“Jor thi bolo, Ae.”
‘A few said “ye.” Some said “ay” and so on.
‘She said, “Bolo B.” Some said, “vhi,” “bhee” “bhi.”
“Bolo C.”
“See,” “she,” “ci.” The wrong pronunciations didn’t bother her. She asked us, “Do you know Aeppal? Has anyone eaten an Aeppal?”
‘The mouse continued nibbling. We glanced at each other. Now I know that was the wrong pronunciation. And to boast as our English teacher, she answered in English.
“It is a sweet fruit.”
‘Nobody understood what it meant. A severe conflict about the school and education stressed us. If that was knowledge, we were better off with theft and making liquor. The silence extended for a few seconds and the teacher yelled again.
“Dobao, meethu phal che, meethu phal.” In local Gujarati language she shouted at us, “You idiots, it is a sweet fruit.” She picked her right nostril with the right index finger and left with the middle, one at a time. And wiped them on her saree.
“Have you not seen it in a fruit shop? Spherical fruit in shades of red. We call it ‘Safarjan’ in Gujarati and ‘Seyb’ in Hindi.” She explained, rotating her right hand clockwise and anti-clockwise with fingers spread out.
‘We turned back. The poor rodent froze in horror. It stood still on hind legs holding the half-eaten apple with the fore two, gawking at the teacher and the dusky Chhara boys who were rodents for society. “You rats, look at me,” shouted the tutor.
‘The rodent turned back to nibbling. We turned to the teacher who continued trying to get us to say Aeppal.
‘I never understood the logic. When the fruit vendors used the Gujarati or Hindi names, why should I learn its English name? If I ever visited England and needed apples, I would point to them. And honestly, if I, being a Chhara, desired an apple, I would steal it. Why would I need its name?
‘She made us pronounce the word loudly at least a dozen times. “Say it correctly, or I’ll whack your knuckles.” She showed off a foot-long steel scale.
‘The students pushed back and folded their arms. With pale faces, we gaped at her and replied in shrill voices. Pity the British language; we all, including the tutor, failed in the pronunciation.
“Remember this word ‘Aeppal’; I’ll ask you tomorrow. ‘Ae’ is the first English alphabet,” she said.
‘The Aeppal turned out sour for us. We were already pissed off by the British for branding us a “Criminal tribe.” And a fat black lady forced us to speak their language, else get hit with a steel scale on our knuckles. Damn the Englishmen and damn the Aeppals.
‘She continued, “B phor Bole. Bolo Bole.”’
‘Hahaha. Bole. I love it,’ Zaheer laughed out.
‘Bol, bawl, bhole, bal, came the replies.
“What is Bole?” she asked. Must be another fruit, we thought. “Gujarati ma ‘dado’ and Hindi ma ‘geynd.’ You use it in playing cricket. You hit it with the beyt, and score runs. That is Bole.”
‘At Bangalore, I learnt the correct pronunciation as Ball and not Bole. Till then, I had boles at my crotch.
‘The teacher searched her table and glanced behind, and found the chalk piece on the floor. Her mind conveyed her a fool proof plan to stand up, bend down, and pick it up, but she rejected it. She scratched the back of her head and said, “Take out your notebook and pencil and write what I say.”
‘We scratched our cheeks and chins.
“Draw a straight vertical line.”
‘We dragged a line from top to bottom. Some guys pulled it on the whole page, and a few till the half. The broken black board was laughing at us.
“Leave a little space and draw an equal parallel line,” she said, and we followed. “Connect both the parallel lines from the top and centre.” We did it. “This is how you write A,” she said.
‘Easy, it was. Two parallel lines joined at the top and centre form the first alphabet of people who robbed us for over two centuries. English seemed easy for us.
“Okay. Write A again on the next page. Now, if you connect the two parallel lines at the bottom also, it becomes B, the second alphabet.”
‘The boys glanced and smiled at each other. We were enjoying learning.
