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Chakrapani Bommirajulu
The first dream that Chakrapani ever wrote down was that of his paternal grandfather. Not that it was truly remarkable or anything but he wanted to share it with grandpa and while basking in his pleasure, wheedle some money for goli soda and hardboiled gingercandies. He had dreamt of grandfather dreaming about his prize cock winning Boorogapudi's Annual Sankrati cockfight and being bestowed with 5 gold coins and the title Kodi Raja by the Zamindar. The dream came true to grandpa's delight and grandma's misfortune because he insisted on being addressed by his full ceremonial name from then on, Kodi Raja Bommirajulu Sitarama Malligarjuna Rao, even at home. The poor soul got frustrated of this within a few weeks, as even simple things like asking him to milk the goats or pass her the paanbox became a chore. And soon she began to see violent dreams every night, always involving the prizecock. She would dream of the feathered villain getting transformed into a mouth-watering Andhra dish like GonguraKodi one night or KodiKura the next, and every morning Chakrapani would wake up drooling. And on the night she dreamt of her masterpiece, spicy pepper KodiBiryani, the heady fragrance of Basmati woke him up and he wrote down her dream with a fervor only gluttony can impose.
The next day the Champ was found dead, apparently hit by a stray stone thrown by a girl playing 7tiles. Grief-stricken as he was, grandpa agreed that a divine biriyani would be a fitting tribute to the royal rooster but asked grandma to fry the heart and liver with dry chillies separately for him so that he could imbibe the fighter's spirit.
In the years that followed Chakrapani saw as many dreams as the nights in those years; that of friends and fakirs, sisters and strangers, communists and con-artists. But he wrote down only a few, and only the ones that he wrote down came true. For instance, he had written down Hitler's dream of killing 6million Jews but skipped Gandhi's dream of dying in his sleep at Sabarmati. He always said he felt no obligation towards any particular dream because he didn't choose his dreams, but the dreams chose him.
And then suddenly he stopped writing. He took the decision on his Firstnight. He had married Mohanangi, one of the prettiest girls in Boorogapudi and was the happiest man in the village that night. But close to dawn he dreamt of his wife dreaming of running away with her lover, and he woke up sweating and looked at his notebook with a tremble which shook him to his innermost core.
Chakrapani never touched the notebook again or wrote down anybody’s dreams. And today when all of us were sitting around having sweetened black tea, his 5year old great-granddaughter came running and he planted a kiss on her forehead, and I finally understood why. He had decided not to fulfill others’ dreams, in order to live his own.
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The first dream that Chakrapani ever wrote down was that of his paternal grandfather. Not that it was truly remarkable or anything but he wanted to share it with grandpa and while basking in his pleasure, wheedle some money for goli soda and hardboiled gingercandies. He had dreamt of grandfather dreaming about his prize cock winning Boorogapudi's Annual Sankrati cockfight and being bestowed with 5 gold coins and the title Kodi Raja by the Zamindar. The dream came true to grandpa's delight and grandma's misfortune because he insisted on being addressed by his full ceremonial name from then on, Kodi Raja Bommirajulu Sitarama Malligarjuna Rao, even at home. The poor soul got frustrated of this within a few weeks, as even simple things like asking him to milk the goats or pass her the paanbox became a chore. And soon she began to see violent dreams every night, always involving the prizecock. She would dream of the feathered villain getting transformed into a mouth-watering Andhra dish like GonguraKodi one night or KodiKura the next, and every morning Chakrapani would wake up drooling. And on the night she dreamt of her masterpiece, spicy pepper KodiBiryani, the heady fragrance of Basmati woke him up and he wrote down her dream with a fervor only gluttony can impose.
The next day the Champ was found dead, apparently hit by a stray stone thrown by a girl playing 7tiles. Grief-stricken as he was, grandpa agreed that a divine biriyani would be a fitting tribute to the royal rooster but asked grandma to fry the heart and liver with dry chillies separately for him so that he could imbibe the fighter's spirit.
In the years that followed Chakrapani saw as many dreams as the nights in those years; that of friends and fakirs, sisters and strangers, communists and con-artists. But he wrote down only a few, and only the ones that he wrote down came true. For instance, he had written down Hitler's dream of killing 6million Jews but skipped Gandhi's dream of dying in his sleep at Sabarmati. He always said he felt no obligation towards any particular dream because he didn't choose his dreams, but the dreams chose him.
And then suddenly he stopped writing. He took the decision on his Firstnight. He had married Mohanangi, one of the prettiest girls in Boorogapudi and was the happiest man in the village that night. But close to dawn he dreamt of his wife dreaming of running away with her lover, and he woke up sweating and looked at his notebook with a tremble which shook him to his innermost core.
Chakrapani never touched the notebook again or wrote down anybody’s dreams. And today when all of us were sitting around having sweetened black tea, his 5year old great-granddaughter came running and he planted a kiss on her forehead, and I finally understood why. He had decided not to fulfill others’ dreams, in order to live his own.
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