#23 My Christmas day

I woke up eight in the morning. After drinking a glass of water stirred with honey, I sat for learning English grammar. It was about nine when I felt a little cold. I peered out through the window and perceived sun was shimmering upon the streets. I took my book, reader and pen, and climbed up the stairs.

            My dear readers usually think that I am an introvert and read books whole day long. It is a grievous error. I believe I am an extrovert. I’ve so many old and new friends that I never feel alone. I become introvert when I see people messing all around and doing nothing more than creating problems. I read books when I have nothing good to do. My biggest weakness, like other modern writers, I speak a lot and read less.

            When I was solving a worksheet of pronoun, my mother came and put a green kite before me. I gazed my mother. She smiled and informed the kite came from somewhere behind. I looked at the blameless sky. At least a dozen kites already hung in the sky.

I remembered father gifting me a spool and a couple of kites on my birthday. Early in the morning, every year on my birthday, he took me to the kite’s shop and asked the shopkeeper to give a hard, shiny and the best string. He didn’t know anything about the kites but he had always rejected a few kites to pretend as if he was once a great kite fighter. I’ve spent all my childhood birthdays in cutting kites rather than cakes. It is after admitting to college I come to know that the students still love cutting cakes.

The kite fighter in me born again as I saw yellow, black, red and blue kites spun and glided in the sky. I rushed down to fetch my spool holder. I tied the string with the kite and then jerked it twice. The kite spun, tossed and then flew away with the wind.

After an hour or two, my childhood friends, Rashtra and Abhimanyu, arrived at my rooftop. I feel Rashtra’s parents are patriots, so they derived his name from rashtra-pati or rashtra-geet. Abhimanyu, a tall figure, handlebar moustache boy, gazed at my English Grammar book, twirled his moustaches and said, ‘No matter how big writer you may become, but for us, you will always remain our ustaad.’ After that, we laughed, rebuked and shared school memories with each other.

Towards midday, we mounted on the Bullet motorcycle and made our way to market. Neither any girl nor any boy left behind on our way, we didn’t wish a merry Christmas. Even Rikshawalas gave a reassuring smile to us. All this while, we talked and made plan about partying at night. We thought we all old friends would meet up and go to Sacred Heart School, the only place where Santa Claus existed, to see girls. The gifts giving Pere Noel (Father Christmas) had always successfully called lovely girls to Sacred Heart School. Unsurprisingly, later, this plan also became an illusion as just as our old plans.

            I spent rest of my Christmas day loitering on the streets, fighting with friends, buzzing around the houses of lovely girls, standing at the burger shop, killing time in the cinema hall. At night, as I returned to home, mother roared at me for coming late at home. Father was asleep. After dinner, I took a novel by Khushwant Singh and soon, sleep came over me.

            All in all, the Christmas day was same like the other days. December 25 is just an announcement about the beginning of the winter vacations. Going to a club, drinking and partying hard, flirting with girls and becoming a center of attraction is a delusion for most of Indians. At the end of the day, whether it’s a new year or a Christmas party, Indians satisfy themselves with daal, roti and sometimes chawal as their dinner.

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#22 On Way to Her School

It was a premature morning. The sun was rising behind the hills. The cock was awoke and prepared itself cry out its alarm. The birds chirped about the sky, the women waddled about the house and the milkman serviced about the streets. Kalu, son of baniya who ran a grocery store, came out from his house and hurried off in the direction of maidaan to play cricket. All through his way, he practiced cricket while throwing imaginary balls in the air.

            ‘Are you going to the central library?’ said Julee, pulling my hem of the shirt.

            ‘Yes! Don’t you want me to go?’ I asked bending a little towards her.

