Playground of Fear

“Will it fall today?” Arun asked, squinting at the tower and trying hard to conceal the half-smile that threatened to lighten up his bony cheeks.
“I am not too sure. I saw it wobble a bit, just before you came” I replied very seriously—I was a far better actor than he was.
We stood in silence, our small palms shielding our innocent eyes from the blinding radiance of the blazing sun, gazing intently at the top of the telephone tower that bordered our playground—a thousand feet up in the sky. A little behind us, over fifty rough, loud boys ran behind a tattered football, their bare feet untroubled by the rocky, red earth; Another half a dozen or so tried keeping pace with the crazy, swirling wind as it blew up minor dust storms and carried junk with it; And the cows rested lazily in the corner by the shade of the few trees that braved the summer heat—their tails languidly swatting flies.
“Oh”, said Arun eventually, nudging me with his elbow, the mirth in his voice as clear as daylight, “I think it just shook! Did you see that?”
I caught his eye and we both broke down laughing, clutching our tummies…

“This will be our last ride” I say, looking at the sky. Massive dark-grey clouds loom large over us like the demons straight from the epics.
“Why?” he asks, turning up to look at me. He tightens his grip over my fore-finger
“It looks like its going to rain” I say, averting his gaze.
He looks up too and scowls. From the corner of my eye, I see him open his mouth to say something, but he thinks the better of it. I am relieved—no moan of protest.
“Okay”, he says, “but I want to go on that one, again” pointing at the Giant Wheel.
It is now my turn to hesitate and restrain from objecting. The Giant Wheel, with its ever-rotating, dangerously swinging compartments, instils in me the same amount of fear as a pack of menacing stray dogs in an abandoned alley in the night-time. I can already feel the butterflies in my stomach, the dizziness in my head and the sensation of my digestive tract doing a complete nosedive when I look at the view from the top. I try to think of an excuse, but one look at his shining, excited eyes and the expectant smile on his adorable face puts an end to any such thought. I steel myself. It takes a brave man to accept this, but, when it comes to most things in life, I am a coward…
We sat on the sprawling branches of the almost bare tree facing the deserted playground. It had been a good two hours since the ‘long’ bell, signalling the end of school, had gone. The boisterous footballers had all gone; the cows, now undisturbed, leisurely grazed on the large patch of knee-length wild weeds at the far end. I bit into my twenty second bogari, a small, yellow-green, wild-fruit who’s English-name I still don’t know, and smiled—it tasted better than my twenty first.
“Want to see my latest?” he asked and paused to send a shower of seeds flying to the ground, “I added the finishing touches in maths class today”
I nod my head vigorously, my mouth too full to answer.
He tugged at a branch a little above us, and his bag came sliding down directly into his outstretched arm.
“This one is for you” he said and pulled out a giant chart-paper, “It’s about our big dream!”
Arun was a natural at art—a prodigy. His style was unique—easy, flowing, a touch lazy and he commonly flaunted a disregard for conventions. His eye for the smallest of details, even at that tender age, was unparalleled.
What he showed me that summer afternoon is probably the clearest image from my childhood.

We walk past the merry-go-round, with its array of swaying animals and blaring music, and I hold back for a moment. He jerks at my finger and quickens his pace—his eagerness evident with every passing step—he is almost hopping now. I am resigned to my fate…
And that is when I feel it drizzle—a tiny, cold drop lands on my neck and trickles down my spine. In seconds, I can see droplets silhouetted against the black windows of the House of Terror. I hear it drum softly against the pile of asbestos sheets that lay disowned by the pathway. I can smell it in the moist air, on the wet earth. I smile. His face contorts.
The picture. It was the playground. On the bottom left corner is a hysterical kid, the terror in his eyes palpable, running for shelter with his arms spread out. Following him are hordes of other children, all clad in khaki shorts and loose shirts, panic strewn across their faces. A cloud of dust, emanating from the epicentre, obscures the row of trees bordering the playground, though their hazy, crooked outlines have a sorry tale to tell. The entire right wing of the school-building is gone—a few loose bricks lay scattered around. And in the middle of the scene of destruction, like the fallen giant Ghatotkacha on the battlefield of the Kurukshetra, the tower lay, its intricately done design gone partly haywire by the fall and its various long metallic, silver interconnections dangling dangerously.
The sky is still a clear blue. The yellow sun still smiles. And somewhere above, I spot the spiral, white trail of a jet plane. And I can’t help smiling when I catch sight of the two of us, obscured by the dust, perched on the tip of the fallen tower, beaming like we had just fulfilled a long-awaited dream—like we had scaled Everest.
“It’s simply amazing” I finally said, eyes still scanning the picture intently, savouring it’s complex, unique beauty. It had colours splashed lazily all around and yet, there was an attention to several small but significant features; It was weird and fantastic, yet completely realistic.

