined.
Govindswamy rounded on Bharathi. ‘Dei! What was all that about? I told you, no, to stay out of trouble? Want us to get thrown out of the building or what?’
‘But I didn’t do anything wrong, Appa!’ Bharathi cried. ‘It was an accident! I didn’t see her—’
‘How could you? You don’t have eyes at the back of your head,’ Tabassum muttered.
Govindswamy ignored her. ‘That’s it. You’re not coming here anymore. From tomorrow, you’re going straight home after school.’
Bharathi’s face fell. What a bummer!
Amma and Appa worked in the building until eight in the evening. Which meant, every day after school, he had four whole hours to play and draw kolams and relish the snacks Beena Madam in 2B was kind enough to offer. His heart sank at the thought of being stuck alone at Chaithra Nagar. The corporation had relocated hundreds of families after the floods. And Bharathi was still getting used to living at the resettlement colony. ‘Appa, please, Appa,’ he pleaded. ‘Let me come to the building every evening. Please, Appa, I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again. I promise. I will stop dancing. Appaaaaaaa!’
Tabassum and Alagu exchanged worried looks.
‘That’s it! Stop crying! If I hear one more complaint about you—’ Govindswamy would’ve waggled a finger at him if it wasn’t for the armload of wrinkle-free, crisp, neatly ironed clothes.
Bharathi pinched his throat solemnly. ‘You won’t, I promise. Swear!’
With one last huff, Govindswamy resumed climbing up the stairs.
Tabassum waited till he was safely out of the way. Then, she thwacked the bat against the wall in frustration. ‘That Supra Minion! She thinks no end of herself. Just because she’s the president of the Residents’ Welfare Association, bah!’ A crazy gleam came into her eyes.
Uh, oh. The boys knew what that look meant.
‘Let’s ring Mrs Subramaniam’s doorbell tomorrow afternoon and run away! Like old times! It will serve her right. No nice afternoon nap,’ said Tabassum, clapping with glee.
Bharathi leaned back against the wall, looking as gloomy as the last day of summer vacation. ‘You heard what Appa said.’
‘Arrghhhh!’
The boys ducked in the nick of time as Tabassum swung the cricket bat like a mace.
Alagu placed his hands on his hips, shooting Tabassum a death stare. ‘Young lady, the stairs are meant for public use, not for donkey business. We don’t want anyone to get hurt now, do we?’
Bharathi and Tabassum looked at each other seriously for a minute before bursting into fits of laughter.
‘Monkey,’ Tabassum said, in between snorts.
‘How dare you call me a monkey, young lady?’ Not-Alagu said with mock outrage. ‘I’ll have you know, it’s M-M-Mrs S, not m-m-monkey.’
‘She said monkey business, not donkey business.’ Bharathi giggled.
‘Made you laugh, no? Then shut up,’ said Alagu, smirking. ‘Now, how about some cricket?’
Tabassum shook her head before breaking into a run.
‘Last one there is a rotten Mrs S,’ she called over her shoulder, dashing down the stairs.
PRAVIN’S PARADISO THUGS (THE PPTS)
The trio skidded to a halt. A bunch of boys were playing cricket in the park.
Tabassum gasped.
‘Not again,’ Bharathi groaned.
‘The PPTs got there before us,’ Alagu moaned.
Before they could say ‘Calm down, Tabu’, she’d marched off to the ‘pitch’.
‘Ēy!’ she called out angrily. ‘It’s our turn today!’
The tallest of the three boys, who was at the ‘crease’, let out an evil laugh. His cronies sniggered. ‘Who asked you to come so late?’
‘Don’t act smart, Narayan,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘We had a deal.’
‘Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, we get the field,’ Bharathi added, running up to her.
‘And it’s Monday today,’ Alagu reminded them.
Narayan acted as if they were invisible. ‘What are you waiting for?’ he barked at his sidekicks. ‘Let’s play.’
As the wicketkeeper chucked the ball to the bowler, Tabassum leapt up and caught it. The ball flew from her fingers, missing Narayan’s face by a whisker.
Narayan roared like a mad bull.
He threw his bat down and charged at her. Tabassum struck a fearsome kung fu pose. Tempers were flying, but before fists could start, Bharathi leapt in between them.
‘Let go!’ shrieked Tabassum as Alagu tugged at her arm with all his might.
‘Who does she think she is!’ Narayan bellowed as his minions dragged him away.
‘Yes, you better run!’ Tabassum yelled over her shoulder, snatching her arm away.
‘Let’s not get into any more trouble,’ Bharathi pleaded.
‘He’s right, Tabu. If Narayan complains to his parents—’ Alagu broke off with a shudder. ‘You know how his thatha is. He’s a walking-talking complaint register. An inspector is what he is! And he’s good friends with Mrs S.’
‘So, we should let the PPTs get away with it?’ she said angrily.
‘No . . .’ Bharathi murmured, squinting his eyes. ‘We’ll give it back to them . . . But for that, we need a plan.’
Tabassum kicked savagely at the grass and stomped out of the park. The boys followed slowly, faces long, shoulders drooping.
Suddenly, Alagu grabbed a handful of Bharathi’s T-shirt and pulled him back. ‘Watch it! Dog poop!’
And just like that, a light bulb went off in Bharathi’s head. ‘Got it!’ He pumped his fist.
The three friends headed towards the spacious and airy car park. As the office goers weren’t back home yet, it wasn’t stuffed full of cars. The friends made themselves comfortable on the parked bikes.
‘So, what do you think?’ asked Bharathi, outlining the plan.
‘It could work,’ Tabassum said reluctantly. She would’ve preferred her fists to do the talking.
Alagu rubbed his palms in glee. ‘I think it’s awesome! Let’s put it into action right away.’
They dashed into the building lobby, nearly colliding with a resident (again!) who was stepping off the elevator.
‘Erm, what are you doing?’ Alagu asked sheepishly as Bharathi scooted into the lift.
A puzzled look came over Bharathi’s face. ‘Going to Tabu’s house.’
‘Let’s take the stairs, da.’
‘All the way to the top floor?’ Bharathi groaned. ‘You’re kidding, right?
Tabassum grinned. ‘Remember, Alagu is banned from the building elevator? For life?’
