the old man and the prizes he gave me

I first saw him as Purandaradasa, his earnest voice pleading with the Vittala shrine to give him one glimpse, asking if an untouchable's devotion was only worthy of rebuke. As B&W temple bells clanged and crashed into each other, I remember my dad imitating the nasal tone of Rajkumar's voice. Trying to flare up his nostrils like Rajkumar's would when he sang.

Then I saw him as the detective whose 'idea face' was a nose-flare and big wide eyes. Also imitated by appa even in front of guests. Then Rajkumar was a policeman, a father, a man to take behind the bushes and kissing flowers, a devoted son, a farmer, a smart smuggler, a special common man. But Purandaradasa with his pleading voice remained with me as the lasting image.

To my family, Rajkumar was the voice of devarnamas (kannada devational songs). None of this was about faith, or devotion, of course. In Bangalore, Rajkumars devarnamas always won first prize at any music competition. Buy that new tape. Write down those difficult lyrics. Get meanings from kannada miss at school… because you had to emote right to win the Kannada book on Tipu sultan. Or else you'd end up with second prize. A book on someone who didn't even have a TV serial to his name. When one Rajyotsava Day, Rajkumar handed the first prize certificate to me in Town Hall, and ruffled my hair, I told the whole school.

Every morning, Rajkumar played out of my grandmother's old radio. "How many times will they play Bhagyada Laxmi Baaramma?!" We'd knot our ties and polish our black shoes wondering aloud why so many of Rajkumar's songs had the word preetse and bangaara. Then after Radio City happened, Suresh Venkat brought us at least two Rajkumar songs per evening on the Kannada-only show. After Rajkumar was kidnapped, every day we'd go to college (very near Rajkumar’s Bangalore home), only to be packed off home in the afternoon because of possible rioting. We hoped everyday that he was well and healthy in the forest. Believing that his wellness meant our safety in our mostly-Tamilian neighbourhood.

When he was returned from the forest, we listened to Huttidare Kannada nadalli huttabeku being played over and over on TV and radio, with as much elation as the people we were afraid will land their lathis on our head. We'd forgotten how much we loved the old man, how much we had internalized him. As he became just something we grew up with, we had forgotten his ability to sway opinions. His proud refusal to use his stardom to step out of the studios into the assembly. His shockingly steady voice even at 60.

Still, he'd stopped short of being a legend in my home. There were too many 'legends' sitting in our living room: MGR, thanks to appa. Prem Nazir, thanks to amma. And Rajkumar, thanks to the land we lived and loved.

Today, the last of them has had his funeral swamped with love and tears. So many adjectives, so many anecdotes, so many garlands. Suddenly, my family's love for the man seemed a mere fondness.

Till appa messaged me: "Dr Rajkumar dead. What to do now?"