“So they make you stand in a line and then they do what? They send you somewhere?” “Oh No No No, they put us in lines alright, then they just keep us there” “So you stay in those boxes or lines whatever, and when do you get out?” “Out? We are already out, that’s how we got into the boxes” “No No I mean, how you get out of the boxes?” “You never get out of the box, brother” “Oh I see… hey then how are you here?” “Oh me, oh well, I am not who you thought I am” “You are not?” “I am not.” “So the ‘You’ is still there?” “Yes” “There in the box?” “There in the box” “Then what are you?” “Well… I don’t know” “How you got here man?” “Why dont you tell me first? How you got here?” “I was heard” “You were heard… hmm” “And you?” “I was read” “But you said, you were out that’s how you were put in the lines and blah blah blah… but now I see you here. Inside” “I am going out” “Going out?” “Yea” “That sounds exciting” “Nah its not, I am gonna get written” “Oh… so you going to the boxes” “for life man” “ohh… hey wait, but why it cant be that… like how you were read… why you cant be just spoken or written and still be here?” “nah, you don’t understand. People forget what they say and sometimes what they write…” “oh, that’s strange… how does that happen?” “they kill us when they want to forget something” “are you kidding me?” “no… what’s your name?” “Innocence… what’s yours?” “Love”
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Saturday, December 29, 2007
The Cutting
When Ramesh would pour it from the kettle, into the glass cup… He would hold the kettle high and bring it closer to the cup and again take it aback… The mist that would cover the top walls of the cup… And the white, thin, steamy strands flying free into air, rising from the brown tea in that cup… sweet like the jaggery that they used to bring to my dad’s factory… The fragrance it would bring early in the morning, or in the dull afternoon or even thoughtless evening…
The glass cup, is the one I used to be amazed at… it had those straight dents made on it, never counted, but same on every glass. Those would get curvy just before the thick top wall… Guys from Engineering College in front of our tea stall would hold the cup, like some scientific instrument. I had once been to a chemistry lab, when I used to go to school… They had those test-tubes held tightly in rusty metal claws… these engineers would hold the cup by making a clamp using the thumb and the index finger… then there was Nari Chacha… He would hold the hot cup, his bare palm embracing it all around… he used to work Municipal Corporation… a sweeper.
Nari Chacha used to come to my Dad’s factory… Dad used to make the finest… hooch… And the butterflies… I would play with them… In the green fields… I would steal a little from the dad’s kerosene can like containers for hooch… then lying down in our hut, I would be running… in those green fields… it was so lovely…
But now everything seems so bland… The fragrance of tea is so unfulfilling… the jaggery is so tasteless… I don’t see those butterflies anymore… the night before, I don’t know where I slept… gotta make it to the tea stall… to beg Ramesh to let me wash some cups… to serve some tea… I just need 40 rs… to buy me the white powder…
I hate sunlight in my eyes… reminds me of the torch’s heat I had used for my dad’s funeral rites…
The glass cup, is the one I used to be amazed at… it had those straight dents made on it, never counted, but same on every glass. Those would get curvy just before the thick top wall… Guys from Engineering College in front of our tea stall would hold the cup, like some scientific instrument. I had once been to a chemistry lab, when I used to go to school… They had those test-tubes held tightly in rusty metal claws… these engineers would hold the cup by making a clamp using the thumb and the index finger… then there was Nari Chacha… He would hold the hot cup, his bare palm embracing it all around… he used to work Municipal Corporation… a sweeper.