It is pouring now. We run past the Ferris wheel. He stops jumping into every puddle in the pathway, pauses and peers at the colossal structure through the downpour. His head is turned away, but I know the expression on his face—the beautiful, sad eyes, the agony of the weight in his throat. I don’t want him to linger on and quickly grab him by his shoulders and we sprint towards the temporary shelter, a huge tent where several others, many thoroughly drenched, have gathered.
“I heard you are leaving for good” Arun said, matter-of-factly.
The local bus-stand was alive with the chatter of dozens of school children, their vocal chords not in the least affected by hours of exercise from dawn in class.
“Yes. Bangalore. In a week’s time”
He smiled and a comfortable silence followed. I wondered when we had met the last time: a month ago? Two months? We had been slotted in different classes for almost a year and naturally, we had drifted apart, immersed in our own worlds.
“Have you sketched anything…” I said, and paused mid-way, for just then, my bus spluttered to halt with a huge hiss.
“I will miss you, man” he said, and we shook hands and I hopped onto the bus. I would miss his openness, his subtle humour, his brilliant sketches. But, the bond we shared was special—our love for each other would not be affected, in the least, by the infrequency of our meetings.
I found a seat by the window, and waved to him.
He waved back, and said something, and laughed. I laughed too, though I remember not registering a single word of what he had said for the engine of the bus had switched on just then. I stuck my head out of the window and waved until the end of the road after which we turned the corner and he was out of sight.

He is slightly pacified now, munching away on the muffin I buy at the hastily set-up, makeshift counter, now hidden by the multitude of people cramped in the shelter. His eyes are still red, his cheeks swollen, and his smile hidden. I turn away, and my eyes move from person to person, sight to sight—a group of rowdy college boys create a ruckus so loud that the incessant patter of the rain is forgotten; an old couple try their best to keep their grandson from running into the rain; a bony stray dog contently rests by a boy, sitting on a ragged cloth spread over the wet, muddy earth. A book is propped against his jutting knees, and his hand works furiously over it. It’s the boy who catches my attention. My eyes refuse to budge.

The last I heard of Arun was a while ago from a common friend, who lived in the same town where Arun and I grew up. Tales of his dramatic walk out on his parents, who refused to respect his passion for art, branding it ‘impractical’ and ‘unaffordable’, had long reached my ears. It turned out, unfortunately, that he was a complete failure, for he neither had the money, the clout, nor the resources to back his talent. “All he does now” said my friend, shaking his head in sympathy though I suspect he had derived a considerable amount of pleasure in telling the tale “is drink, drink and drink. I sometimes hear him walking past my house late in the night, screaming, ‘I am a genius! I am a genius’”
I sat with my head buried in my hands, not uttering a word. Tears threatened to pour down my unshaven cheeks.
“And did you know he got married?” he continued in that same tone of casual nonchalance tinged with phoney compassion, “It was a failure too! She walked out on him, when he could no longer support the three of them—yes three! He has a son” I found my blood curling and my sorrow turned to rage-- an intense hatred for my friend who was no longer able to restrain the excitement in his tone. And yet, all I did was to bury my head further into my hands, and allowed him to continue, even though every cell in my body ached to have a go at him and shut his mouth forever. When it comes to most things in life, I am a coward…

I stand behind him with my son, peer at his sketchbook that rests against his knees and watch his hands go magically over the page. He doesn’t notice me. The dog has, and it looks at me wearily through the corner of its eye. He is sketching the scene that lay outside: an amusement park deserted in the rain, in the darkness. It’s a tough task, and yet, he manages it with the ease of a pro—somehow, the rides ranging from the merry-go-round to the Giant Wheel swaying ever so slightly in the wind, the rain, the woods that lay behind, and most importantly, the darkness all seem to stand out, yet complement each other like an ensemble, each unique, nonetheless, together and dependent, creating a special aura. The dog whines, and he gives a start and immediately shoves his book into the worn-out bag slung over his shoulders. His eyes are alert, as he scans the crowd. Sure enough, a woman arrives busily and he immediately stands up.
“What are you doing here?”
“Nothing… Just looking at the rain” he says, and I spot him wink at the dog, with the tiniest hint of a smile, and suddenly his face looks vaguely familiar.
“Looking at the rain” she mimes unbelievingly, “Do whatever you want, as long as you don’t take out that stupid sketchbook of yours and waste time drawing. I don’t want you ending up like your father: drunk, jobless and poor”
He doesn’t respond, but simply follows her. The dog follows, wagging its tail. I see them receding and have this insane urge to stop them, to ask the boy to show me more of his sketches, to ask him who the father is. I think I know the half-smile; the long, slender fingers; the insatiable passion for minute details in sketches. Drunk, artist father?
‘What are the odds?’ whispers another voice in my brain extremely unconvincingly and a part of me knows it’s only an excuse…
And suddenly, I realise they are gone—lost in the crowd, swallowed up by the darkness. And somewhere inside, I am happy they are gone. I am not heartless. I am only afraid that my pure, innocent and open memories of a friendship that stood for eternal youth and hope might be ruined if I do come across this drunken failure of a man. He is a man I do not know, I cannot love. I am afraid of him. It’s the fear that gives me a sense of relief and prevents me from acting… for when it comes to most things in life, I am a shameless coward…