            Julee brushed her nose with the black tie she wore over a blue school uniform. She was a bespectacled, little, fat girl and lived in an old house behind the maidaan with her family. Her school was about two kilometers apart from her house, near the central library, next to orphanage. As she was stout, she hated covering the distance by walk. Whenever she saw any familiar face lingering by maidaan she asked him to drop her to school. She wished she too had a bicycle like her friends, Tina and Alisha. Once, she asked for a bicycle on her birthday, but the poor parents refused to gift her. Julee cried for two whole days and then her daily-routine went on.    

            ‘You can go but after dropping me to school.’

            ‘All right!’ I said and put her bag on the back of the bicycle. She jumped on the front stick of the bicycle and crossed her legs. I paddled and took a straight path towards her school.

            ‘Where is your motorcycle?’ she asked while looking at Kalu who was running behind the bowl over the maidaan. As Kalu came near a large peepal tree, he made a powerful dive on to the ground and caught the ball. Bowler and fielders cheered up. The wah-wah of Kalu spread across the field.

‘It is with father,’ I said. ‘He’s gone to office. Don’t you like my bicycle? I know how difficult it is to sit upon the stick, but the ride on bicycle has its own fun.’

No response. She gazed the boys playing in the maidaan till we passed by a large building and the little lads disappeared behind. She took her tie and swept her nose once again.

‘Kalu is your classmate, right?’

‘Yes! He is an awaraa chokra. He seldom comes to school.’ she coughed as we came by Ramesh’s stall who was busy frying hot chilies.

‘How could you say him a loafer?’

‘My mother says so. Kalu doesn’t need to go school. His father owns a shop, so he could sit on it.’ Julee said. ‘My father is a milkman and girls don’t sell milk. So I don’t have any choice rather than going school.’

She stopped to retrieve her breath, ‘Moreover, I can’t ride father’s bicycle because I am a bachhi. And I think father would never buy a small bicycle for me.’

Julee grumped under her breaths and felt sad. She took her tie and began rolling and unrolling it. Sinking in her cycle-world, she looked straight. She too wanted to go to school on bicycle like her classmates, Tina and Alisha.

‘Bicycle is not so good. In fact, it is worthless,’ I said. ‘In summer, it is difficult to ride under the blazing sun. And in winters, you can’t think how hard it is to paddle in mist. Walking is better than cycling. While cycling, you can’t ride it without your hands supporting the handles. But, while walking, you can shelter your head with your hands from sunrays in summers, and in winters you can rub it together to keep your body warm. I am going to sell this bicycle. I don’t like it anymore.’

The little girl was still heartbroken.

‘Arey Janaab! Where are you going?’ shouted the old tailor, Master Ali, standing at the brink of his small shop. He was the oldest being in the village and knew almost everyone. He called everyone Janaab, even to the women. A round cap on the head and an unruffled plain white beard resembled him molwi sahaab of the masjid. The son of Master Ali had left him behind in the village and moved to the city, and never returned to see him. Master Ali was suffering from night blindness. He would open the shop early morning and towards early evening it would be close. No one knew what he would do after the dusk would fall.  

I halted my bicycle at his shop. The old Ali held the Julee’s chin and asked ‘Janaab! What happened? Janaab, why are you so gloomy?’

Julee didn’t reply and gently fell her head down.

‘Janaab, don’t you want to go school? Janaab, if you don’t like going school, you could come to my shop. I would teach you tailoring without any cost,’ said Master Ali. ‘Good children become better and then migrate to cities, leaving their parents behind, Janaab.

‘Master, it is not like what you are thinking. She loves going school. She is sad because she wants a new bicycle,’ I intervened.

‘Oh! Janaab in that case you must go to school and learn something to earn some money. Janaab, good children become better and could buy a bicycle too,’ Master Ali passed a smile. Julee played with her tie and kept quite. ‘Janaab, Don’t worry. I’ve something for you. Wait a moment, Janaab!’

Julee lifted her head for the first time. Skeptically, she waited. Master Ali called out for Shanu and asked him to bring Puchu. Shanu, the washerman’s son, was a ten years old boy and worked for Master Ali. 