Nari Chacha used to come to my Dad’s factory… Dad used to make the finest… hooch… And the butterflies… I would play with them… In the green fields… I would steal a little from the dad’s kerosene can like containers for hooch… then lying down in our hut, I would be running… in those green fields… it was so lovely…
But now everything seems so bland… The fragrance of tea is so unfulfilling… the jaggery is so tasteless… I don’t see those butterflies anymore… the night before, I don’t know where I slept… gotta make it to the tea stall… to beg Ramesh to let me wash some cups… to serve some tea… I just need 40 rs… to buy me the white powder…
I hate sunlight in my eyes… reminds me of the torch’s heat I had used for my dad’s funeral rites…
Monday, December 10, 2007
The Pinocchio
He used to make the boy read a whole book… often a novel, and he would expect the boy to answer anything from that book… from the leanest clues. But for how long, I would wonder… how long would the boy keep on answering his questions given that he gave almost no time to think… But it went on, longer than I had expected… The stack of books that he would bring for the boy to read, kept on growing… he would bring in more books than the boys read the last time…
It went on; the boy would answer questions from the books he read long back… often the boy would not even wait for the clues to get over… that made him happy or greedy rather… For the boy, I would wonder, if there’s joy in reading the books that he would stack up for him… or would the boy have the only joy when answering his questions…
Among these books and between him and the boy, I have seen it coming… I have seen the distinction between the lines from one book to the other becoming thin and thin… given that the boy remembers the words in the books so well, the excitement that those words in a new book can bring was replaced by methods rather to remember those words… to throw them words at him, when he questions… I have seen the building of a trust between him and the boy… For how long, I would wonder, he would persist on his stringent questions… the boy would always answer, one day he must be convinced about the boy’s abilities… and he was convinced…
And then; then its all between the boy and the books… I have seen it coming as well, the building of overconfidence… the boy knows the books already read so well, the boy doesn’t feel the need to read the same words in the new books… the boy would sometimes even wouldn’t read words in the letters I would write to him… or would he? The overconfidence made the boy play the one role he never did… the boy was very much prepared for the work he was going to take, the work to teach boys younger than him… to teach them to read those same books he once read… but never the boy was prepared for lying… his answers always had to be the truth, as he would have read in the book… but now when he questions and gives the leanest clues to his students… he knows, he can only limit himself to those books… I wonder when the boy would go outside his boooks, the Pinocchio inside him might have to hide his nose...
It went on; the boy would answer questions from the books he read long back… often the boy would not even wait for the clues to get over… that made him happy or greedy rather… For the boy, I would wonder, if there’s joy in reading the books that he would stack up for him… or would the boy have the only joy when answering his questions…
Among these books and between him and the boy, I have seen it coming… I have seen the distinction between the lines from one book to the other becoming thin and thin… given that the boy remembers the words in the books so well, the excitement that those words in a new book can bring was replaced by methods rather to remember those words… to throw them words at him, when he questions… I have seen the building of a trust between him and the boy… For how long, I would wonder, he would persist on his stringent questions… the boy would always answer, one day he must be convinced about the boy’s abilities… and he was convinced…
And then; then its all between the boy and the books… I have seen it coming as well, the building of overconfidence… the boy knows the books already read so well, the boy doesn’t feel the need to read the same words in the new books… the boy would sometimes even wouldn’t read words in the letters I would write to him… or would he? The overconfidence made the boy play the one role he never did… the boy was very much prepared for the work he was going to take, the work to teach boys younger than him… to teach them to read those same books he once read… but never the boy was prepared for lying… his answers always had to be the truth, as he would have read in the book… but now when he questions and gives the leanest clues to his students… he knows, he can only limit himself to those books… I wonder when the boy would go outside his boooks, the Pinocchio inside him might have to hide his nose...
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
The Statue
“The Police took him in the van, the Retard who sits at the Square… he must have done it last night. Creep…” the shop shutters were opening, as I heard this from one of the shop owners. Couldn’t stop to find out much, had to go to office. The shutters went down today morning as soon as, someone spotted a shoe-garland hanging from the neck of the statue at the square.
The statue had been there, standing, since I don’t know when. There’s board under it, telling the date of inauguration, but less I know about the man whose statue stands there and the lesser I care… Whom I know for sure, was the Retard, who used to sit there. He wouldn’t talk to anyone, or yell at people like most of them do. He wasn’t harmful either. He would just sit there; some local shop owners would offer him food. Never saw him do something that I recall now. Since I started going to school passing that square, was told that he’s a Retard, and he’s dangerous. When I was in school, I used to watch some school kids, who used to make fun of him. I saw some of them today, pelting stones at shops and shouting bad words. They are all into social service now.
That evening, I came back from office, a bit late than usual. I saw the Retard, seating behind the statue, as he does everyday. I went towards him; he was beaten up badly… but was composed as he looked at me and smiled, as if he was greeting me. I felt the need to take him for some medical help, I said, “Come, let’s go to a doctor. You are injured” He came along with me, and my family doc nursed his wounds.
