The Toddy-Tapper
Ellan did not learn toddy-tapping; he inherited it. His father, Appan, was no less a trapeze artist while clambering the lanky trees. But Appan had learnt the art the hard way; after several skids, gashes and bone-crushing crashes. The distinctive limp, less pronounced while climbing, is a thirty-year-old spoil he bears to the day. Serious drinkers thronged at Appan’s palmyra since he served the only unadulterated sort of toddy anywhere in the vicinity. Their progenitors were pedigreed tappers who not only served the purest toddy but also entertained generations of hard drinkers with their stylish, nonchalant mounts and smooth descents. But Appan elevated the mundane toddy-tapping to sort of aerobatics, almost turning it into an art form. Watching Appan’s artistry was pure pleasure for the hoi polloi of Kadambathur. Even before a drop of toddy ran down their gullets, his spectacular feats turned the onlooking boozers tipsy. And the fresh toddy made a heady mix that, within minutes, rendered them dizzy. And the resultant spells of solid sleep revitalised farmers for next day’s trudge. Chronic insomniacs were prescribed Appan’s toddy and, lo and behold, within days, most of them recounted bouts of somnolence. Nonplussed by the unexpected reversal of symptoms, quacks began recommending watered-down variety of Appan’s toddy.
For over ten years, while Ellan successfully frustrated his father’s wishes by not appearing anywhere near a palmyra; his father left nothing unturned to lure Ellan to tapping, including pots of toddy. After guzzling a potful, Ellan would pretend drowsiness, feign sleep and, eventually, snore away in effect. After Ellan’s marriage, at the age of nineteen, his father made one last crack; this time, Appan play-acted indisposition and stayed-put for three weeks. “If I don’t earn for a few weeks, Ellan would turn to tapping...I am pretty sure,” said Appan. “I am not so optimistic,” said Appan’s wife curtly. Son exceeded her expectations; Ellan disappeared altogether for a month and returned only after gathering news that his father has resumed tapping.
On the third day of Appan’s untimely, double pneumonic death, when some of his friends insisted, Ellan, having never mounted a toddy-tree all his life, danced his way up to the tree-top. With the main breadwinner gone, pleasantly surprised by her son’s inborn skill, Ellan’s mother beseeched him to continue toddy-tapping. A week later, he reluctantly agreed and grudgingly tapped for three months. The villagers were astounded that Ellan scaled the lanky trees with the nonchalance his father indefatigably exhibited during his prime in and around Kadambathur’s eighteen hamlets. “Ellan’s ascend is more agile, rapid and grippy like that of leopard’s...indeed, he does not climb...he levitates,” said an old-timer. Though a novice to tapping, Ellan filed the sickles so razor-sharp and weaved the ropes so tight that many retired tappers were thunderstruck. But, everyday during those three months, Ellan lamented, “You are wrecking my future...I want to reach greater heights which is impossible in this village. One can only reach the tree top here...I want to reach the skies and beyond.” “When you fall from the skies, there won’t be much left of you even to bury,” his mother retorted. “Of course, falling from skies is instant death...living here is nothing short of protracted, sluggish and calamitous one,” Ellan snapped.
Many toddy-tappers of Appan’s generation have been crippled for life or passed away and their offspring preferred, or plumping for, other lucrative, less perilous vocations. Ellan’s father was the last surviving, practicing toddy-tapper in the village. In fact, during his last few months, old and new tipplers would queue up by the toddy-tree and egg a reluctant Appan on until he got to the top and wait for his unhurried descents with fresh pots of toddy.
After tapping toddy for three months, at twenty, Ellan began doing what he was good at: dreaming a novel outlook for his future. That future had no place for toddy-tapping. In fact, that place had nothing to do with trees, thickets or trailing plants. Nor his inherited art was of any use where his future lied. He coveted to move citywards and become a city dweller; a true-blue city gent at that, at the soonest. He instantaneously fancied uprooting himself from his rustic roots. He lined it up all in such a way that, by the time he lands in city, there must be no trace of inelegance left in him, in his speech or even in his gait. He saw film after English film and did his utmost to imbibe the best of metropolitan terms, traits and trends.
“If truth be told, toddy-tapping is too hazardous a lifelong occupation,” Ellan apprised his friends. There were several heart-rending anecdotes of tappers crashing, fracturing bones and dropping dead altogether leaving young wives, toddlers behind. “Absolute death is better than hanging around maimed for life,” many crippled tappers lamented. He bought city clothes, shoes and got his hair cut the city way. Not only jargon but also his gait and sense of hygiene and time changed altogether. The laid-back, highly underemployed rural folks noted and mocked Ellan’s unexpected change-over.
