Amol Bol 7

Sundays are boring at some times. Especially, when there’s no great movie to watch. When there’s no good company. When there’s no place remaining to hang around. When simply, you are not in a good mood for no reason. It was that kind of Sunday.

Me and Deepali were roaming on the streets aimlessly and finally settled down in a public garden. It was before Abeer’s birth. We used to visit the gardens, then, quite often. We used to observe the kids, playing with their parents on the slides, jumping on the lawns or playing hide and seek around the bushes.

The garden was full house as it was a Sunday evening. Most of them were families. Some group of young boys and girls chatting and laughing loudly. Few couples found the shelter to hide from the world around. Some senior citizens were chatting. Some health conscious people jogged with the earphones on. The hawkers were selling anything and everything that a person can consume in a garden. From roasted groundnuts to sukhi bhel to chai to idlis to wadas to papers to garlands of flowers. There were beggars and hijras too.

We both were chatting and munching on the nicely roasted groundnuts. Suddenly, a light and soft thing bumped on my head and then on my pats. I looked down to find it a big red balloon followed by the owner – a sweet little girl of around 5. The colour and curves of the balloon were competing with her chubby chicks. The urge of getting that balloon back was the only thing in her eyes. I gave her balloon back. Her impeccable smile only could explain her joy. She jumped with joy and went back to her parents – a young couple like us. Her father was talking on a cell phone and her mother’s eyes were guarding the sweet little daughter. There was an expression of ‘thank you’ in the mother’s eye. The father hardly knew about the balloon.

With an obvious curiosity our eyes followed the cutie pie and her balloon. All her attention was that round red thing. She was tossing it in the air and was trying to catch it with her tiny little hands. She used to be succeeded in few attempts and then her joy used to be doubled. Then suddenly, something caught my eyes in the background. There were two sisters watching this game of that girl with great interest. The younger one’s eyes were rolling up and down with the ball while the elder one was watching the girl and her parents. Both the sisters were almost of the similar age of the girl was.

But they were different than that of our little girl who was playing with the balloon. They were not with their parents. They were playing with their entangled dirty hair. The torn frocks were tucking on their skinny bodies. They hardly knew that one has to wipe with a tissue paper off the fluid flowing from the nose. They were not wearing any footwears. The only common thing between them and the little girl was innocence. Pure innocence. And their aim was same – the balloon.

The girl again tossed it in the air and then came a breeze. The light balloon rode on the breeze and swung for a while. All three girls chased it. Finally, it settled on a row of thick bushes behind the fencing. Suddenly the chase for the balloon stopped then and there. There was a funny mixture of a big question mark and tears in the girl’s eyes. The place was not far away from the bench on which her parents were seated. She looked at her parents for help. Her father still didn’t finish his phone call. Her mother seemed to be helpless. She pulled the sleeve of her husband to draw his attention. He had lot of big things to do while sitting in the park. He simply ignored it and made big eyes at his wife for disturbing in the middle of his phone talk. The helpless mother tried to console her daughter.

The two sisters were watching all this. Now, they knew that the girl does not own the balloon anymore. They were happy. Being familiar to the park inside out they penetrated through the barb wires and reached to the bushes and finally the balloon and returned with the same ease in moments.

The younger one was holding the balloon with great care. It was her dream. She earned it. She was going to play it. There were so many aspirations bulging out from her eyes. The poor former owner of the balloon was watching her favourite thing going away from her.

But what we witnessed next was an eye opener. The thousands of pages of literature or hundreds of movies or even hours of preaching could not have achieved this. We learned it in a few moments.

The two beggar sisters went to the little girl and handed over the balloon with the same innocent smiles.

Amol Bol 6

I remember, as a child, going with my father to see the Ganapati procession.
I used to wrap my whole palm over his huge forefinger, still leaving some space on it. I still can feel the roughness of his finger due to pulling heavy sacks of rice, wheat, sugar, etc. He was a bulky figure for a man. He used to make me sit on his broad shoulder. I was safe, secured and used to be proud over there on the shoulders of my tall father. That was the best place in the world, above more than six feet from the soil, offering me a great view of Ganapati. He used to hold me tight so that I can offer prayers with folded hands to each of the Ganesh idols passing by or I can clap using both the hands. Sometimes, he used to let me dance with the young bunch of dancers and musicians. But his sharp eyes followed me and his arms cuddling me to protect. He even used to take me along with my big family for the Melas or Jatras. I remember each and every moment spent in those places.
I spent my whole childhood in the narrow lanes of the city. At that time each festival was a fun for us.
Even a Bandh or strike was a merry time for us. The whole street became our cricket ground. There were no pedestrians to interrupt our game or no shopkeeper to scold us. Our champions had no threats like breaking of a glass while hitting a six or hitting with a vehicle while diving for a spectacular catch. Sometimes, the elders used to call us back home when the strike turned violent. But it was on a rare occasion.
I had plenty of choices and bountiful freedom available to enjoy my life. As the days passed and we entered into teenage, I also had secret crush. I also enjoyed watching taboo posters and movies on the terrace of our chawl. I also had secret places to meet. Then I used to go to Ganapati processions. Now, to dance in front of the Bappa and to impress the girls who came to watch us dancing.
We went mad when a film star or a VIP used to visit our city.
In my young age, I also joined a political party. I developed certain ideology. I also walked a lot with our party candidate to urge for the votes. I attended each of their rallies. I also attended rasta rokos. I also went to the jail.
Now also I go to jail….. more often. No. I am not a criminal.
I am forced to go to each of the places I used to go as a child or as a teenager with an innocent joy. In fact, now I don’t need my father to give me a special place for a privileged view. But I hardly can enjoy. In fact, I don’t enjoy anything at all. I see many young fathers as me gathering for a Ganesha procession. They hold their kids high to give them the best possible view. I see the impeccable happiness overwhelming on their tiny faces. I remember my kids. When will it be possible for me to give this joy to them?
No. I earn that much to give them such small chunks of bliss. But I can’t. The four letters of ‘duty’ have created an invisible wall between me and my family. They don’t complain. But their distressed faces say it all. My wife wears a mask of smile and assures them about my coming home and taking them for the Jatras. But she knows, she doesn’t carry that much a strong luck to make it happen in real.
I am a cop. Not a super cop! A mere constable who has to attend every public function or a rally for the protection. Who has to keep his ideologies or favorite parties at bay and to pay attention to the safety of the leaders of any ruling parties. He has to obey the orders of his seniors. He doesn’t have a brain to think. He doesn’t have a mind to feel. He doesn’t have a body to demand. I am a cop. A cop who knows to follow the instruction. I have to disguise a pseudo authoritative attitude to make people afraid of me.
I get tired. I get frustrated. I get forlorn. I get lonely. And I remember my father used to say me about doing a job that carries an honour unlike him. Really, I pity myself.

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Yesterday, I saw few cops watching the road cricket during the Bharat Bandh! They didn’t tell me this. But I felt, they could.