The sweet, little boy came out from a small room with a parrot perching on his head. Suddenly, a smile came across Julle’s face. The smile was not for the parrot but for Shanu instead, for she remembered Shanu offering his bicycle to her every Sunday. As Shanu came by us, Puchu cried out gazing at Julee, ‘Janaab… Janaab… Why are you so happy?’

Everyone laughed and the stout girl was happy again.

‘Do you like parrots?’ asked the little Shanu draped in dirty clothes.

            ‘Yes, I like…’

            Before Julee continued, Master Ali said, ‘Janaab, you could play with Puchu whenever you come here. Puchu is very shararti. He is nalayak and would never leave me and fly away, Janaab.’

            ‘All right Master!’ said Julee with a smile stuck to her lips.

            ‘Master Ali! Now, we shall leave. Otherwise, she will get late for her school.’ I said.

            ‘Okay Janaab!’ said Ali. ‘But don’t forget to visit Puchu again.’ Master Ali kissed the Puchu like a grandfather loving his grandson.

            Shanu and Julee passed a soft smile to each other. I paddled and didn’t stop until we reached her school. Julee was happy, and all through our way from Master Ali’s shop to school, she played with her fingers and tie, and sang the Christmas song.

            ‘Now go to your classroom and study well,’ said I.

She jumped off the bicycle and shouldered her bag. ‘All right. But you don’t sell your bicycle,’ she beamed. ‘Till I grow as tall as you and buy it from you.’

            Julee turned around and merrily ran towards the ground where students were assembled to sing out their morning prayers.

            I gazed her till she disappeared in the swarm of students. I paddled once again and moved in the direction of library.

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#21 The Girl in Gol Bazaar, Ganganagar — Part 2

Thank you for liking the part-1. Here I continue my story:

Among them, there was a lovely girl who was my batch-mate, four years ago. I remembered seeing boys fighting with each other for her. One of the boys even took a brick and smashed it on another.

Her face reminded me of the Hilaire Belloc’s lines that Khushwant Singh used for Indira Gandhi:

Her face was like the king’s command

When all the swords are drawn

I passed by her, remain unnoticed, and continued my way to Gol Bazaar. As I turned left from the Gandhi Chowk, I reached the street where in every shop books were sold. At the end of the road, there was a restaurant and on its left side, a police station stood.

I had never been to police station, but my friends who had visited there a few times, told me about the kotwali. When I asked, what police did with them? They laughed and said, ‘Sale madarchod hai sab k sab. Pattey maartey hai, pattey!’ (All are motherfuckers. They give lashes of the whip!)      

I parked my bike and jumped off my motorcycle. I walked to a book store which displayed the books of old Indian author R.K Narayan in its showcase. No sooner I began scanning the novels placed in the shelf, a girl came and stood beside me.

She looked at me and asked while pointing towards a book by Khaled Hosseini, ‘Bhaiya! Is this a good book to read?’

She was a plain-eye, charming girl who had no idea that I was not the Bhaiya of shop. It was wrong to blame her. No girl could find anything less than a Bhaiya in a boy who has an untidy beard on the face and draped in old jackets and dirty track-pyjamas.

I looked for the owner of shop who was on the ladder, searching for a book I ordered. Before I could call the shopkeeper, she enquired again, ‘Bhaiya, this one!’

Her eyes twinkled and face shone. She had a sweet, gentle voice that brought out all the love in a man.

I resisted my urge to tell her the truth and said, ‘The kite runner by Khaled Hosseini.’ I began to show-off my knowledge for books, ‘It is a New York times bestseller and International bestseller. This is the story of two brothers, Amir and Hassan, placed in Afghanistan. A good read. Khaled Hosseini is the author of two more best selling novels, A Thousand Splendid Suns and The Mountains Echoed. Like this book, the stories of these two novels are also placed in Afghanistan. By the way, what genre you want to read?’

‘Actually I am planning to go abroad, so my teacher suggested me to read books to improve my verbal skills.’ She said and tucked her hair behind the ears.

