The Totem.

Part I

I stepped outside fumbling with the keys, the downpour had been incessant for the last three days. My rain coat was already half-wet by the time I locked my low key, dimly lit and poorly ventilated single room apartment. But then I had no other options- a man has needs and none more implicit as housing, food and an occupation.

I had been posted to this village for almost seven months now- Kishangarh on the banks of the holy Ganges. This monsoon she was in a ravenous mood: threatening to engulf and emancipate whatever and whomsoever came in her path. I was just a provisional officer in a bank run by the State, and had no other option other than obliging my duty. My daily routine comprised of an eight hour desk job, which I hated with every ounce of my energy. Entertainment was subject to availability of electricity and it was a major issue on most occasions. Yet I had this one unflinching, ever so consistent addition to this drab, monotonous schedule: it was this the totem.

I noticed her for the first time a month back. That I was already deprived of human companionship (read as the desired companionship in this setting), she was more than just a pleasant surprise. She walked across the opposite road, balancing a mid-sized handbag, pushing her specs back up every now and then. I kept my gaze on her for as long as I could, and she was too busy with her balancing act. And then she disappeared in the next alley. And so began the routine. I would see her for five days in the week- walk across the same street with the same handful items. I would keep my eyes on her, making sure that I didn't appear too obvious. For I was sure that I didn't look like a C grade Bollywood villain, I had no desire to be the subject of vernaculars of this orthodox community which had been very kind to me so far.    

She was my totem. Forget knowing what she did or where she belonged to, I didn't even know her name! But she was there everyday, without fail. I soon developed a liking to this routine, trotting around at a snail's pace sometimes so that I didn't miss seeing her for a single day. Yet it did happen once in a while that she won't be around and as incredulous as it may sound, and those particular days were hell. Either my manager would blame me for something which I had no connection with, or my food went bad, or there would be no power supply for the entire day. Even water would taste bitter! To be honest, even I think that it is kind of lame but then I had already started enjoying this game. It was my sole source of entertainment in the wild countryside. In fact I had started linking every good and bad thing in and around with this totem, with my totem.

Maybe it's really disrespectful to refer to one as inanimate thing as a totem. But then this is why we are blessed with the power of thought and imagination. I am sure I can find out all about her easily, if I spend one evening in the dust smitten records of my bank. But then I am happy to continue with this game for now. Sometimes I amuse myself thinking about what she must be like actually: for starters, what's her name, how she is like as a person, why does she have the exactly same routine each day and many more. I might be sounding crazy, but no I have been doing it on purpose for the past one month.

But it's lashing down hard today and my hopes of seeing the totem are slim. And already that I am late recounting this story for the umpteenth time in my mind. I must quicken my strides now.

Part II

It's raining cats and dogs this season. Honestly I have not seen such torrential rains ever in the past in all the places that I have lived. I never wanted to live this typical village life once again but my father was transferred and we had no option other than relocating. Not only does that it not have the amenities of the city life which I was just starting to grow accustomed to but I have no school in the nearby locality. Luckily I was able to find a tutor under whom I receive private tuition daily and enrolled in a private school. Still Father would have to accompany me for my exams to this school which is 38 km from Kishangarh. So much for education this government claims.

This daily drab is the perfect epitome of dullness. I have no friends, as there are no girls of my age around. I am sure that if I hang around a boy in this orthodox village then it will wreak havoc in this small community. And why will my parents support something like that? All they want is me to get through my schooling and marry me to a complete stranger. I want to join a college and study literature, and so I am trying my best to keep a level head and pass the exams with better marks. I am still not sure whether it would tip the scales in my favour but then at least I will have an argument to present.

Of all things that I expected to lift my spirits from this soporific, mundane routine was this game that I invented for myself. Well it does not involve me alone to be precise, it involves someone else too. And that somebody does not even know about it. He is there each time I step on the Badi Gali each morning. These days he is working like my totem.

I noticed him sometime back in his crisp, shirt wiping the sweat off his brow and taking quick steps while avoiding stepping on cattle filth. He looked like a polite educated fellow, with a quizzical look on his face. But after a couple of days I noticed that somehow he was always present each time I stepped in the street. He didn’t stalk me at all, didn’t stare at me, he hardly seemed to notice me making my way through all the scattered vendors. Yet he was ever present and soon I developed a liking to this stupid game too! No contact at all, verbal or non-verbal. No acknowledgement of each other’s presence but something that made me aware of the fact that life is more than just my classes and helping Amma in the kitchen. It’s about trying to find a reason and a cause to indulge and a reason to look forward to another day.

