I’LL OWN A SHOP SOMEDAY

“Chai”, “Chai” yells Chotu as he tollers along the streets of his neighbourhood. The Sun shines brightly in the sky, as the young boys and girls line up to catch their school bus. Chotu stands and stares as the children hurriedly climb the bus. School seemed like a dream to Chotu.

As he looks at the crowded school bus leave with a splash, his thoughts wonder back to those days when he used to be a happy and content, though poor, child. His family consisted of a mother, a father, 2 elder sisters and a younger brother. His father owned a small piece of land in their village which he cultivated every year for 3 months. He also used to do odd jobs for the idle parts of the year. His mother worked as a labourer in the rich zamindar’s field. The total income was roughly adequate for two meals a day.

Chotu was a very jolly boy. He was a very good runner; in fact, the fastest among his friend. His friends used to call him “railgaddi” or “the train”. Though he never went to school, he was always eager to learn.

But the good times did not last long and Chotu’s family went into the dark. The marriage of his 2 sisters led to a lot of economic crisis in his family. They had to sell their land in order to meet the “demands” of the grooms’ family. They were illiterate and so was unaware of the fact that dowry was against the laws. Slowly, their conditions seemed to be improving, until one dreadful summer day, his father committed suicide, leaving all the problems upon him and his family. After that tragedy, he was forced to move to the city to earn a living.

He first joined a cracker making factory where he was beaten and subjected to the harsh effects of tobacco. He worked for 12 hours a day for a meager 50 rupees. Yet he was content. He dreamt of owning a shop someday. But luckily or unluckily, the police raided the factory, arrested the owner on charges of child labour and closed down the factory. Chotu was jobless.

He loitered around for 3 days without any food or proper shelter. Nobody was ready to give him work as he was younger than 15 years. Then one day, he found a job in a roadside tea shop. His work was to make tea for the passersby at Rs.4 a cup every morning.

“Ek Chai dena please!” Chotu suddenly wakes up from his thoughts. Handing a cup of tea to that kind looking lady, 12-year old Chotu says to himself “I’ll own a shop someday.”

THE SUN WILL SHINE AGAIN

“Krisha! Get ready. We have to go to the hospital, remember?”

“Yes, Maa!”

For one hour, I could not find anything to write about. The end of my pencil was wet with saliva, yet my brain neurons turned extra lazy that day. The thing was that my teacher had asked me to contribute a poem for the school magazine. I loved writing poems. But that one fine day, I kept staring into the blankness until my mother called me out to accompany her to the hospital.

And there I was – at the hospital; a place I dread. The mundane walls, the suffering patients, the smell – everything – gave me a feeling of nausea.

“Would you come inside?” asked my mother, standing at the doorsteps of the doctor, she had an appointment with. I gave it a thought. The thought itself was so suffocating that I was too pleased to refuse. “You’ll never improve!” she sighed and went inside.

I was left all alone to wander like a lost cloud in that place. “Poem! What should I write about?” I thought. Hospital? The suffering people? Or the environment...

…..“Oh! I’m so sorry!” I absent-mindedly bumped into a poor young girl of my age carrying a tearful baby. “That’s fine” she answered in Assamese. She had a sweet voice. “Your brother?” I asked politely. “No, my son.” Saying so she walked briskly past me.

Back in the car, I narrated the whole incident to my mother, with whom I shared everything as she was very open-minded. This time, however, she said “Stay away from that sort of people.”

I knew what she meant by “that sort” of people. “Yeah! I should stay away from them.”

Next morning at school, I got a sound scolding from my teacher. The deadline was the next day and I hadn’t managed to write a single line of my poem yet. “Tomorrow for sure, ma’am.” I assured her. “Yes of course! That is, if tomorrow ever comes.” She sneered.

Evening flew in quite soon. “The Environment”, that’s the topic I decided to write upon. For some ‘inspiration’, I went for a walk. Being the adventurous types, I set out all alone on the streets.

“Sigh! What a life! My childhood days are slipping past my fingers and I’m here trying to meet deadlines.” I laughed at my own lame joke. Childhood! At 15!

As I continued my stroll, I came face to face with that girl I bumped into in the hospital the previous day. “Stay away from that sort of people.” I remembered my mother’s words. A toe out of the line just for this once wouldn’t matter much. Confronting myself, I asked her “What’s your name?”

“Pavitra”

I sniggered at her name. Pavitra meant pure. And she was anything but pure.

“So….ummm…how is that you have got a…a son at this age?” I enquired out of curiosity.

She looked at me for some time, deciding whether to trust me or not. Being the confidant in my friend circle, I knew she would tell me. And so she did.

“Like you, I loved moving around on my own, carefree. When someone tried to stop me saying that a girl should never go out alone, I talked back to them. Everyone says boys and girls are equal. If boys can enjoy their lives, why can’t we?” she took a moment’s breath and continued. “It’s a man’s world, my friend, we can never be equal. One night, I was savoured down by a hungry wolf and my son is the consequence.”

I was shaken. “Why didn’t you…..” Before I could complete, she replied “I am not a murderess. My son was innocent and so was I. Why should two innocent lives be destroyed while the guilt walks free on this earth?”

That was it. My mother told me to stay away from her, but I couldn’t. I bet my mother wouldn’t have said the same had she known the true story behind it.