“Now, on the next page, draw a straight line. Extend two connecting lines to the right, one at the top and one at the bottom. This is the third letter C,” she said. “On the fresh page, write the letter C again. Now, connect both the adjoining lines, but with a curvy line. This is D—the fourth alphabet,” she said. “So today you learnt the first four alphabets of the English language. Now write these letters in your notebooks 20 times,” she said, and sprawled on her chair.
‘Our day’s learning ended. The lizard disappeared in the frame, the roaches scattered, and the spider continued the spinning. The small cockroach sneaked back inside the desk. The mouse finished the apple and scampered away.
‘The teacher put her head on the table and napped. We practiced writing the alphabet, and everyone wrote it differently. We murdered English. Revenge taken.
‘After 30 minutes, a loud bell signalled the period‘s end. The mistress woke up. She removed her mirror, applied lipstick, fixed her hair, and left our classroom.’
Chapter —8
Keep the Surrounding Clean
‘Another pot-bellied educator entered. His curly and messy grey hair resembled a pigeon nest. His nose and chest hair projected out, and a thick and wet moustache covered his dark upper lip. “Cleanliness is most important in life,” he said, spitting out saliva. The boys in the front row wiped their faces, twisted their noses and glanced around. With his ring finger, he scratched his teeth and rolled his tongue over them.
“We must keep our surroundings neat,” he said, scratching his groin. “Let us practice it,” he said and took us to the toilet area. Two school staff waited with brooms, cleaning brushes, mops, phenol bottles, and pieces of waste cloths.
“Pick up the tools and clean the toilets and the premises,” said the teacher.
‘They gave each student a separate task and portrayed the whole exercise as learning. But I understood the abuse. A reminder of our social order that we are born to clean the filth and the faeces of other human beings and animals. A few of us cleaned the bathrooms, a few washed the toilets, some swept the lobby, and some collected the garbage.
‘Manoj was assigned the cleaning of a filthy latrine. As he entered, he stepped on an excreta pile deposited near the door and spoiled his pant cuffs. Manoj wiped them with paper, but the stink lingered. I gathered and carried the litter to the bin beside the entrance gate. I too emitted a foul stench. We cleaned for two hours, equal to four periods.
“Go to your class and rest for a while,” they ordered.
‘Our classroom filled with our stinking aroma. Despite being habituated to living in the stink, we disliked smelling filthy in the school.
‘The short-break after the fifth period neared and students were to come out. They sent us to the classroom on the pretext of rest. The youngest of us slumped on the wall with drooped shoulders and rolled his neck sideways. A while later, he moaned, wiped his sweat, and trudged towards the water drinking area.
‘The bell rang. The other pupils gushed out like the water released from a dam. We gazed at them from our classroom. They drank water, spoiled the cleaned toilets, and feasted on the refreshments. Their deafening shrieks echoed through the campus.
‘A bunch of students raced to the canteen, the only authorised outlet to sell eatables in the premises. The cafeteria was a 5 x 10 feet space, covered by a tarpaulin supported on four bamboos. A cracked and tilted, long wooden table displayed the products. Chocolates, chewing gums, chips in different shapes and sizes, and biscuits, lay scattered on it. A host of ants, cockroaches, mosquitoes and flies surrounded it. On one corner of the table, an old and dirty stove burnt with a blue flame. The owner prepared tea and fried samosas, in the black pan using the black oil he re-used for weeks. Tea, milk, and
samosa, comprised of dead insects. And lizards, occasionally. Rats, his permanent tenants, nibbled on the food. The man sold these damaged or expired eatables at 10 to 25% discount, depending on the damage. The pupils craved such offers.
‘Some boys made paper planes and launched them. The unpiloted planes lost the radar and hit others on their eyes, noses and faces. The victims destroyed the aircraft and fired foul words. It resulted in brawls, fistfight and wrestling.
‘The students relished these fights, and we pondered the difference between them and us. In a while, the young boy joined us back.
‘Break time ended. The bell rang, and the gleam from the students’ faces disappeared. They plodded back, licking their fingers and chocolate wrappers. In ten minutes, the pupils settled in their respective classrooms. Watching others enjoy from our classroom window defined our refreshment break.
