That Childhood, This Youth

The best memories that we carry are not of the loved ones, whom we met when our harmones erupted. Neither are they of the recent happy times we spent with our families. No matter how good these recent memories were but they aren't capable of being imprinted on the palate of the skull for a lifetime. What's imprinted there for this age are the happy days of our childhood.

When I was a child, some six years old, I was excited and jubilant. I ran across corridors, slided down handrails on staircases with my legs hanging both sides. I kicked stagnant water-pools and ran across the flow of running streams with my shoes on. I climbed benches and jumped off them, and hunted for bird's nests in small trees. I troubled puppies and patted calfs. I smelled my stinking socks and fought with pillows. Despite repeated warnings I wiped my hands on curtains and turned them black with fungi. I spun the front wheel of a parked scooter and saw the shift of digits in the odometer. Then I spun it reverse and applied brakes with both hands.

When I turned around ten, I was untamable. I jumped from high floors and dodged around the house. I spent my days in orchards eating mangoes and papayas. In monsoons I bathed naked in the open showers. When it rained heavily I stood under a draining shower from the roof top, It hit me on the skull and splattered everywhere. I made paperboats and sailed them in "kucchi-nahers" (irrigation-streams). If not a paperboat then a banana flower, with stones in it, it sailed across the little rapids. I played "fotta", that is what we called football then and we did that "suck-it", "suck-it" loud and bold whenever we scored a goal. We never knew what that meant, but there was fun in beating the hands across the genitals. It was abusive but who cared.

When I was twelve, I remember I used to skate on the mall road. I used to dash across the smooth bitumen infront of the Alka-Hotel in Nainital. I used to run up the steep climbs, and dash down in flying steps. I used to tease monkeys and langurs, and pelt stray dogs. I used to randomly handshake with pedestrians and ask for shelter under any umbrella. I shoplifted foodstuff in a gang of three, we ate upto our fills and threw the rest. We shoplifted from our acquaintances, and also offered them from the same. We saved our pocket money for video-games and Chacha-Chaudhary comics. We played Mario and Tekken-3, and returned home with a pocketfull of coins. If some money was saved, we went to Mamu Kabadi's second hand book store and bought story-books and comics.

Things changed in high school, we had to act grown-ups, but I was still a child. I was still a fidgeting insect, who couldn't stay stable on a leaf-top. Innumerable crushes happened and failed, yet neither the determination nor the stamina failed. Studies was a hell of a load, and boards were one big stone to overturn. All idiot friends started mugging books and schedules cut short our meetings. Boards came and passed, and along with them took away the free spirits of our youth.

Next was the year of science studies, considered even tougher. The group of many fragmanted and dispersed. Student got busy with their grade card improvement, and three tuitions a day. We often crossed each other while commuting. But, no matter how hard or fast life was, stupidity hadn't given off us. We were ballastic, humorous and idiots. We rang door bells at four in the morning and ran away, we punctured girls' bicycles outside tuitions and offered sympathy to walk with them. We spent nights planning how to study tomorrow and went off to roam around the next day. We burned volatile compounds in chemistry labs and hanged vernier callipers on our noses. We made paper tails and stuck "kick me" behind friends and gave them nice beatings. We celebrated birthdays with "ho-halla" and rode our bicycles on one tyre.

We rode across the streets with our horns buzzing. We rode with our heads trimmed in Ghazni styles, and often asked each other, if beer could really make us fat? If smoking did really kill? Or if "she" was indeed characterless? We raced on the busy "Kaladungi-road" and often dodged policemen. We studied to pass not score, and we promised heaven to girls just for a little walk.

If something was best, it was the free spirits we had. The untamable energy that we carried in us, and the radiating confidence within us. But ask me what happened to it. And I would say-

"THE WORLD TELLS ME THAT I HAVE NOW GROWN UP."

I am 24.
I am Graduated.
I am (or rather as everyone says, I SHOULD BE) in hunt of a career to settle down for lifetime.
I SHOULD LOOK for SECURITY.

But...

...there is a DREAM. A dream that I am carrying with me. A dream that says I am capable of an even better life (ONLY IF it works).

