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.