The Circus

Through the kaleidoscope of time, I can see my tall grandfather standing at the threshold of his dispensary with my tiny hand secure in his, ready for our evening stroll, when a tall well-built man strode up the well-worn steps of our porch. Immaculately dressed in black shirt and beige trousers, he folded his hands into a reverent namaste and asked if he could talk to my grandfather for a few minutes. I looked up inquisitively at the swarthy face with a prominent huge mustache hiding his lips while my grandfather enquired about the purpose of his visit. Losing no time over pleasantries, he asked if they could use our football ground for 'The Great Empire Circus'. My grandfather easily gave his consent while I grew restless with excitement. Although the man ignored my presence, the ghost of a smile touched his lips as he left hastily.

Froths of exhilaration spilled over the brim of a mundane existence as old battered loud speakers tied to rickshaws, announced the commencement of the circus within a week. Sainthia, a small town in Eastern India, didn't have a regular market then. On the sandy banks of the Maurakshi River hemming her southern edge, every Saturday, villagers from near and afar sold a medley of goods ranging from vegetables to cattle in the temporary haat (market).

That Saturday happened to be somewhat different from the other weekends of the year. Under the old banyan tree near the haat, was a broken cemented platform; the circus company made a temporary stage under its shade. The audience was in splits as two jokers entertained them with their acrobatics, while, two men distributed yellow pamphlets to the enthusiastic crowd. A swirl of wind rustled through the fallen leaves, sweeping away a large number of pamphlets from the butter fingers of the absent-minded volunteer. The azure blue autumn sky was soon dotted with the little yellow messengers gliding merrily through the whirlwind, carrying the news of the circus to faraway lands.

The peacefulness of the early morning was crushed under the wheels of the colourful caravan snaking its way through the dusty lane heading towards our football ground. My tiny feet flew to the roadside to catch a glimpse of a fairytale on wheels as it jingled along at a leisurely pace. Each compartment was covered with vibrant graffiti depicting various acts of the circus. It was carrying the members of the circus family in its underbelly, some of whom craned their necks out of the multicoloured windows and waved at us.

Within an hour, the deserted green field moistened with dew, woke up to a day of frenzied activity. Men and women poured out of the belly of the caravan along with boxes of various dimensions. Some of the men looked like pirates sporting long ponytails and thick silver earrings. A part of the train was taken apart to reveal huge structures. If you took a closer look, they were the cages of animals. No one was being allowed to go near the cages as they were heavily guarded.

From the balcony overlooking our football field, we watched 'The Great Empire Circus' being set up. Thick pegs supporting muscular ropes were driven into the ground by strong well-built men. They supported a circular tent in a riot of colours lighting up the whole field. Small lanterns were hung along its periphery; while a bunch of unruly colourful streamers danced with abandon atop a maypole right in the center of the colourful circle. At night, garlands of light glittered across the field creating a motley of shadows on the walls of our balcony and a part of it perpetrated into our bedroom.

The circus was about to begin in a day and my excitement knew no bounds. My tired eyes tried to figure out the strange shapes created on the walls by the colourful shadows. I don't know when the fingers of exhaustion coaxed me into a deep slumber where the circus came into life again.

It was midday when a sharp knock on the door disrupted my play. I ran to unbolt the latch without realizing that, a pleasant surprise awaited us. At our threshold stood the tall dark man in a lemon-yellow shirt from the circus, his stern face broken into a pleasant smile. Suddenly, a veil of shyness engulfed me, and I ran inside, leaving the visitor at our doorstep. "The Circuswalla has come", I whispered into my grandfather's ears. With long strides, he strode across the yard to welcome the unexpected guest.

The man with the huge mustache, Mr. Ramanand Sagar had come to invite us to be the guests of honour. At last, my wait was over, and we were to witness the opening show the following evening. I snuggled close to my grandfather as the two men exchanged pleasantries in our cosy little drawing room. My grandparents requested him to have lunch with us and I joined in to convince our hesitant visitor. In a voice resonating pride and confidence, he told us that the tickets of the first week had been sold out in advance. The company was looking forward to a successful season in our little town.

