LITTLE BY LITTLE

To

The boy who is a man now

It is absolutely imperative to have a pristine conscience in a world which lies, cheats and snatches away your happiness from you. It’s what ‘they’ say (and like so many others before me, I don’t know who ‘they’ might be, or might signify). But then, like the proverbial fool, if you stuck to what ‘they’ said and spoke your mind, you’d be in deep trouble. It’s what little kids get into trouble for, very so often. They have a pristine conscience. Check. They speak their mind. Check. They are encouraged to speak out. Check. Then when they do, they get slapped.

Now what kind of justice is this?

There was a boy like this in fifth grade. South Indian. He had a name as long and powerful as a Tata truck, but reduced to a mere alphabet by his classmates. “Absolute rebel!”, “Rogue!” they called him (and once again, I will not pretend that I know what ‘they’ stands for). He spoke out loud. He cackled and doubled up with laughter at his own jokes. He had always been an honest though short, funny little boy. And while we were forced to swallow our laughter behind genial, suppressed smiles, he knew that we were aching for the class to get over.

Always.

If only to let out the laughs and heave a collective sigh of relief.

A monkey walked past the classroom once, nonchalantly. And this boy was in the midst of being scolded by the teacher for not doing his ‘Computer Science’ homework. He had a reputation for being the clown. This teacher was raging at him with blunt force, literally screaming down at him. And for a second he looked outside, distractedly.

For that second, two others on the front bench also looked outside. They’d followed his gaze. One of them w

as me. The other was a girl who would go on to become this boy’s ‘best friend’, and a close friend of mine. Only three people looked outside and saw a monkey walking through the corridor, almost waving at us and flashing a grin, I imagine.

“MONKEY IN THE CORRIDOR!” screamed the terrorized honest boy, abruptly. (It wasn’t so sudden for me or the other girl, because we’d noticed.)

The classroom went still, not even a hushed whisper escaped anyone’s lips. The teacher’s eyes were widened with disbelief.

“I’m saying something,” she began very quietly, “and You. Talk Back. To. Me?” she’d emphasized on each word.

Complete silence. The girl next to me bit her lips.

Then the final blow came.

“HOW DARE YOU TALK BACK TO ME!” so went the teacher’s deafening roar.

“You talk about monkeys, do you know what you are?” she couldn’t help it.

Of course, that day, I felt like bursting into uncontrollable laughter. The situation had been so comic. But later I felt bad for the little boy because he was telling the truth. No one believed him because they were used to his nonchalance. He blew up seriousness into airy bubbles and blew them through the filter of laughter. It was a habit. But there was more to him than the merry jokes and laughter.

I glimpsed some part of the integrity and steadfastness of a very hardworking man in that little boy, on that day. You grew up the way no one imagined, but I’d always guessed.

You grew up and went on to command the stage almost as well as I could. But you and I, we’re parallels. You’re outspoken, I’m not. People know you as a public figure almost. You abide by clarity but I’ve been told that I have a way with words. And you perhaps dream of becoming a movie star too. I believe that no matter where you go, no matter how much you make others laugh, there will always be a steel core of loyalty and integrity behind that mask and aura.

And on the rainier days when no one believes in the little boy’s truth, when there’s no one to make ‘you’ laugh, you will fall back upon that steel core.

I know it. I remember you that way.

Yours truly

THE TYPICAL INDIAN NIGHTMARE

To

The Bus Driver



I’d heard that the Devil comes bearing horns, or at least some distinctive marker. Mine was green with a low-floor and came on two sets of wheels, rolling furiously upon the gray tarmac. When I got in, I had no knowledge of what lay ahead of me in those fifteen minutes. I was straddling a book and a purse and a bag and myself, like I usually do. No big deal. The crowd, that sea of humanity judging each other’ sartorial choices, seemed moderate within the bus.

And then the ruckus began.

Bus stop after bus stop. People after people after people, and the automatic doors cramped shut. More and more of them joined into the sea of humanity, now forced to breathe upon each others’ faces, within that bus. It seemed as if no one had got out within the range of five bus stops.

Alarm bells started ringing in my head. I had to get out somehow. But how, and when?

There was not an iota of space left within-not to stand, nor to breathe.

The space to stand shrunk and shrunk further into a ‘nothing’, until there was literally none left. Everybody was leaning onto someone or the other. If the Aunty next to me fell, I’d be imbalanced and fall with a thud too. We were all standing on each others’ feet and grabbing shoulders, stabbing ankles with toes. Massive sports shoes-to-sports shoes, heels-to-heels and boots-to-boots, thrust within milimetres of each other. The people cried out and stirred in irritation. An oblivious elbow came from somewhere and jabbed my ribs, knocking the wind out of my lungs.

“Madam ji, aage ho jao na! The bus is ‘literally’ empty!!” somebody screamed in my ear.

A child howled in exasperation behind me.

“Don’t open the gates! DON’T! Aage se nikaalo sabko,” I imagine this was the conductor.

And like herds of cattle loaded on a freight train, gasping for breath, yet unable to help ourselves, we struggled on.

My mind had started to go fuzzy.

I could taste fear, and some strange emotion at the back of my throat. Perhaps tears.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity of shoving and jostling and stabbing and jutting, there came the finale. The crowd seemed to ease off a little. We began to let go. The screams of the annoying kids stopped. The adults ceased snapping at the conductor. The bus began to clear up.

And I concluded that I am claustrophobic.

But who isn’t?

Who likes to be caught by their hair and thrown in the midst of that stinking sea of humanity?

But just because this is an experience too, and I believe experiences amount to something in life, I will not complain. You and your Devil’s bus have given me a great experience which I might never forget.

Thank you for that.

No really, thanks.

I mean it.



Yours truly