ರುಜುವಾತು

My Dasara belongs to my childhood which I spent in a far away jungle surrounded village of the Sahyadri mountain region. An old man called Ballal would visit us sometimes walking miles and miles in the forest paths. If he appeared with an akshatha mark on his forehead it meant he had eaten. If he did not my mother knew he would stay on for his midday meal. All the family would sit on mats in the verandah and hear him tell stories. He was a great narrator of stories and we waited always for him to begin the story of his visit to Mysore to see Dasara. And he never failed us.

It was long long ago that he visited Mysore and saw the Dasara festival and Jamboo Savari but every time he retold the story there would be something new in it. The story was always narrated in the present tense; and every time the royal elephant and the Maharaja wore more resplendent jewels and the Maharaja smiled differently to the waving people. Sometimes Ballal was inspired by our intent listening, and on such occasions, the Maharaja even smiled at him–"'at this your old uncle of dark skin'"– as he took care to wearing a zari shawl for the auspicious occasion.. He even carried that shawl to impress us.