Homecoming??????

I have always enjoyed travelling – the thrill of new adventures, the uniqueness of new places, the splendor of big cities and the serene beauty of small towns. Every trip has something to teach about people, places, history or culture. I’m always prepared to be amazed on a trip to a new place.

Little did I know that I would learn more before this particular trip began, than any other place could teach me. I was prepared for a long bus ride. I had my iPod charged and book easily accessible. I got my ticket and climbed into my bus. I checked the seat number on my ticket and pushed through the crowd.

A young man sat on my seat. He wore nothing but a pair of torn, tattered and dirty shorts. They might have been brown trousers at some point of time in the past. He was rubbing his dirty hands together nervously. His fingernails were longish and stuffed with muck. His toes were crinkled up. His hair was unkempt and his face scruffy. His eyes were yellow and his lips chapped. Once in a while he scratched his face and looked here and there, seeming to be quite confused.

He was an urchin. I was sure he could not afford a bus ticket. I must confess however, I felt a strange discomfort in confronting him about my seat. I decided to wait for the conductor to board the bus. I arranged my luggage and stood there examining this man.

He didn’t seem to notice me standing there. He only looked scared and confused. He was in his late twenties I decided. His ribs pushed through his skin. How long he must have gone without food I wondered. I felt sympathy for this man. He blinked very frequently.

“Is there a problem?” a young stout man asked me.

“No” I replied briefly. I was amazed at my protective feeling towards this helpless looking man.

“Is this guy in your seat?” he asked.

Before I could reply, the conductor had walked up to where I was standing. There was a bit of a crowd and commotion. Without saying a word, the conductor pulled the man on my seat up and pushed him towards the exit door.

“Don’t you dare get on my bus again” he bellowed.

“I want to go home” the beggar man cried. “Please take me home.”

He sounded like a little child. The sound made me turn to look at his face. His dirty face was stained with tears. As he wiped his tears with the back of his hand, his face became muddy. He was now howling like a child. He didn’t seem like he was psychologically stable.

No. He was a lost child. He had a home, a family, but no way of finding them. He got on buses hoping they would take him to his home.

The conductor pushed him off the bus and asked me to take my seat as the bus took off. I took off on the bus but my heart and mind seemed to have been left behind, with that man.

Who was he? Where was he from? Where was this home he spoke about?

The conductor animatedly informed me that this man was a beggar. No one knew who he was or where he had come from. He cried when he felt hungry. Passersby gave him food or money out of pity. That is how he survived. He wandered around in the bus stand and climbed into any bus that was not being overlooked and took a seat. He had to be thrown out of buses every day. He would cry each time asking to be taken home.

“It’s an everyday routine madam. You don’t bother.” He told me.

But I could not help but bother. How scared he must be. How lonely. What would I have done if I was lost? If I did not remember the way back home! The thought created a lump in my throat.

He might be ‘just a beggar’ to these people at the bus stand troubled by his intrusion in their buses. He may be a pitiable, hungry urchin to passersby, but somewhere there was a family who still hoped one day he would come back. A father waiting to see his son sleep peacefully at night. A mother wishing to hug her son and stroke his hair while he laid his head on her lap. Siblings maybe, who had grown up with him, seen him in a clean ironed shirt and trousers, washed and parted hair. People who knew who he was. Who had seen him at his best. As he laughed, cracked jokes, discussed issues. I imagined their plight when they found him missing. How long and far they must have searched for their beloved. Were they still searching? Had they given up? Would they ever give up? Would they ever be reunited? Was there a happy ending to this story?

I shoved my ear phones into my ears and increased the volume of my iPod to maximum, trying to overshadow these thoughts with cheerful music.

There was nothing I could do I realized. This was fate. I called my parents instead and told them I loved them. I may not have been strong enough to do anything for this man, but he had taught me a lesson, made me realize what HOME meant. What sanity meant…..

Bura Na Maano, Holi Hai!!!

A thirteen year old girl jumped off her bed early one morning. It was Holi. She woke her little seven year old brother, they changed into their old ragged clothes and water guns and colours in hand, they were ready to go out and celebrate.

