One kick for glory

It eventually rang. I soaked in the shrillness like it were strains of some heavenly music. The history class post lunch was the greatest soporific known to man. We endured; played Chinese checkers; stared out of the window at squirrels scurrying around in gay abandon. The Cholas had built a hundred bloody temples and we needed to cram the height of the gopurams and how they freakin differed from the ones built by the Vijayanagar kings. For what joy, I knew not.

We waited for Ms. Hamalinta to dust the chalk powder off her hand and walk out in grandeur. Bags quickly mounted on shoulders and the randomness soon transformed into a chaotic height ordered double line. Like an unruly army heading for war, we headed for that last hour of school - PT. Hopefully, he’ll just throw the football in our direction and see us disappear in to the dust and grime of the large brown ground.

I looked at my shoes to see if they had been blanco’d. They had. The forgetful were doing a desperate scrawling of chalk on their brown, supposed to be white keds. It often ever helped. As he walked past Arun, I could hear the thud. It hadn’t worked for him again. He walked past me and I stood there motionless; breathless. The cane in his hand glistened and thanks to clean white keds it did not come down upon me that day. The not so lucky sniffed and sobbed. All for a little Blanco. Or for the lack of it.

He signaled to one of the boys who promptly ran into the sports room and resurfaced with three worn out footballs. He picked the first ball, letting it roll a full minute on his fore finger. ‘2B’, he eventually shouted as he kicked the ball skyward. The whole of class B ran roaring towards that object, the mere kicking of which was an act of sporting accomplishment. Another ball. Another kick. ‘2C’ went the cry. Another fifty odd boys disappeared into the far corner of the ground. There was no climax left. We chased the last disappearing ball like madmen at war. And for the next one hour we proved a living breathing example to Darwin’s survival of the fittest theory. Fifty boys of all shapes and sizes, chased, kicked, held and ran with the ball. It was American football, rugby, handball, football all rolled into one. Fifteen minutes of tireless running later, at one magical moment I had the ball rolling towards me in like in a dream. But in that momentary flash of showering glory little did I notice Iman Haider charging from behind me. I touched the ball. Or would like to believe I did. And then Iman swooped down on it like Chengiz Khan and galloped away into the distance ball in hand. I chased, with what seemed like a hundred others in tow, like life itself depended on it.

The bell rang a final time. Another day had come to an end. And for all the dust and grime, it was another ‘I din’t kick the football’ day. Sigh.

[Inspired by a chat conversation I had with a friend earlier today]

Waiting

I sat staring out of my bedroom window at the kids playing cricket below. At 23/2 one of the boys came out and smashed a straight six which splintered the glass window of flat 14B into a million little pieces. The lady of the house stuck her head out and bellowed abuses at the now empty ground. A pair of forgotten slippers being the only testimony to a game that now seems did not happen at all. The fun was over. I stepped out of bed and threw my sponge ball against the wall and dived for the rebound.

‘Don’t dirty the wall’, dad commanded without lifting his eyes of the morning daily.

I walked across to the hallway and looked at my cousin. ‘Will they bring it’, I asked in doubt.

‘Can’t say’, he nodded despondently. ‘Younis’ grandmother passed away early this year it seems. Heard your mom telling’.

I grimaced in disbelief. Mom called out from the kitchen just at that very instance. ‘Go get some chilies will you. The money is in the box’.

I hate doing errands but I picked the loose change and rushed out of the door. The Younis household lived on the first floor and we on the second. The door as usual was ajar. The fruity fragrance of perfume wafted in like from neverland and I think I smelt saffron. And cardamom. And a hundred other spices. Mounds of footwear are strewn around the threshold of the house. Shiny, strappy, golden ones of the young and trendy; the flat utility Bata variety of the elderly; dusty, workmen slip-ons of the bearded men in white kurtas – all piled in one rising heap of colorful disorder.

