Pages


Wednesday, June 06, 2007

One Last Time

He appeared slightly flustered by the crowd around his little settlement. I waited patiently a few metres behind a short, portly man who wanted a milk-stick for his son, who he carried on his shoulders. As always, he performed his business with a detachedness that was alarming. I watched him dish out smoothly various milk products, collect money and produce change. He neither uttered a word, nor the frown that creased his forehead and strung his eyebrows, even threatened to leave his face. I watched the crowd thin down and disappear until he turned towards me-- the shabby, careless college student from the hostel across the road whose cheeks were sucked into his protruding cheekbone; whose slim, tanned figure brought to his mind his own malnourished relatives from the village; whose comical inability with the scissors always made him chuckle inwardly, though his stern exterior gave little away. In all my years in the campus, I had never seen him smile and it had taken me almost a year to differentiate between the lone two expressions that he sported— the slightly flustered frown, and the very flustered frown.

I pointed to what I wanted (a packet of cold chocolate-flavoured milk) and he grunted. In quick succession he slid the packet and then the scissors towards me, across the counter and waited-- sporting his slightly flustered frown. I gingerly slid my incompetent fingers into the scissors and held the packet in my free hand. One crisp snip at the corner broke the electric silence, and a triangular piece of plastic gently floated to the ground. ‘There’, I thought, ‘no drama, no embarrassment’. Relief battled astonishment when I looked up at him, for on his face was planted a thin smile. And then I bowed low-- a spur of the moment, extravagant bow. He laughed and applauded--a single, loud clap. He then proceeded to do the unthinkable-- he refused any money, saying
"Keep it. You earned that one", his gruff voice, clearly under-used, sprinkled with cheer.
I gradually managed to mutter a ‘thank you’, too dazed to refuse his offer, and turned around to leave.
"Oye!” he called, “Thank you for coming so often! I heard you've finished your course. And leaving soon!"
That was when it hit me. I was leaving. I looked around and took in deeply everything around me like a man swallowing a lungful of air before plunging into the river -- the organised mess of the mad, honking vehicles; the vendors at the busy chowk along the road that snaked from the junction; the few, scattered trees, their branches deprived of life; and the simple mandirs at their feet, often consisting of a single mud idol and a few flowers, placed reverently. Almost unconsciously, I raised my hand and waved it, not turning my back, saying good-bye to him. And goodbye to everything in the vicinity of his dairy.

*****

I lay down on the lawn, the grass pricking my bare arms in a comforting way, and stared at the stars. It was a surprisingly clear, black, sickle-mooned sky. The only light in the vicinity, of the 220-watt bulb of the dhabha, barely extended to where I lay— it’s last, faint rays kissing my feet. Joyous laughter rung out from the small circle of students gathered around the dhabha; its old, cranky radio played a poignant number that spoke of crushed love.
Presently, a face appeared above, blocking the Orion’s belt. I knew the long, wavy hair, the only distinguishable feature in the darkness, and the scent of batter, onion and cooking oil. It was Vinod, the dhabha owner.

“Would you like to have something to go with the sky? A parantha, perhaps?” he asked.
“A bun-butter would do just fine” I said.
“One bun-butter, coming up!” he said, and made to move.
“And listen, make one for all of them too” I said gesturing at the small crowd of students, almost all of them my juniors, who had gathered around his dhabha, “It’s on me. And probably, a chai to go with”
“Ah!” he said, nodding his head knowingly, “One last treat, eh?”

On impulse, I shut my eyes and winced, as though he had just told me that the results were out and I had failed. The words stung me—I could feel them running inside me, mocking me and my current state, touching raw nerves, flooding my mind with green, wonderful memories of the campus and the hostel, now tinged with the grey of parting. The stray phrases of the sad song from the radio that I managed to catch between the guffaws and cackles of the students, whose glee now seemed strangely cacophonous, seemed to put into the tune what my mind had to say. The scent of Vinod’s paranthas, the uneven sound of his radio, his special masala-packed tea for the parched throat in summer, the feel of the unkempt, sprawling lawn around his dhabha—these would soon cease to be a part of my world.
And I opened my eyes and the stars were still there, twinkling and smiling, thousands, maybe millions of them. I smiled knowing that unlike the untrimmed lawn that I lay on or the dhabha, wherever I went, they would always be with me.
“Yes” I said wistfully, though the scent of onion and batter had long receded, “One last time”