"ONLY IF it works," this is what I am repeatedly told.
*Of couse it will, I have that faith. I have that intuition. If it doesn't, I'll make it work.*

"What if it doesn't?"
*Why won't it?*

"Think about it."
*I think ABOUT it every moment of the day*

"Don't you see all your cousins have settled?"
*Unfortunately because they hadn't identified their calling of the self.*

"God knows what will happen to you."
*Exactly*

"You have an education loan to settle."
*God hasn't been so unkind till date, I hope he has some plans.*

There are innumerable questions now that haunt me, that pierce every thought of mine and reminds me of my non-happening existence. I wish I could alter the days and live my life carefree and wild once again. I wish I could bath under the draining sky on my rooftop, or ride a biclye from Mussoorie to Dehradun. I wish I could do this, and that. But the world tells me I have GROWN UP.

A little confession:

Within me there is this voice thay says, wrongs in life are not meant for me. I will sail through all hard times and waves, but there will come a time of true testing. I wish I survive that. I wish may god be with me to steer me across with his torch, for past that dark tunnel, I see, there is a WONDERLAND.

A little prayer:

"सद्बुद्धि देना सरस्वती के मैं भी कुछ कर दिखलाऊँ, उन हज़ारों उम्मीदों पे मैं भी खरा उतर पाऊँ। हिम्मत देना बजरंगी के मंजिल मैं भी छु आऊँ, बीच रस्ते साँसें छोड़ ना मैं चला जाऊँ।"

Autobiography of a ten rupee note

Human life has many shade, so does an incarnated inhuman life. From joy to melancholy, from happiness to tragedy, from love to despair and even betrayal- all shades, white, blue and grey are witnessed in this significantly small but large life by every living and non-living matter. Some believe life is a journey full of experiences, some take it as a path of leisure and some as a means to pass it through to enter another phase of the life cycle, familiarly known as reincarnation.

My story is an account of freedom, of inbound and outbound locomotion; of a healthy trip transversely and longitudinally in a passive manner, of a tragic gait and a spell bounded viewpoint of the society, nation and globe with eyes those are unmarked. Eyes on my torso that the world cannot see, a heart with thumps that cannot be felt, feelings that not be judged, wrinkles that pass on to me with age that are rarely noticed, but apart all odds and evens I see, feel, judge and make judgments that remain buried with me within the two folds of my body. I am a ten rupee note- the one that is found in every wallet, closet, treasure and chest pocket of a human.

Unlike humans, I am not a standing sculpture of stunning height, rippling muscles and distinct looks, but a common currency note that has the same dimensions, shade and aspects. When I descend from the Currency Press in a pack of 100 siblings, I measure 5.4” x 2.45” with a unique serial number consisting eight numbers and an alphabet, in my case it is 01B 989076. This alone is my identification.

My journey: The joys

After I took birth from the Currency Note Press, Nasik, which is the oldest of the four presses from where my acquaintances originate and spread out in the entire nation. My commercial journey started form The State Bank of Nasik from where I was burrowed by a farmer who fancied buying a buffalo. With him I stayed for two days until he forwarded me along with other notes of higher denominations to a merchant. Life in the farmer’s hut was quiet mundane. He had two sons and a wife, all fragile and malnourished. There I lay in the depths of a tin canister wrapped up in saffron fabric under a pile of grains. My presence was too cautious for him, I was probably more dear to him than his children. He kept me hidden for two days until finally he handed over to this big fat merchant.

On his way back the merchant pulled me out of the bundle and traded me for a red pan. He along with the pan got a few coins back that he carelessly slipped into his trousers. On the wet counter, I lay amongst the pan leaves, tobacco and spuparis. Customers came and made their purchases frequently and he kept piling more notes on top of me. Finally, after half an hour he placed me in a small tin box. Another two days I spent there observing how mundane life was and eavesdropping on all his financial talks with his colleagues and traders. So far, I had only seen life to be dull and utterly money driven. I though was lighter in weight than any other belonging, but yet my presence was indispensable to everyone. This single thought gave me immense pleasure and haughtiness to proceed ahead.

