Not all who wander are lost...(6)
Maakadwala
In Hindi, he would be called Madari. English will loosely translate him as a 'Monkey man', but like all things touched by English, the translation alienates the reader and makes them assume it is a characteristics rather than being titular. Marathi has it rather straightforward -- Maakadwaala (Person with monkey(s)).
Maakadwaalas don't exist anymore.
A very rigorous and welcome activism from powers-that-be as well as a sensitized public has put an end to the likes of him and their 'monkey acts'.
But maakadwaala was a regular feature in a Pune that I grew up in -- the late '70s and early '80s.
His patrons knew maakadwala only by his trade -- maakadwala. Ironically, his pair of monkeys had better defined names -- Raju and Sita, Dharmendra and Hema or any such to which not only the monkeys but even the public responded. But makadwala was deprived of the common courtesy of a name.
Maakadwaala would saunter into our compound in the early evenings or late afternoons. The monkey pair riding on the crossbar of his cycle or following him on a leash on days he did not have the cycle.
He carried a dirty bag on his shoulder and played his damaru with the free hand. 'Taka-taka-taka-taka', his damaru would announce his arrival, and would be answered by the incessant barking of our pet dogs.
He would settle down in the compound and wait for children from the neighboring houses and building to gather. Once a sufficiently 'large' crowd of enthusiasts had gathered he would dramatically disgorge the contents (mirror, stick, tumbler and such) of his bag and goad his star actors to perform.
The histrionics performed by the monkey pair included acts like the male monkey going to war and being shot at and the female monkey breaking down in grief. The female monkey beating up the male monkey when he came home drunk and the female monkey admiring herself in a handheld mirror. The acts were routine and one could easily predict what was to follow next. The monkey act lasted for half an hour or so after which Makadwala got some money and if he was lucky enough, leftovers from a couple of homes which he almost always shared in equal proportion with the monkeys. If that was a case of genuine love or merely splitting spoils as equals, its hard to say, but for a fact and those onlooking it was a clear statement of lack of discrimination.
Cinemawala
Like makadwaala, cinemawala too had no distinct name. He was merely addressed by his profession, assuming that to be his his sole 'raison-d-etre'. He would cart a bioscope stand over a shoulder and walk through our lane announcing himself.
The moment one heard bioscope, one ran to catch a glimpse of the magical world that lay hidden inside that old, beat up box with a clapping monkey on its top.
Two people could watch a 'film' at a time.
You had to stick in your face into a wide funnel that was connected to the 'magical' screen inside the box.
Cinemawala stood besides you and rolled his film manually with a shank as the magic played itself out on the dark innards of the tin bioscope. It was a very abrupt and short clipping of unrelated images, without a head or tail to it -- literally. But one had a sense of having watched a rare preview, the joys of which can scarcely be bought in pushback luxurious seats at swanky multiplexes.
Like makadwaala, cinemawala too had no fixed rates and collected anything that was given to him as a show of 'decency'. And like makadwala he too has walked into the mists of time, carrying his cymbals-clanging monkey atop the bioscope, never to return.
In Hindi, he would be called Madari. English will loosely translate him as a 'Monkey man', but like all things touched by English, the translation alienates the reader and makes them assume it is a characteristics rather than being titular. Marathi has it rather straightforward -- Maakadwaala (Person with monkey(s)).
Maakadwaalas don't exist anymore.
A very rigorous and welcome activism from powers-that-be as well as a sensitized public has put an end to the likes of him and their 'monkey acts'.
But maakadwaala was a regular feature in a Pune that I grew up in -- the late '70s and early '80s.
His patrons knew maakadwala only by his trade -- maakadwala. Ironically, his pair of monkeys had better defined names -- Raju and Sita, Dharmendra and Hema or any such to which not only the monkeys but even the public responded. But makadwala was deprived of the common courtesy of a name.
Maakadwaala would saunter into our compound in the early evenings or late afternoons. The monkey pair riding on the crossbar of his cycle or following him on a leash on days he did not have the cycle.
He carried a dirty bag on his shoulder and played his damaru with the free hand. 'Taka-taka-taka-taka', his damaru would announce his arrival, and would be answered by the incessant barking of our pet dogs.
He would settle down in the compound and wait for children from the neighboring houses and building to gather. Once a sufficiently 'large' crowd of enthusiasts had gathered he would dramatically disgorge the contents (mirror, stick, tumbler and such) of his bag and goad his star actors to perform.
The histrionics performed by the monkey pair included acts like the male monkey going to war and being shot at and the female monkey breaking down in grief. The female monkey beating up the male monkey when he came home drunk and the female monkey admiring herself in a handheld mirror. The acts were routine and one could easily predict what was to follow next. The monkey act lasted for half an hour or so after which Makadwala got some money and if he was lucky enough, leftovers from a couple of homes which he almost always shared in equal proportion with the monkeys. If that was a case of genuine love or merely splitting spoils as equals, its hard to say, but for a fact and those onlooking it was a clear statement of lack of discrimination.
Cinemawala
Like makadwaala, cinemawala too had no distinct name. He was merely addressed by his profession, assuming that to be his his sole 'raison-d-etre'. He would cart a bioscope stand over a shoulder and walk through our lane announcing himself.
The moment one heard bioscope, one ran to catch a glimpse of the magical world that lay hidden inside that old, beat up box with a clapping monkey on its top.
Two people could watch a 'film' at a time.
You had to stick in your face into a wide funnel that was connected to the 'magical' screen inside the box.
Cinemawala stood besides you and rolled his film manually with a shank as the magic played itself out on the dark innards of the tin bioscope. It was a very abrupt and short clipping of unrelated images, without a head or tail to it -- literally. But one had a sense of having watched a rare preview, the joys of which can scarcely be bought in pushback luxurious seats at swanky multiplexes.
Like makadwaala, cinemawala too had no fixed rates and collected anything that was given to him as a show of 'decency'. And like makadwala he too has walked into the mists of time, carrying his cymbals-clanging monkey atop the bioscope, never to return.
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