The Circus and the Little Wanderer

My daughter and I were talking today, as usual. We discussed everything and nothing. We jumped from one topic to another the way we always do. Somewhere in that zigzag of conversation, the topic of my hyper-mobility came up. And like most of my memories, it arrived not as a fact, but as a story wrapped inside an emotion.

You already know this about me if you have read my blogs. My memories do not sit quietly in a corner. They play like motion pictures. I sit there watching them, half smiling, half aching, as if revisiting a life that still breathes inside me. And this memory came to me that way.

I do not remember how old I was, only that I was very young and very alive inside myself. A touring circus arrived in our town, and it was the event of the year. It was all anyone spoke about. The circus grounds were a mile or two from our house. But I could still hear loudspeakers blaring songs all day. Occasionally, I heard the roar of a lion or an elephant trumpeting. There was that one Telugu song that looped endlessly: “Gunna mamidi komma meeda, goollu rendunnayi.” Even now, the memory of the song opens a door to a time that no longer exists.

My house was always full of cousins, and the town overflowed with more. Company was never a problem; silence was. That day, all of us, siblings and cousins, a small army of children, walked to the circus in a cloud of anticipation. When we finally stepped inside the tent, it felt like walking into a different universe.

Acrobats swung from the ceiling. Elephants rode bicycles. Lions leaped through flaming hoops. Clowns pulled laughter out of every corner. Sparkly costumes made all our eyes widen at once. I remember thinking about joining the circus.

We were all mesmerized by one act. There she was. A girl balancing on a tightrope. She was flipping saucers and cups with her feet. She caught them neatly on her head. Every flip sent my heart into free fall, and every catch made me exhale in relief.

When the show ended, all the kids ran home buzzing with inspiration. My sister climbed onto our soft cot and ordered me to bring cups and saucers from the kitchen. Her attempt lasted exactly one broken saucer. I still think she secretly dreamed of running away with the circus. It was the same in my other cousins’ houses that day.

I did not dare try the saucer trick, but then came the contortionist experiments. While everyone failed gloriously at bending themselves into circus shapes, I found myself doing things effortlessly. I could fold backward until my leg reached over my head. I could lie on my stomach and touch my forehead with my toes. My thumbs bent in strange angles. I could fold forward and fold backward, like my body had hinges. I felt like a local celebrity in my cousin-crowd, showcasing my newly found talent.

The circus revealed something about me I did not know. My body could do unusual things. I did not know it was called hyper-mobility then. It was something I was proud of. Later, I discovered it was a form of a medical condition. This condition could be the reason I experience so much pain. The very thing that once felt like my uniqueness has turned into a source of struggle.

We visited the circus grounds often that season. We went to watch the tents. We wanted to see a glimpse of an artist and hear the hum of excitement. After much begging, we managed to go one more time before they left.

That final week felt like an ache. A quiet, heavy ache that made my chest tighten for no reason. The song “Gunna mamidi” played over the loudspeakers, and my heart became heavy with melancholy, an ache I observed and wondered at, not knowing why it was there.

I felt like I was in a magical world that belonged only to me, full of color, sound, and movement. I could see it, feel it, and yet only watch myself in it. And then it was gone. The song went silent, the sounds faded, the circus disappeared, and with it that other world. It felt like I was torn from a different reality. A strange emptiness was left behind. The hollow was something I could not name, only feel.

I have been to many circuses since then. They were bigger, grander, more impressive. But none of them ever gave me that feeling again.

It was not the circus I missed. It was Munni, the little girl who made everything her own, who connected deeply and instantly, who felt life with an unprotected heart. Somewhere along the way, she softened, disappeared, merged into the woman I became.

Sometimes, in stories like this one, she returns for a moment. I sit there watching the motion picture of my own childhood. I feel joy and ache at the same time.