The neighbouring Aunty had stretched her arms outside of her window. In her hands was a spherical water vessel of the same kind I had seen in Mahabharat. Oh boy! I thought, and hid behind the guava tree in our garden for a better and unobstructed view. The brush was frozen in my mouth. I ignored Mom’s instructions.
Aunty looked at the sun, mumbled something and started pouring water to the ground. I rubbed one leg against the other to drive away the garden flies. Her eyes were closed but her lips were moving. I tried to read that mantra she might have been reciting like Kunti but failed to do so, yet again.
The peppermint-flavoured froth on my lips stretched into the widest smile ever. The toothbrush slipped out of the gap formed after the loss of my two front teeth. My dry eyes twinkled. I looked at the sun and I looked at her. And I looked at the sun again, waiting to see the god walk down.
It would happen any time now!
‘You don’t want to go to the school or what?’ My mother’s sharp tone broke into my reverie.
She was standing right next to me. Then she began to drag me away.
‘Mommy … Mommy … ik minute … oho … please … ik minute … pleaaaaase!’ I begged, but it was an effort in vain.
She dragged me straightaway to the bathroom and warned, ‘Five minutes and you should be through with your bath!’
I hated her and wanted to tell her that I knew she had lied to me. That she knew how I had been born. But for some reason, I couldn’t do anything but stare at her eyes.
The cool water washed away my anger. By the time I was done with my bath, I had forgotten that I had been angry with Mom. But the thoughts of what must have happened to Aunty were still there.
After a while, when Mom was combing my hair and pulling it into a bun, she affectionately asked me, ‘Kinnu dekh reha si bahar brush karde hoye?’ [Whom were you looking at while you were brushing?]
I smiled but didn’t answer.
She hung my schoolbag on my shoulders and asked again, ‘Bol?’
‘Woh teen number-vaali Aunty hai na …’
‘Hmm …’
‘… I saw her trying to have a baby,’ I said confidently.
My mother froze for a moment and grabbed my shoulders tightly. She kneeled down to make eye contact with me.
There was a smile on her lips.
There was confusion in between the lines of her forehead.
Four years had passed by since I had been put into school. The first two years went by simply in setting the context and understanding what it meant to be the first in the class. The third year involved figuring out a way to achieve that. The fourth year—and the worst of all four—just proved that the previous years’ answers were all wrong.
I was extremely happy that the final exams were over. And, right ahead of me, were the long summer vacations. But my parents were not as happy as I was, because I had failed to make them proud! They picked up my mark sheet and went through it a lot more times than I had held it in my own hands. I had scored well, but, according to them, not well enough to merit a pat on my back.
I had secured the tenth position in the class. We were some thirty-odd students, in all.
‘See, this is where you need to focus,’ Mom told me, pointing to the mathematics score on the mark sheet.
‘If you can get all the answers right, this is one subject in which you can easily score 100 out of 100!’ she said.
I had a score of 85 out of 100, and wondered whether another 15 marks would have made me the class topper. Mom explained that if I studied harder, there was nothing I couldn’t achieve.
‘Look at your classmate Mandeep. He had scored 100 out of 100. And he is far ahead of you! You should be friends with him at school,’ Mom said, before she headed for the kitchen.
Back in my room, I kept thinking about the twenty other students who were behind me in this race. I wondered if their mothers wanted them to be friends with me …
But I did listen to my mother. I didn’t want to disappoint her. So, updating my friends’ circle was the very first change I made. Personally, I have never understood this practice of making and breaking friendships based on people’s mark sheets. Didn’t we make friends by choosing the people we got along the best with? However, there was something more to it this time. Irrespective of whether Mom was right or wrong, her comparing me to Mandeep had only made me more jealous of him.
8
I Have a Pen!
It was when I got to Class VI that I started feeling truly mature. I think it had to do with two major changes in my life.
First, an ink pen had replaced my pencil. It made a big difference when I felt its presence—in my hands, in my pencil box and in my shirt’s pocket.
