When the World Was Small ……………& beautiful

 

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.