An office peon’s job was what his city acquaintance could get for Ellan when he landed in Madras, the southern metropolis. It was a multinational IT major where a peon’s salary was equivalent to that of a government officer’s earnings. The office precincts were air-conditioned, modern and food was not only great but free too. To save as much as possible, many a time, Ellan would beseech the canteen boys to pack some food for his wife too. His agility and eagerness to help everyone was recognised by Shan, the vice-president heading human resources division. Soon enough, he was made senior peon; now he was a ‘boss’ to twelve other junior orderlies. While lesser peons served the less important clerical staff, now Ellan was stationed outside the cabin of Shan. Within a few months, Ellan became close enough to ask Shan, “Sir...is Shan a Tamil name?” “Absolutely, my full, first name is Shanmugam,” replied Shan biting into his cheeseburger.
Within three years, Ellan earned enough clout to render some senior executives envious. In a few more months, Ellan was being approached by everyone for getting their files signed, approved; he enjoyed sufficient pull to lower or raise priorities of files submitted. There came a time when suppliers of various things – ranging from stationeries to toilet paper – sought his benevolence. Ellan was compensated beyond his wildest dreams. Though he was promoted and even though several others reported to him, Ellan was disillusioned with years of routine, menial work. His basic work remained same; he was doing the same things now that he was doing for the lesser mortals. “This is no dignified way of living, “ he repeatedly told his wife, “My big business venture will kick off soon,” “Business calls for lots of investment...we have nothing to put in,” bewailed his wife. “Investments will arrive...have some patience,” Ellan exuded confidence.
Ellan’s greatest chance to make it really big in life knocked on Gandhi’s birth anniversary when Shan was out of office. A rival company’s executive sought photocopies of papers related to a million dollar tender and offered three lakh rupees as kickback. This was huge money for Ellan; even if he were to toil for this company for five more years, putting aside so much would be well-nigh impossible. Ellan exhibited great presence of mind; before handing over the papers, he insisted the money first. A Tamil film buff that he was, Ellan imagined a briefcase stacked with bundles of rupees. But all that the rival company guy handed over were three sleek bundles. After sending-off the rival company guy, just as Ellan was stuffing the bundles into his trouser pocket, Shan strode into his cabin. Surprised by his boss’ sudden visit on a holiday, even before Ellan could carry a glass of water, Shan flounced out and asked Ellan to drive to towards Mahabalipuram. “Quick, quick...we don’t have much time,” said Shan and almost dragged Ellan out and to his car.
Ellan had to steer Shan and his friends to an all-night bash on the shores of Mahabalipuram. While Ellan chauffeured, they swigged down couple of beer crates within twenty minutes. Mahabalipuram was at least forty more minutes away. Shan’s friends, in spite of being a Gandhi Jayanti day, cried out for more beer instantaneously. Spotting a cluster of palm trees, they pulled aside and enquired for toddy; the toddy-tapper had left for the day. Shan’s friends were getting hysterical. Recalling his toddy-tapping background, Shan asked Ellan to climb up a tree. “I have not climbed a tree in five years,” said Ellan. “It is in your veins...doesn’t matter...get on to one and bring down a pot,” commanded Shan.
Ellan made a thicker rope out of thin plastic threads lying in dickey and set about climbing. Shan’s friends whistled, wildly screamed and clapped every move upwards for all they were worth. About three quarters up the tree, Ellan felt the rupee stacks jutting out of his pocket. Even before he thrust a hand to squeeze them in, one bundle was almost out of pocket and about to plummet. He heaved to tuck it inside; the very next moment, pulled by gravity, Ellan crashed. The thud prostrated him still. While Shan was shocked and stiff, his inebriated friends shook inert Ellan in vain and then they tried to jolt him into consciousness. Sensing sinister signs, they picked up the three stacks, tugged Shan inside the car and drove away. Next morning, a broadsheet account read, “Toddy-tapper crashes, legs paralysed.” Shan, still under effects of hangover, read the boxed item and threw the paper away.