A cool breeze played on her ears and brought the strands of hair before her eyes. No sooner, she pushed it aside, again a chill, fresh wind whispered in her ears, and once again she struggled with her hairs.

‘Okay, then I must suggest you to read Indian authors first. You could read The Shadow Lines by Amitav Ghosh or The Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie. Arundhati Roy has also an eloquent style of writing. My advise, start with simpler, thinner books. It would be a good idea to start with children’s book. Yes! For a grown up, it may be a problem to get interested in children’s world. In that case, I would suggest RK Narayan’s and Khushwant Singh’s books. The language is simple. And the context is Indian, which involves you in the story. If you do not have patience to read novels, read short stories by Ruskin Bond.’

She smiled and her surprise-looking-eyes complimented my knowledge. Her eyes reminded me of Sakhi, my childhood friend. Sakhi, the girl next door, liked playing hide and seek. She always chose to hide behind her house’s wall, for she was afraid of bhoots and bori vale bhai’s. After getting caught, she made her eyes as though she hid in a place where no one ever could find her. Sakhi left with her family a long time ago and the low wall she loved was still there. Mr Chandlal painted it thrice after purchasing the house.

The sunrays penetrated the fog and glistened down upon her face. Her nose ring twinkled. The effect of beautiful-she doubled. But the sun failed to stand before the chilling winters. She kept her hands rubbing with each other. And carelessly, I brushed my thick, curly hair, hoping not to look like the Bhaiya.

‘Bhaiya! I read 2 or 3 novels before. I’ve no idea what to read. I would be thankful if you would suggest me something good and helpful.’ she said.

I stopped adjusting my hairs, for now I was hence-proved-bhaiya for her. I took a few books of Ruskin Bond and Jhumpa Lahiri from the shelf and thumped them on the counter. I explained her about the writings and the places where the story set in.

‘How is School days?’ she said picking up a book by Ruskin Bond.

I too was hearing the name of the book for the first time. Not missing any chance before her, I began telling her about my own school days. I told her how children irritate the tall, fat principal and make him shout over the top of his lungs; how the seniors bunk the classes and play volleyball, and again raise the blood pressure of principal. I also told her about the art on toilet’s wall, the rides on the small shaking-train, the crush of students on pretty young teachers, the annual-fests, the first crush of a boy named Parth on her classmate, Shiny, the bougainvillea and beery trees, the kabbadi match between boys and girls and the lewd boys peeping in the skirt of girls, the omnibus, the first kiss of Parth and Shiny on their first school trip, the astonished boys and the jealous news-spreading girls.

‘And a lot more,’ said I, finishing my stories. All this while, she looked at me as like as a little girl listens attentively and merrily to her granny narrating the fairy tales.

She was too surprised to say anything. I could see her eyes seeking more about The School Days. ‘But, I think The Lowland by Jhumpa Lahiri is better than this,’ I said in a fear of getting caught.

‘You mean, I should read that book which had the hands of a couple as its cover,’ she said pointing towards The Lowland, kept at an arm’s length.

‘Yes, it’s a nice read,’ I fetched the book and gave it to her.

While she was scanning its cover, reading the blurb and flipping the pages, a loud noise thundered on the street. The shopkeepers and customers hurried outside to know the cause. At a distance, the parked vehicles were laid down and two bulls, black and brown, were fighting near it. The brown bull swung his head and hit his horns in the black’s. The black, fat bull staggered back and fall over the cycles and motorcycles. Shouting and cursing, the shopkeepers tried to stop them. The angry black bull seems to be not interested in anyone’s talk. He stood all at once and proceeded towards brown with a shrill. The two bulls locked their heads in a fierce struggle. They sway together about the place, hitting each other on the walls. The fight stopped after full five minutes. They were exhausted and stood back. The shopkeepers hit the bulls until they disappeared from the location.