There were many questions left unanswered. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to ask them to her. How does she manage her life now? With whom does she stay? How does she earn her livelihood? I knew nothing. I could ask nothing. The truth was that it was not I who had lost my childhood. It was she who did.

Reaching home, I sat down to write my poem.

“The Environment”. I stroke it off, and wrote instead –

THE SUN WILL SHINE AGAIN

There are times when things go wrong.

It’s okay! Be brave, be strong.

Sometimes, you don’t get what you long.

It’s fine! Be brave, be strong.

Sometimes, you feel very low,

Sometimes your day doesn’t glow.

Just hold on and go with the flow

Coz tomorrow will be a new show.

Valleys are not the end of a mountain,

Clouds never come down with the rain.

A true soul never goes in vain,

A true heart mustn’t go insane.

Yeah! Sometimes the road breaks down,

And buildings collapse on the ground.

Sometimes, you don’t know where you belong,

It’s alright! Be brave be strong.

The Sun will shine again, when equality prevails in real sense, when the innocent are not punished while the culprits roam free, when the society doesn’t become an enemy of its own fellow mates.

I do hope the Sun shines again someday.

THE LAST DAUGHTER

There was an eerie feeling about the town of Duliajan, when I entered it. Located at the North Eastern part of Assam, this was the town I was born and brought up in. This visit was, however, the first time in ten years that I had made to my hometown.

I looked around, aghast. The once-charming houses of Duliajan were turned into ruins. It seemed as if all the colours of Duliajan had been sucked out and it stood before me – lifeless. Eight years back, the town met with an accident. Heavy leakage from gas pipes burnt out the whole town. Many survived, others died. And now, I was back on official work.

I work for an Oil Company. So, when a chance of visiting Duliajan came in, I grabbed it, and there I was.

A sudden halt of my car brought me back from my daydream. I looked to my right and saw a burnt bungalow.

“Strange! That didn’t exist before.” I said to the driver. He didn’t reply. He started the car and drove on till we reached the only remaining part of the town – the guest house, which was on the outskirts.

“Hello! I am from OIC, Mumbai. I’m here on official purpose.” I conveyed to the Receptionist. She nodded, smiled and gave me the keys of Room No. 13. The room was spotless clean. I freshened up and lied on the bed to take a quick nap. It was evening, but I was too tired.

Suddenly, there was an electricity failure and the window panes started fluttering with the strong winds.

“Mitakshara”

I sat upright on the bed and looked around. Maybe it was the wind. No one knew my name out here. Next morning, I found my driver missing. I had to go to the field site on foot. As it was not too far away, the idea was feasible.

On my way I stopped in front of the burnt bungalow. It has some kind of an attractive force that I couldn’t deny. I went inside. No, there weren’t any cobwebs. It was rather clean, though time had worn out its walls.

“Mitakshara”. I heard it again. It wasn’t the wind. “Mitakshara”. I went through the door and into the bedroom, half consciously. It was so dark. Hardly any ray of light reached inside. Out of the blue, a cloud started to take shape. Horrified, I rushed out of the door, and outside the bungalow.

I couldn’t concentrate on work that day. “I’d be leaving tomorrow morning and everything will be fine.” I repeatedly told myself.

On returning from work, however, I couldn’t contain myself and went straight into the bungalow, to where the cloud had formed. “Mitakshara! Please don’t leave me. I need your help.” I looked around to see a half burnt face of beautiful lady, floating in the air. I shouted in fright. I tried to rush out, but my legs were somewhat rooted to the ground. The wind blew hard. Enough to shut the doors and windows.

“What do you want?” I shouted

“Your forgiveness” replied the face.

“My forgiveness? But why?” I enquired once again.

“The pipe that had leaked eight years ago – well – it was because of me. I was a gold digger. So when my friends, out of a prank, told me that I’d find five lakhs beneath the ground, I went there straight away. While digging, I accidently stroke the pipe, making a slit in it. I freaked out. I could have told someone. I could have got it repaired. But I was ignorant. It was an isolated place, and so, thinking it to be my golden chance, I rushed away. Soon the nearby areas caught fire. It spread. So much that it got out of hands. Many people fled. Few tried to control the fire. All of them died. Guilt engulfed me. So, I jumped into the fire. Now, I’m compelled to stay on earth because my sins don’t let me got to heaven, yet my sacrifice won’t send me to hell.” She was crying by the time she finished.

I cooled down. “What will my forgiveness do for you?” I asked, slightly angry at her.

“If you forgive me, I’ll be free to go to heaven.” She replied. “But why me?” I asked yet again.

“Don’t you see,” she voiced out quite loudly, “You are the last remaining daughter of Duliajan. Those who fled were aged people or weren’t born here. You are the only one left who was born in this town. Your forgiveness will release me.” said she.

I was in a fix. “She is the reason my people got finished. She is the reason why Duliajan is not Duliajan anymore. She was the reason for all the doom. Why should I forgive her?” I thought and said –

“Yes. I forgive you.”

Her tearful eyes sparkled with a new found happiness and relief, and she disappeared.

When I came out the house, everything seemed bright. I felt myself rise from the ground and sour among the clouds.

“Mitakshara! Mitakshara, get up. You’ll be late for work.” Said my mother, back home in Mumbai.