I asked him, where he would go now. To the statue, he replied. He continued, “My father sculpted it. When I was in my mom’s womb, he finished it. He died of cancer. He told me to take care of the statue, before he died….” I assured him, that there are people in Municipal Corporation who will clean the statue, and will take care of it… at least once a year.
“You don’t understand”, he said, “The old grandfather is just standing here with one stick in his hand and wearing a dhoti. In shine and in rain, and in the cold nights of winter… who will help him up, if he falls down?” I looked in his eyes, there was determination that I can not persuade…
The statue had been there, standing, since I don’t know when. There’s board under it, telling the date of inauguration, but less I know about the man whose statue stands there and the lesser I care… Whom I know for sure, was the Retard, who used to sit there. He wouldn’t talk to anyone, or yell at people like most of them do. He wasn’t harmful either. He would just sit there; some local shop owners would offer him food. Never saw him do something that I recall now. Since I started going to school passing that square, was told that he’s a Retard, and he’s dangerous. When I was in school, I used to watch some school kids, who used to make fun of him. I saw some of them today, pelting stones at shops and shouting bad words. They are all into social service now.
That evening, I came back from office, a bit late than usual. I saw the Retard, seating behind the statue, as he does everyday. I went towards him; he was beaten up badly… but was composed as he looked at me and smiled, as if he was greeting me. I felt the need to take him for some medical help, I said, “Come, let’s go to a doctor. You are injured” He came along with me, and my family doc nursed his wounds.
I asked him, where he would go now. To the statue, he replied. He continued, “My father sculpted it. When I was in my mom’s womb, he finished it. He died of cancer. He told me to take care of the statue, before he died….” I assured him, that there are people in Municipal Corporation who will clean the statue, and will take care of it… at least once a year.
“You don’t understand”, he said, “The old grandfather is just standing here with one stick in his hand and wearing a dhoti. In shine and in rain, and in the cold nights of winter… who will help him up, if he falls down?” I looked in his eyes, there was determination that I can not persuade…
Monday, September 3, 2007
The Board
The day would begin for him at the black board. He would dust it clean, wiping off even the tiniest mark of chalk powder that’s left on the board from the previous day’s class. When he was young, his hands wouldn’t reach the top of the board. He would take a stool to help him. Sometimes when someone has kept the stool out of his sight, he would stand on his toes, make his hands reach the board’s top as if the hand was a long stick. The chalk powder, at those times, would fall in his eyes as he would write. He would then make his eyes small as those of someone from Japan and he would go on with his writing. He would always write in his beautiful big letters. All in CAPS.
Don’t remember exactly when, but I think it was the Third standard, when he was given the work of writing the “Thought for the Day”, for the month that followed. They would usually assign it as per your number in the roll call muster. From that day onwards, he would come to the class before anyone else did and would open his small notebook. He would then dust the board clean and write the thought he would have noted down in that notebook. The next day, he would do the same. And the next…
I remember, I was in Tenth and it was the last day of the school. We had all gathered early in the morning, to play one last game of football together. A bit too early rather. He came on his bicycle, when we had stopped for a breather. He entered the class and went up to the board. I followed him, without letting him know of it. I noticed, somebody had written foul words about a teacher in shabby handwriting on the board. He opened his notebook, it was looking very old but I could see that still all its pages were in tact. He opened one of the last few remaining pages. He had a look at the board, and started rubbing it clean. Those heretic words had been written using a wet chalk, so he was finding it difficult to wipe off. He opened his water bottle and sprinkled some water on the board, it was easy to clean it then. The board was looking brand new again, he then had a look in his notebook and wrote the thought for that day. For the last day of the school.