The area was devastated, cycles over cycles, motorcycles over motorcycles, everything over everything. People trotted to their vehicles; so did I. Together, we arranged the parking again. It took whole ten minutes to do so. My motorcycle was less damaged than others. A few scratches were only visible.

As I returned to the shop, the young girl was not there. On asking from the seller, he told that she left the shop five minutes ago. On further enquiry, I came to know she purchased School Days by Ruskin Bond.

I brought a book of English Grammar by Chetananand Singh for my book shelf and made my way back to home. 

I hoped Ruskin Bond wrote School Days better than my-narrated-school-days.

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# 20 The Girl in Gol Bazaar, Ganganagar— Part 1

Dawn crept quietly over the sleeping Ganganagar. I saw father waddling about the house, rubbing his hands under the nipping blanket of winter. Though he was covered up with an overcoat over a couple of warm shirts, he was quivering and looked somewhat frail.

            I climbed down my bed and walked to verandah. I saw mother asleep in her bed. Before she woke up, father would manage the dirty clothes in buckets, fold up the bed-sheet and blankets, keep motorcycles outside the house, bring milk from diary and newspaper from vendor, clean the rooms, and oil his hairs. As far as I could remember, from last twenty years, he had spent his morning in managing the house and readying himself for rest of his day.

            As he opened the main door, a cool breeze entered the house. The roads were enclosed up with the fog and the street lights were still shimmering. Old father shivered and closed the door.

He gasped and said, ‘Beta bahut thand hai bahar. Rajai mein vapas jaa’ (Son, It’s freezing outside. Get back into the quilt.)

I nodded. Trembling, he returned to his room and shut the door behind. Lights off.

I climbed up my bed again and picked up a book of Mahatma Gandhi. I saw an image of Gandhiji in white dhoti and bared chest. How Gandhiji had managed himself in winters? He might have spent his winter days living in southern-India. I shut the book, pulled the quilt and drifted off.

When I woke up, mother and father were handsomely dressed up. I saw them running about the house. It was obvious they were getting late to their jobs. Mother came to me and scolded, ‘Khada hoja! Late hogi mein’ (Stand up! I am late.)’

Confusingly, I said, ‘Now what I would do to drop you on time?’

‘Chaa pee-laey’ (Drink your tea).

‘Ley! Haun mere chaa pean naal ki hojuga?’ (Now, what would happen if I take the tea?)

I laughed.

‘Mar- zaa kiteh jaa key.’ (Go and die somewhere!).

I guffawed. No one can understand Punjabi-mothers. Everyday, they ask their children to die and yet, can’t live without them even for a minute.

 As I see off my parents, I was alone in the house. It had been two days since I read the book. Those two days, we (my old friend and I) explored my city, Sri- Ganganagar, buzzed around the houses of girls we were in love with. My friend shared me about his life in Delhi. He also told me that he was getting married in a year or two. I remembered him laughing while saying, ‘Teri shaadi mein to mein apne munnon k sath ayunga.’ (In your marriage, I would come along with my children.)

I took a book of Ruskin Bond and read a couple of short-stories. It was the fifth time I read the same stories. And again I felt sadness enveloping me. I took out my rejected manuscripts from publishers and observed my writings. Those were ridiculous. I felt ashamed of myself. I killed my 5 hours in watching television and in celebrating my weakness. Sometimes it feels good while doing nothing more than eating, sleeping and farting.

I got out of my bed in the afternoon and decided to bring a new book from the Gol-bazaar (main-market) to improve my grammar. I had half-a-dozen books of grammar already in my book-shelf unopened and still, I wanted one more. I knew I would not read this book too, but no one could resist my love for collecting books for my book-shelf. My book-shelf was a small box which was once used by mother to keep cooking oil. I was expecting mother would gift me a book-shelf on my birthday. If she would refuse, I would not ask from father.