I returned chilies in hand and Younis’ mom was chasing one of the many kids of the house. I beamed a 100 watt smile. Mumbled a not so loud enough ‘Hello aunty’. I don’t think she noticed.

‘You know what’, I whispered to cousin on my return. ‘They are celebrating. There are loads of guests and all’.

‘What are the two of you mumbling? Come to the table. Lunch is ready’, mom interrupted.

‘I am not hungry now’, I categorically sulked and went back to my cozy corner. The cleric called out the end of prayer somewhere in the distance. I stared out at nothing in particular. Everything outside looked bright and yellow in the jaundiced sunlight. Period.

‘Ok that’s enough. Come get your food’, mom concluded. ‘I know what your problem is. I wonder where you get these habits from. Always expecting stuff from others’

I glum faced and frustrated, went to the table. Resistance was futile. Rice and a yellow yogurt based cucumber curry. I want to holler and throw my sponge ball against the showcase but I know it’s of no avail. Gulp. Gulp. A few morsels and I decide I can take it no more. I can hear the dissent in the background but I get into my ‘I can’t hear anything’ cyst.

Back at my window sill, I continue staring. A good hour or so later there is a knock on the door. I take a measured walk into the hallway. I know it is them, expectation swelling in my little self. Younis and his mom are sitting there with a tray. ‘Happy Ramzan aunty. Happy Ramzan Younis’, I mumble. The biriyani has arrived.

Death of the Gandhi's

I remember being whisked out of class with a sense of confused urgency. I was done and dusted. Two months of summer vacation stretched before me like a never ending oasis of joy. But I wonder what the hurry was all about. Agreed it’s always nice to be walking out of the school gate with no turning glance. But I dearly wanted to savour this moment; especially when I didn’t have to come back for well over two months. I fondly waved at my friends who shared my second blue bench in kindergarten section B. What a good day it had been today.

In fact it always was, when we had the drawing class. We would sit around Ranju and wait for him to start off on his piece de resistance. The one that I was pretty sure would put our hands at the end of the drawing master’s cane one day. He would start off with an unsmiling concentration unbecoming of a 5 year old artist. One hangman walking. And then another. Pretty soon there was a mob on his slate canvas, some with cycles others with banners. What was little Ranju drawing, we often wondered. It seemed like a strike, a revolution. But what the heck, at 5; it was probably nothing more than a few harmless strokes of artistic expression. And as the canvas became more crowded, his artistic fervor would pick up tempo. Lines would descend down in callous strokes and pretty soon the chalk would stream over the slate like the vipers of an Ambassador on a rainy day. And when it eventually became an indistinguishable veil of white chalk powder, he would lift the slate up and smear it all in his face amidst muffled laughter from the rest of us. We would plead him for another time and he unlike a rock star would seldom refuse. We had three rounds today and as I walked, my stomach ached of incessantly trying to control my laughter.

There were times when Ranju’s dad, a strict ex-serviceman would come to pick him up and see specks of white powder on his face. ‘Why doesn’t mummy spread the powder around’, he would bellow, spreading it evenly into his fat round face. I would look at my shoe laces in a vain attempt not to laugh. But I seldom succeeded.

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We walked past the peddler selling multi colored toffees and He-man stickers. I knew I wouldn’t get one. We walked past the melon seller, his exhibits glistening red in the sun, shrouded with flies. No chance in hell I am getting one of those. The ice cream cart was surrounded as usual by the bigger boys. Orange. Milk. Mango - it read. Wishful thinking again I must admit, but considering we have two months of vacation, I harbored over the rationale of ‘so what if I fall sick for a couple of days’. But today just didn’t seem like the day for negotiations. We were in a hurry to head home and I could feel a sense of nervousness about it.

