Candle In The Wind

He gripped the handle-bar and guided the rickshaw through the tiny gap between the pavement and the string of other cycle-rickshaws with an ease that, for the inexperienced eye, could have been easily mistaken for recklessness. As the road curved and widened, he hopped onto the pedal, and with one Zidanesque step-over, put his right leg on the other pedal across the bar and perched onto his seat. The rhythmic creaking of the chain soon prevailed over the cries of the other men—their voices, some hoarse with the shouting, seemed to fade away.

By the time he was half-way through, sweat dropped from his body like water from ice-cubes in the open. Tiny sweat beads on the back of his neck glistened and shone like miniscule gems—his shirt was completely drenched. He crouched, drawing strength from every muscle in his thighs and gritted his teeth in grim determination. The traveler in the back bobbed along like a cork in the sea, immersed in his own sea of thoughts. The rickshaw-wallah pedaled along, his breathing growing heavier with every yard.

And suddenly, he felt he could go no more. His old bony limbs, unable to bear the strain, gave away. He got off the rickshaw and panted loudly; his head cast downwards, towards the ground, white hair shimmering in the afternoon sun, hands still on the handle-bar. As the breathing slowed, he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He turned his head, slowly as ever, and found the passenger who quickly thrust a 20 rupee note in his hands and walked away. He nodded his head ever so slightly as a mark of acknowledgement—it was the most he could do then.

******

With his turban rolled up into a pillow, he lay down on the pavement, below the peepal tree, watching the fine sky from between the leaves. The incident earlier that day had left him a little shaken—but he guiltily admitted to himself that it was not unforeseen. He had been working for too long and age was no longer on his side; nor was the weather. The sun seemed hell-bent on sapping the little energy his frail body could store up. His tired eyes blinked slowly a couple of times, before they gave in and closed.

A world was shut out, but another opened. The smell of bhel puri wafted from the chaat shop across the road; the odd crow let out a shriek from above; cars and bikes, few at this time of the day, honked as they passed—motors on full throttle; students from the college ahead chatted noisily, as they walked by; children, from the small colony of workers that had made the pavement their home, cried—only to be hushed and pacified by their mothers; and the radio from the paan-shop, for a welcome change, hummed a lullaby. And this world too slowly faded away to a more interesting one of dreams and fantasies….

He woke up when he felt someone tug at his moustache. Two small, fragile palms ran over his unshaven cheeks. He liked the easy, simple gestures—one that could come only from a child—but pretended to be flustered as he rolled over, his face turned away; eyes tightly shut. The hands now were placed firmly on his shoulders as they tried, in vain, to turn him. He grunted and rolled back to face the child. The hands clapped in glee and a pure, innocent voice cried in victory. There was a quick shuffle of tiny feet and he felt a near-weightless body bounce up and down his stomach. Eyes still shut; he mumbled and grumbled, apparently annoyed but, playing his part to perfection, much to the delight of the child.

It all stopped as suddenly as it started. He no longer heard crisp, dry leaves crack under the shuffling feet; nor did he feel the child jump; he just felt a head placed, sideways, on his chest and a body on his stomach that rose and fell with his breathing. He put his hand affectionately over the bare brown back of the boy. And for those few moments he felt happiness that relieved him of all pain; that made him forget all that had passed since dawn.

This was how they lived—the rickshaw-wallah and the child from across the road. They never came across each other at any other time of the day; their conversations were muted; their eyes rarely met....
******

A week had passed and the old man found it harder and harder to go on. He dreaded the day for it brought nothing but pain; he dreaded the nights, for the pain drove his sleep away. Incidents like the one earlier were becoming more frequent and not all passengers were considerate. Several refused to pay and he had to go on an empty stomach to compensate. Hunger, fatigue and a sense of world-weariness overcame him.