I remember how obsessed I used to be with my ink pen. I loved its nib, and that, to me, was the most beautiful part of the pen. In my free time, it was quite normal for me to keep staring at the nib of my pen and wonder how that thing was so nicely carved at the corners. I would be amazed to observe how that chiselled semi-cylinder of metal ended in such a sharp, pointed tip. However, the most beautiful aspect of the pen for me was to watch how, right through the centre of its shiny exterior, a super-fine channel of ink flowed and took the shape of letters on paper.
It was love at first sight!
I would spend about fifteen to twenty minutes every night checking the level of ink left in my pen and refilling it with a dropper. At the end of my refilling exercise, I would seal the lid of my Chelpark ink bottle and then wipe the extra ink off the outer surface of the pen, especially the surface of the nib around the thick ink channel. I wanted the nib to be as clean and shiny as possible. If there was ever a leakage, I would rub the pen against my hair. I had learnt doing that from my tuition sir.
If ever there was a point in time when I felt grown up, this was it. And with my growing up, I also started expecting other grown-up privileges. I remember, one day, before the pen had made its entry into my life, while I was doing my science homework of fill-in-the-blanks for a lesson called ‘Healthy Breakfast’, I had asked my mother, ‘Why do I have to drink only milk? Why can’t I drink tea, like you?’
‘Because you are a kid,’ came the reply. ‘And tea isn’t good for kids. When you grow up, you can start having tea.’
Busy sharpening my pencil, I thought about what she had said. ‘So when will I be a grown-up?’
Mom looked at me and then at the pencil that I had been sharpening. She answered, ‘The day you will start writing with a pen.’ And she had smiled.
Since that day, I had started associating the use of a pen with the status of being a grown-up. I had been waiting for a long time to get into Class VI, because that’s when, according to our curriculum, we were supposed to start writing with pens. And when I did get into Class VI, I claimed my licence to drink tea!
The second major milestone of growing up for me was to become the proud owner of a bicycle. Getting the bicycle wasn’t easy. I had long craved for it and had been demanding it for years. Time and again I used to bring up the subject of my would-be bicycle, and time and again I was denied one.
‘Tu haaley chhota hai, cycle chalaan vaastey,’ [You are still too young to ride a bicycle] Mom had said one day when I had initiated the topic.
‘Par Devesh hor Mandeep vi chhotey hain. Ohna kol cycle hai,’ [But Devesh and Mandeep are young as well. They have bicycles] I argued.
‘What about Anju, Meenu, Rashmi?’ Mom countered.
‘Mom, they are girls!’ I tried to bring in the gender difference for my benefit.
But my mother wasn’t going to retreat. She threw a few boys’ names at me, who she knew did not have a bicycle. I wanted to get back at her, and I even had a very reasonable argument, but for some reason I couldn’t say that to her face. Knowing it wouldn’t hold, I didn’t debate the subject further.
I expressed my annoyance by not talking to her that evening. However, in a short while, Mom began to serve food to my brother and me. While Tinku ate his food, I
kept staring at it blankly. I was hungry, but on the outside I was putting up a non-violent act of protest. Mom was still in the kitchen, making a few chapattis for Dad.
At first, I was determined not to eat unless Mom agreed to buy me a bicycle. A little later, when I felt hungrier, I resolved that I’d start eating as soon as Mom shouted at me for not eating. That was the point to which I would stretch my ego.
But nothing of the sort happened. Being in the kitchen, Mom wasn’t even aware that I wasn’t eating. Hence she didn’t shout.
Soon emotion and hunger acted in unison and broke me down. And that’s when my eyes turned moist. Gradually, through wet eyelashes, the food in front of me became blurred. Tinku looked at me. I looked back at him. Seeing me in that condition made him somewhat confused. He got off his chair and went to the kitchen. The very thought of my little brother telling my mother about my crying, which would make Mom come running to console and feed me, made me comfortable.