*****

I walked out of the college gate in a huff, into the road that led to the market. I had been to see my results that were to be displayed on the notice board. And for the second time since dawn, I returned dejected for they hadn’t yet been put up. It was summer, and the dry, sweltering heat kept most people in their rooms, under their fans or coolers. But not me—I didn’t want to waste away my last week in the campus, shut up, in my room. The market was barely half-full, business moving at trickle; some shops had their shutters down; cows lounged lazily by the pavements, the rickshaw-wallahs, sprawled on their rickshaw-seats, giving them company. I ambled along the familiar track of the bazaar, pausing to sniff at the apples displayed by the roadside vendor, staring at the hoardings, peering through every window, as I had when I first walked through the market—young and curious, barely seventeen.

As I turned the corner, leading into another row of shops, I felt a tug at my shorts. I turned around. It was a beggar girl. I threw her one of my dirtiest looks, and said “Go away”, in my sternest voice. She stopped, gave me a pathetic look of utmost dejection, and slowly turned away.
I was not unsympathetic and cold-hearted—on the contrary, I quite liked children—yet, these urchins brought out the beast in me. For they weren’t children in the truest sense of the word (or so it seemed to me)—their eyes had a glint of something beyond mischief, a cunning alien to the eyes of a child; their expressions were put on and practiced to win hearts of many a compassionate mind. But, what really irked me was the way they carried themselves. It was bizarre—they lacked the clumsiness that was so inherent in a child. They moved like adults trapped in the bodies of children—polished, unfaltering and sans any impishness, any gaiety.

And yet, that day, as I saw her go, a wave of sympathy swept over me. I felt sorry for her because the world had trained her to look beyond her birthright—her childhood. She was like a caterpillar trying to fly, not knowing that it wasn’t yet time for her to do so.
“Oye”, I called after her.
She turned. I beckoned her, feeling my pockets for some loose change. She walked towards me, her face inscrutable. I dropped a couple of coins into her outstretched palm. ‘First time’, I thought. Then a faint, glum whisper inside my head added, ‘And last time’.

And for the third time since the previous day, all the weight in my stomach seemed to have passed into my throat, constricting it, leaving in my tummy an uncomfortable, weightless sensation. The pain of parting hung over me like an enormous, hugely depressing rain-cloud that extended all the way up to the horizon. I didn’t want to leave, not so early. I kicked a Coke-can that lay crushed in my path and was watching it sail when I heard someone shout my name. I turned around and saw Rakesh, a first-year, waving his bony, long arms frantically, rushing towards me.

“What is it?” I asked, as soon as he reached within ear-shot.
“Srikanth Sir sent me—the results are out” he said, pausing to pant, arms on his knees, “There is good news and bad news”
“Spit it out. Don’t dramatize”
“You got a distinction—77%. Nearly topped the course!” he said, bubbling over with infectious enthusiasm.
I was relieved. It wasn’t unexpected, though.
“And the bad news”, he continued, “You failed the qualifying exam by a single mark”
“Oh” was all I could say at that time.
Qualifying exams were trivial, wasteful exams that the University deemed important and, though not counted in one’s aggregate, had to be cleared. I regretted not caring to put in the effort to pass, a few hours worth distracted study at most.
“Is there a supplementary exam?”
“Hmmm? Re-exam? Yes, there is one”
“When?” I asked.
And then, suddenly, I saw the tiniest hint of hope—like a sniff of a controversy for the scam-hungry media-man.
“Six weeks from now. More than enough time for you to get 200 on 100!” he said, laughing at his own little joke, and continued, not noticing how big my eyes had grown, “The exact date is yet to be… ”
“Six weeks!” I screamed jubilantly, cutting him short.

And I grabbed his hand and broke into a run, pushing aside pedestrians, apologizing loudly, not bothering to stop; beamed at random shop-owners, as I tore past them, tugging a stunned Rakesh along; yanked at the tail of a giant cow that blocked my path—it stepped aside, too surprised to react otherwise; the market rushed by, the vehicles on the road seemed to spin in a whirl; my head spun just as fast and elation swooped down upon me— I was not leaving, not for another six weeks! A whole six weeks!
“Rakesh!” I said finally as we stopped before my favourite banta-wallah, my voice quivering with excitement, sweat pouring down our shirts, “the caterpillars – you must learn to love them”