“Are you sure you want to go out and play. Aren’t you too old?” her mother looked a little concerned. The little girl was appalled. Too old for Holi? “That’s never happening! I’ll play all my life!” she replied before rushing out to the streets.

The celebration had started. The streets were colourful and joyous. Children ran around, chasing one another with colours. Red, blue, green, yellow. It was beautiful. Within no time the little girl was drenched in colour and she laughed. She was truly happy. It takes so little for a child to be happy.

A lovely morning passed too fast. It was time to get back home and get cleaned up. She took her brother’s hand and headed home. “My water gun!” her brother wailed. He must have left it behind somewhere. They would find it in no time. And so they headed back to where they had been playing. The streets had cleared out by then. Everyone had left. Only the empty roads, with blotches of colour here and there, remained. Sure enough, the little water gun, smeared in colour lay at the corner of the street.

They picked it up and turned back towards home, laughing and chattering. It sounded like the chirping of little happy birds. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a man, covered in colour beyond recognition stood before them. He had a fist full of red colour.

The little girl knew, Holi was a day to be celebrated with everyone. Everyone was a friend and no one was a stranger. However, she didn’t feel quite right about this man. She told the man she had to go home and tried to walk ahead gripping her brother’s hand protectively.

“It’s just a little colour!” he stood in her way. She stood there stupefied. He was tall and muscular. Large in every possible way. Her hands felt cold. Maybe it was because she was wet and there was a slow breeze.

The man smeared the red colour on her little scared face. Some went into her eyes and she closed them tight. She was about to bring her hand up to her face to clean her eyes, when she felt his hand going down to her neck. And before she knew it, his hand, firm and confident slid down slowly to her chest. It went left and right, up, down and around and down to her stomach. She then felt the hand being withdrawn.

She wanted to throw up. Perhaps because the colour had entered her mouth and nose. It was extremely uncomfortable. Her eyes hurt. Something was piercing into them. It must have been the red colour. A few drops of water trickled down her eyes. That always happens when something is stuck in your eye. It’s the body’s mechanism for cleaning.

She opened her eyes to see that the man had moved aside to allow her to leave. A group of boys stood at one corner suppressing their laughter. As she hurried home, the sharp sounds of laughter pierced her ears. Her body was cold. Her face felt warm from humiliation, and shame. Her eyes still hurt and all she wanted to do was throw up.

When she reached home, her mother smiled “look at you!” She didn’t notice her daughter’s hurt hidden behind all the vibrant colours. The distressed little girl rushed to the bathroom and in the full length mirror examined herself. Her face, chest and stomach were covered in a thick layer of red colour. She felt as if that colour was the man’s fingerprints on her body. She stood under the shower and saw the red colour running down the drain.

She knew it wasn’t her fault. She had been told about these “bad men”. But standing there at that moment, looking at all the colours being washed off her body, she felt dirty and guilty.

And at that moment she made an incorrigible mistake. She thought to herself. She was too old to run about and play. She needed to protect herself from these men. She cursed herself for going out and making herself so vulnerable today. And she decided she would never repeat this mistake.

She was a woman now. Apprehensive and doubtful of every man. Unable to laugh with a heart full of joy, like the little child she was a few hours back. The dirt had touched her and no matter how old and confident she got, somewhere it would always live with her. No matter how she logically proved to herself that it was not her fault, she would always be guilty of letting it happen to her.

Today, eight years from that day, she stands in her veranda looking out at little boys and girls running around and enjoying Holi. Perched on her veranda, far away from the colours, she is safe.

 

Drifting Tempest

Raindrops splattered into the shade where I stood, listening to a song about lost love playing on my neighbour’s phone. Standing there in a crowd of people trying to avoid getting wet, I felt all alone. My mind drifted back to the time before I had lost love. I closed my eyes and allowed a tear drop to roll down.

I was gripping a hand full of sand. The tighter I gripped, the more it slipped out. In no time, my hand was empty. I looked down with teary eyes. The last few grains stuck to my hand. I tried to rub them off and they cut into my hands. The painful memories would not go. The tears would not stop.

My phone rang. “You’re late”. I looked up at the sky. The rain had slowed down. It was time to move on.