The pains:

By now I had an assumption that I am a king amongst all materialistic things and assets. This belief would have more strengthened only if on that bright sunny day a big car would have not stopped at his shop for a taste of pan. With the pan the seller handed me to the man seated on the rear seat in white linens and a whole new journey began for me. From concern to neglect, from safe-keeping to careless-handling, I witnessed tortures in all form. The India of which I had an assumption that people care and adore money was shattered like a glass into a thousand pieces. I had entered the lives of the rich. On the first go he separated me from the stack of notes with higher denomination and kept me loose in his pocket. I was happy, thinking he would transact me for something soon, but ironically he completely forgot about me and threw me on a pile of dirty clothes with the jeans. For one entire month I stayed there, in complete ignorance and gloominess. I had lost hope of life and the world of commerce where I had repute. Accidentally, (I believe) he tossed me one day to the laundry and in I went into the washer. I twirled and twisted in the whirlpool of soapy foam choking and deforming of my looks with every passing second. With so tattered looks I lost all hope of ever being accepted again, but the spark in the eyes of the Dhobi on finding me passed some hope to me. He kept me in the open to dry with a stone on my chest to avoid my escape with the west winds. In less then ten minutes I dried under the scorching sun and he happily kept me in the folds of his diary.

From all the owners I had faced, he was the most influential, perhaps because he had the determination to trade me even in that withered condition. It was a pity even to my state that how, in just a span of less then quarter of an year I had become so weak and fragile, like the sons of the poor farmer who first owned me. I was rejected in two of the shops the dhobi tried trading me, but in the third attempt he covered me between two crisp notes and off I slipped into the cash box of the shopkeeper unobstructed. But, as he eyed my poor state and his slip of accepting me, he wailed in agony.

In no time I had become one that was nowhere wanted from the one that was once considered a treasure and was so safely placed in the depths of a tin canister hidden under the fresh harvest of the season. Imagine my fate being placed with the grains, handful of which was to be placed before the divines as thanksgiving.

The last breaths:

With each passing day my form deteriorated and chances of my acceptance at all counters kept growing thin. More gloom was added with the onset of monsoon and I shattered to pieces in a short period of time. On a day with heavy rain, I slipped off from the rear pocket of a teen. The mucky waves carried me with their current penetrating my remains with sticks, wrappers, cartons and plastic straws. For hours I flowed from north to south, trying my best to resist the flow and sail aside to the banks of the street-side-river, but to no avail. I finally rested on a clear ground where the waters led me. There I lay in an almost distorted form waiting for someone to come and pick me up, but only more water came and eventually I got buried in the warm mud.

There is no cremation here, no afterlife, no obituaries, no tomb of burial and no epitaphs; just pitch darkness and an unnoticed end. India of my origin will perhaps never notice my end, they’ll remain busy with their chores and here I am left to degrade in the soil. 

The way she looked back…

How can I ever forget?

The simmering dress, within which she was all wet

Like an angel descended from heaven,

Or perhaps Snow White accompanied with dwarfs seven.

The light rain and the road filled with golden maple leaves,

We trotted beneath the trees in the pre-monsoon eve.

How gracefully the rain hit her on the face,

And she wiped it so gently with grace.

Like a dove wiping her beak on its back,

She too splendidly did without a slightest lack.

Taking her hand over her head she motioned it clean,

And then set her hair behind the ear, like a queen.

We crossed each other face to face,

Like galaxies moving in space.

So fascinated I was with her simplicity,

And so was she equally pulled towards me like elasticity

Both looked deep in the eyes,

Those resembled the deep oceans and the infinite skies

Like the fixed pupils of a tigress,

Looking deep at the deer with hope, joy and calmness

It spiked our hearts as we passed by,

 Like a person with a dagger pierced, left to die.

The hearts skipped a beat, and the blood rushed

Surely both to themselves blushed.

I closed my fist in a punch,

And my senses alarmed for a response in a clench.

For me it definitely was a moment of joy,

One in all those days worth lived, and the hopes stood high!

Something within me said, “Hey, it worked!”

And again a heartbeat I ducked.

As if gravity stopped acting on me,

Some butterflies emerged and I felt so light and free.

Gathering all hopes I turned back on the golden street,

She kept going far with continuous steps in a fleet.