I don’t remember if I ever wrote a thought for the day. My roll number happened to be one count after his. Maybe he never wanted to give anyone else a chance, so that he could be the teachers’ pet year after year. That’s how we used to see it… Or may be he took the job that was given to him, to write thoughts, as an honor or may be he took it as a responsibility. I never took his thoughts seriously, but I never forgot to read them. As I grew up, I found them all one by one occurring to me, around me… His thoughts? We used to think he would copy it from some book, someone told me that his Dad used to write him a thought every night in his notebook of thoughts. He never would write those with a wet chalk. Even when he was young and the powder would fall in his eyes. Who knows, he may not be smart enough !! But, I remember almost everyday one or the other teacher had to wipe the thought off when there was no space left on the board for a new question for the test or for a maths equation… It would have been a waste of time for the teacher if the thought was written using a wet chalk… I don’t know what he’s doing these days. May be he’s still writing, or may be he’s just cleaning up things, someone messed up…
Don’t remember exactly when, but I think it was the Third standard, when he was given the work of writing the “Thought for the Day”, for the month that followed. They would usually assign it as per your number in the roll call muster. From that day onwards, he would come to the class before anyone else did and would open his small notebook. He would then dust the board clean and write the thought he would have noted down in that notebook. The next day, he would do the same. And the next…
I remember, I was in Tenth and it was the last day of the school. We had all gathered early in the morning, to play one last game of football together. A bit too early rather. He came on his bicycle, when we had stopped for a breather. He entered the class and went up to the board. I followed him, without letting him know of it. I noticed, somebody had written foul words about a teacher in shabby handwriting on the board. He opened his notebook, it was looking very old but I could see that still all its pages were in tact. He opened one of the last few remaining pages. He had a look at the board, and started rubbing it clean. Those heretic words had been written using a wet chalk, so he was finding it difficult to wipe off. He opened his water bottle and sprinkled some water on the board, it was easy to clean it then. The board was looking brand new again, he then had a look in his notebook and wrote the thought for that day. For the last day of the school.
I don’t remember if I ever wrote a thought for the day. My roll number happened to be one count after his. Maybe he never wanted to give anyone else a chance, so that he could be the teachers’ pet year after year. That’s how we used to see it… Or may be he took the job that was given to him, to write thoughts, as an honor or may be he took it as a responsibility. I never took his thoughts seriously, but I never forgot to read them. As I grew up, I found them all one by one occurring to me, around me… His thoughts? We used to think he would copy it from some book, someone told me that his Dad used to write him a thought every night in his notebook of thoughts. He never would write those with a wet chalk. Even when he was young and the powder would fall in his eyes. Who knows, he may not be smart enough !! But, I remember almost everyday one or the other teacher had to wipe the thought off when there was no space left on the board for a new question for the test or for a maths equation… It would have been a waste of time for the teacher if the thought was written using a wet chalk… I don’t know what he’s doing these days. May be he’s still writing, or may be he’s just cleaning up things, someone messed up…
Monday, August 13, 2007
आश्रित
साठा पैकी तेवीस मी पाहिली. उरलेल्या सदतीसामध्ये काय होऊन गेले, तेही मी शिकलो. "इतीहास" लिहायला गेलो म्हणून हातावर पट्टी बसली, मग "इतिहास" लिहित गेलो. मराठी शब्द हे जसे उच्चारतो तसेच लिहायचे असतात, ह्या वाक्याला पूजून इतिहास पण तसाच वळणदार अक्षरांमध्ये लिहित गेलो. पण ते शब्द तसेच का उच्चारायचे, कधी कुणाला विचारले नाही. इतिहास, खरच तसा होता, असे मानून चाललो...
सातवी 'ब' मध्ये होतो तेव्हा, दूसर्या वर्गात असलेल्या जोशी, खरे, आपटे नावाच्या मुलांवर माझ्या वर्गातले हसायचे. "भांडखोर भट्टांच्या बरोबर आपण नाय खेळणार" असा माझा मित्र बोलला की मी ही त्यांच्या बरोबर हसायचो, का ह्सायचो माहित नाही... पण सगळे हसतात म्हणून मी पण...आठवी 'अ' मध्ये आलो. तेव्हा जोशी, आपटे माझे मित्र झाले, त्यांच्या बरोबर हसायचो, ते म्हणायचे "गान्धीला अजिबात अक्कल नव्हती". वाचलेला इतिहास बहुतेक तेव्हा मला आठवत नसेल. इतिहास घोकून मार्क्स मिळवणार्यांबरोबर शिकलो होतो मी. मला सामाजिक शास्त्रात का नाही एवढे चांगले मार्क्स येत नाहीत, असा प्रश्न बाबा विचारायचे...
