# 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)
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