But I was wrong. All my little unsympathetic brother did was to return with some more dal for himself. Then he climbed back into his chair with his legs hanging in the air, holding a spoon which he had still not learnt to hold properly. He watched me sobbing as if nothing had happened. He was hopeless!
I will never share my bicycle with you, I thought to myself while giving him the most disgusting look ever. Even that didn’t seem to have any effect on him.
And while I was thinking about him, I forgot about crying.
Mom called out from the kitchen, asking me if I wanted more chapatti. I didn’t respond. She called out again. I still didn’t respond.
Finally, she came to the living room, only to see my food untouched. She saw me crying silently. Worried to see me that way, she ran towards me and took my hand.
‘Ki hogaya, beta?’ [What’s the matter, son?] she asked, worried.
I didn’t say anything, but wrapped my arms around her. And that’s when I gave way to my feelings. I started crying loudly, because I could not bear to be angry any more. My non-violent protest got washed away in a flood of tears. A little later, Mom fed me with her hands. I felt cared for. As she fed me every bite, she explained to me that I had grown up enough and that I should understand our family’s financial condition. She offered me some water and, after I had taken a sip, she told me that I should not make demands for everything I wanted. All this while, as she kept talking to me and made me finish my dinner, I kept holding her chunni in my hands, feeling disappointed by her explanations.
That night, lying in my bed, I thought of how I had wanted to respond to my mother when she had pointed out the boys in my class who didn’t come to school on bicycles. I wanted to tell her that those boys didn’t even need a bike—their dads had scooters. Every day, they would be dropped off to school on their scooters. It was embarrassing for me that my father didn’t possess one.
And from that embarrassment came hate—I hated my father because he wasn’t a doctor or an engineer like my friends’ fathers. Just like the other boys of my class, I too wanted to stand in between my dad’s legs when he would drive a scooter. Like them, I too wanted to press the horn and make the world get out of my way. Like them, I too wanted to let my classmates know that my father had dropped me off to school on his scooter. But I knew my father couldn’t afford one, and so I was only asking for a bicycle.
In the afternoon, when school got over, my friends would go back home in those nice box-shaped six-seater school rickshaws. Their dads would be busy at work and therefore couldn’t turn up at school to pick them up. So they all enjoyed a leisurely rickshaw ride, where they chatted with each other and watched the world go by. They would all hang their water bottles down the rear grill and get into the rickshaw, after which the rickshaw puller would lock the door. From inside the rickshaw, they all would look out and wave their hands out of those square windows, bidding goodbye to the others. There were scores of rickshaws leaving from the school in the afternoon, and I would watch them all going away. All this while I would keep holding my brother’s hand, waiting for Dad to arrive on his bicycle to take us back home.
Once, my classmate Sourav had asked me, ‘Tum hamaarey saath rickshaw mein kyun nahi aatey ho?’ [Why don’t you come along with us in the rickshaw?]
‘Mere Daddy bolte hain rickshaw-vaaley late kar dete hain. Hum cycle pe jaldi ghar pahonch jaatey hain.’ [My Dad says rickshaws are usually late. We can reach home faster on his bicycle.]
That day, I asked Dad to pedal his bicycle faster and beat Sourav’s rickshaw, so that I could prove to him that I was right. But, deep inside, I was aware of the truth. The rickshaw puller charged a hundred rupees per month per child. Our father couldn’t have afforded a monthly rickshaw service for the two of us.
Therefore, all I had asked for was a bicycle. But Mom, while serving me food that night, had advised me to postpone this demand. I recalled my mother’s words—I should understand our family’s financial condition and should not be demanding. I kept thinking about it over and over again. I don’t remember when sleep took over me …
… And, the next morning was one of the best mornings of my life! I was riding my bicycle to school. I had hung my water bottle across the bicycle bell on the right side of the handle. My schoolbag was safely tucked in the carrier behind me. I was the happiest kid in town and wasn’t able to contain my smile. On my way to school, I overtook some of my friends on their dads’ scooters and a few in those box-shaped rickshaws. Then I turned naughty—I showed off my favourite stunt of letting go of the handle and pedalling the bicycle faster. I was my own hero!