The future looked bleak. He couldn’t stop riding the rickshaw—he had been doing it since he could remember and if he did stop, he would rot away to death—alone and unemployed. He couldn’t think of anything else he could do to earn and he was too old to learn something now. But, it was high time he moved on. And as he lay down under the tree, musing thus, staring at the sky that looked like twinkling stars between the leaves, a small smile lit up his lips and he closed his eyes…

The child crossed the road and positioned himself by the old man. He grabbed the silver-white hair and messed it up; played drums on the bare chest; bounced away on his shrunken stomach. He got no response. He stopped, and put his head on the old man’s chest. With every passing moment he pressed his ear, harder and harder, against the body. Much later, with a shrug of his shoulders, he silently walked away; his brows knitted in a frown.
He tugged at his mother’s sari, and when she refused to respond, bit her knee. She let out a wail and asked, harshly, “What is it?”“The tabla is not playing inside the old man’s chest anymore"

******

The old man had moved on to a better world. A world of wider roads and lesser motor-vehicles; of polished rickshaws and pleasant weather; of untiring bodies and customers who didn’t bargain; of free, delicious bhel puris and silent afternoons; a world where children remained children and never grew old; a world where the nasal singer didn’t scream through the radio from the paan-shop every time he wanted a nap and some peace….

My Favourite Superhero

RADHEYA(KARNA)
I held the" Mahabharatha" in my hand--it felt unnaturally light. It had been ages since I had seen the book. There was a time when I had to stand on the one-foot wall beside the wash-basin to peer into the mirror above and brush my teeth; a time when the book required two hands to be carried around on my head--not unlike coolies carrying heavy suitcases; a time when I would read it on a daily basis--picking out random pages and savouring every word of the master-epic. But, that day, I knew I wouldn’t open the book and start from just any page--I turned to page 649, to a chapter called "Radheya was my son". Every time I read that chapter, I would almost cry, my throat would cringe and my mind would feel exhausted. It was my favourite chapter--a beautiful but most painful one.

The Mahabharatha, for me, had only one hero. He was the only reason that, as a kid, I was heavily critical of the televised series of the epic. The first time I saw him come on screen, I was aghast. Firstly, there was the background music which made you wonder if he would say, "Mugambo Khush hua". And when he walked and patted his dear friend Duryodhana on his back, they both faced the camera and broke into wicked grins that broke my heart. My Radheya, the one that had been in my head ever since I had read the book, even when at his most displeasing, never had a face so contorted and cruel-looking as this. I ran away from the room, returning only after making sure that it was at least a good 15 minutes after the show.

If someone asked me to represent Radheya's life on piece a of paper, I would probably give sheet to a three-year-old and ask him to scribble--for that's how messy it is. The uncomfortable circumstances of his birth lay a somewhat shaky platform for a very painful life--his seemingly absurd craving to take up archery as a boy of sixteen, when everyone(including himself) thinks he is a sutaputra--a lower caste.; the shattering disappointment, the first of many, over the fact that he finds no willing teacher to teach him, a son of a charioteer--And when he does find one, the great Bhagawan Bhargava, he not only defeats him in battle(a feat that no one other than Bhishma had achieved before), but gets cursed--a curse that eventually leads to his death in battlefield. Such is his life, where brief periods of sunshine are overshadowed by massive grey clouds that eventually suck all the light out of his life like weeds sucking out the very existence of a flower-bed.

But, Radheya was a fighter--a true Kshatriya. A man, for whom adversity, as the cliché rides, was only a stepping stone to success--a path to making name, fame and earning respect. But, what appeals most to a reader is his love for giving; a trait that was exploited by Indra. When he gave his Kavacha and Kundala, knowing very well who the beggar in disguise was, he knew he had given away a part of himself. Here was a trade-off wherein he stood to loose and yet he took part with a smile on his face as blood dripped of his chest and shoulders. All that came naturally to him--just as his artistry with the bow punctuated with grace, flamboyance and characteristic poise; just as his unwavering loyalty to his king, Duryodhana, who had stolen his heart away for life with one act of supreme generosity; just as his love for his adopted mother in whose honour he had refused to be called by any other name, irrespective of the amount of insult it brought to him; just as his promise to Kunti, which heavily influenced the outcome of war.

