The Death of Black Beauty
The spirit of Thyagaraj did not “buckle” till the end.
I wish I were born in Neverland, an idyllic place inhabited by mermaids, fairies, Native Americans and pirates — and where children would never grow old and did whatever they liked. Like Peter Pan, who led the Lost Boys in Neverland, I led the Brigade Road Boys in Bangalore. After school hours, the Brigade Road Boys and I spent most of our time playing different games in the Sullivan Police Ground on Magrath Road, an uptown neighbourhood two blocks away from Brigade Road, a sort of real-world Neverland. We’d meet in the ground at about four-thirty in the evening — still dressed in our school uniforms, holding our hockey sticks in one hand and our cricket bats in the other. We’d play until the sound of the Maghrib (evening) adhan (call to prayer) blared from the mosque nearby — or until the guards would chase us out with their lathis (sticks) — whichever was earlier.
Unlike Peter Pan and the Lost Boys, the Brigade Road Boys and I were growing up and edging closer to the real world: our 12th-grade board exams. “Do you think we will meet as much after our exams are over?” I asked the boys. “The Brigade Road Boys will never die,” Thyagaraj said, striking his fist against his chest with extreme enthusiasm. “Do you remember how we came out with the name “Brigade Road Boys”?” Harsha asked, transporting us back to the day when I came up with the name. “Oh, dear God, I will never forget that day,” Martin said, clasping his face with his palms. It was a day when the four of us had gone to watch Shanghai Noon in Rex, a two-screen theatre on Brigade Road. Our parents commanded us to come back home soon after the movie ends. But, I had different plans — plans that would mark the beginning of our teenhood.
“Fun movie,” Thyagaraj said, flaunting some of the karate he picked up from watching Jackie Chan on the big screen. “Time to go home now,” Martin said, looking at the sun dropping from the sky, slowly disappearing below the horizon. “We’ll make it just in time if we start walking now,” Harsha said, taking a few steps forward towards the main exit. Thyagaraj and Martin followed suit. “Boys,” I said and continued speaking when they turned back, “let’s stay out till nine. We’re all thirteen now. Our balls have dropped, our voices have cracked — we’re not fucking kids anymore to listen to everything our parents say.” “But my dad uses the Black Beauty on me when I disobey him,” Thyagaraj said, showing us marks his father’s belt left on his upper back. “And my mother flings her chappal (slipper) at me when I resist her rules,” Martin said, releasing an imaginary object from his hand. “I get the hanger treatment when — “
“Belts, chappals, hangers, candle wax… I’ve seen it all too,” I said, intervening before Harsha could finish. “This time, we protest by staying out beyond curfew, taking the risk of being belted, slippered, hanger-ed or burned to protect our days of bloom,” I said, encouraging the boys to let go of their fears. “I’m in,” the boys said unitedly. We stayed out late that day and went to Wimpy’s for pizza and milkshake. We laughed, we ate, and we ran out of the fast-food joint when the check came. After that, we wandered around Brigade Road, watching the nightlife unfold in front of our eyes. Our eyes dropped seeing girls in skimpy outfits entering nightclubs and discotheques with their boyfriends. The evening collapsed on us when Thyagaraj spotted his dad charging towards the four of us with a belt in his hand. Thyagaraj looked pale and petrified. I seized the moment.
“Fellows, from this evening, we are no longer the Magrath Road Boys; we are now the Brigade Road Boys,” I said, putting my right hand forth, inviting the boys to huddle around me to celebrate our new-found identity. Within seconds of ejecting out of our huddle, “Apppaaa,” Thyagaraj screamed, holding his back where the belt landed — nowhere close to his Jackie Chan imitation. Thyagaraj’s father looked at us and grinned, his eyes unveiling our funerals. We smiled back at him, letting him know that the Brigade Road Boys were not scared of anybody. We witnessed the sacrifice of Thyagraj that evening, who took his father’s nonstop whippings on the buzzing road, until the buckle broke off from the belt. We took a chance and stayed out late; we rejected old ideas and started a new phase of life: teenhood. Black Beauty died, and Brigade Road Defiant Thyagaraj was born.
