running in the rain

Looking at the ticker makes me hate time more then ever, find myself crouching in a stance lost in middle of an already crouching crowd. I sometimes hate rain more than time, it has been an audience to all eventful time of my life, mostly bad times. It rained on 21^st June, 1987, when the whole nation was under a shining sun it rained in Cheerapunjee all day, all night, all men were wet, all women were wet, all kids to school were wet, all animals under the trees were wet, all roof tops were wet, all hill tops were wet, I was also wet though not in rain on my zero’th birthday.

Now look at this puddle of stagnant water left by the dirty rain that just passed by; right, right in middle of my way. Shall I plunge and get myself a dirty wet foot or shall I tip-toe my way across the soft mud over its left edge thus rubbing shoulder with that wet brick wall? Or shall I just take a big leap to land on the other side!

“The other side” …a strange feeling just crept into my mind; just like my diddering dark shadow over water made by the last street light that I left few steps behind. A shadow as dark as the other side of this pool of mine, Ah! Murky life of mine. Schooling was never interesting, College was just another mess, after-College made me bitchy and my life miserable. Friends are empty beer bottles, drink, get drunk and throw away when done. Family is another name for a cashless ATM station, I hate them all; yet I miss them so much. Mr. Pratick Panicker was helpful, he gave me this job. But he took so much from me every night for so many days.

Do I have to regret? I don’t know, maybe I don’t care either. I had so many complain (I still have some) when at school, while at college, when I was lost and now while I work, this Café Coffee Day has been good to me. I have changed over time. It feels so good serving coffee to smiling young couples; boys starring at the menus while girls do blabbering; boys making queer faces and girls do the naughty moves; their giggles make me pass my sun happily over sunset. My tomorrow? Still unpredictable like my nights. Nights for me are gloomy, otherwise there’ so much so happening under Bangalore street lights. The ticker gave a new twist to my nights recently; only last Tuesday I joined a Christian missionary organization “A Mothers for a Child”. Now every night I go to this DonBosco Children Home and spend time with the children, read them stories, sing them songs, make them sleep, I am a part time Mom. What story shall I read tonight?

With a noisy doomp! I landed on the other side. I shall not read tonight I will narrate a story, the story of Awi. There are many a happy happenings in my life; I will share with my kids tonight.

one more day to LiVE

A fine sunrise and A1 Mutton shop near the Hamidpur Railway station had not yet pulled up shutters. We are regular visitors here, but definitely not from the front. Some might call us scavengers but we are not, we do not take everything, we always leave some for the stray dogs; of all that was thrown away. Bindu Didi is the best cook when it comes to mutton, and especially on Fridays we feast away. Since today is not Friday and there is no feast I had no intention to visit A1 Mutton shop.

But for morning needs I have a designated place near the Nala that flows behind the mutton shop. While I was lazily settling my scores with nature, I saw Ali Chacha separating the throwables from fresh meat; it was then that the idea came into my mind. That part seemed similar to the one that I had seen in a news paper the other day. Though the very thought of the plight of the women shivers my spine, yet the idea was too appealing to resist.

Instantly I decided that I would experiment it today. I picked it and carefully placed in a polybag. Now I had to make the necessary arrangement for today’s act. Off to the garbage bins on the southern side of the Railway Station, here I picked the other necessary articles. Till now I have kept myself out of sight from the others and it is too early, the 8 AM rush still has some more time. I placed myself silently inside the unused toilet at the far end of RMF storeroom. I removed my shirt before I begin working and to keep away from the smell I sniffed some of the dendrite left in my tube.

I reached the destined place at the right time just before the 8 Am rush, it was about 44 yards from the foot bridge and a forth more from the Station entrance, just across the Autostand and only a few steps from Munchi’s poori stall. I wanted to make sure that I was not very far from the crowd, not too near the station entrance where most of the other beggars had their sympathy stalls. I wanted to get noticed but not much of attentions though. Just under the shade of the babool tree the location was my perfect spot. Moreover I did not want the others to know this, even though I was sure of being spotted by one or the other; so had to make the most of whatever opportunity I had.