No doubt, his character is stained. There is an obvious question-mark on his actions--the humiliation of Draupadi is a case in point. But, you cant expect a man to lead a blemish free life if he were to be put through such turmoil and controversy. In fact, his life could have been far worse--that he lived the way he did is nothing short of a miracle--something that speakes volumes of his ability and strong character. Long before the war commenced, he had realised he was on the wrong side, fighting a losing battle. But, he wasn't a man who would go back on his word--his unconditional love for his master and King called for him to be by his side until death drew them apart. For Duryodhana gave him what he always wanted--trust, fame and respect.

And as I read, slowly, every word of the chapter, I felt the old surge of mixed emotions flowing back--the shot of pride when Kunti tells Yudhishtra that Radheya was not a suta and asks him to perform his funeral rites, the excitement when the Pandavas exclaim "Not a suta!" and she relates the tale of his birth, the bitter pleasure when the Pandavas sit shocked, hand on heads, failing to come to terms with reality(Arjuna goes, "I killed my own brother") and finally, the immense agony when Bhima remembers the words of Duryodhana who had uttered, on that fateful day in the tournament, " Cant you see he is a Kshatriya. Dont you realise a deer can never have the imperial gait of a lion?"--those lines, for me, make the Mahabharatha truly magnificent--for even the greatest and the most humble of men,Yudhistra, couldn’t see what the scheming, jealous teenager could in a suta with a bow--A master and a hero. And fate's least favourite child.

Waterfall

The tyre turned and wobbled, but never slackened in speed. The path was muddy and stones—from pebbles, to larger, sharp pointed ones—punctuated it. It seemed to lead to nowhere for it was long, generally straight and went up and down a number of times. Not a sound of an engine was heard for there were no vehicles in miles. The gentle tapping of the stick on tyre and the heavy breathing of the boy was all that broke the calm.

He was eight. His skin was tanned as he lived most of his life under the sun. He wore khaki shorts that barely touched his knees and a Banian that was torn around the armpits. It was midday now and the sun was right above his head. It was a fiery, burning mid-summer Indian sun, the one that he knew so well. It was unrelenting and he was unmindful—they made a good pair. He tapped and ran and the tyre bobbed along—they made a much better pair.

Keeping the tyre in control was no mean feat. It needed a lot of practice and some neat skill. It came to him quite naturally; sometimes he would forget it’s presence for it was almost an extension of his body while sometimes he could even do it with his eyes closed. A hot, dry breeze blew with him and he welcomed it. It was nature’s own way of egging him along.

He spotted a water tap in the distance. His throat was parched and this was like sunrise to the rooster. His legs found new strength and he hurried on. He placed, carefully and tenderly, his stick and tyre by the side of the road and tweaked open the tap. The water gushed out as though waiting to be called upon. It tasted different—almost like it was tinged with sugar—a subtle sweetness that he loved. He drank as much as he could and then sprawled down under the tap. The coolness of the surging water on his face as he lay under the Sun gave him immense pleasure.

Presently, he got up and commenced, once again, his journey. He couldn’t afford to rest for too long for time was a constraint. The mouth-watering prospect of the waterfall, his destination, made him all the more eager to restart. He came across a signpost, but it was in English and he didn’t even bother to stop. Then came a fork and he was in a fix. He hadn’t anticipated this and he was unsure of which path to take. He sat down in the middle, put the tyre around his neck and wondered what to do. Luckily for him, a bullock-cart lumbered along his path and he asked the man,
“How do I get to the waterfall?”
The old man on the cart smiled, and pointed towards the left. The boy jumped at once and, with just one glance back at the man, continued his journey, his faithful tyre rolling by him. The old man watched him run until he appeared as a tiny dot in the distance, before he shook his head, turned right and moved on.

**********

The sun was no longer above his head and the trees shook more vigorously with the wind. He was dripping with sweat and the tyre had acquired a colour as brown as the bark of the trees. A smartly dressed man who walked briskly on the other side of the road stopped, and asked,
“Where are you going this fast?”
“To the waterfall! How far is it? ” he questioned.
“Another half an hour. But, at your speed, you might make it in just 20 minutes!”
“Thanks” he screamed and broke into a run. He looked back and the man was waving, and he waved too. In no time, he caught a glimpse of a 30-foot high archway, sculpted with the faces of various divine heroes, and his heart pounded. His mother had told him about the archway, and he knew he was minutes away. The tire was now wobbling dangerously as though it would puncture any moment, his limbs were tired from the incessant running, his arm that held the stick ached, his banian was wet with sweat, but his mind was flush with excitement—nothing could dampen his spirit and he ran on.

