When the World Was Small
……………& beautiful
The steady, rhythmic clop-clop-clop of hooves against the
asphalt always brings it back. Long before the city was swallowed by the relentless
sputtering of auto-rickshaws and the impatient honking of cars, our family’s
ultimate weekend luxury was a ride in a Mysore tonga.
It was the mid 1960s, and the world moved at a
slower, gentler pace. Going to the movies or visiting the old bustling bazaar
wasn't just about reaching a destination; it was about the journey itself. The
anticipation would build the moment father summoned the tongawala our family’s Royal Court, Papaiah .We
siblings would peek from behind the gates, eyes wide in expectation , waiting for him to negotiate horse & carriage through
the gates.
When the wooden carriage finally pulled up, it felt like royalty
had arrived. The tonga was a marvel of simple engineering—large wooden spoked wheels
with Hard Rubber rims, a curved waterproof fabric hood that smelled of age and
rain, and the unmistakable, earthy scent of semi dried green grass and horse
sweat.
Climbing in was an art form. Father occupied the
front-facing seat beside the “Driver” while mother and elder sis & I claimed
the backward-facing rear seat . This was the prime spot., legs
dangling over the edge, & feet struggling to reach the wooden footboard the
world unfolding before us in reverse. Younger Sis & Kid Brother were usually hoisted & squeezed in between the front
and backward facing passengers. where they had to do with sitting cross legged.
Grandfather, always dressed immaculately for the occasion followed on his
precious “Made in England” BSA
Bicycle. We didn't see where we were going instead watched where we had just been, witnessing the
city slowly drift away backwards
Tongawala Papaiah would flick the leather reins,
make a sharp, clicking noise with his tongue , and with a sudden, delightful
jolt, we were off.
The ride was anything but smooth. Every pothole and cobblestone
sent a vibration through the wooden frame, tossing us slightly in our seats. We
giggled uncontrollably with every big
bump, holding onto the iron railings for
dear life while mother nervously warned
us to sit still.
As the horse trotted along the tree-lined avenues, a cool breeze
hit our faces, filtering through the
massive canopy of old banyan and gulmohar trees.lining the streets. Along the
way, the tongawala occasionally brushed
the thin bamboo stick handle of the horse whip against the side into the wooden spokes of the carriage wheel
to produce a clear clattering “tiky-taky-tiky-taky” noise —warning
pedestrians to make way. It was a sound of sheer joy.
We would get down at the entrance of the Movie hall ( invariably
Rajkamal,
Prabha or Lakshmi ) . father would instruct Papaiah to pick us after the movie
ended, On certain occasions we would take a detour to Hotel Dasprakash on our
return journey where we would be treated with Jamoon & masala Dosa. Moving at a
leisurely four miles per hour,after enjoying the snacks , listening to our parents’ reviews of the movie,
& reminisces about their own childhoods, created a capsule of pure security
and happiness.
By the time we reached home after the outing, hair wind-tossed by the breeze, our stomachs & hearts
were completely full.
Today, the Tongas have vanished from city streets, replaced by clatter of the Ubiquitous“Autos”,cabs, Buses & other forms of rapid transit. The old wooden carriages have mostly transitioned into historical relics or novelty rides at heritage sites like the palace,museum and Zoo. Yet, whenever life feels overwhelmingly fast, I close my eyes and listen closely. Somewhere in the quiet corners of my memory, the clop-clop of the horse's hooves,,Papaiah’s unique tongue clicking noise & the rhythmic clatter of bamboo stick striking against wheels echoes on, a timeless reminder of a beautiful, simpler yesterday.