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‘We’re going to our native place, you know’, my cousin would gleefully tell me. ‘N number of days left’, he would calculatedly add; the number decreasing with each passing day. ‘And when it reaches zero’, he would continue, ‘we would sit in a long train and go to this sunny sea side place where loads of people will pamper us; where mangoes can be plucked off trees and eaten; where men with huge whiskers will climb up trees and drop nectar sweet coconuts for us to drink; where we can run around trees and build sand castles and not worry about going to school ever again.’ I would listen open eared, building these pictures of a sunny dreamland (unlike pictures which Ranju drew), well spaced and happy; waiting for us to enter into.

When I woke up that morning, I remembered him coming to my bedside and whispering – ‘It’s zero days left’.

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We stopped at the Mallu shop selling magazines, rubber balls, peanut candies and a hundred other things.

‘They shot her today, didn’t they?’, my aunt enquired nervously.

“Yes, her own guards.’ the shop keeper replied. ‘There is bound to be trouble. Aren’t you’ll traveling today. The trains might just get cancelled. Please do take care, especially since you’re traveling with the little ones and all’.

‘I wonder what will happen’, my aunt nervously continued. ‘Wonder what is happening to this country. How could they do it to a Prime Minister? And to make it worse….today’.

‘I am planning to close the shop in the afternoon. Why take a risk’, he continued disbursing change and the regular bunch of magazines.

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We were never great travelers, our family. A fair share of paranoia with ample measures of ‘Have we got the tickets’, ‘Did you lock the door right’, ‘Will we get the bus to the railway station on time’, always ensured that a steady climate of discomfort existed until the train hooted its way out of Bangalore Central. Add social unrest, political turmoil and the impending fear of violent uprisings, and I am sure the tempers were pretty much on tenterhooks. But I was a boy of 5 and oblivious of the gravity of all that was happening around me. I only knew that we might not get Pazham Pori when the train stopped at Trichur and I was not to whine and cringe, for the likelihood of getting spanked was fairly high.

I do not remember much of that journey I must admit. But I do faintly remember my father pulling down the shutters of our window. And I feel I saw fleeting images of one hangman and then another, with cycles and banners, like in Ranju’s images, throwing stones at our long train heading to dreamland. They were throwing stones, because a few guards with huge whiskers and machine guns had shot the Prime Minister. Not that it made sense to me but I had loose bowels and gave my folks a tough time.

*****************************

I remember that summer was fairly hot and the mango trees had failed to bloom on time. So we got mangoes from the neighbor’s yard where a couple of trees had bloomed on time and it sure did taste like nectar.

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[Seven years later]

I woke up dreamily to the unusually loud early morning commotion. We were all lying on the floor like in a refugee camp. The bed sheet under me had been pulled away by my cousin of a year older. Glowing embers of the mosquito coil glistened in the far corner of the floor. We were heading back home the next day. The fun and frolic was over. A brand new year of school hood awaited in distant Bangalore and I tried not to think of it. I strained my eyes and looked at the clock. It was barely even seven. What was the ruckus all about, I thought again.

‘What is it?’, I asked one of my elder cousins.

‘Rajiv Gandhi is dead’, he replied. ‘LTTE suicide bombers’, he continued in a know-all tone of adulthood.

I walked down the flight of stairs to where the elders sat. They sat there dejected, discussing the happenings of the night. I realized then that my family was strongly ‘Congressian’ with only the odd rebel cousin or two showing Communist allegiance. Someone had dropped in late into the night to inform my grand uncle, who was a senior party worker of the tragedy. And now my cousins were recounting the tale of how they had run to the press office in the night to confirm the news. I stood there sleepy; listening to real world stories. When the conversation died down, I walked up to my dad and rested on his lap. I enquired slowly ‘Dad, are we going back home tomorrow?’

‘Not tomorrow’, dad replied. “I have asked the tickets to be postponed. It’s too risky to be traveling at such times. We’ve done that once in the past. Not again.’

In my heart of hearts, I felt happy. We could continue our game of cricket. Our simulated game with real world cricketers was precariously placed. Gus Logie and Jeff Dujon had pulled West Indies out of a hole against the Indians. A couple more days of gay abandon. The West Indians might win. And another Prime minister to-be had been killed.