For a moment I doubted if she would turn back,

Perhaps this will all go in vain, and the good fortunes (as always) I’ll lack

But somewhere along the line those few seconds had cast a spell so deep and vast,

She was magnetized, and I was pulled back by a hook just-as-fast;

Oh! Then it all happened so clear and out,

She turned back, her lips arched with the same charm throughout

Curling a tuft she graciously tilted her head,

And lowered her eyes as she looked ahead

With narrowed eyes and endearing pink cheeks,

So smashing she looked in the contrast beneath the maple and the teaks.

She smiled and laughed, then blushed and ran,

And turned back again and again…

From the end of the road she gestured a bye,

Like a peacock fluttering on a rainy day under a rainbow so high..!

Spiritual Assault

God is omnipotent and that is how we’ve known him. Though we haven’t seen him but have heard and believed the tales associated with his divine strengths and capabilities. Our belief in him has made us more inclined towards him and has no doubt triggered our hopes and ambitions.

            In the past decade man has become more receptive to any form of hope and pleasure; and simultaneously has turned impatient and hopeful. This realism for sure has immensely magnetized many positives and negatives. From faith to luck, from the substitution of hard-work to devotion, from Laughing Buddha to the God idols everything is available in exchange of a few crisp notes and they are all believed to bring good fortune to our homes. The irony is that we too are engulfed so deeply in this whirl of desires that we have started believing on things from a ‘yantra’ to a ‘red-fortune telling book’.

            Amidst all these things, a few spiritual saints have dug their bottoms deep in the name of service and devotion of the common man. You can find these long bearded, saffron/white wrapped saints wandering all around and boasting to tell tales of your awaited bright future. However, in the recent past these saints were few, but veterans of their fields. Today, ironically there are many and it’s hard to guess who the holy ones are. No doubt it could be true that many of these holy-saints are holy and lead a life of complete austerity but in the haze of the present it is hard to find who really the true ones are.

           

            The present national uproar has hysterically shifted from politics to satanic-spirituality ever since the spiritual guru Asaram Bapu has been dragged into a rape case. Where on one note this incident has shattered the beliefs of thousands of devotees from these holy-babas, on another note it has also divulged the hidden face of the literal word ‘leaders’ (gurus). In my previous blog too (The Holy Pig raped a Chick) I talked on the same matter that recorded the feedback of people as referring to the matter as pathetic, unholy, and similar many other negative descriptions.

            No doubt after all the political games, national scams, price hikes and other similar things the common man is now also scared to pour his heart out to some guru for guidance. For him there is only less to gain and more to lose. Surely this incident has horrified us all and that leaves the aam-aadmi with one last guru to approach for all his problems and questions (without being physically harmed or harassed) - GOOGLE!

The Holy Pig raped a Chick

Once upon a time... In a big country farm there was a pig. Around him were all sorts of animals and birds. He was brown, with hair as hard as steel wires jerking out of his flesh. Though he was perfectly alike his counterparts and also had the same dirty polish of gutter water on his torso, but yet he considered himself different from his friends, relatives and the entire breed. He said he was unique and had his own philosophies to prove it. He would leave the farm in the morning and go in the woods, spend his time sleeping under a fallen tree or would sniff around the faeces of other animals (sometimes ate it too!) and return back at dusk with a tale.

He would mount on a plinth in the shed and yell, “I met the Tiger today. Oh! He’s so friendly, he invited me for lunch and we ate together.” The other animals: Cows, buffaloes, hens, roosters, horses, sheep and goats would all gather around him to hear his adventures. Only the other pigs would envy him and with little sense of believing avoided to be a part of the crowd; however they too eavesdropped him up to his last words.

He left the shed with the breaking dawn and would part in the extreme direction other than the crowd. A few animals would spy on him but he would quickly find a hiding place and concealed himself in the woods. Later at night when questioned, he would come up with a new tale, “The Tiger had sent the Cheetah to receive me and he took me on his back as fast as light. Oh! I enjoyed it so much.” The pigs won’t believe, but the other animals admired him.

“But we’ve heard that the Tiger kills other animals?” asked a sheep.

“Oh it’s all crap. They have enough to eat and even they need friends.”

“So you are his friend?”

“No. Actually I am his adviser. I advise him what’s right and what’s wrong.”