‘They commanded us to sweep the field. Other students ventured out class-wise for the physical training session and played games. Our cleaning exercise lasted for another two hours until the end of the last and ninth period. The last bell rang at 12:50 pm, and the students rushed out. We sweated on the ground until they exited and headed to our classroom. We collected our bags and ambled over to board the NGO van. On our first day, more than the learning, we carried our school stink home. Manoj smelled the worst. Exhausted, we dozed off in the minibus.
‘The van steered in honking, and the gatekeepers surrounded us. Our waiting parents cheered, but we remained unenthusiastic. The mothers twisted their noses, yet, embraced their children and pulled their cheeks. They empathised with our tiredness, for we were habitual offenders and not habitual learners. Everyone slipped into their respective homes.
‘My parents checked my notes. I briefed them on my learning of the first four letters of the English alphabets and cleanliness. They listened with rapt attention and desired to send my elder brother to school too. Relieved, my father professed a better world for us. Chhara children will study and progress to earn a respectable livelihood. His face enchanted, in the hopes of a bright Chhara future. I gave positive feedback on my first-day experience, but not all. The next day, six dropped out, and ten came by force. Four, including me, attended of their will.
‘The second day at school was even more disastrous. The campus witnessed a rebellion against us. The hatred for us was so great, the other students could not look upon us as human beings. Students held their belongings tight and kept their distance shouting, “Run, run, the criminals have arrived.” The monkeys on the trees just chattered and jumped from one branch to another.
“Do not drink water. A Chhara had used the glass,” screamed a student.
‘The news spread and triggered a revolt. Maybe it was the young boy who ventured out for water yesterday?
‘The students and the staff opposed us. A few parents complained to the Principal about this, demanding our immediate dismissal.
‘A staff member rushed into our class and yelled, “Which rascal dared to use our glass? Name him, or I’ll punish you all.”
‘We glanced at each other, unaware of that blunder. And the suspected boy was absent. The rest, frightened by the dark fat lady’s instruction, didn’t drink the water from the school tap. Whom do we name? We faced disgraceful treatment in the name of education.
‘When nobody replied, the staff member shouted. “So, you have united against us, huh? And you think you can escape? You rascals, we will teach you a lesson you will never forget.” He charged towards the first line and caught Manoj by his collar. “Did you do it?”
“No, Saheb, I didn’t,” pleaded Manoj. The man slapped him. He shrieked in fear and slouched, crying. A few fellows cried aloud and a few silently.
‘The lizard popped out again. The roaches raced into the nearest corners. The spider stopped spinning, and the dogs outside barked.
‘Some senior students barged inside with their parents and listed false complaints to the furious staff member. Every word was a lie. A dozen said they lost their belongings yesterday. We threatened them, claimed a few. Many said we touched them. One even said that a Chhara boy hit him. The teachers, the students, management, society, and everybody behaved hostile towards us. The hatred against the Chharas was exposed.
‘Amidst the commotion, two pupils accused Manoj of using the glass. In a fit of rage, they attacked him. They punched and kicked him. I ran and wrapped him with my arms, but the crowd pulled me away. Manoj sobbed, voicing his innocence, but in vain. His nose and mouth bled. The frightened students huddled in a corner. Unable to tolerate it any more, I barked out.
“He is innocent, sir. Please, leave him.” ‘Heads turned towards me. They pressed their teeth, hurled abuses and pounded on me. I defended myself and struck a few blows too. Infuriated, they bashed me black and blue. One guy dragged me by my collar and hair; others kicked and punched me multiple times. I suffered a bleeding nose and mouth, and bruises and pain all around. My shirt buttons flew off, and the collar was torn. The crowd, having vented their anger on Chhara children, boasted of their power. This discriminating incident happened in a government school.
‘Students clung to one another. Dizziness forced me to recline. Nobody offered me water or bothered to check on me. A minute later, I woke up and wiped the blood off with a piece of paper. My body continued quivering. A crowd assembled near the door, murmuring.