But I wanted to be everyone else’s hero as well. So I raced my bicycle into the school complex, leaving behind me a trail of wind and dust. I pushed up from my seat and pedalled the bicycle hard and fast—like no one had ever seen before! Without any hassle, I raced my bicycle all the way up the tall staircase. The crowd applauded. A lot of girls were cheering my name—‘Ravinder! Ravinder!’ Acknowledging them with a passing smile, I raised the front wheel of my bicycle on to the railing of the staircase. My next stunt was going to be to apply a quick brake and bring the bicycle to a skidding halt just at the precipice of the staircase.
Exactly at that moment, I heard my mother call out: ‘Utth jaa, hun! School jaana hai.’ [Wake up! You’ve to go to school.]
And it was all over. I was back in bed, in my daily vest and pajamas.
On my way to school, while my father pedalled his bicycle, I asked him, ‘Ik gall puchhan, Daddy?’ [May I ask you something, Daddy?]
‘Puchh?’ he answered, without paying me much attention.
‘Tussi mainnu cycle le dogey ki?’ [Will you get me a bicycle?]
The unfulfilled desire for a bicycle had not dampened my competitive spirit at school. By the end of Class VI, I was very close to being declared the winning rat. But Hindi turned out to be my weak link. Just 5 more marks, and I would have been able to make my parents proud.
I had worked very hard this time.
Interestingly, and quite contrary to my expectations, my parents were a lot happier this time. However, I wasn’t happy. Blame it on the competitiveness that had, by then, so badly become a part of my mental structure, but I failed to be happy despite coming second in my entire class.
I only realized this when my parents smiled, on looking at my mark sheet. I reminded them that I hadn’t come first.
Yet, Mom patted me on the back and so did Dad. That made me feel good about myself. Even though I wasn’t happy with my results, I was happy because my parents were finally happy.
Being inches close to your goal may have any one of these two impacts on your mind—one, you grow complacent at the thought that you’ve almost reached your goal and will soon get there quite easily; or else, that you work harder to sustain your current position, while making calculated progress towards the final goal. My parents were believers in the second impact. Unfortunately, I belonged to the first school of thought—that I would easily make it to the top sooner or later.
But that year, as per my mother’s wishes, studying my curriculum for Class VII did not wait till the school reopened after the vacation; it began right in the middle of the summer vacations! While I stayed at home, I was made to go through the entire Baal Bharati—the Hindi literature textbook—and Vyaakaran, the Hindi grammar textbook.
I enjoyed reading the stories in Baal Bharati, but the ghost of Vyaakaran just flew over my head. And because I believed in being complacent, I decided to take Hindi less seriously when the books were later being taught in class.
Big mistake!
By the time I realized how seriously it was going to affect my results, it was already too late. Within seven months of getting a pat on my back from my parents, I once again became the reason behind their sadness and frustration.
No, I didn’t do badly in my final exams. The finals were still a few months away. But I did very badly in my half-yearly exams. From the second position, I slipped down to the seventh—in a matter of seven months!
I remember how I delayed revealing my marks to my parents. I could not escape it, for the test papers had to be signed by my parents and returned to school. At one point, I even planned to sign them on my own, but stopped myself from doing so at the last moment.
Those few days, I lived in the terror of receiving my parents’ scolding. And, the very next week, my fears came true. There was a parent–teacher meeting in school. Despite all my efforts to manoeuvre my mother away from the Hindi teacher, the inevitable happened. The rest of my week turned into a disaster zone.
‘No more playing in the evening. Get up early in the morning and study!’ Mom instructed me strictly, after I came back from school.
It felt like a social boycott. My playtime was reduced from two hours to just one. Everything I wished for in life was now connected with my results. ‘You will only get your bicycle when you study hard and get good results.’ What? People who didn’t score top marks didn’t ride bicycles?
Like It Happened Yesterday Page 5