And that was the beginning of his awaited destiny; a dream he had long cherished, far seen and thoroughly visualized. He became a spiritual sage of the flora and the fauna. His admiration and avail grew day by day, hour by hour. His chronicles traveled to other lands and beings of his breed conglomerated in abundance. From the shed he ascended to a holy ashram. From the ground, in the filth of shit and mud he rose up to a throne of gold. His philosophies found a meaning, his words had found ears, his days changed and his destiny sparkled in a flash.

The animals worshiped him and served him good food, his followers grew day by day and so did his popularity. He soon owned a community with a private cabin, his acolytes resided in the same community; he kept a secretary who allotted appointments for his meetings. From a pig who churned gutter waters and crunched dried shit, he in no time turned into a divine who averted even speaking of it. His holy-homes were set up all across the state and once every year he gave them a visit. The walls, fields, streets and markets were covered by his signboards and hoardings upon his arrival and a plethora of living beings assembled for his welcome.

Though he was admired by all, believed by many and followed by countless souls across the country but within him he was the same old swine: envious, impish and pervert. He had well worn the white cloak of sanctity, but within it he was as black as the thick tar of the black drains. He secretly eyed the hens, would think of all the bad craps and would facny for the fairest pigs.

----X---

In the midst of a season the hens were affected by a terrible disease that spread from the Pig’s co-mates. With the increasing death tolls more birds gave him a visit and in no time his schedules filled like a bucket poured into a gush of water. The rules changed, he started devoting overtime and took in more appointments. From the first ray of dawn to past-midnight he would solve matters for the hens and roosters.

On one night as time neared to midnight, a family of hens’ sat waiting for their turn to come. With them was their little ‘chick’ for whom they were utterly concerned. The chick was a splendid beauty of vibrant feathers and an elegant body. She had many admirers in her native land and was a terrific heart snatcher. Her simplicity was her most sacred weapon. The Pig had her gaze on her from his cabin. Finishing the appointment at hand he called the family inside. The hen and the rooster bowed in respect and so did the chick. The Pig smiled and his eyes simultaneously scanned the assets of the chick. He talked to them for a few moments and then asked her family to wait outside. The hen and the rooster marched out undoubtedly, happy that their kid would be cured by the holy-saint.

Then the lights of the Pig’s cabin turned off, this worried the hen but the rooster consoled her. The chick chuckled and her feathers throbbed in the air inside the cabin. There was commotion, but the hen and the rooster took it as a part of some sacred ritual. However, what went through their minds and what was happening inside were two far ends of a vast ocean as apart in nature as the Scylla and Charybdis. Inside the cabin the dirty Pig had revealed his true identity and was up with his heinous acts. The poor chick suffered and suffered helplessly.

With a thump, like an avalanche falling down the door opened and the chick hopped out in small, fatigued and painful strides. Her face was red with suffering, her feathers uneven and withered. Tears rolled down her eyes and entered her beak, as saline as the sea water and her mother’s egg’s shell. She collapsed into her mother’s arms, drained of all her energy.

“What…What.…What happened…What happened?” cried her desperate mother gaping awestruck.

The chick just breathed hard as if inhaling all the air of the universe. Her chest cavity expanded, then contracted and the heart pulsated with more haste. She laid numb and motionless, arms open and beak parted.

“WHAT HAPPENED??” wailed the hen. “TELL ME…TELL ME!”

Then in a slow move, the chick opened her eyelids, gulped a drop of saliva into her sore throat and spoke softly, “This saint is not worthy to be worshiped.”

--------X--------

How God made girls and why boys are after them?

This happened on a very unusual day. As if God himself chose that auspicious hour to let me know how it all had happened. How the world got the adorable, lovely, beautiful, angelic, attractive and seducing living beings called ‘Girls’. The form he chose for the fact to exchange brains was a friend of mine and perhaps a witness of his acts. His (God’s) architecture came out from his world. Allow me to unfold the biggest secret of times: How God made girls and why boys are after them?

 v  

It is difficult to tell what exactly it is where there is no sunlight, no moonlight, no winds, no humidity, no gravity and no air, but that is where exactly God resides. And he has been there since ages, as back as we can fold our reels of memories. God in our world is in the form of idols, stones, portraits, flags and colors. But in his dwelling he is a mere shadow: A shadow without a body, as different from our acquaintance as a tree with leaves but no branches. However, his appearance in the form of shadow is unlike of a human outline with limbs and skull, rather it’s like an amoeba that transforms from one shape to another and moves on with the requirements. Yet in ages of devotion received from his disciples he hasn’t shown himself to them. That makes people craft him of their desired shape.

         v  

On one of his routine days, God was intensely happy after he completed the structural development of the Solar-system. As he master-stroked the last planet, he from his intense warmth produced a burning ball of fire and tossed it among the planets. It was multiple times larger than the planets he had just built. He made a few assumptions, checked a few things and declared the third made planet as ‘Movable’. He decided this is where life would begin.