As he drew closer and closer, his ears strained for the slightest hint for the sound of angry, belligerent water, thudding against rocks. He heard not a sound, but saw a temple of the Lord Ganapathi. He didn’t want to stop, so he moved on—but there was no sign of any waterfall; there wasn’t even a stream that would lead to one. And then it dawned on him—this was the month of May, the hottest and the driest of all—there would be no water now, not even where he lived even though it rained for most parts of the year. He fought back tears of disappointment, of beaten hopes; he felt a lump in his throat;his tummy felt hollow.

Desolation gave vent to fury and as he prostrated before the Lord, he literally screamed out his prayers. Not to be outdone, the temple priest, so far a silent spectator to the boy’s actions, burst into action and vigorously shook the Mani, and chanted shlokas at a decibel louder and an octave higher. The boy quickly got up and began walking away, when, the priest called out to him,
“Aye, don’t you want your prasada?”
The thought of the sweet prasada dragged his tired limbs towards the priest. The priest, perpetually reciting some mantras, gave him his share and asked him why he seemed so glum. The boy told his sorry tale and the priest, gripping his hand, said,
“I can arrange something for you”

And the two of them walked—the tall ageing priest chewing his paan and singing his prayers, and the stony-faced, uncertain boy—hand in hand. They found a bucket, at the back of the temple, and the priest pointed to a tap. The boy dutifully filled it and walked, one hand clasping his beloved stick while the other, the bucket of water (the tyre was safely placed around his neck). They made their way back to the temple, along a passageway that seemed to lead to the interiors, when, suddenly, the priest took a detour. They went through a narrow lane that the boy barely managed to squeeze through (with the bucket) and towards a large door that was locked. The priest removed a tiny, rusted key that was neatly tucked under his dhoti, and fumbled with the lock. He pushed hard at the door and it creaked open. The priest beckoned him.

The boy peeped inside the door and let out a shrill exclamation of joy. It was a glorious sight to behold and for a moment he just stood there, admiring its beauty and spaciousness. It was a humungous tank brimming with water. He cast an enquiring look at the priest as if to ask, ‘Can I?’, to which the priest nodded in assent and he dropped his bucket to the ground, threw his clothes to one side and laughing with delight, ran down the stairs, two at a time, and jumped in. The crystal clear water glistened in the rays of the setting sun and the sound of the boy splashing around echoed throughout. He swam the length and breadth of the tank, played gaily with his tyre and yet he felt something was amiss-- there was still a void, a feeling of emptiness that no amount of swimming in the tank could fill. It was then that he heard the priest call out,
“Aho, Don’t you want your waterfall?”
“Waterfall?”
“Of course! Come over to the edge and close you eyes”
He closed his eyes, wondering what more the old man could produce for him. And then he felt it—the most extraordinary of sensations—chilly, roaring water beating against his head and torso. And as he turned his head, he could barely see through the rampaging water, some twenty feet above, hazy outlines of the bucket he had so carefully carried and the temple priest with one arm around Vinayaka, the temple elephant, who seemed to be having as much fun as he was, playing with the water!

Thatha's Little Walk

For a man of sixty plus, he was surprisingly agile. He had a spring in his step that even a ten year old would envy. Every time I saw him, I got the impression that he had just won a lottery or, probably, India had trounced Pakistan by ten wickets in a test match. His hair was oiled and neatly parted to the side; he wore a spotless kurta and pajamas that could easily pass of as those computer-generated advanced-white ones in the TV commercials. He hopped along the road jauntily and waved from a distance. I waved back and my eyes, habitually, focused directly at his shoes. I let out a sigh and silently thanked Saraswathi: they were muddy and dirty. Though he had never once failed to pay me a visit during his early morning walks, his pristine attire always gave me the goose bumps.