एके दिवशी टीव्ही वर, भगवे कपडे घातलेल्या कुणाला तरी मशिदीवर हातोडा घालताना बघितले. हिंदुत्वाचा तो विजय होता असेही कानावर पडले. घराच्या दरवाजावर "गर्व से कहो, हॅम हिंदू हे" असा स्टिकर लावला, तेव्हा बहूतेक विसरलो होतो, हिंदू - मरण नाही शरण देणार्याचा धर्म आहे...
एकदा एन.सी.सी. च्या सरांनी विचारले, "तुमच्या मधले किती आर्मी जॉइन करणार?" हात वर करणारा मी पहिला होतो. दहावी झाल्यावर सर्व म्हणाले आर्मी एवढा चांगला करीअर ओप्शन नाही, फार रिस्क आहे... मी ही हो म्हणालो...
आश्रित होतो तेव्हा मी. आता सुद्धा आश्रित आहे. कधी माणसाला त्याच्या समाजा वरून ओळखणार्यांचा. कधी पाठ करून मार्क्स मिळवणार्यांचा. एकदा सुद्धा, प्रश्न विचारला नाही. पण आता वाट सोडून पुढे जाता येणार सुद्धा नाही. म्हणून अजूनही आश्रित आहे मी, ए.सी. कारमध्ये बसून ओफीसला जाताना, साठी उलटली तरी सायकल वरुन कामाला जाणार्या वृद्धावर, कारच्या रस्त्यामधे आला म्हणून डाफरणार्या कालीग्सचा. मॉल मध्ये बसून भारताची ईकोनोमी स्टडी करून झाल्यावर, पार्किंग लोट बाहेर भीक मागत असलेल्या पाच वर्षाच्या मुलाची घाण वाटणार्या मित्रांचा. आश्रित आहे मी, "सेफ" आणि "सेटल्ड" जगण्याच्या मनोवृत्तीचा. आश्रित आहे मी, साठी पूर्ण होत असताना, मागे जे राहीले त्यांना विसरणार्या भारताचा...
सातवी 'ब' मध्ये होतो तेव्हा, दूसर्या वर्गात असलेल्या जोशी, खरे, आपटे नावाच्या मुलांवर माझ्या वर्गातले हसायचे. "भांडखोर भट्टांच्या बरोबर आपण नाय खेळणार" असा माझा मित्र बोलला की मी ही त्यांच्या बरोबर हसायचो, का ह्सायचो माहित नाही... पण सगळे हसतात म्हणून मी पण...आठवी 'अ' मध्ये आलो. तेव्हा जोशी, आपटे माझे मित्र झाले, त्यांच्या बरोबर हसायचो, ते म्हणायचे "गान्धीला अजिबात अक्कल नव्हती". वाचलेला इतिहास बहुतेक तेव्हा मला आठवत नसेल. इतिहास घोकून मार्क्स मिळवणार्यांबरोबर शिकलो होतो मी. मला सामाजिक शास्त्रात का नाही एवढे चांगले मार्क्स येत नाहीत, असा प्रश्न बाबा विचारायचे...
एके दिवशी टीव्ही वर, भगवे कपडे घातलेल्या कुणाला तरी मशिदीवर हातोडा घालताना बघितले. हिंदुत्वाचा तो विजय होता असेही कानावर पडले. घराच्या दरवाजावर "गर्व से कहो, हॅम हिंदू हे" असा स्टिकर लावला, तेव्हा बहूतेक विसरलो होतो, हिंदू - मरण नाही शरण देणार्याचा धर्म आहे...
एकदा एन.सी.सी. च्या सरांनी विचारले, "तुमच्या मधले किती आर्मी जॉइन करणार?" हात वर करणारा मी पहिला होतो. दहावी झाल्यावर सर्व म्हणाले आर्मी एवढा चांगला करीअर ओप्शन नाही, फार रिस्क आहे... मी ही हो म्हणालो...