‘The Principal came in. People surrounded him and shouted slogans like “Throw the Chharas out” and “Remove the Garbage.” They repeated the false complaints. He promised them results and asked them to calm down. He addressed us. “Life gave you a golden opportunity, but you didn’t value it.” The crowd nodded in support. They approved every word of the Principal.
“You people,” he continued, “do not deserve an education. Our school welcomed you and arranged exclusive classes for you. We wished to educate you so you could mature as decent humans, prosper in life, and contribute to society. But you are born criminals and will remain so. On the first day, you flashed your true colours. You robbed, provoked fighting on the premises, and disturbed the school’s peaceful atmosphere. I have appealed to the higher authorities for your dismissal. You deserve to make and sell liquor.”
‘We sat mum.
“Sit here till I return with a solution,” he said, and left.
‘The crowd murmured and moved out. We remained inside along with the cockroaches, spiders and lizards. The mouse had bunked class and peeked at us from outside. They accused us of crimes we never committed. Justice is married to innocence but has an extramarital affair with power, wealth, and influence. They conspired to accuse us and to dismiss us from the school.
‘In half an hour, another staff member accompanied by three policemen arrived. He screamed. “The higher authorities have ordered your dismissal. Despite theft and assault complaints against you, the police will let you go with only an apology. We have summoned the NGO who arranged your admission. The cops will investigate and penalise them for negligent recommendation. Your parents will arrive soon for legal and dismissal procedures. Till then, you apologise to the police, one by one.”
‘He pointed at the first student of the first row. The boy stood up, shivering.
“Join your hands and say sorry,” the staff member said. “Accept these misbehaviours and apologise. Promise you won’t repeat it.” He insisted, and the boy ate humble pie. Other students followed. At my turn, the staff member winked at the cops.
“A unique breed,” he said, and grinned.
‘I sprang up. “Sir, I have done nothing you mentioned.”
“Shut up, you bastard,” the staff member clenched his fist and charged at me, but the cops held him.
“Don’t act over smart. Don’t teach us right and wrong,” said a constable.
“Saheb, I have done no mistake. Believe me.”
“Believe you? You bloody Chhara. What makes you think anyone can trust you, huh?” the staff member said. “Do you realise who you are and what your paren
ts do? You scum. You all are criminals and you expect us to believe you? Admit your apology... or I’ll hang you upside down and whack you,” he said.
‘Hah. They targeted the wrong man. Err... boy, I mean. Not of the regular breed, I defended the truth. With my chest out and chin lifted, I stared. I circled my tongue around my teeth to clean the blood, gulped it, and spoke.
“Do what you can. I’ll not apologise.” Everyone gazed at me with widened eyes.
‘The staff member dashed at me. “You bastard,” he said and pushed me. I fell against the wall, but sprung up again and clenched my fists.
“Listen, Saheb; I have done no wrong, so won’t accept it. Never...”
‘Lizards popped up.
‘The cops chewed their cheeks and glowered at me. The staff member growled. I glared with teeth chattering. He glowered at me and tightened his fist. The policemen leapt and pulled him away. They signalled me to sit down and forced him to leave the classroom. He scampered away screaming the choicest of foul words reserved for Chharas.
‘I didn’t apologise for any crime. The police accused me with physical assault, verbal abuse, intimidation, theft, provoking and indulging in brawls. Oh. How brutal a criminal was 12-year-old me!
‘The van arrived, and our parents gushed out. Strength flushed our hearts. The crowd echoed: “Throw the Chharas out. Remove the garbage.”
‘Our parents ran to us and hugged us. Wailings echoed in the room. My father checked my bleeding and swellings.
“What happened? Who hit you?” he asked. I kept quiet. “Speak up. What happened? Who hit you and why?” he repeated.
“Leave it, Father,” I said.
“You are injured. Who hit you and why?” he asked again.
“Society,” I answered. “The cruel society hit me because I dreamt of education. These people accuse us of theft and physical and verbal abuses, and all. They say we drank water from the common glass. They have conspired against us... because they want to dismiss us from school,” I said, and hugged him and burst out crying.
The Branded Criminal: In Search of Liberation Page 7