“Thatha” I called out.
“What Kanna? What’s up?” he asked.
He walked up to me, placed his shoe on the stand that I provided, drew a chair for himself and sat. He panted and said,
“Habbah, at least that’s over”
“What, Thatha! You look like the type who can do ten more rounds without tiring and you are thanking your stars”
“Age, my son—its age. You will know when you get to my age—though I don’t think you will even be able to walk when you reach there. Just look at you, all skin and bones! Don’t they feed you in that stupid school you go to?”
I didn’t reply for he made that comment almost on a daily basis, but began working diligently on his shoes. I am a cobbler-cum-shoe cleaner/ polisher. I am the latter only to Thatha. When he first came to our locality, two years ago, I was just starting up my business. He asked me if I would clean shoes for him and I said I would try—but there was not much cleaning I could do with those horrible modern sports shoes that he used to wear then. Within a week, he switched to Canvas shoes. I loved them. He paid me 10 rupees for cleaning his shoes—about 250 rupees a month.
“How do you get them so muddy?” I said, scrubbing his shoe diligently.
“Mm?”
“I mean, where do you go? How is there cow-dung on this shoe?”
“Oh, just here and there” he said distractedly.
I asked him that question regularly and he would either change the topic or give an uncharacteristically vague reply. I knew where he did go though—to the stream that lay behind his house. There was lot of muck around there. I wondered what Thatha would do there—he wasn’t the type who would sit around a stream listening to the twittering of birds or the roar of the water. That would appeal to him as much going to school does to me. Age hadn’t robbed him of his love for people, for company, for action. Probably he went there to smoke a few cigarettes. Yes, that was it! He did go to smoke—Pati hated that habit of his and it wasn’t too long ago that he had completely given it up for her sake. He probably didn’t want anyone to see him and what better place to go than the stream. It was as crowded as the graveyard; In fact, still better, for there were not even dead souls to spy on him.
“You seem to be very quite today, Kanna. What are you smiling to yourself about?”
“Oh, nothing. Actually—yes—no—I mean, I was just thinking about the funny way in which our English teacher talks. You must see her once, Thatha”
He looked slightly suspicious, but smiled indulgently.

The next morning, I woke up just as the goods train blew its horn out aloud and chugged past our station. It was the crack of dawn—an hour or so before my usual rising time. I cursed the train and tried getting back to sleep, but I couldn’t. It was with a sense of downright frustration that I made my way down to the lake to start my chores. And then, a mad idea struck me. It shook me up—I was no longer lazy or frustrated or sleepy. I laughed loudly and ran, shaking with excitement. I sprinted as fast as I could, didn’t stop at the tank but went further on. The morning was cold and a chill breeze, whose effect was compounded by the speed of my running, blew against my ears. I didn’t bother. I was determined.

In a few minutes, I spotted him. Thatha, dressed in typical white clothes, and a muffler around his ears, walked ahead, a few metres away. I slowed down—I didn’t want him to spot me. Given his age, Thatha was exceptionally brisk. I found it difficult to keep up with him for I had to be careful. The path gradually became narrower, the foliage thicker; the trees taller. It was easier to be unnoticeable now—my footsteps were muffled by the softness of the earth and the trees that were resplendent with birds that sung, shrieked and cried. I tried pretending to be the detective who comes in the TV show Thatha watches, running from one tree to another and then hiding behind them. I gave this up, feeling stupid and glad that there was no one to see me.

After some time of rigorous walking, I heard the roar of the stream—it was a violent, booming roar—like a caged lion roaring for freedom. Thatha was speeding up, and I had to literally run to catch up with him. The thundering of the water increased in decibels and I knew we weren’t far away. And there it was—pure blue, with white waves, flowing with a speed that was frightening.

Thatha made his way to the path that led to the stream. He was within feet away, when suddenly, he took a detour. I silently watched from behind a tall beech tree with bated breath. He sat down beside the muddy, brown, filthy muck that lay a little away. Aha! I thought, now for the cigarettes. He then removed his shoes and socks. He plunged the shoes carefully with his hands into the muck like a cook frying his papadams in oil; one after the other, making sure every area was equally dirty. He took them out and examined them and with a satisfied smile, put them on, and walked back towards the path leading away from the river.

