It was one of those days, when one sulks. For no rhyme or
reason, or at least, none that one wants to acknowledge. Or worse still,
address. Where if you ask me, what’s the matter? I would probably blame it on
you, and your incessant chatter. So, one of those days it was, and I was coming
back from school. In our old fiat, white where it still was, rusted brown in
the rest. An embarrassment then, a long gone loved one now. Mummy had made some
snack for me and I had reacted by complaining, ungrateful that I mostly was, on
that day, however, I was downright cruel. I feel sick sometimes, thinking of
the shit I put my mom through my teenage years, mummy being mummy let me be. I chewed
and swallowed the offensive food as if doing a great service to society.
As I contemplated my depressing existence, the wrongs done
against me and my boredom of school, home, and school again, the car stopped at
a traffic signal. Great! First there wasn’t an air conditioner in the car and
now this! Couldn’t we get one of those sedans, like esteem? I looked out,
hoping to distract myself from the wet Calcutta heat, which was making my
eyeballs sweat. The stupid sports bra, sticking to the godforsaken boobs that
had decided to grow while I was still trying to get rid of the “baby fat”. Big
boobs, bigger ass, waist length hair, I was a middle aged woman in a sweaty
school uniform and my mom kept giving me more food. Life wasn’t fair.
Suddenly, I heard a whoooosh. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!
Giggles and shrieks of pleasure. Right there, on the footpath, near the wet
ground by the hand pump, amidst vegetable peels and egg shells. In the sweaty
heat, and stinking filth, a brown frail child. Shirtless, bare-footed, with
tattered shorts covering a protruding belly. Not baby fat, but a sign of malnutrition,
we had learnt at school recently. A photo of such a child, in our text book,
explaining why nutrients are important. Diseases, symptoms, food chains and
classifications. Text that would fetch us marks, marks that were a number, a
number which was never enough. This child, just a picture out of that text
book, depicting disease, poverty, was playing with a broken kite. Dragging it
on the filthy ground, making noises and laughing, shrieking, enjoying despite
everything.
Despite, nothing. For there was nothing. No house, no
clothes, no food. No snacks made by his mother, probably the woman in the tatty
saree, with the torn blouse, sitting near the hand pump, staring into
nothingness. Nothing to shield against the scorching sun, not even an old fiat,
with patches of white paint missing, revealing shades of rust just as the boys
skin.
This child was happy. Why? Because he focussed on the broken
kite he had, not the kite he didn’t, which could have flown. He ran around in
the heat, because he could. He laughed, because what instead was he to choose? Tears?
Anger? Defeat?
The car started, and traffic trudged on, slowly at first, I
kept looking at the child, craning my neck as I did so. He looked up from his
game and grinned at me, all yellow teeth in full glory. I smiled back,
hesitating at first and grinning as the fiat sped by, the wind on my face, the
boy a brown speck amongst the grey, noisy traffic on that humid, yellow day.
I turned to my mom, who had drifted off to sleep. Probably
tired from running around all day, for us. I gave her a peck on the cheek as I
kept the finished tiffin box between us and she smiled with her eyes closed.
Why wait to be happy or look to be sad? Usually, what we
have is much more than what we don’t. I don’t know if that boy grew up to make
something for himself, or if he wastes himself away. But, on that day, he was
as happy as happy could be, which is more than what we can say for most of our
days. I remember him, sometimes, and he reminds me to smile.
No comments:
Post a Comment