          With the sense of completion he however still had a feel of incompletion. Something was missing in the big picture. It was all silent after so much arranged so systematically. There was no bustle and there was no commotion. In simpler words there was life yet to be introduced.

          He began from a scratch on the infinite sky; it was just a streak that seemed meaningless to him. He worked on for hours and days, breathing life in all his faulty designs. In this outcome he had made animals, mammals, fishes, insects, flies and he also made Mother Nature with shrubs, bushes, trees and water. But all of this he disliked, yet piled one beside the other. He was in search of something different, something captivating, something desirable, and something powerful that could control all of these. Moreover, he needed his product to be sensitive, reactive, aggressive and sentimental.

          He worked harder with the passing time, until he finally created one. It had specifications like none other. His outcome was tall with an erect spine. It had limbs, eyes, and was hairy and tough. However, it had a tail on either side. This confused him and he resolved it by piercing the front tail and transformed it into an excretory gland. He called him ‘Zuno’. He for days admired his creation and then one fine day decided to make another alike it.

          Then, with all his might he sat for another big breakthrough. On his used resources he started to make another life-form; somewhat alike and somewhat different. He for this used humps and curves. He used long hanging strands of planetary dust to cover its scalp. He made it gentler, delicate, softer and fragile than the previous form. This he termed ‘Quini’. Then upon its successful completion he stepped back and observed both his creations. They were spectacular. They were marvelous. They were beyond description.

          He on some scales found the lately made was more appealing and adorable. He decided to not send it to the world called ‘Movable’; instead was firm to keep it in his dwelling with him. He to some extents was drawn towards Quini and wanted to let not go so good a masterpiece away from him. Then with a firm mind he breathed life, feelings, emotions and senses into the carved statues and with a fit they both moved.

          As they moved, he was delighted. His entire consciousness focused on the gentle frame of universal elements. He noticed every slight movement that she made. Then he twirled around the torso of the structure in his amoebic form, feeling the unfelt. But to his surprises, she minded his actions and was eventually unhappy and frightened by his presence. She ran to Zuno and dug her skull in his strong arms. He called her back but she wouldn’t return. Instead she clutched Zuno’s hand and looked deep into his eyes. He was her new admirer.

          This turned God unhappy and furious. He neither wanted to destroy his creations, nor could he find a way to tame Quini. He felt hurt over the betrayal. He regretted his deeds, as it had triggered out his own solace. He wanted revenge but the responsibility to safeguard the entire world was upon him. He had the power but couldn’t use. He had the ability to destroy, but his duties stopped him. He felt helpless and lost for a moment.

          Meanwhile Zuno and Quini strolled hand in hand. With a blow of elementary dust on the duos, he said to Zuno that from then on Quini would become more and more attractive and appealing but would not show any direct emotions for him. It would also be not easy to win her heart. Moreover, he would be hurt and bruised with acts that she would turn him down for. Also, his attraction towards her would grow day by day and would pain him intensely with discomforts of pleasure. His life from then on would become a chase for her. Accomplishing her would become a mission for him.

With this he smiled at Zuno and for the last time looked at Quini with the eyes of an admirer. He then showed them the path to the world and asked them to leave to begin their life there. As he pointed them to the world they were to go, the stars made a bright and brilliant pathway for them to walk. Gazing at the marvelous road ahead, Quini took a deep breath, exhaled and in a jerk gripped-off Zuno’s hand and ran off into the divine. Zuno called from behind but she wouldn’t care to stop or even listen. He ran behind her wailing her name and she kept running ahead him, blushing and teasing him. And from the distance God just smiled. The spell had begun!