*****
It was a little past seven in the morning. Thatha hopped gaily towards me, making me wonder if he had springs for muscles in his body. My eyes didn’t focus at his shoes, for I knew how they would be—Saraswathi was denied my prayers. He waved from a distance and I waved back, a little guiltily. He sat on the chair that I quickly drew for him and panted heavily.
“What Kanna—what’s up?” he asked.
I took his muddy and wet shoes and began scrubbing.
“I wonder how you get them so muddy, Thatha. Seriously, where do you go?”
“Eh?” he said vaguely, and then with a dash of his usually enthusiasm, he asked,
“Did you see Tendulkar’s ton yesterday? He’s back. I tell you, he definitely is back”
I smiled to myself and nodded my head in agreement. Some things never change…..

Bliss

"Come over to the edge" he called.

"No, we cant; We'll fall" they cried.

"Come over to the edge" he called.

"No, we cant;We'll fall" they cried.

"Come over to the edge" he called.

And they came. And he pushed them. And they flew.

Chapter Two

I squinted at the clock. I knew that it was at least an hour since day-break. A stream of glorious morning sun-rays seeped through my window making a part of the room unusually brighter than the rest. The room was cold and, though well tucked into my rug, I gave the faintest of shivers. The clock struck 7. I immediately jumped out of my bed, threw the rug into the corner of the room, and sprinted to the bathroom. The morning-rush had begun. It was the same routine--brush, switch the geyser on, sip hot piping tea, read the newspaper, curse the clock and bathe. Then followed breakfast (bread or cornflakes or sometimes, both).
The only thing that is remotely interesting in my life is my journey to my school. I own an old Bajaj scooter that, somehow, has managed to keep itself going all these years. The school is a good 5 kilometres away, right in the heart of our small sleepy town. I live a little off the town in my ancestral house--a structure that once housed many a great person. I am one of the few living descendents of the great Kuluru Basavaraya, a lawyer, scholar, architect, Diwan and one of Karnataka’s most prominent luminaries during the British Raj. I tilted my Scooter and after a somewhat complex manoeuvre that involved some smart balancing and quick footwork, performed with the grace of a seasoned man, I kick-started the Scooter. The engine shot into action with a roar that one wouldn’t generally associate with one so old (It was the country weather, I always insisted) and within seconds, I sped along, solemn-faced and silent.
I reached my school at five minutes to eight. I parked my vehicle in a corner specially reserved for teachers, nodded to the school peon, and strode along to my office. Five minutes later, I walked into my class, stifling a yawn. The students rose in unison and chanted a greeting. There was a time when I felt tremendously proud of myself when seeing a class stand up out of respect for me, but now I barely realized them standing. Mechanically, I said "Sit down" and began calling out names from the register. I walked up to the first bench, peered into someone’s book to check where we had left off the previous day, and perfunctorily explained. Words flowed from my mouth without as much as a pause—my thoughts were given a free rein—for the whole teaching process was completely involuntary.
I had always wanted to teach. It was a dream that I harboured since the age of 8. It was one of the reasons why I had volunteered to stay back in the village while almost the entire family had migrated away. I wanted to stay back and teach children—not for money, but for pure love of teaching; for love of children. I was terribly over-qualified to be a high school teacher and sometimes I wonder if that is the reason for my progressive decline in my interest in the profession. There was a time when I posed intriguing questions to the class and begged them to think. I would collect things for the class, prepare for them. I would sing, draw, dance and do everything to entice those in front of me. Yes, there was a time when I would do all that and more—a time when every class was a performance, an experience for both the teacher and the taught.
The bell rang and I walked away. Some students stood up and said a half-hearted "Thank You". With the merest shake of the head (another unconscious action), I carried on. Little by little, I was becoming a machine-- mechanical and boring. I was getting sucked into my routine and I could do little about it. The main concern was that I made absolutely no effort to prevent myself from getting sucked; A part of me felt comfortable with the repetitive pattern that my life seemed to take—feeling falsely comfortable in a seemingly safe system that somewhere inside, I wasn’t happy with. I wondered if there was an ounce of humanness left me—something that would distinguish me from a robot. It wasnt that I was unkind or inhuman, but, I was so well settled with my schedule,that I rarely gave much thought to anything that happened around me.
**********