As we proceeded to the dining room to have our lunch, an army of grey clouds obliterated the sun casting a dark pallor over our courtyard. Suddenly, a pleasant sunny noon was transformed into a sombre dusky evening. Streaks of lightening lit up the slate sky, followed by loud rumbles of thunder. Mr. Sagar halted before entering the dining room, a worried look stole over his smiling face. Cool drafts of breeze carrying dozens of leaves from our orchard, played hide and seek among our clothes while bouts of dust and sand filled our eyes. The turbulent vortex whistling around us was laden with guava, mango and jamun leaves from our orchard. "Oh my God, it's a cyclone!", groaned the poor man. His clenched fists ready to wrestle against the ravages of nature.

He was about to run through the storm when large drops of rain struck the cemented floor of our courtyard. Soon the drops amalgamated into a torrential shower drumming on the earth with a vengeance. Just then, a loud clap of thunder blinded our eyes and a noise that followed was deafening. It was a thunderbolt!

Mr. Sagar stood on our verandah tearing his hair in despair. The beautiful maypole with a bevy of colourful streamers was charred. The thunderbolt had struck the maypole and the colourful circus tent had a big gaping hole. Torrents of rain poured mercilessly into the circus tent through the crater created at the center. The entire tent was shredded into pieces by the raging cyclone and fragments of cloth hung here and there. The garlands of lights that decorated the camp, were ripped apart. Many of the lanterns were missing. The roars of the frightened animals almost drowned the cacophony of human voices. The loud grumble of the heavens coupled with the incessant outpours drowned the scented earth. Mr. Sagar, the man who appeared so stern and confident a few hours ago, wept in agony as my grandfather put his arms around him. The angry outpours of rain lashed away all possible words of comfort. My gentle grandmother had tears in her eyes and I stiffled my sobs in the soft folds of her white cotton saree, mourning for my dream circus which lay in ruins.

The lull after the storm was deafening. With blood-shot eyes mirroring his misery, Mr. Sagar dragged his unhappy feet towards the field, littered with the vagaries of nature. My kind grandfather offered to accompany him, and I ran along clutching his finger tightly refusing to let go. With an indulgent look, he took me along. Lunch was forgotten!

We were unprepared for the mayhem that met our eyes. A dwarf clown ran into Mr. Sagar's arms and broke into tears. Could jokers cry? I thought they only rolled in peals of laughter. But here, he was inconsolable.

The storm had left vestiges of its touch here and there. Mr. Sagar called all his men and began barking orders like a military general. I don't know from where he got the strength to fight back with such a vengeance. The work of rebuilding began in earnest. No one paid any heed to us as we retreated our steps back home.

The football ground riddled with countless potholes turned into a battlefield where the sweat and blood of these unfortunate men and women mingled with the soft ruddy earth. They toiled tirelessly throughout the evening as it melted into a dark charcoal night. From our verandah I could see Mr. Sagar running around like a man possessed. He was still in the lemon-yellow shirt which was now stained with sweat and the red soil. He lent a hand to the men with long pony tails struggling to drive the pegs of the tattered tent into the red murky soil. The animals at the circus moaned in misery as the dark night enveloped the earth.

Next morning, I ran to our balcony and the sight of restoration pleased the eye. Although the tent could not be replaced, a calm discipline reigned over the field.

I could not wait for the evening! Dressed in my pretty pink frock with rose buds all over, I was ready to witness the first show of the circus. As I walked towards the circus gate, a number of bullock carts loaded with people from near-by villages made their way towards the welcoming gates of the circus. The poor warm-hearted villagers gifted foodgrains and vegetables for the members of the circus. It looked as if the whole town had come to witness man's conquest over nature. Men, women and children dressed in every possible hue stood in meandering lines eager to experience the circus. We were a part of the crowd too, waiting for our turn. Livid descriptions of the storm and its fury buzzed around us.

Finally, we sat in the front row eagerly waiting for the show to begin. The lights were dimmed till they faded out. The melody of the bugles filled the air and a colourful procession of the participants filled the arena. Dressed in dazzling white shirt and black trousers, Mr. Sagar stood at the center of the stage. In a voice laden with emotions, he began by thanking the kind-hearted residents of Sainthia for their generosity without whom the resurrection of the circus would not be possible. As I sat wide-eyed on the sofa trying to figure out the glittering procession smothered in the muffled dark; the spot light illuminated the man who refused to let a cyclone stop his show from going on.......