Ram Govardhan is currently scripting his second novel and a bunch of short stories. His first novel Rough with the Smooth was longlisted for the 2009 Man Asian Literary Prize. His short stories have appeared in Asian and African journals. He works with Hansa Research Group, Madras/Chennai, India. Email: ram.govardhan@yahoo.co.in
Ellan did not learn toddy-tapping; he inherited it. His father, Appan, was no less a trapeze artist while clambering the lanky trees. But Appan had learnt the art the hard way; after several skids, gashes and bone-crushing crashes. The distinctive limp, less pronounced while climbing, is a thirty-year-old spoil he bears to the day. Serious drinkers thronged at Appan’s palmyra since he served the only unadulterated sort of toddy anywhere in the vicinity. Their progenitors were pedigreed tappers who not only served the purest toddy but also entertained generations of hard drinkers with their stylish, nonchalant mounts and smooth descents. But Appan elevated the mundane toddy-tapping to sort of aerobatics, almost turning it into an art form. Watching Appan’s artistry was pure pleasure for the hoi polloi of Kadambathur. Even before a drop of toddy ran down their gullets, his spectacular feats turned the onlooking boozers tipsy. And the fresh toddy made a heady mix that, within minutes, rendered them dizzy. And the resultant spells of solid sleep revitalised farmers for next day’s trudge. Chronic insomniacs were prescribed Appan’s toddy and, lo and behold, within days, most of them recounted bouts of somnolence. Nonplussed by the unexpected reversal of symptoms, quacks began recommending watered-down variety of Appan’s toddy.
For over ten years, while Ellan successfully frustrated his father’s wishes by not appearing anywhere near a palmyra; his father left nothing unturned to lure Ellan to tapping, including pots of toddy. After guzzling a potful, Ellan would pretend drowsiness, feign sleep and, eventually, snore away in effect. After Ellan’s marriage, at the age of nineteen, his father made one last crack; this time, Appan play-acted indisposition and stayed-put for three weeks. “If I don’t earn for a few weeks, Ellan would turn to tapping...I am pretty sure,” said Appan. “I am not so optimistic,” said Appan’s wife curtly. Son exceeded her expectations; Ellan disappeared altogether for a month and returned only after gathering news that his father has resumed tapping.
On the third day of Appan’s untimely, double pneumonic death, when some of his friends insisted, Ellan, having never mounted a toddy-tree all his life, danced his way up to the tree-top. With the main breadwinner gone, pleasantly surprised by her son’s inborn skill, Ellan’s mother beseeched him to continue toddy-tapping. A week later, he reluctantly agreed and grudgingly tapped for three months. The villagers were astounded that Ellan scaled the lanky trees with the nonchalance his father indefatigably exhibited during his prime in and around Kadambathur’s eighteen hamlets. “Ellan’s ascend is more agile, rapid and grippy like that of leopard’s...indeed, he does not climb...he levitates,” said an old-timer. Though a novice to tapping, Ellan filed the sickles so razor-sharp and weaved the ropes so tight that many retired tappers were thunderstruck. But, everyday during those three months, Ellan lamented, “You are wrecking my future...I want to reach greater heights which is impossible in this village. One can only reach the tree top here...I want to reach the skies and beyond.” “When you fall from the skies, there won’t be much left of you even to bury,” his mother retorted. “Of course, falling from skies is instant death...living here is nothing short of protracted, sluggish and calamitous one,” Ellan snapped.
Many toddy-tappers of Appan’s generation have been crippled for life or passed away and their offspring preferred, or plumping for, other lucrative, less perilous vocations. Ellan’s father was the last surviving, practicing toddy-tapper in the village. In fact, during his last few months, old and new tipplers would queue up by the toddy-tree and egg a reluctant Appan on until he got to the top and wait for his unhurried descents with fresh pots of toddy.
After tapping toddy for three months, at twenty, Ellan began doing what he was good at: dreaming a novel outlook for his future. That future had no place for toddy-tapping. In fact, that place had nothing to do with trees, thickets or trailing plants. Nor his inherited art was of any use where his future lied. He coveted to move citywards and become a city dweller; a true-blue city gent at that, at the soonest. He instantaneously fancied uprooting himself from his rustic roots. He lined it up all in such a way that, by the time he lands in city, there must be no trace of inelegance left in him, in his speech or even in his gait. He saw film after English film and did his utmost to imbibe the best of metropolitan terms, traits and trends.
“If truth be told, toddy-tapping is too hazardous a lifelong occupation,” Ellan apprised his friends. There were several heart-rending anecdotes of tappers crashing, fracturing bones and dropping dead altogether leaving young wives, toddlers behind. “Absolute death is better than hanging around maimed for life,” many crippled tappers lamented. He bought city clothes, shoes and got his hair cut the city way. Not only jargon but also his gait and sense of hygiene and time changed altogether. The laid-back, highly underemployed rural folks noted and mocked Ellan’s unexpected change-over.