आश्रित होतो तेव्हा मी. आता सुद्धा आश्रित आहे. कधी माणसाला त्याच्या समाजा वरून ओळखणार्यांचा. कधी पाठ करून मार्क्स मिळवणार्यांचा. एकदा सुद्धा, प्रश्न विचारला नाही. पण आता वाट सोडून पुढे जाता येणार सुद्धा नाही. म्हणून अजूनही आश्रित आहे मी, ए.सी. कारमध्ये बसून ओफीसला जाताना, साठी उलटली तरी सायकल वरुन कामाला जाणार्या वृद्धावर, कारच्या रस्त्यामधे आला म्हणून डाफरणार्या कालीग्सचा. मॉल मध्ये बसून भारताची ईकोनोमी स्टडी करून झाल्यावर, पार्किंग लोट बाहेर भीक मागत असलेल्या पाच वर्षाच्या मुलाची घाण वाटणार्या मित्रांचा. आश्रित आहे मी, "सेफ" आणि "सेटल्ड" जगण्याच्या मनोवृत्तीचा. आश्रित आहे मी, साठी पूर्ण होत असताना, मागे जे राहीले त्यांना विसरणार्या भारताचा...
Thursday, August 2, 2007
The Glimpses
It’s on my wrist today, the thing I was so amazed at, as a kid. It’s still the same, it still walks the same distance, and it still moves its hands. I remember how I would get touched by an unparallel excitement, for that moment… The moment, on which I could get a glimpse of, the minute hand moving one step, into the new minute. Or even better, that of an hour hand…
I remember, how sometimes I would sit in front of it and wait for it to happen. I would concentrate on its hour hand, as if it’s the only thing that mattered. Sometimes, no matter how hard I tried, I wouldn’t get that chance to freeze my eyes upon that hand, for that one glimpse. Don’t know how, but time just seemed to past… Maybe I wasn’t concentrating that well or maybe it was just eluding me that it never happened. I would get upset then… very upset. Then on some rare occasions, I would just look at it and voila, it would take place, that very moment!! I would try very hard to remember that picture as if to record that glimpse into my mind, it would make me forget all the waiting I did for it on some other day… But, it would bring me back, to where I started; I would want it to happen for me, again. Rather without waiting for it, or maybe when I would start thinking, I had waited just enough…
All this while, I never seemed to care about the second-hand, who would be moving and would be there to give me a glimpse of its move into the new second, every now and then… Maybe he was caring enough, but I wasn’t. Maybe he had to keep doing it, despite not getting my attention, because if he wouldn’t move, nor would the other two. But I ignored him, as I wanted more and more of the hour hand.
Maybe the hour hand didn’t know me well; maybe he had too many others to remember names of. Maybe I was just ignorant, when he really came for me, or maybe he never came. Today as I walk, I just want things my way, just like the way I wanted to have the glimpse of hour hand’s movement, whenever I would take a look. I don’t think about any of these things I did as a kid, just like the way I didn’t think of second hand much. Nor do I think about those today, who walked with me then and after, only to teach me walking…
I remember, how sometimes I would sit in front of it and wait for it to happen. I would concentrate on its hour hand, as if it’s the only thing that mattered. Sometimes, no matter how hard I tried, I wouldn’t get that chance to freeze my eyes upon that hand, for that one glimpse. Don’t know how, but time just seemed to past… Maybe I wasn’t concentrating that well or maybe it was just eluding me that it never happened. I would get upset then… very upset. Then on some rare occasions, I would just look at it and voila, it would take place, that very moment!! I would try very hard to remember that picture as if to record that glimpse into my mind, it would make me forget all the waiting I did for it on some other day… But, it would bring me back, to where I started; I would want it to happen for me, again. Rather without waiting for it, or maybe when I would start thinking, I had waited just enough…
All this while, I never seemed to care about the second-hand, who would be moving and would be there to give me a glimpse of its move into the new second, every now and then… Maybe he was caring enough, but I wasn’t. Maybe he had to keep doing it, despite not getting my attention, because if he wouldn’t move, nor would the other two. But I ignored him, as I wanted more and more of the hour hand.
Maybe the hour hand didn’t know me well; maybe he had too many others to remember names of. Maybe I was just ignorant, when he really came for me, or maybe he never came. Today as I walk, I just want things my way, just like the way I wanted to have the glimpse of hour hand’s movement, whenever I would take a look. I don’t think about any of these things I did as a kid, just like the way I didn’t think of second hand much. Nor do I think about those today, who walked with me then and after, only to teach me walking…
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