In the beginning of every month, father used to pay the bills of house with his salary and then he remained with two or three thousand rupees as his pocket money. He compromised all his cravings of luxury life with our happiness by admitting us (Sister and I) in the affluent colleges. He bought good clothes for us every year and draped himself with old ones. He thought about us whole day long and had always failed to share his emotions with us. Whenever we offered him to come with us to buy something new, he had always refused our invitations

We are proud of him.

As I sat astride on my motorcycle, I began moving my way to Gol Bazaar. The afternoon sun failed to clean the streets engulfed in the fog. Roads were silent. Street dogs were rarely seen. A crew of sweepers was sitting at the corner of a street, warming his hands over the fire. As I passed durga-mandir, I observed the market which was always stuffed up with crowd was silent now.

When I reached Nehru-park, I saw a group of girls standing outside the Guru Nanak College. They were clad in white salwar suit with a pink duppatta around the neck. Some of them were in colorful caps and some were covered up with mufflers. All of them had notebooks in the hands and college-bags dangling on the shoulders. Their laughing face was a proof that roses could bloom in any season.

Among them, there was a lovely girl who was my batch-mate, four years ago. I remembered seeing boys fighting with each other for her. One of the boys even took a brick and smashed it on another.

Her face reminded me of the Hilaire Belloc’s lines that Khushwant Singh used for Indira Gandhi:

Her face was like the king’s command

When all the swords are drawn

Part 2 ...Read my next blog (#25 The Girl in Gol Bazaar- Part 2)
Thank you

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#19 The world around me is tolerant and not flooded with water.

After deciding to end up writing blogs I realized, for me, it is difficult to sit jobless. The problem with me is I could not bear boredom. Like every day shower, writing has become a part of my daily ritual. So here I am again writing about my experiences of life.

I am very happy with my decision of avoiding newspapers and news channels. Media has always proved to be negative. All they need is a breaking news. Reporters can be compared to bhadvas (pimp) who are always in search of Nayaa maal to telecast their circumstances nationally. You would speak a single unmindful sentence and your virginity would be devoted to the nation. Then, from youth to senior citizen, from chayevala to paan vaal, from ghar vaali to bahar vaali would be excited to savor your fucking up session.

Where the people are intolerant and trying to pull the pants down of each other, I am sitting in my small room, living peacefully with my books. The green valleys, the chirruping birds, the old authors (a few died ones), the hymns of Guru Nanak, the old country songs, the smiling and laughing kids, the omnibus, the Gajal of Jagjeet Singh, the paper boats, the memories of past girls, the rhythmic rains could never be intolerant for me.

I think no man could stop himself to sink in the memories of past days after hearing Jagjeet Singh’s song: Tum jo itna muskura rahe ho, kya gum hai jisko chupa rahe ho. A life of a man is always swings between three things: First, concern for livelihood; second, the memories of girls and women he made love with; and at last, reminiscences of his gone days. A beautiful night with myriads of stars, a full brimmed glass of whiskey and an old song is all a man need to resurface the deep emotions in his heart.

Nowadays, due to heavy rain in Chennai and flood in my University, I could see a lot of lovely college girls moving from their hostels to palatial apartments for temporary residence. The laughing innocent faces, plain eyes and soft cheeks have always made my journey of life beautiful. All I know about the girls is they want love. You just make her smile, play with her hairs, pinch her nose, peck her cheeks and hold her hands, and she would come along with you whole heartedly. Do not hurt her, just love her.

I know, a few must be thinking, it is better for me to go out and save people stuck in flood, rather than writing rubbish. Do not worry! I have prayed God to save the altruist and let the egoist drown. He listens to the prayers we do. Try it.

Well, I think I have to stop here. I do have a lot of content to read. I am also working on Word power made easy by Norman Lewis, suggested by my friend Vivek Chaudhary who is a scholar. We talked at length about national issues with each other too. When I asked him the secret behind his sharp knowledge, he responded with a smile, ‘Always think, there is someone doing better than you.’ It is just a blessing to have a few friends who are hungry, unstoppable and working to become better every day.



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