An office peon’s job was what his city acquaintance could get for Ellan when he landed in Madras, the southern metropolis. It was a multinational IT major where a peon’s salary was equivalent to that of a government officer’s earnings. The office precincts were air-conditioned, modern and food was not only great but free too. To save as much as possible, many a time, Ellan would beseech the canteen boys to pack some food for his wife too. His agility and eagerness to help everyone was recognised by Shan, the vice-president heading human resources division. Soon enough, he was made senior peon; now he was a ‘boss’ to twelve other junior orderlies. While lesser peons served the less important clerical staff, now Ellan was stationed outside the cabin of Shan. Within a few months, Ellan became close enough to ask Shan, “Sir...is Shan a Tamil name?” “Absolutely, my full, first name is Shanmugam,” replied Shan biting into his cheeseburger.
Within three years, Ellan earned enough clout to render some senior executives envious. In a few more months, Ellan was being approached by everyone for getting their files signed, approved; he enjoyed sufficient pull to lower or raise priorities of files submitted. There came a time when suppliers of various things – ranging from stationeries to toilet paper – sought his benevolence. Ellan was compensated beyond his wildest dreams. Though he was promoted and even though several others reported to him, Ellan was disillusioned with years of routine, menial work. His basic work remained same; he was doing the same things now that he was doing for the lesser mortals. “This is no dignified way of living, “ he repeatedly told his wife, “My big business venture will kick off soon,” “Business calls for lots of investment...we have nothing to put in,” bewailed his wife. “Investments will arrive...have some patience,” Ellan exuded confidence.
Ellan’s greatest chance to make it really big in life knocked on Gandhi’s birth anniversary when Shan was out of office. A rival company’s executive sought photocopies of papers related to a million dollar tender and offered three lakh rupees as kickback. This was huge money for Ellan; even if he were to toil for this company for five more years, putting aside so much would be well-nigh impossible. Ellan exhibited great presence of mind; before handing over the papers, he insisted the money first. A Tamil film buff that he was, Ellan imagined a briefcase stacked with bundles of rupees. But all that the rival company guy handed over were three sleek bundles. After sending-off the rival company guy, just as Ellan was stuffing the bundles into his trouser pocket, Shan strode into his cabin. Surprised by his boss’ sudden visit on a holiday, even before Ellan could carry a glass of water, Shan flounced out and asked Ellan to drive to towards Mahabalipuram. “Quick, quick...we don’t have much time,” said Shan and almost dragged Ellan out and to his car.
Ellan had to steer Shan and his friends to an all-night bash on the shores of Mahabalipuram. While Ellan chauffeured, they swigged down couple of beer crates within twenty minutes. Mahabalipuram was at least forty more minutes away. Shan’s friends, in spite of being a Gandhi Jayanti day, cried out for more beer instantaneously. Spotting a cluster of palm trees, they pulled aside and enquired for toddy; the toddy-tapper had left for the day. Shan’s friends were getting hysterical. Recalling his toddy-tapping background, Shan asked Ellan to climb up a tree. “I have not climbed a tree in five years,” said Ellan. “It is in your veins...doesn’t matter...get on to one and bring down a pot,” commanded Shan.
Ellan made a thicker rope out of thin plastic threads lying in dickey and set about climbing. Shan’s friends whistled, wildly screamed and clapped every move upwards for all they were worth. About three quarters up the tree, Ellan felt the rupee stacks jutting out of his pocket. Even before he thrust a hand to squeeze them in, one bundle was almost out of pocket and about to plummet. He heaved to tuck it inside; the very next moment, pulled by gravity, Ellan crashed. The thud prostrated him still. While Shan was shocked and stiff, his inebriated friends shook inert Ellan in vain and then they tried to jolt him into consciousness. Sensing sinister signs, they picked up the three stacks, tugged Shan inside the car and drove away. Next morning, a broadsheet account read, “Toddy-tapper crashes, legs paralysed.” Shan, still under effects of hangover, read the boxed item and threw the paper away.
Ram Govardhan is currently scripting his second novel and a bunch of short stories. His first novel Rough with the Smooth was longlisted for the 2009 Man Asian Literary Prize. His short stories have appeared in Asian and African journals. He works with Hansa Research Group, Madras/Chennai, India. Email: ram.govardhan@yahoo.co.in