Sometimes people are so predictable, and his dressing patterns rarely went wrong by my calculation, always white-blue-white-blue-white shirts he adorned. All this was a part of the game. It didn't solve any purpose but then I was enjoying it at the same time. Later that week I overheard Father talking about the new bank clerk who solved his issues sooner than he had expected. And so he almost spoiled my game with this but I wanted to keep this totem alive so I ran outside! Luckily I didn’t hear about it again from him or anybody else. So the game is still on, I am going to see him again today (I hope so) and the totem survives for another day.

The new bank babu must have left on time. I must rush now if I want to catch him walking by past me. It’s pouring down like anything and I am only slowing myself with recounting this story for the umpteenth time. I must quicken my strides now.

Free.

Bheekhu saw more people these days in Bade Sahib's office. Ravi, his co-worker (a very modest coinage for another domestic help like him) informed his in a smart tone that it was an election year, so they will have more chores to do in the house alone. He had worked in Bade Sahib's house for almost two months; Ravi had been there ever since he was five, but even he had still not seen as much furor as this. He had overheard the driver talking about "a return to power" or some homonym. While doing the dishes, Ravi once again bragged him about Sahib hoisting a flag some day next week. Bheekhu asked what was the occasion, cursing his negligence and his naive nature. While Ravi howled he told him it was 15 Agast.

Bheekhu was an illiterate, but he was still not stupid enough to ask Ravi what it meant. But he was curious boy, and eventually rounded the cook in the late hours of a dopey afternoon next day. With a bundle of bidi he bribed him successfully. But his answer was really terse, and left more questions than it answered- it means being free, the Angrej left the country and we were free to do whatever we want.

As the day progressed the skies grew grey. He finished doing the dishes, ate his food and took his place on the kitchen floor. He looked out of the window, the lightening, the downpour being incessant. Free, the word had echoed in his mind throughout the day. He dare not discuss it with Ravi, he made enough fun of him already. But free was not a difficult word. He knew it alright. He knew that it meant doing something out one's own will. He wondered what it could be like to free for a day or two.

Would he be allowed to dress up in a smart uniform and board a shining yellow bus for an Angreji  school? Would he have two square meals each day? Would he get a a proper bed to sleep on? Would he get to see his poor parents again who had sent him to the city for some cash? Will he ever get to dress up in crisp and colorful clothes like these city folks do? Will he ever own one of these cars which run like raging bulls on the roads? Or a shiny handsome bike, which the Chota Sahib owns? Will he ever learn to read, something that he desired with all his heart. Will he ever be free of his limp, the one which he had carried since some polio thing happened to him. Will he ever be free of all these constraints that hold him back and live life as he should- free.

Bheekhu turned and tried to catch some sleep, and secondly the floor was damp while facing the window. He suddenly remembered that he had to wash Sahib's car next morning. He was not free, not yet. 

Everything, Almost Everything.

Everything, almost everything.

No, this is not one of those pictures that epitomizes the technological advancements in photography. It's a simple picture that depicts everything that my life is about, almost everything.

An assorted collection of pictures, with some impregnable memories. Friends, some old some new. Old friendships that have stood the test of time, and the newer ones that were forged with blood and sweat. My Gods- standing by as silent custodians, watching me work and day dream at the same time. My books, that gave me solace and company without questioning my estranged absence. The lamp, my shining light in the darkness of this world. My pen and ink, the strange yet comforting liking that I have taken to writing. The clock, which tells with constantly nags me with it's ticking, reminding me of the moments that slip away like grains of white sand. My study table, my Colosseum, where I battle with the gladiators- stray thoughts, possibilities and ultimately, the cold reality. And my beloved club, Liverpool that houses at Anfield, the cherry on the top.

Everything, almost everything.

The Fallen Angels.

The unspoken, the unknown, the underrated, the incognito. They came, they shone and conquered everything that there was. Everybody loved the eternal underdog. They were up there, at the zenith, as close as one could be to the stars. Whom am I kidding: they were as good as demi gods.

And then they went on a downward spiral. Surprisingly enough, the same fans who worshiped them up until now cheered for the new conqueror. The fallen angels stare back in disbelief as they move down the pecking order. Some don't give up as easily as the others; they show restraint to certain degree. But when that is surpassed there is nothing left- no voids at all. Their crowns are already occupied and the new angels are surrounded by worshipers who chanted their names and sang laurels in their praise. What was their is now someone else's. And maybe it will never be their's, again.