As I lay there, I found it really hard to make a very distressful face each time someone passed by. Being in distress is much different from being afraid and the more difficult when trying to act distress. It has to be convincing. I tried my best not to look at the eyes of any of my beneficiaries so as to escape their curiosities and question. Though I was aware of certain tactics of begging, however I am just an amateur in this business of sympathy selling. Yet the assortments that I had put on for today’s show definitely made me a subject of great pain and an object of pity. I am not sure though what role it plays in a goats anatomy, it looked similar to the intestinal tubes only this was a sack like of almost size of a cricket ball, perhaps bit larger. To be more precise it was like a balloon partly filled with water. I had tied it to a flat band which I wrapped round my belly; so that the organ dangled just below the ribs, a little more towards my left. Over the band I used two layers of used surgical bandage and a part of the lump of cotton which had this vermilion color with blood stains. To make it better I smeared some of the blood from the polybag on to my shirt and hands, while doing so I made sure it was not too much but just enough for a person to notice. To further emphasis my point placed a large strip of used capsule in my shirt pocket, half in and half out.

I was in business now; coins flew-in every now and then. I kept picking leaving exactly seven in the drop bowl (Seven seemed to be a lucky number). Everything was going smooth apart from the occasional interruption from dogs, crows and the constant buzzing of the flies but only until noon, when my only greatest fear; the fear of being spotted by others suddenly became true when I saw Tukku standing and staring at me. His first closeup glimpse of my plight scared the hell out of him and he almost cried (crying was the only thing that he could do without any effort at all); at that point I thought he wanted to call the others for help which could have actually jeopardize my entire plot. But when I told him the truth, he was smiling and laughing. I feared he will expose me, so I negotiated to share a part of my profit with him if he helps me and not utter a word to the others; the deal has been made. He would now act my little brother, chase away the dogs and birds, above all persuade potential clients to donate. When he started pulling every other hand and feet coupled with effortless crying the number of notes against the coins increased, we also collected few more rotis and a plate of half eaten chicken briyani.

I came across all kinds of reactions from people, at one point a young fellow wanted to take me to the hospital.While most of them just dropped their money without much display of emotion, some of the other smiled or made the saddest face possible before mumbling, “How could God be so merciless, he is too small a kid to go through such pain.”- I only smiled from within. After all two hundred fifty three rupees is good business for me.

like a flash in the pan

Story telling is the art of being able to play an incident in minds of the audience, keep it alive for a significant period of time and most importantly make them believe in what you narrate, no matter if it is merely a product of your ornamented imagination. Munnaf was just one of the best story tellers who walked the alleys of Old Delhi. He worked at the Rafiq’s Chai ki Dukan and lived in a single room two lanes down the same street. Ustad, as he is popularly known had not had much of education, he was married once but his wife died in her sleep years ago and left no children.

The transition of Munnaf becoming Ustad started with an experiment to pull crowd to the Tea stall; on instructions of Rafiq’s dead father, Munnaf would read the daily news paper for every customer if they wanted. Initially the idea was not very successful, so he started decorating lines with his own words while he read the newspaper. In two years time Rafiq’s was a famous hangout for both old and young. He would no longer read news from the paper rather narrate it in a story and sometimes just a story of his own.

After so many years its only his stories that people come to hear, no news reading anymore, Munnaf was now Ustad, the famous story teller of Old Delhi. He was an expert; he had polished his act of lying into the art of storytelling. But he could never grow more than what he started with, serving tea.

Dilip, was one of the regulars at Rafiq’s, he was a student of Geography at Delhi University. He was one ambitious young man; it was not long before Dilip stared making notes of Ustad’s stories. When he had enough Dilip went ahead to publish a book of his own, which was an instant hit. The book claimed a world wide response and Dilip became an acclaimed writer, rubbing shoulders with other giants of literature.

It was not very late that some of the listeners were able to see it through what Dilip has pulled out. News reached Ustad too. He never bothered about what happened, but people were constantly insisting that he should do something. When people insist, it’s so insisting that you start feeling the pressure. Owing to this pressure Ustad suddenly felt betrayed, betrayal is something that if you keep thinking about it you will end up making a list of all betrayers which may include everyone you have ever met, God or even your own self. One day the Ustad declared, “there would be revenge. Dilip will have to earn his fame.”

Since the first Sunday of his declaration rumors stared to spread, “Ustad will create the world’s greatest story; he has locked himself in his room for a week.” By Tuesday even the TV news channels started to cover his plight. And people did not wait till Saturday, by Thursday afternoon when after repeated knocks and calls no respond came from Ustad, the police stepped in and forced into the room. To utter surprise of em’ all there was no one in the room, no Ustad and none of his belonging. Only a note that said, “Thank you for reading what Dilip wrote of what I created”