That evening, I went for my usual evening walk among the acres of farmland that I owned. The day’s newspaper in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, I wandered aimlessly. I waked back home, with at least an hour before sunset. As I sat on my rocking-chair, reading the newspaper and waiting for one of the servants to place my tea on the table beside me, I heard someone call out—
"Ayyah?"
I peered over my newspaper and was surprised to see four weary but expectant little faces staring at me. With one look at me, they let out a squeal of excitement and one of them exclaimed—
"Arrey! Namma Mestru!" (Our teacher)
I was momentarily taken aback, but asked with a smile,
"What do you want?" in Kannada.
They held some farmland tools in their hands. Their clothes were patched, dirty and some, well oversized. They were sweating profusely, but none of them seemed to be remotely bothered by it. I had a vague recollection of one of their faces.
"We were wondering if you had some work for us" said the oldest among them.
"Work?"
"We can work hard" screamed another, puffing up his chest and the others nodded their heads in agreement.
I didn’t know what to say.
"What are your names?"
"I am Manju"
"Kamal"
"Srini"
"And you?" I asked the youngest and the meekest of them all.
"Karthik" he said in a barely audible whisper.
"Karthik!" I echoed.
He smiled weakly. My heart melted. I felt guilty for some unknown reason. I felt as though I was somehow responsible for their pitiable state, as though I lived without caring for anyone but myself—a selfish and self-obsessed life. My servant placed my tea on my table and I sipped on and told him to get the best bananas we had. His face gave the tiniest of frowns, before it relaxed, and he went about his way, without questioning. I was glad he didn’t ask why, for I myself wasn’t sure. I turned my gaze towards them and immediately looked away. I was never a brave man and the sight of such suffering was intolerable on my delicate eyes that were brought up on a dose of lovely green trees, rich farmers and farmlands. Staring fixedly at the ceiling, I asked—
"What does your father do?"
" We have no father", said Manju.
"Our mother works in the farm nearby" said Srini firmly.
I didn’t prod any further. They didn’t seem to keen on discussing their family matters.
I whistled softly to myself—a tune that I had picked up as a child.
Just as the silence was getting uncomfortable, my whistling out of tune and the children, a little fidgety, my servant arrived with a plateful of Bananas. I unpeeled each of them with care and handed them to the children, starting with the youngest, Karthik. They ate in silence and at once. Ripe Bananas were indeed a luxury. I offered more and they devoured them, greedily.
"Does anyone want water?" I asked to the ceiling.
It was a poor question. I had never seen heads nod so vigorously in unison. By the time I turned towards him, Sathish(my servant) had already gone. Without turning my head, I looked at them through the corner of my eyes, and drew my tea-cup to my lips. Karthik called his brother and with one fleeting glance at me to make sure I wasn’t looking, asked,
"Meshtru Orey Kannaa?" (Is Master Squint-eyed?)
*********
In fifteen minutes, the four children trudged back home, their tools unusually spotless.Their stomachs were somewhat full and they had got enough money to last them a week. I had pushed into the eldest’s hand, a couple of 500 rupee notes, much to the annoyance of Sathish who said that they would become regular visitors. I hadn’t even allowed them to work, he complained.
Just as they were leaving through the front gate (which is at a fair distance from the door) the children heard a loud honk. They turned around to see me with one of the biggest smiles that had ever adorned this face in years.
"Coming?" I asked.
The older ones looked unsure. Karthik however, walked straight up to the scooter, stood between me and the handlebars, and with one superior look at the others, said—
"Go"
I smiled at the others and asked them to sit behind me. They sat and I asked—
"Readiyaa?"
"Ready!" they yelled as one.
My engine roared like never before, I accelerated until the wind nearly blew my scarf away, the roads seemed wider than ever, the children cried at the top of their voices, the woodpeckers on the tall green trees pecked on noisily, I whistled shrilly, the sound being swallowed up in the din around me, and amidst all this, my mind that managed to stay amazingly clear, bellowed in unmistakable exuberance, enthusiasm and supreme satisfaction, "I am human, I am human!"