   

*Materialized from Dushyant Singh Pundir's theme.

Backchodi band karo!

I am 22 over, and have seen two decades of this glorious life. Life, that according to Hinduism comes after 89Lac births. The same life that some live and others quit. I am not from the same house that you are from; but I behold the same go-through that you too have experienced. Coz we are the same, the juniors of the old couple forgotten with time and happenings: ‘The Ancient Humans’.

As I said we are of the same origin, so we also hold a hell lot of things in common. Things those are classified as nautankis, bewakufi, haramipan, kutiaapa, fuddu-panti and the most termed word ‘backchodi’. These words in the daily dialect of responsible and socially admired elites are replaced by ‘mischief, nuisance, fooling and idiotism’. What accounts most is that these ‘call-it-as-what-suits-you’ type activities are the most enhancing part of our life.

You must have heard, ‘Life is all about living to the fullest.’ Nothing else than mischievous acts and silliness helps in learning. Leaning is a process, and continual in more often cases. We learn from our actions, and new activities that we perform. Children are the most active learners ‘coz they fear nothing of the future. Being old now means to fall in a different class. Within the walls of our society, workspace and homes we are overlooked with an authoritative eye. That observance has so feared us that we have stopped living, and are only conscious of our fictive image that clouds their eyes.

A recent interaction with a bunch of school kids:

I spotted this lot kicking and splashing water on a main road. There were five of them, beneath the draining sky. I observed them from under a tarpaulin of a tea stall, conscious of every falling drop on me. The stall owner was an old man, dirty and un-bathed. He scratched his groin and served pakodis with the same ‘unwashed’ hands. ‘Aap kya loge..?’ he asked me with a wagging finger. ‘Kuch nai!’ I said looking at his dirt trapped nails, feeling disgusted. I thought how unhygienic it was. Perhaps too much! The course of hygienic awareness flowed in my veins. Either it was inherited from the ‘Health and Hygeine’ chapter of Science or from the ‘wash-your-hands-before-meal’ habit.

The five on the other hand were up with an unstoppable excitement and vigor in dirtying each other. From kicking the roadside water-streams they had started felling their friends in it. Along with their actions there were words, abusive in nature but baked with care and affluence of their relation. One by one, almost everyone tasted the water. They weren’t cared of the special ingredients that it carried in it: plastic sheets, mud, twigs, cow-dung, dogs’ faeces and what not.

I on looked them with numerous others. There was a different observance on each face. Children seemed amused. Teens seemed tempted. Girls impressed. Men bewildered and women regretful. However, there were old people who passed. Some didn’t care to notice, others who did passed on disgusted and twisted facial expressions, commenting harshly. But, they were unaffected of all notices and were enjoying it to the heights of pleasures.

Those who looked at them and gave profound remarks just saw the outer picture. They surely missed the guts that the boys had inside them. To gain attention on a main street is no less than crossing a Mumbai street blindfolded. After the dip-and-lick they brought their bikes and scooties and stunted. Their burnouts splashed water on a 360⁰ turn, gaining more attention.

It was all to gain more attention. The shirts were now torn reveling their bare chests and sacred strings. The pockets hung open, buttons missing and vests exposed. But they were uncared. It was like their courtyard. This can be a highly negative example of social conduct, but what I saw from another perspective was freedom, fearlessness, vigor and courage.

It was no doubt their strength to care not to think of all odds: What the passer-bys might think? What if they were hurt? How they looked? It was rather just freedom of thoughts and actions. It was confidence to do what you want, and express how you feel.

v  

A policeman appeared a few minutes later and said something. I wonder he must have been sent over by some informer; else he would have hardly cared to wet himself.  His words were distinct and clear, aloud and bold. That made them steer their bikes and bugger-off!

As they left, the same gloominess adorned itself. Everyone got back to work and the same non-adventurous life rolled back on its wheels. It was as monotonous as ever, but no one seemed to realize.

Had the cop not appeared, a few more souls would have been tranquilized by their enthusiasm. Had he not said those words, they would have continued with their business. But those words were influential, affective and firm; so he chose them. He spoke in their language to convince them early. He said what they understood best, what they longed to hear amidst their game. What probably each of them were saying to each other. What exactly the cop said was:

‘Backchodi band karo!’