Ramona, Purveyor of Fantasies
If you lived in Nungambakkam in the early 1980s, you know of whom I speak. She had established her den next to that military fellow Velu, and hid her charms amidst the nondescript and common folk. With a name like Ramona, though, you knew right away that she was something special, with wares and wiles to entice you into a lifetime’s addiction. She kept the entrance discreet, like all the best establishments do. Yet the doors were left wide open and welcoming to vulnerable souls.
Your brother had already warned you about Velu – don’t let me catch you loitering near him or there’ll be hell to pay. You took him at his word, respectful of his temper and threat. When you walked from your lane to the corner where humble and bustling Village Road (its denizens interpreted its name very literally) ended in swanky Nungambakkam junction, you carefully stayed on the opposite side, never catching Velu’s eye. Past the little tea shop and the run down restaurant, past the temple redolent of mallipu and chandan. The stationer’s shop where you bought school supplies, the jolly vegetable vendor who cracked risqué jokes and flirted with your dad on sunday mornings, all these you walked past with downcast eyes, already daydreaming of the delights that awaited you. Ramona! Her lures were strong, her siren ways would brook no resistance. Your feet crossed the busy little road of their own volition and you entered her lair, heart beating fast, nostrils filled with Velu’s spicy aroma and Ramona’s counterpoint fragrance – musty, musky and magic.
Entering Ramona’s domain meant surrendering to the unknown – you were never sure of who you’d bump into in her narrow little passages. You signed away your heart and your mind at the entrance, willing to let her enchant your senses. The sounds and rhythms of Old Madras, temple bells, freshly drawn kolam on wet pavements, frying banana chips, cows lounging in the middle of the road, all these retreated, muffled, faded as you prepared to meet Ramona’s guests. Early in your relationship, each meeting was a surprise, a discovery. Later, as the addiction grew stronger, you often ran into acquaintances you secretly thought of as your friends.
Swashbuckling cowboys, stetsons pulled low over glowering eyes, moustaches hiding a sneering mouth. Wildly romantic young ladies, lacy parasols protecting their delicate skin, blushing and pirouetting their way past you. Space travellers with set jaws and stun guns strode past the horses in pastures and the dogs who happily obeyed orders – black as night, good as gold. Ramona of course knew them all and you felt safe with these adventurers as long as she was around…
And the children you’d meet! A child yourself, these were your heroes. Strapping girls shouldering their lacrosse sticks laughed their way past the five cousins who tumbled in and out of adventures or the seven friends who solved all kinds of homegrown mysteries. There were the naughty boys, trailing shoelaces, their mouths stuffed with contraband goodies. There were the twins from glamorous Midwest America and the maverick girl from way up north on a remote Atlantic island. They all visited Ramona and came and went as she pleased.
Ramona wasn’t choosy about her company – certain elves and goblins, shy and elusive, could be persuaded out of their hidden corners. A mysterious masked man, a ghost really, was often accompanied by his wolf. A flamboyant magician with a cloak and a beautiful girlfriend hung out with the Gauls and the teenage Belgian journalist. She entertained an entire galaxy of swashbuckling do-gooder heroes startlingly turned out in crowns and dhotis, with peacock feathers and huge bows as accoutrements. She didn’t bat an eyelid at their brawny bare chests or the alarming frequency with which they abducted beauteous maidens in their gaudy chariots – she assured us that the maidens secretly loved their kidnappers and so, all was well.
As you got older, Ramona was kind enough to introduce you to the teenagers who roamed her corridors. Rebellious or responsible, strait laced or flamboyant, these kids were everything you yearned to be, living0 in small town Madras and raring to be gone into the big, bad world. She only pretended to frown when you eyed the buxom bombshells and big game hunters, indulgently turning a blind eye if you traipsed out with a dangerous sweet talking spy or a ruthless (but short on memory) killer. She knew it wouldn’t last. You were resigned to a shortlived affair or else Ramona would want to know the reason why. You still avoided that rascal Velu though, no matter how much he enticed you…
Ah, Ramona! Purveyor of all your fantasies, supplier of dreams, peddler of a lifelong addiction. All those who came after her failed to live up to her promises of excitement and adventure. You were innocent then, every experience raw and pure. You were hooked almost the first time you wandered into her den. Addict for life.
You left Nungambakkam and Ramona behind some years later. The addiction was deep rooted but now there were other sources to satisfy the urge. Your brother, mellowed with age, even brought Velu home one evening. It wasn’t as exciting an experience as you had always imagined, in fact it left you with a terrible stomach bug. Village Road transformed itself into some unrecognisable fast lane around the turn of the millenium. Velu and Ramona knew that their heyday was done, it had been a good run but no one came around anymore, looking for a fix. Graciously, quietly, they retired and left for parts unknown.
Ramona, my love.
Author’s Note: Velu Military Hotel served the most delicious, heart burn inducing spicy chicken 65 in Nungambakkam. Ramona Library, right next door, served a young girl with a veritable smorgasbord of literary food that fed her soul, made her a lifelong book worm and left her on an endless quest for the perfect lending library.